My little brother, Rob, married his love, Laura, this past weekend in St. Louis. They were surrounded by family and friends, burdened by some pretty gnarly humidity, and by all measures, deliriously happy. I wondered off and on throughout the weekend what I would write about that day or that weekend, how I would welcome my new sister, how I would gift my kid brother with a lingusitic kiss on the cheek as he scurried off to his new, grown-up life.
I could write about the social oddity of being the elder sister (30 years old and single, the horror!) and witnessing the younger brother marry. But the ridiculousness of that churns my stomach, as if social temporal expectations somehow trump the movement of God. Marriage is promised to noone, so when its blessing occurs, especially for someone as dear and loving and devoted as my brother, the only viable option is Joy.
As is usually the case with this blog, it's the small, forgettable moments that tend to impress me in the midst of change, adventure, turmoil, ecstasy, etc. Their wedding day was no different. The wedding itself was beautiful, my first Catholic wedding, made familiar by echoes of my family's faith wrapped up in old hymns. After the meal at the reception I danced, visited, hugged, did all the things one does in the company of both sides of the family for the first time. Well into the evening, I sat at a back table with my sister and my best friend, Megan. Megan and Caroline were chatting about Caroline's recent trip to Guatemala and her impending adventure as a freshman in college far, far from home (something Megan and I are quite familiar with). I fleetingly thought of how often Megan and I babysat that future freshman, how wrapped up in my life and perspective both these women were, one by virtue of years and friendship, one by virtue of blood and sisterhood. From there my eye caught my dad, dancing (!!) with his cousin, Suzie, who once carried my sister on her back up a mountain in East Tennessee. And to the right of them I saw my aunts and uncles lining a wall, watching them dance, laughing, occassionally tiptoeing onto the floor themselves. I saw old neighbors with their arms draped around children I once tucked into bed in exchange for mall money. I saw my brother shaking hands with our cousin, three years my junior and the wedding videographer, in a way that made him seem equal parts adult and 6 year-old. A handshake born of blood and childhood backyard comraderie.
In some hodgepodge of love and limbs, music and movement, my whole heart took in every inch of my family. Every single body in attendance, every single body who couldn't make it, every single soul who smiled from above. I felt every inch of that flesh and blood as in one warm, unexpected hug, the kind that sneaks up from behind and envelopes a person, heartbeat to heartbeat. And it took my breath away, that much love. I felt how vehemently every aunt who'd kissed Rob's knees, every friend who'd found him a cab, every neighbor who'd watched him out the window play H-O-R-S-E with his dad, loved him. I felt how powerfully and intentionally those prayers in that church had been directed on his behalf, that his life with his bride might be more than just happy, that it might be blessed. I felt every single smile.
And that was the blessing to me, to witness how gifted we are, we children of Tom and Robin, we grandchildren of Tommy and Audrey, Bob and Betty, we cousins and neices and nephews and friends, to be surrounded for the entirety of our lives by those who find it easy to rejoice, to dance, in view of our happiness.
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