The band was okay–nice people, just the Motown they usually picked to play was not slow enough to slow dance and not fast enough to fast dance. They did get everybody out on the floor, though, for “Brown-Eyed Girl.” My mom’s song.
I saw Ben McBrayer, whom I’ve been meaning to write, and a million people whose names I didn’t know I remembered. I was terrified I’d read my Corinthians too fast, but a lot of people complimented me on that, and on how much I look like my dad. Instead of best man and maid of honor, they had Best Moms–my grandmother Virginia and my new grandmother Betty Jo. Father Pat started to prompt them, but they already knew the vows by heart.
Maria was kind enough to drive down from Louisville to get me last night, and I’ve spent Thanksgiving with her family today; Ian’s at Noah’s and Caitlan is at our family farm. This week was the only chance they’ll have for a break together before Christmas. I don’t know how they managed to pull this whole thing off in six weeks, but it was…
About halfway through the service, one of the light bulbs right above the front row chose November 26th as its day to expire. Nobody noticed: my mother and stepfather were glowing.
