Today, I officiate at a St. Patrick’s Day wedding ceremony. The couple chose this day to honor the bride’s Irish heritage, but they had an uninvited guest: a fellow Irishman named Murphy (as in Murphy’s Law – “If anything can go wrong, it will”).Last night’s rehearsal took place in the middle of a Nor’easter – sleet, snow, high winds, the works. Not all the wedding party made it to the church, but enough did that we muddled through.
Today – the wedding day – one of the missing groomsmen never does arrive (airline flight canceled), the church roof springs a leak (melting ice dams) and the groom’s father arrives on crutches, having slipped on the ice outside his hotel and broken his ankle. Before the ceremony, Murphy’s Law ruled, but not after we got started. Everything goes just fine, from “On behalf of the families, I welcome you...” to “You may exchange a kiss.” I’m happy about this couple’s prospects. They’re fine people, and their unseasonably icy wedding day will provide some colorful stories at a future anniversary party.
Afterwards, I do as I usually do, and record the essential details in my pastoral record-book. This book is a sort of events diary, a log of significant liturgical occasions at which I’ve officiated. I started it years ago, before I was even ordained, on the advice of one of my mentors in ministry. It includes baptisms, weddings and funerals, as well as the titles and scripture texts of all my sermons. It’s an old-fashioned sort of record: pen-and-ink entries on archival-quality paper. No electronic data storage here (which, given the rapidly-evolving world of digital storage media, is a good thing).Anyway, as I record the new entry, I notice there's a gap in the record. Between December 30, 2005 and June 10, 2006, there are no weddings. That period of time coincides with the months when I was undergoing chemotherapy.
I do something like a dozen weddings a year, on the average. It just so happened that, when I was diagnosed with cancer, I didn’t have any weddings on my calendar for many months. That was just as well, as it turned out – I didn’t have to call anyone and beg off. I didn’t accept any new wedding bookings for a while, directing all inquiries to Robin (our associate pastor). It’s hard to make firm commitments when you’re getting chemotherapy.
Now, my file of wedding applications at the church is bulging again. It’s another sign that life is returning to normal.
The gap in my pastoral record-book is a reminder of what I’ve had to go through, in this strange season of my life. The beginnings and endings of this season are indistinct; it took two or three months to diagnose the cancer, and even now I don’t know for sure whether I’m out of the woods. It was a time when nothing was happening, and everything was happening. I’m still living into a full realization of what it is I’ve been through, and am still going through.
