it’s the season of love

For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health—our fall is filled with weddings.

And I can think of no better way to spend it than watching two people stand before all those they love—before God—and commit themselves to a life together.

There is something inherently hopeful about a wedding. It asks us to look forward, toward all the possibilities of a life not yet lived.

It also asks us to sift through a seating chart, find our table number, and occasionally wonder how the bride looks that composed while I am still finding bobby pins in places bobby pins should not be.

But mostly, it makes us believe in beginnings.

Lately, though, weddings have also made me look backward.

Perhaps that is because our eldest son is getting married in October. Or perhaps it is simply what happens when you have been married long enough to understand that the promises made on a wedding day are both simpler—and much bigger—than you realized when you first made them.

Weddings look a little different these days.

There are destination weddings and first looks. Friends playing officiant. Brides changing dresses more often than I change my mind about what to wear.

There are personal vows. Custom cocktails. Custom burgees. Signature scents. After-parties. After-after-parties.

By the time the actual marriage happens, you feel as though you've sat through a three-day conference and missed the continental breakfast.

Still, beneath all the new trends, the important part remains remarkably unchanged.

Two people choose each other.

Recently, I walked into the welcome party for the wedding of one of our son's oldest friends and promptly burst into tears.

Granted, I have been known to cry at commercials—I once welled up at an insurance ad—so this was not entirely out of character.

But this felt different.

Standing before me was the young man our son had first met playing football for the Putnam Generals in third grade, followed quickly by basketball and baseball teams.

There had been practices, carpools, and the familiar sight of him asleep on our family room couch, where teenage boys apparently believe blankets are optional and furniture is communal property.

Different schools. Different colleges.

But their friendship remained.

And now here he was, dressed in a linen blazer, very much a grown man, very much in love, waiting to marry the woman he had chosen.

For a moment, I could see both versions of him at once. The little boy—a beast on the pitcher's mound. And the man standing before me.

Parenthood does that to you sometimes. Time folds in half.

One minute they are launching minibikes off jumps in your driveway. The next, they are standing under twinkle lights holding a cocktail.

When I was younger, I mostly saw weddings as one big elaborate party. The dress. The flowers. The music. The first dance. The cake.

I also believed, with great confidence, that everyone at the wedding was focused on the bride and groom.

Now I know half the room is wondering what's for dinner and at least one person is trying to figure out whether she can leave her shoes under the table.

Perspective comes with age.

So does bunion awareness.

So does a strong opinion about the proper decimal of the wedding band.

But mostly, you begin to understand what comes after the event.

There will be ordinary workdays mixed in with the anniversaries. Seasons when life feels easy and others when it asks more of you than you ever expected to give.

There will also be disagreements about fairly petty things.

The thermostat.

The thermostat.

The thermostat.

And the mysterious inability of one person in a marriage to see a full garbage bag until it has reached structural collapse.

But somewhere in the middle of all that, marriage becomes less about one colossal promise and more about the thousand smaller ways two people continue to honor it.

Some say the person you choose to marry is the biggest decision you will ever make. That once sounded dramatic to me. It doesn't anymore.

Because you are not simply choosing the person standing beside you on your wedding day. You are choosing the person beside you for all the days that follow. The person who will know your stories and your habits. Your strengths and your less charming qualities. The person with whom you will build a history.

And perhaps that is why weddings move me so much now. I understand more of what those vows are being asked to hold.

This fall, I am watching young people I once knew as children make that choice. And soon, I will watch my own son make it.

I suspect that when he does, I will see more than the man standing at the altar. I will see the little boy on the athletic field. The child actor onstage singing, "You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile." The teenager he became—slightly less innocent, but thankfully still fully dressed with a smile. And the young man who slowly built a life separate from ours.

I will probably also be wondering whether I am crying too much, whether my mascara is running, and whether anyone has a tissue.

And beside him will be the woman he has chosen to share whatever comes next.

When I think back to my own wedding, I realize how little we knew about the life ahead of us.

We left our reception dressed head to toe in leather, on a motorcycle, in the snow—which, in retrospect, was either wildly romantic or a fairly accurate preview of marriage: questionable judgment, unpredictable weather, and the unwavering belief that we knew exactly what we were doing.

We didn't.

Maybe that is part of the beauty of it. You cannot know. You can plan the flowers, choose the music, and agonize over the menu. But the life itself? That part arrives without a wedding app.

You can only choose. And then keep choosing.

So perhaps a wedding is not simply a celebration of love. It is a celebration of faith—in another person, in the life you will build together, and in all that remains unseen.

And so, to all of you getting married this season:

Laugh a lot. Forgive a lot. Know when to speak, when to listen, and when to simply hand over the remote.

And may the life you build together become richer, funnier, messier, and more meaningful than anything you could have imagined.

Here's to crowded dance floors. To beginnings. To faith in all that lies ahead. And most of all, to love.

To Anna and Griffin. Kyle and Nina. Will and Claire. Jamie and Natasha. Ryan and Amy. Allie and Dylan. Tia and Christian. Wellsley and Atticus. Cassidy and Kareem. Morgan and Henry. And, of course, Ali and Hunter.

We love you!

May this season of love be only the beginning.