It was one of the strangest experiences I’ve ever had. I didn’t and still don’t know what to think. For one thing, it’s January and it’s absolutely freezing outside. So cold in fact that our area is under a winter storm warning. Today is probably the coldest day we’ve had in the 364 preceding days. Icicles stick to the trees and edges of roofs and a blanket of snow covers lawns. Strangely, the roads aren’t icy.

It’s loathsome getting ready to go to the event. Richard digs out his old suit from the closet. It’s actually clean and surprisingly wrinkle-free. That’s a good thing, since we don’t own an ironing board. I lug out my A-line polyester black dress with ¾ length sleeves and a crew neck. We both shower and prep. It takes an hour. I use the hair straightener to try to create some sort of decent look for myself. I wiggle into some tights and think they’ve got to be some of the most uncomfortable clothing there is. By the time we get in the truck, we don’t look half bad. But we’re not ourselves.

The drive out to the venue is long. But it’s pretty. We’re reminded as we drive part of the strip of our of youth and of former fun times – beach days, old friends, after church lunches, freedom and summer. Simplicity. I tell Richard that this area of Shore Drive is among my favorite places. I bring Billy out here on my days off and we run and play.

Upon entering the small venue, we see our old friend. We’ve known him 10 years. He looks thinner. Stress, I wonder, or intentional effort in preparation for this day? He’s in a gray suit with a small purple flower pinned near his left shoulder. Richard shakes his hand. I give him a hug, I think for the first time in 10 years. It’s one of those awkward hugs, you know, when you’re not really sure what side of the person your head is supposed to go to or whether you’re supposed to give a full hug or a half hug. I’m starting to get why Richard hates these kinds of events.

We’re quickly ushered in to the room where the ceremony will take place. It’s a simple room, but elegant. Wall-to-wall tiles, white and shimmering. Long windows without drapes are on the right side of the room. Natural light filters in. White wooden chairs with straight backs are lined in rows on both sides of the room. We’re not sure if we’re on the correct side. There’s a lot of different people filtering in – good looking couples, some single young women, a couple with a small baby, obvious family members of the bride and groom. A little later I see a young man with bright red hair walking down the aisle. He has an odd gait as if he is plagued by a neurological disorder of some sort. Beside him walks a very tall man with dark skin and hunched shoulders and a very large girth. The tall man carries a tan, leather bag, almost a briefcase of sorts. They look oddly familiar to me. I observe as they take their seats near the front. I’m quickly envious of the hair of the woman in front of me. She has bright golden locks, long, probably effortlessly curled. Eh, I spot a strand that’s a little off kilter. Shew, makes me feel a little better about the fact I can’t curl my hair. Here I go again, comparing myself to others. Why do I do this?

It’s cold in here. I don’t even take my coat off. I think about how happy I am to have Richard with me. We chatter about the tall, pretty windows that overlook the marina. The sky outside is golden blue. The water in the nearby marina looks cold. A strip of white foam tops the little waves that move about, beating against the forlorn boats like raindrops. A large glassy chandelier hangs overhead. One of the bulbs is out. Richard is the only person in the room who notices. Richard says he thought at first there was another wedding just like this one going on in the next room over. Then he realized he was looking at mirrors on the wall. We both laugh. I’ve heard that mirrors help create the illusion that a room is bigger. This room really isn’t that big. Sheer white drapes line parts of the ceiling and connect to the chandeliers. Some run down the middle of the ceiling, reminding me of the long train on a wedding dress.

I look across the shiny white tiles and spot Lauren. I hope her husband is there as well. I can’t see but later I do. He is. I’m glad they’re together. I think that later I’ll talk to them. There’s a mix of anticipation and awkwardness at the thought of that, rekindling a conversation that was last had 8 years or so ago. I wonder about the couple in front of me, the blonde with her pretty hair and her counterpart in a blue suit. He has his arm around her at one point. I wonder if they’re married. I can’t see a ring on his left hand but it could be obscured by his other fingers. I wonder how they met and if he still pursues her. I hope so.

All of a sudden a groomsman is ushering in some people. The mother of the bride is pretty. She wears a lacy navy blue dress. She looks elegant. I don’t recall the groom walking up to the alter. I just looked and he was there. I remember seeing the wedding party-couples of bridesmaids and groomsman walking up the aisle. They part at the front, bridesmaids to the left and groomsman to the right. The bridesmaids wear light blue dresses that are long and sleeveless. The necklines vary in style. The bridesmaids must be freezing. Why do the men get to wear suits? They don’t have to bare their chests or arms or legs in the frigid cold.

Abruptly a song comes on, just a melody of “What A Wonderful World.” Onlookers cease their chatter and slowly begin to stand. I tell Richard we need to stand as I hear someone behind us say the same thing to someone else. The sheer white curtain in the back of the room parts and standing there is her – the bride. She looks adorable. Innocent and full of hope and joy. Pure. Her white dress flows to the floor and she holds a long-stalked bouquet in her hands. The flowers with their long green stalks and unblemished, perfectly symmetric white flowers at the top make me think of a supermodel. She smiles wide and her eyes get wide too, as if she’s surprised to see everyone there. I don’t get a glimpse of the groom’s face. The bride’s father joins her at her side. He looks old. His hair is white and his shoulders stooped. He’s probably wondering when this will be over, too. I notice as the bride walks by that she has a tight grip on the bouquet. Ha. I was the same. Holding on dearly to something tangible as you embark on a new, ethereal and curious adventure, the biggest one of your life. It’s like you’re about to jump into the icy waters of the marina outside, knowing the water is going to be freezing. But there’s an incredible excitement lurking there as well, the unknown, imploring you to jump. Richard and I both feel the warm tinglies briefly. We say so right after the ceremony. We all stay standing as the bride’s hands are passed off to her groom’s. They exchange their vows and rings. We all sing a song together, a hymn. I don’t sing aloud. I seldom ever do, as I’m very self-conscious of my singing voice. But I follow the words on the bulletin. The girl beside me has a pretty voice. We’re told to sit after the song.

As these events unfold, I can’t help but wonder what my old friend is doing right now. I think about her a lot. How sad all this is – how it didn’t just separate her and her husband but friends too. I hope she is well, truly well. But I don’t know how someone can just move on from a marriage (or any meaningful relationship, really) like it never happened, not compare a new spouse or a new relationship to the old one, to the first love. There’s a broken trust, a new guard up, a hardening of the soul, I’m sure because of unspeakable damage done to that soul, an ever-present wound that never fully heals, no matter how much therapy or new lovers or dates or time passes. And what becomes of all the old pictures taken together? The things shared? Two young lives merged into one – with all the friends, family members, trips, dogs, food, fun, and memories mixed in like paint. The colors all merged to make something new on canvas – and they dried. Who would ever try to separate them or paint over them?

The priest speaks from the front but he’s hard to hear. I can’t see the groom’s face the entire time. The priest talks a bit about how marriage will be difficult and how at times the husband and wife won’t be able to stand each other. The guests giggle softly, as if by obligation rather than genuine humor. I think about how much I love my husband, how much I love being with him. If we ever have a tiff, I’m eager to make up fast because I otherwise have no one else I can pour my heart out to. Even if there were someone else, I’d rather have him. The bride and groom exchange vows and rings. My heart is heavy. This isn’t the first time these same vows were said by one party. But last time they were said to someone else. This makes me question the weight of the words being said. I have a difficult time being truly happy here, at this pretty event, as I feel it’s in a way a betrayal of my old friend. Confusion creeps in. Well, it’s been there nearly 5 years now. Nearly five years I’ve been confused, that is. When their separation was disclosed. I’ve felt a little separated since then, too. Sad, and not really knowing what to think. I can’t imagine how the children of divorced parents must feel. I’ve questioned what the Bible says about all this. And here I sit, surrounded by other “Christians” supposedly celebrating something before God that I think actually saddens God. I feel guilty being here, but I clap along with everyone else as the bride and groom are pronounced man and wife and then make their way back down the aisle. The wedding party takes off to somewhere for pictures while the guests are left in a small room at the front of the venue.

The intermission begins. Thankfully there are some appetizers – fruit, cheese, veggies, sliders, and shrimp cocktails. I visit the fruit and veggie and cheese display twice. I’m trying not to look like a pig but I seem to be the only one partaking in the appetizers. Richard initially says he’s not going to drink but then he changes his mind about mid-way through. He ends up getting two bourbon drinks – for $10 a piece (cringe). The bartender is overly eager to assist me both times we stand at the bar but I politely tell him “no thanks.” Richard and I don’t know what to do with ourselves. Remember, it’s 20 degrees outside and the sun is setting. On the water. We can’t just go outside.

At the beginning of this intermission I go to the bathroom. It’s a little odd – one stall and then beside that, on the other side of the wall, another toilet in a larger area. A large curtain acts as the door on that side. I was expecting something a little nicer given the price tag I assume comes with renting this venue. When I come out of the stall I bump into Mrs. Leonard, the children’s Sunday school teacher at the church I used to go to. I didn’t know her well but we had talked a few times about health and fitness, as she was a retired PE teacher. She looks good, great in fact, and I’m surprised at the ease with which I tell her that and really mean it. She’s probably in her early 60s now, but boasts a modest yet easily identifiable athletic frame, the physique of a woman who practices what she preaches. She has silver-tinged hair (dyed so) and wears an orange-striped long skirt. As we stand at the mirror in the crowded bathroom, she tells me “you too,” in that I look great as well. I wonder if she says this because she feels obligated or equally as uncomfortable as me. Other women shift awkwardly around us and the one sink that has a sliver of precious mirror on the wall above it. Mrs. Leonard and I stand there and talk about her kids and dogs and briefly my occupation. I feel as though we’re being rude making all these other women walk around us but I don’t want to be rude by walking away from Mrs. Leonard. I’m grateful that she sort-of justifies taking up space in this crowded bathroom by pulling out a stick of lip balm and applying it to her lips. She says it was good to see me and we finally part ways.

When I come out of the bathroom, I see Richard talking to a former friend we’d met through the groom and his first wife. Caleb. He gives me a subtle, yet friendly smile and I stand next to Richard as we all make small talk. His wife isn’t here because their babysitter bailed at the last minute and they have a 2-year-old at home. My beleaguered heart is hit once more in talking with Caleb, as I flash back to a time some six years ago when he, his wife, my old friends couple, and me and Richard were all on a boat tour of the Chesapeake Bay. A fellow cruise-goer had snapped a picture of the six of us posing in front of a sign that welcomed us to Tangier Island. It was a fun trip. Since then I’ve only bumped into Caleb and his wife (separately, never together because of the baby) at some local races. I’m glad they’re together, though. I think as we make awkward conversation that he’d look better if he shaved. Most men do. The men’s restroom, which we’re standing outside of, becomes vacant and Caleb leaps at the chance to use it. I don’t blame him. He doesn’t even say, “Good to see you,” or “Excuse me;” he just flees the conversation like a thief from a bank at the sound of approaching sirens.

Richard and I decide to walk to-and-fro, from one end of this little corridor to the other, maneuvering around guests like water around rocks in a stream. We never stop to talk to anyone. I’m haunted by familiar faces, mainly Coach Andrews. He was the athletic director and coach of various sports in my high school days. His son was in my brother’s class. Mrs. Andrews is there too. He’s looking older, now wears glasses with thin wire frames. And he has a tannish-gray beard, short and spunky. He’d look better without the beard. He still looks like he takes care of himself, though. I always respected him. I can still see him on the sidelines of a heated basketball game, shouting at a ref and then slamming a metal chair down. It was sad that he was supposedly “let go” by the school. I don’t know who voted for that. I wouldn’t have. My good friend, who also had the highest respect for Coach Andrews, told me that the rich parents at the school held the power. How does a Christian school fire a man who was so upstanding? Sure, maybe he had a temper during heated basketball games (he coached a future NBA player), but he was a great leader. Some parents disagreed enough to vote against him. And some headmaster must have been pressured. As we grapple with the issues of divorce and remarriage, so we also wrestle with leadership, winning, losing. Peer pressure. The right way to handle adversity.

I feel an obligation to go say hi to Coach Andrews. What if I approach him and he doesn’t even recognize me? What if he did see me and just didn’t want to bother with a shallow conversation himself? But he’s in a circle made up of his wife and Mrs. Leonard and her husband. At one point I see Lynn Fulton in the circle. She looks good, more spruced up than I’ve ever seen her. Her skin is semi-tan and her face looks healthy. A thin layer of eyeliner sits under her eyes. Her ash blonde hair is down, the first time I’ve ever seen it down. Ever. Every memory of her is with her hair tied back in a low pony tail and a softball cap on top of her head. I hear she got married, too. Good for her. Later Davey Rockberg joins the circle with his pretty brunette wife. Coach Andrews and Davey Rockberg seem to be having a good conversation, as I spot Davey bent over at the waist and subsequently slapping his right hand against his thigh. He’s laughing hard at something. This comes of course a few minutes after I see him hug Coach Andrews. The pretty brunette wife stands confidently and speaks gracefully with Coach Andrews’ wife. Mrs. Rockberg wears a green jump-suit thing with short sleeves. She pulls it off well. I’d be freezing and I’d look really weird. I still haven’t even unbuttoned my coat, as if I’ve never gotten comfortable in this place. Because I haven’t. It’s cold. I wonder where Mrs. Rockberg is from. I hear her speak softly – sounds like an Eastern European accent of sorts.

Richard and I stand right beside the door, fantasizing about leaving. We’d like to go for a walk but we know it’s freezing outside. The sun is sinking slowly, creating an orangey-yellow glow in the winter sky. Chunks of ice rest on the boardwalk outside and some little plots of snow are on the ground. This is the time of day we typically walk. I’m feeling antsy. The outdoors beckon me – to come and be among the popsicle-cream colored sky, the birds, and the pine trees. A saxophone plays in the background, jazzy tunes to well-known pop songs. Richard and I discuss that we’ll freeze to death if we go out there. “We could go to the truck and you could check your phone,” he tells me. “Okay,” I say. We open the door and head out. The cold slaps us both, mostly Richard’s shaved head and bare ears. His face looks almost like one of a fighter when he knows a punch is coming – wincing, bracing. I feel the wind seep between the soft layers of my peacoat and through my dress then into my bones. It’s like a drug – shocking and exhilarating. We make our “woooo” and “shhheeewww” sounds to help us cope with the cold. But I feel alive out here. The instant quiet of the outdoors starkly contrasts the loud chatter and music of the indoors. My ears and then brain take a moment to adjust. I like the quiet better. We decide not to go to the truck but walk instead around to the side of the building.

There’s a massive building behind the wedding venue, a fitness center. It’s on the water. A punching bag hangs from one of the balconies. Of course no one’s out there. I wonder if anyone’s inside. It must be a ritzy gym. We’re in Virginia Beach, after all. There’s a bridge close by. It connects the touristy strip to the residential side of Croatan, which then leads into Sandbridge. It’s much smaller than the Lynnhaven Inlet bridge we drove over to get here. It’s cute in its own way. I’d love to live out here run over this bridge in the mornings. There’s few things better in my life than running over bridges. There’s something so awesome about it – being one with nature, feeling the presence of God, being up a little higher than normal, on the same level as seagulls, eagles, and pelicans. “Hey, I think that’s where we went paddleboarding with Brian and Sandy, but a little ways down,” I tell Richard. He makes a comment about something structure-related in the bridge. I see a man walking down the bridge and wonder where he’s walking to. By how he’s dressed, I guess he’s not part of the wedding crowd. “Let’s go back,” Richard says. He looks cold. His ears are red and eyes are teary. We turn around. The wind seeps through my coat again. Another shot of the drug hits my skin and bones.

Things have progressed a little, I see when we get back inside. The bridesmaids in their blue dresses come in from behind the curtain where the ceremony was an hour or so ago. Their faces are red as are the tips of their noses. A few of them shiver. We see the groom walking around chatting cordially with everyone. This feels like a dream. He spends a good amount of time talking to the peculiar couple I saw earlier. They had sat on the groom’s side. Again, I’m trying to figure out where I’ve seen them before. I think about, as I stand close to the tall guy, how I don’t think jiu jitsu would work against him. I imagine myself doing a double leg takedown against him. He’s too tall. I think he must sit at computers a lot. His shoulders are very hunched, a sign of weak rhomboids and overly tight pecs. There’s an actual hump in his upper back, a dreaded physique among fitness enthusiasts. He wears a black dress shirt and dark pants, the same clothing as his partner who is much shorter and more erect. I notice that the shorter man wears eyeliner. The taller guy has a lot of studs in his ears. This is odd. I remember how this used to be a thing among some rock musicians 20 years ago (think MTV). It probably still is a thing, I don’t know. I notice too that the men wear matching rings on their fingers. I hear them say something about picking out the rings. Hopefully it’s not obvious I’m eavesdropping here. I’m terrified of Richard leaving my side in any of this, as I’d almost certainly be approached by somebody I don’t really care to talk to.

Richard ends up having another whiskey sometime in all this. He will later tell me that it helps to lower his inhibitions. We start to ponder leaving, not sticking around for the food we RSVPd for some months ago. I’m supposed to eat salmon, he the steak. I mention leaving and picking up a pizza on the way home and then walking our neighborhood and watching something on Amazon Prime. Richard gets excited at this idea but then says the right thing to do is to stay. We come down a few notches from this lofty thinking and ponder more and more how great it would be to bust out early. No one would even notice, we tell ourselves. Richard walks to the bar and I go with him. He closes his tab. Again as I stand there, the bartender (the younger one, there’s two) points to me with his wide eyes and asks if I need anything. I politely tell him I’m not in need of his services. He reminds me of another old friend who I haven’t seen in a while, one that was a little too fond of the drink in my opinion. “Okay, come on,” Richard says. We bolt out the door, into the frigid air. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he says. My heart is cheered. I love this man.

No one trails after us or implores to stay. There’s a little touch of daylight left, a little light blue line on the horizon. “Chinese or pizza?” Richard asks. We talk it over and decide on Chinese. We drive down Pacific Avenue then Shore Drive, along my favorite strip, up and over the Lesner Bridge. There’s a yellow-orange glow among the light blue sky that’s fading. The inlet is gorgeous. The shoreline is empty. I take it in. We both do, delaying our call to the Chinese restaurant. We turn left into a little neighborhood we might like to live in one day. It’s pretty, similar to our neighborhood now but without sidewalks and with double the price tag on the same sized homes. Richard places the call to the Chinese restaurant.

On the ride back to Norfolk, I can tell Richard’s had a drink or two. He starts pouring out his heart in the form of telling me all that bothers him about Christianity and American church culture in general. He can’t stand the facades and the heartless platitudes. He’s mentioned once before to me that he doesn’t think most churches are even preaching the real Gospel. Which makes one wonder what the real Gospel is. I think in all of this, as he and I have said before, that there’s not even much difference between church-goers and non-church-goers. We’ve both had experiences with mean, selfish, lazy, neglectful people within the church setting or “Christian” community. I know this sounds harsh. Richard recounts some of the things said from the altar/makeshift pulpit at the recent wedding ceremony and spews his frustration, saying how the American church is often sexist toward women. This is all reinforcement for me – in the belief that I need to study the Bible more and figure out what it all really means. Sometimes I wonder if anyone knows.

We finally arrive home and get our things out of the truck – the bag of Chinese food and me, my giant tote bag that contains a change of clothes and a pair of running shoes (Richard had suggested I bring this in the event the truck broke down during this adventure). It takes me a minute to get all my things. Richard goes ahead into the house because he has to use the restroom. When I turn around and make my way up the walkway, I see one of my favorite creatures in the whole world: Billy. He stands at the door with those big brown, sleepy puppy eyes, so full of love and thanksgiving that we’re home. I walk up to the door and come inside. Billy wags his tail and licks my hand gently. He walks in circles, finally going over to his bed and retrieving a toy to carry in his mouth. This is his routine when he’s excited. He brings it to me then walks back and forth, going underneath my legs, wagging back and forth. He joins me and Richard in the bedroom, where we promptly change out of our dress clothes. My coat and black dress are already covered in Golden retriever fur. But I prefer it this way. I take the clothes I’d brought in my tote and lay them out, finally changing into something more “me” – fleece leggings then yoga pants over top, a t-shirt, and hoodie. I quickly pull my hair-sprayed, styled hair up into a ponytail. Richard puts on a t-shirt and some sweatpants. We both don our athletic shoes, leash up Billy, and go for a walk around the block. We feel more like ourselves. It’s frigid outside but wonderful. We have warm hats to cover our ears and thick clothes to block out the cold this time. The air is clean, the sky cloudless, the stars bright. I’m happy to be with the two I love most: my husband and my dog. In our quiet neighborhood on a cold Saturday night. I love conversing with Richard, trying together to make sense of it all, enjoying nature, building a life and a home together.

We’ve been married nearly 9 years now and our marriage gets sweeter with time. He’s seen me at my worst: after rough days at work; after feeling completely beat-down and used up by the world; after saying things I’ve regretted; after doing things I’ve regretted; after food poisoning; after my many selfish escapades; after meeting my extended family with all their flaws; after having called myself a Christian and yet been mean like so many others. But he’s still here. I can hardly stand to even imagine him leaving or me leaving, or of anything daring to threaten our bond. But I wasn’t born yesterday (to quote my 9^th grade English teacher). Those things do exist. So we are on the look-out for them and make every effort to name them the minute we spot them and to subsequently squash them out. We do this by enduring hard things together – attending weddings in which we feel out of place; supporting old friends; going for walks in the cold; being honest about our doubts and beliefs; conversing over Chinese food. We can take off our fancy clothes and be who we are. Even with my black dress on he knows who I am and even in his suit I know who he is. The same could be said of our beloved Billy. He loves me at my worst, forgives every offense, wants nothing more than to just be with me. And he also has won my heart. In Richard’s love and in Billy’s love I see the love of God. In this I simply enjoy being. This is my kind of gala. ~