for better or for worse: lessons as a covid bride

We are down to only two months until our wedding, and I want to jot down a few thoughts on wedding planning during a pandemic. 

I’ll say, foremost, that I recognize how unspeakably fortunate we are to be grieving our wedding plans rather than a loved one, our health, our livelihoods, or so many other things that have become so precarious in public consciousness this year. But the looming anxieties and heartache surrounding our wedding have been palpable to us - which isn’t to say they are colossal in the grand scheme of things, but noteworthy nonetheless. I want to name these grievances, humbly, in earnest hopes that they might resonate with another. I hope these words don’t come across as tone deaf nor trite - and if they do, feel free to skim as I try to make sense of these muddled thoughts of mine. 

People, well-meaning, ask, “Why don’t you just postpone?” to which I would respond: it’s just not that simple. For many of us, postponing for the sake of having our “plan A” event isn’t a viable option. There are aging grandparents, pending visas, commitments made, tickets booked, deposits invested, plans to honor. 

Above all, there is the sinking sense that postponing is but a guessing game and a delusion - a futile wish that the lives we knew and the milestones once imagined can just be rescheduled to another circled date on the calendar.

As people of the Christian faith, Paul and I hold many beliefs surrounding marriage. Our wedding day is founded upon the idea that a marriage is a covenant made before God and others. A wedding is a time where a couple commits to one another, and the community commits to support the couple in their union. We are heartbroken at the thought that many beloved members of our village won’t be able to be present (in person) as we vow to commit our lives to one another. 

When I let my mind wander too far, I feel real anger about the question marks before us, and all the work which at times seems unavailing. I think of my dad bottling wine for the reception we might not have, invitations sent to a venue that might cancel, my mom arranging pew markers for a church that might be empty. All these details, attended to with such excitement and such love, are purposed for a day that seemingly won't occur as expected. 

Too, we are admittedly exhausted by the avalanche of contingency plans, unanswered questions, dashed expectations. We are hopeful, yet cognizant of what might not be. I wrote this, a few months ago, and it still rings true as we count down the days to our wedding: 

As we volley endless options, grief sits on our chests like a heavy stack of bricks - because, deep down, we know this isn’t the way it was supposed to be. 

As futile as it may sound, I have had to let go of the idea of my 'dream wedding', like many other COVID brides. 

But I have also bore witness to the break in the clouds. As the pandemic continues far longer than expected and our plans have come to grief, we mourn what could have been whilst trying to see the good, and the important. 

In fact, truthfully, this strange process has uprooted all sorts of cultural defaults, idols and presumptions I had about my wedding that I’ve had to slowly surrender, one by one. Perhaps the silver lining in our wedding plans is just this: we’ve forcefully confronted what is essential to our union- and dance parties, hors d’oeuvres and chair rentals are far down the list. 

But this we remember: at the end of that day, no matter its form, we will be married. Our people, however near or far, will celebrate with us. This is truly what we hold closest to our hearts. 

And as I pray for peace in these weeks leading up to my walk down the aisle, this tender truth brushes up against me: our loved ones can partake in the sacrament of our marriage even if they won't be present on the day it begins. We might not embrace them at our wedding, but we know their role in our marriage will not be lessened by this absence. 

In the meantime, we utter bold prayers for May 22nd. Day by day, we commit it to the One who instituted marriage in the first place. 

My father encouraged us recently to remember that ours is the God Who saved the wedding at Cana, turning a disaster into a moment where His glory was manifested. 

Thus we will commit May 22nd into the hands of the One who is in the business of redeeming all things. 

Perhaps most important of all, we approach the day knowing that it is an object lesson for the heavenly wedding feast to come. If our imperfect wedding feeds our longing for the day we celebrate the covenant of Christ, the bridegroom, and the Church, His bride, let it be so. No matter how flawed or polished our wedding is, it could never compare to that day. 

So, with open hands, we walk together in this ambiguity, learning to mourn and to rejoice in the very same breath. We anchor our hopes in God, not in our dream-case-scenario nor our intricate planning. 

For better or for worse, we remind ourselves (and each other). 

What a lesson to carry into our marriage. What a lesson to carry for the rest of our life.