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A Stormy Beginning

Terry C. Ley

    Our sunny June day turned cloudy at 2:00 p.m., two hours before our wedding. By 3:00, as I made my way to the church, it began to sprinkle. By the time Mrs. Corning cranked up the prelude on the wheezy organ, the rain began in earnest. Guests arrived damp, under umbrellas.
    Once I arrived at the church I paid little attention to the weather outside. My internal weather was more than a little shaky. Roger, my best man, was a calming influence. As a drama director and director of a drum and bugle corps he knew how to conduct major productions without falling apart. Just before showtime he volunteered to go into the sanctuary and turn on the wee cassette tape recorder hidden in the choir loft that I hoped would preserve the event for posterity.
    I breathed deeply outside the door to the chancel where I waited with my male attendants. We were as handsome then as we ever would be, all at the same time: We were resplendent in black tuxedoes, gray vests, gray-and-black-striped ties, and patent leather shoes—everything rented, of course, except our underwear. Roger assured me several times that, yes, he knew exactly where the ring was; he had not lost or misplaced it since the last time I had asked him. Besides my own breathing and our nervous exchanges, I heard the happy chatter of friends who were gathering in the sanctuary, mixed with the occasional cries of children present. I heard thunder, too, often very loud now, and close—and I saw flashes of lightning that lit even the shadowy corridor where we stood awaiting our cue.
    Several minutes later, I stood at the head of the center aisle, facing the damp but smiling witnesses in the pews before me. I suppose I heard the violin solo and the reading from Gibran, but I don’t remember them at all. Finally, when Mrs. Corning struck up “Trumpet Voluntary in D,” I knew it was time to pay strictest attention to what was about to happen. It was getting serious. I watched first Dorothy, then Pat, and finally Kay Lynn make their way up the aisle and find their places. The congregation rose. Two people stood at the other end of the aisle. One of them was Harold Young, soon to be my father-in-law, but who was the other one, the woman on his arm, that woman in white? She didn’t resemble anyone I knew! Her dress, her veil, her hairdo, even the way she walked, all conspired to create a mystery that solved itself only as they moved down the aisle toward me. I was relieved to learn that it was Mari after all, and she was lovely!
    Mari and her father ended their journey beside me. We exchanged nervous smiles, relieved (finally) to be in this place at the appointed time. The “Voluntary” ended. Except for the clearing of throats customary when music ends in any sanctuary, it was silent.
    And then lightning struck the church—or very near it, a strike punctuated by a thundering ka-BOOM that shook the building.
    After a brief, stunned silence, a child cried, “What was that?” and Rev. Haney, apparently undisturbed, pronounced, “Hear these words of the Lord Jesus Christ.”
    Believe me, I was listening! Was this an omen? Was the church on fire? Would we have to postpone—maybe even cancel—the wedding? Had I rented all these fancy clothes for nothing?
    Mari claims that she was determined that this show would go on, even if we had to have the ceremony at the Women’s Club, where we had scheduled the reception.
    The church was not burning, as it turned out, although lightning had zapped my brother-in-law’s car outside, and several friends who were seated in the balcony swore they saw lightning pass from Point A to Point B there.
    After that startling fanfare, the show did go on—and on and on. On June 28 we will celebrate our forty-third anniversary.
    We listen to the tape recording of our wedding on June 28 every year, always anticipating the crash of thunder that clearly marked the starting line of our marathon—and giggling when it happens. We’re awake then, alert, ready to listen again to the vows that we took on that stormy afternoon in 1969.

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