I’ve flown to Norfolk to perform a wedding for Rachel Reon and Aaron White. I’m staying at the Hampton in Smithfield and am amazed, again, to drive through towns that smack of history in both the Revolutionary War and Civil War, and that almost all hearken back to England for their original naming.
Don’t miss the five to ten ways I am wealthy in that first paragraph.
This afternoon at two o’clock I walked into the Trinity Methodist sanctuary with Aaron and his best men to watch Rachel and her best girls walk down the aisle. No bombs. No sirens. No flack jackets. A dress she will hopefully only wear once. Tuxes. Flowers. Food at the reception. Small jazz group playing at the reception. People travelling from around the country. No one detained. People smiling in photos. No one imprisoned. People getting to know strangers. No one shot. Multiple ethnic groups sitting together and enjoying each other.
Don’t miss the twenty or so ways we were wealthy in that paragraph when insanity erupted 141 miles away in Charlotesville.
And Rachel, whose parents, and grandparents have all remained married, stood looking up into the intently focused eyes of her Aaron making his promises in front of his parents and grandparents who have all remained faithful and married — and she felt blessed. In ways she can barely comprehend. She will return to Illinois to finish her Masters and Aaron will find employment there, and they will pursue God’s will and their careers and family — unbelievably fortunate and blessed.
And we, as Americans must all become more intentional in how we say thanks, in how we become stewards of the astonishing gifts raining down on us.
It was humid outside the church as we exited, and I almost complained as the rain began before Mark and I could get to the car. I winced. How quickly I brandish a whine rather than a “hallelujah” in my days.
Sometimes wealth dulls my senses, rather than sharpens my awareness of the otherness, of the other-worldliness of the blessings cascading around me. That makes me the pauper sitting at the feast, seething at what else I want, rather than kicking back and rejoicing with those around me.
I know. Silly.