It usually stays confined to the top of the closet shelf, it’s pages bound together in the darkness.
Upon watching her walk down the aisle to marry her Prince and become a Princess, and hearing the fanfare and familiar hymns that played during my own wedding, it just had to come down.
Arms intertwined, my father’s thumb gently caressed my hand as we walked down the aisle, whispering for me to slow down, urging me to take it all in, to not miss a moment. With a cascade of satin and lace trailing behind, that procession down the aisle, with a full congregation’s eyes peering, was evanescent upon reaching that altar.
Then, an exchange of nervous hands, vows recited and rings exchanged, all resulting in fusion. United in the sacrament.
My wedding was not watched by billions from around the world, nor did it require monumental degrees of security, nor was it’s details shrouded in secrecy. It did, however, have the same regality and tradition. For across the ages, many a man and woman shared in this same sacrament, with these same words and ceremony, entering into this same institution that I was now a member. The sacredness of this union has been honored continually and consistently in the same way over time. It wasn’t until I was upon that altar with the God given grace from the sacrament, that I was truly able to grasp it’s implications.
It was with interlaced fingers, and lives, and a deeper understanding that we exited the church.
We were now one.