Back in Canada on Friday, I went to a wedding Saturday--that of my fiance's daughter. Some elements of the ceremony were traditional, even formal. It was at a church, the bride wore a heavy white gown and a veil over her updone hair, and they signed a certificate, which apparently is a picture-taking occasion in this country. They also had a reception, where they cut two cakes (chocolate and white).
Other elements of the ceremony were less traditional. The bride's oldest son (age 7) walked her down the aisle and did a Bible reading. The middle son, age 4, carried the box with the rings. The youngest, age 13 months, walked partway down the aisle with the bridesmatron and refused to go farther under his own power. The minister also asked the boys if they were OK with their mother getting married to this man. (They are. Everyone is--they're great together.)
Oh, and the cakes were Hot Wheels cakes. The two older boys got to pick the kind of cakes they wanted, and that's what they wanted. Vroom, vroom.
The best part of the wedding that it was exactly right for this family. It was meaningful. The silly moments and laughter didn't detract from the very sincere vows that the entire family made.
Which is not to say that large, ultra-traditional weddings, in any faith tradition, are necessarily without meaning. Many people find comfort and meaning in using the same words as their ancestors to make identical vows. It's impossible to gauge the depth of a promise from the outside, whether the bride is barefoot in a meadow or veiled in a cathedral.
I'll be at another wedding in less than a week. It will be on a beach, with just a few family members present. It, too, will be perfect for the couple. The wedding cake will be Nanaimo bars. I know, because I'll be the bride.
