Since then, we've learned a thing or two about being hosts. Somewhere along the line, we even started serving food and not just cans of Natty Boh and boxes of wine.
This past weekend Joanna threw her most amazing party yet. She married the nicest, most dapper guy in the world, and they had one heck of a throw down to celebrate. A rehearsal dinner overlooking the Severn. A ceremony in the most beautiful church in the whole state. Crab cakes. Two bands. A boat ride. Open bars at every step of the way. Here it is Tuesday, and I am still reeling from the excitement of it all.
I was especially grateful for the quiet moments tucked into hidden spaces throughout the weekend. The late night spent with her on her parents' front porch, drinking rose and talking about all the same things we've been talking about for all these long full, years of friendship. The moments watching her mom teach her how to make the silky scrambled egg while she wore the nighty her grandmother rather inappropriately gave her for her tenth birthday. Grateful for the round of drinks shared when she and Geoffrey spontaneously showed up at the Irish Pub where a group of us had congregated between ceremony and reception. Those moments complimented the hours on the dance floor. The glasses held high in celebration.
I cried more at their wedding than I am accustomed to. I knew it was coming almost as soon as I sat in my pew, but by the time I had to go up and read a passage Joanna and I had talked about at length, I had a hard time keeping myself together. God is love. And to know love is to know God. It's powerful. Love is powerful. It joins us to God. Joanna knows that. I know that. I had to stop mid-reading to take a deep breath.
I cried and cried while she and Geoffrey danced their first dance to "Atlantic City." Yes, Bruce, maybe everything that dies does someday come back. That line offers the best marriage advice I could ever give.