I’ve been gone the last few days, attending the wedding of my daughter. As much as I grumbled and griped about the waste of money on what is essentially a one night party, there is an underlying pride in the fact that I am playing my part in never-ending march forward of our culture and tradition.
I was beginning to wonder if my lovely daughter Amanda would ever marry. Having reached the age of 29, in some years past she would have certainly qualified as an “old maid.”
I worried constantly about the fact that she chose to remain at home and care for her handicapped Mom, limiting her social life, and limiting her future as well.
She did have the odd boyfriend or two, none of them lasted long. She’s picky, to the extreme. Despite the fact that she pretends otherwise, she’s also a romantic, and when the only boyfriend of any length finally dumped her with a text message saying “I don’t love you anymore”, I truly wondered if my daughter was destined to be one of those old ladies the neighbors ended up whispering about.
Well, it turned out just fine, as it usually does. She found a nice young man, fell deeply and truly in love, and married him.
I grumbled about the cost, insisting, of course, that they would have been far better off had they had a simple ceremony in the back yard, with a bar-b-queu to follow, and using the money they would have spent otherwise on paying off cars, or investing in a new home, or paying off credit cards.
I thought that I could maintain control. After all, she was my youngest, and having had two failed marriages myself, I’m ever so cynical about the whole thing anyway.
When I walked her down the aisle and handed her over to Matt, I was bawling like a baby. She is my only daughter, my pride and joy, beautiful beyond all belief, and here I was, handing her over to some guy I barely knew. I know he loves her, and she loves him, and I hope they are together until they are so old they can’t remember who they are. I truly do.
Matt comes with a built-in family. A young son from a previous dalliance, and my daughter loves him just as if he was her own. They are also expecting one of their own, one of at least a few more to follow if what I heard from them is right.
Something about young people getting started just makes your heart leap for joy. It really doesn’t matter what it costs, or what boyfriends or girlfriends they may have had before, or if they have children or ex-wives. It matters that for at least a time, we celebrate their union, their joy, their oneness. It gives us hope, and we know that after we are gone, for at least a little while, someone might remember we were here.
Eloquently put!