A story of the triumph of love over separation

[Guest guest]

This is one of my favorite stories. It never fails to inspire me. I can’t

make it through it, tear free. I just thought you might like it.

Wedding Story

by Fulghum

(This story was taken from the book:

<http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/stores/detail/-/books/0804105820/glanc

e/103-6400037-5282255> It Was On Fire When I Lay Down On It. ISBN:

0-394-58056-7)

A Unitarian minister is often asked to perform interfaith marriages. “Mixed

marriage” is the com­mon term. But widely differing religious back­grounds

are not usually all that's involved. Any wedding wherein the bride or groom

is marrying someone outside the family borders of race or class is “mixed.”

To be asked to perform such a marriage is to join two people trying to cross

a minefield without getting blown apart.

The paradigm is the wedding of a very lovely young woman from Brooklyn. Huge

family… Polish immigrant stock… and Jewish. Her tall, dark, and handsome

fiancé hailed from Detroit… Likewise a huge family… Likewise immigrant

stock… but Irish… and Roman Catholic. The bride's family included a rabbi

and a cantor; the other team had some priests and a nun on the roster. It

was bad enough that the young man and woman had come all the way out West to

Seattle to attend graduate school; bad enough that they might not marry

someone from the old neighborhood; but to fall in love with and, even worse,

MARRY someone “not like us” was a shame­ful disaster-a familial earthquake

of the first magni­tude. Unthinkable

But Ms. Brooklyn and Mr. Detroit were twenty-one years old and overwhelmed

with Love. And Love, they were quite certain, could find a way through any

obstacle. The minister had his doubts, having a few shrapnel wounds on his

soul from having not made it through mine fields with such couples before.

Now from here on out in this story-almost to the very end-the pieces of the

plot fall like dominoes. So predictably did it go that I could have made

money on side bets as to what was going to happen next. I could have told

them, but they wouldn't have listened. Sometimes people have to find out

things for them­selves. Here's how they saw their options:

Plan A: Get married by a judge and never tell the folks back East. But-and

here comes Love again-they really loved their parents and if their parents

found out, which they were bound to, they would be deeply wounded,

especially when they found out there hadn't been a religious ceremony of

some kind. And so-Plan B: Get married by a Unitarian minister and tell the

parents a day later. A kind of semi-elopement. The parents had no idea what

Unitarians believed, but at least it was a religious deal and in a church.

Good idea. Enter the Reverend Mr. Fulghum. Which led to-

Plan C: As long as the wedding was going to be in a church with a minister,

they might as well invite just a few friends instead of having only two

witnesses. And as long as they were inviting those few friends, they might

as well invite a few more friends, since they didn't want to hurt anybody's

feelings. And since they were now at the soft edge of the list where the

category “friend” and the category acquaintance” merge, they might as well

just go ahead and invite everybody they knew. So now we have a big wedding-a

juggernaut, in fact. Because if you have all those people, you have to have

a reception-you can't just say this is really a small wedding, so everybody

go out somewhere for coffee. And, of course, if you are going to have all

those people and a reception, then you can't just have a dinky little

wedding and be embarrassed in front of all those people. No sir. The long

white dress, rented tuxedos, flowers, attendants, photog­raphers, rings-the

whole kit and caboodle. All because they thought having just a few more

peo­ple would be a nice idea. Guess what comes next? Right.

Plan D: They can't do the whole hoo-ha and not invite the families. Mine

field, here we come.

(I note in passing that weddings always tend to get a little out of hand.

I've never seen one get smaller or stay in budget. One thing always leads to

another. It's kind of like marriage itself… Or life… And why not?… When it

comes to joy and celebration, let it be expansive… always.)

Anyhow. They stepped on a mine. The Big One. Called their mothers and

invited them to the wed­ding. The couple called from my house, and the phone

hasn't worked right since. Probably fried the wires all the way back to

Detroit and Brooklyn. The mothers were united in their response. “YOU'RE

MARRYING A WHAT? A WHAT!” followed by silence and a lot of sobbing. Then the

daddies got on the line and the sum of their remarks was, “COME HOME NOW,

THIS MINUTE, NOW

For a month the mail and phone calls flowed like a waterfall. Uncles and

aunts and cousins got in the fray. The rabbi wrote a thirty-page letter. The

priests and nun prayed. The families were NOT COMING, EVER, to such a

wedding. The families threatened blackmail, hellfire, and heartbreak. Bribes

were of­fered. No matter; nothing could dissuade the couple. Not even being

disinherited, which was the ultimate threat thrown at them by both families.

Not that the bride and groom were unmoved. They spent a lot of time in the

Reverend Mr. Ful­ghum's office-the bride bawled, the groom swore. But the

marriage was meant to be, come hell or high water, both of which seemed well

on their way. But the couple had an invisible shield: Love. And a secret

weapon: a sense of humor-light hearts. They laughed as often as they cried.

<o:< FONT>Too, they came from tough, resilient folks who had made it the

hard way and had always told their kids not to back off when they believed

in something. The kids were doing exactly what their parents had taught them

to do. They believed in each other. And that was that.<o:< FONT>

The tiebreaker in this standoff was a grandma… the grandmother of the groom.

By God, if her only grandson was getting married, no matter to a

YOU-­KNOW-WHAT, then she was going to be there… for the sake of the unborn

grandchildren who would need her. Besides, she hadn't approved of her

daughter-in-law, either, but that had worked out just fine, thank you.

Granny was serious-she went and bought a ticket-SHE was coming to the

wedding… period.

Thus the dominoes fell. If Grandmother was com­ing, then she would need

support-she couldn't go alone, of course and pretty soon all the Irish

Cath­olics from Detroit were coming. They'd show those Jewish yahoos from

Brooklyn what real FAMILY LOYALTY was all about. And they'd bring Uncle

Dickie, the priest, to keep things as godly as possible.

Well. You know what happened next. Thirty-five Brooklyn Jews, including

Grandfather Rabbi, had plane tickets.

The wedding began to shape up like a grudge match between Notre Dame and

Jerusalem Tech. In physics they call this “achieving a critical mass.

Sure enough, they all came. And then it really got complicated. The

grandfather rabbi begged to at least be allowed to say a traditional

blessing in Hebrew at the end of the service. When the Irish Catholics got

wind of this, nothing would do but that the grand­mother, who had once

performed in light opera, should sing Schubert's “Ave ” before the

bless­ing, as a kind of prophylactic to the Hebrew. One side wanted a little

incense used, and the other wanted to have some wine in the ceremony and

then break the goblet. The bride and groom could do little but nod their

heads and smile and say “Whatever” to whatever was proposed.

Come the great day, Saturday evening-after sun­down, to please the

you-know-whats-the families marched into the church and sat down-no, “dug

in” would be the more accurate phrase, on either side of the aisle. For a

time I would have given 6-to-5 odds in favor of a free-for-all following the

ceremony instead of a reception.

Ah, but I keep forgetting about Love. The Irish Catholics from Detroit loved

the groom; no less than the Polish Jews from Brooklyn loved the bride. And

for very good reasons-they were remarkable young people, worthy of pride and

respect, even if they didn't have a brain in their heads when it came to

choosing a mate. And even the most bitter, jaundiced critic of the match had

a hard time ignoring how tall and handsome the groom was or how enchanting

was the bride. And you'd have to be really blind to miss what happened

during the ceremony-when the cou­ple said their vows, it was clear they

meant every word. And when the bride began to weep and her groom took her in

his arms and wept, too-well, the whole church was awash in tears. I've seen

wet weddings before, but this turned into a communal bath. The whole thing

ground to a halt while every­body had a good cry. The minister included.

Even Uncle Dickie the priest, lurking out in the vestibule… lest he get

contaminated by the proceedings, was seen dabbing his eyes and blowing his

nose.

What was happening was simple, really. Joy had jumped us all from behind

about the time the bride said, “Yes, oh yes, YES!” when the minister asked

if she took this man, etc. Something very old and fine and new and good was

plainly happening. Only a head or heart of stone would have missed it. Joy.

‘Unspeakable affirmation of something right. So we wept on, for lack of

words.

It was then that the grandmother of the groom-the grand matriarch of the

Irish Catholics, seventy-eight years old-rose to sing “Ave .” She did

not come all this way to let her grandson down. She stood by the piano, took

a deep breath, closed her eyes, and delivered the goods. Never have I heard

the song offered with more feeling, more passion and fervor. She was

magnificent. Not the scratchy, over-dramatic sounds you might expect from an

aging third-rate opera singer. No. This was the voice of a grandmother

distilling her life into the music for a once-in-a-lifetime occasion to

honor what she loved and believed in. When the last lovely note faded and

silence held us firm, Grandmother opened her eyes, smiled at her grandson,

and said, “There, now.

And the Brooklyn Jews gave her a spontaneous standing ovation. They might

not have known what was proper to do in a church, but they knew music and

they knew that Grandma had given it all she had-and they knew great love

when they saw it. She was their kind of guy. And a standing 0 was called

for. Yea, Grandma!

Grandfather Rabbi was not about to be outdone. He walked slowly to stand

close by the bride and groom. He reached out and took their hands in his.

And then, speaking for Abraham, Isaac, , and all the Jews of Brooklyn,

he laid a blessing on the couple that ought to last them the rest of their

lives. I mean they were BLESSED, and you didn't have to under­stand Hebrew

to know it.

So, of course, as you would hope, the Irish Cath­olics gave Grandfather

Rabbi a standing ovation he will never forget. Yea, Grandpa!

That's when the minister sighed a deep sigh of relief knowing that Joy had

won the day, and the possibility of a happy ending to this affair was real.

A happy ending. More than anything else in this life, we hope for some happy

endings. And we were about to have one.

What the families had not understood until the end of the wedding was that

they had many of the same values and traditions, despite their arguments

over metaphors for ultimate things. They believed in family, faith, love,

the same God, and the capacity to celebrate those things.

The bride and groom rushed off down the aisle to the reception hall, where a

polka band was waiting. The newlyweds danced and everyone applauded.

Grandfather Rabbi asked Grandmother Opera Singer to dance, and the crowd

roared and then joined them and the party was on. Never have I been to such

a reception-never was there such dancing and eating and laughing and

singing-long, long into the night. Magnificent!

Three days later, when my head cleared, I won­dered how it had happened. And

decided that the skeptical minister had been wrong and the bride and groom

right. Love was more powerful than prejudice—Love won out. I don't know that

I am totally convinced, but in this case it's what the evidence points at.

The final score was Love 21, Evil Spirits-zip. When in doubt, trust those

you love—all of them.

(Epilogue. A year later, close to the first anniversary of this amazing

occasion, I received a postcard mailed from a cruise ship in the Caribbean.

From the bride and groom, I thought. No. From the parents of the bride and

the groom, who have become great friends.)

© This story was written by Fulghum, Taken from the book:

It Was On Fire When I Lay Down On It

<http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/stores/detail/-/books/0804105820/glanc

e/103-6400037-5282255> . ISBN: 0-394-58056-7)

Reality is the ultimate lover for it declares everything worthy and holds it

within. —fb

I finally figured out how to have everything I want. It’s so simple; all

there is to do is to genuinely want everything I have. —fb

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[Guest guest]

>

> Three days later, when my head cleared, I won­dered how it had

> happened. And decided that the skeptical minister had been wrong

> and the bride and groom right. Love was more powerful than

> prejudice—Love won out. I don't know that I am totally convinced,

> but in this case it's what the evidence points at.

> The final score was Love 21, Evil Spirits-zip. When in doubt, trust

> those you love—all of them.

>

Thanks for this story

Love always brings a tear to my eye to, surely there is nothing more

beautiful than unconditional love.

" Nothing can cost you someone you love. The only thing that can cost

you your husband is if you believe a thought. That's how you move

away from him. That's how the marriage ends. You are one with your

husband until you believe the thought that he should look a certain

way, he should give you something, he should be something other than

what he is. That's how you divorce him. Right then and there you have

lost your marriage. " Byron