My Son’s Getting Married?

My mind won’t let me draw an image for the wedding day. My son’s wedding day. It doesn’t seem
possible. He’s too young. I’m too young. As an ordained Presbyterian minister I have performed
hundreds and hundreds of weddings, but I just can’t picture my son as that bright-faced, eager young
groom, staring lovingly into the eyes of his betrothed, saying his “I do’s” while she looks adoringly back
at him. Try as I might, I just can’t put his face in that scene.

It’s a day I have hoped for since he was born. When he introduced us to his, then, girlfriend, I caught
myself thinking, “Is this the one? Will he recognize her as a life partner? Is he ready to make that
commitment? Have I done enough to prepare him for the majesty and the wonder, the grind and the
agony of marriage? Have I helped him to see past the failures of his mother and me? Despite our
divorce, have I offered him a framework that will allow him some confidence in his own vows? Is he
ready for this? Am I ready for this? Am I ready to be a father-in-law? Am I ready to be a grandfather? A
grandfather? Turning 50 this year did not make me feel old. The thought of being a grandfather makes
me feel old. I’m going to have to recalibrate my thinking on that one.

***

He was a big baby. Ten pounds, eleven ounces at birth. He took his time arriving, too. His mother was a
warrior during the nearly 24 hour labor and delivery. Her sister was pregnant at the same time. When
we called her to tell her that we were on the way to the hospital, her water broke within what seemed
to be minutes. I think it was actually a few hours later. But the race was on. Which sister would deliver
first? The nurses in our hospital in Charlotte were taking bets on who would deliver first: the Charlotte
sister of the Houston sister. Updates were given on the hour – for the first few hours. But as the labor
dragged on for both women, the competition was only compelling to the dads. So we kept the updates
to ourselves. It took forever. In fact, it took too long.

The doctors became concerned, both for mother and child. And in the wee hours of the morning, the
decision was made to deliver by C-section. Prep for surgery was launched. I secretly checked on
Houston. They weren’t making much progress. “Yes. We’re gonna win!”

When the nurse called me into the Delivery Room, I was shocked by what I saw. Everything was so….so
clinical. So sterile. Doctors and nurses wore masks. I didn’t recognize anyone. The bright, white light
over the table cast a surreal glow onto the room. The doctor didn’t look up. He talked in code to the
nurses. There was a precision and choreography to every movement that should have offered
assurance, but it just made me feel even more disoriented.

I was standing to the side of the delivery table, trying to offer encouragement to my wife. She had been
given an epidural, and I was trying to assure her that everything was fine, but she looked at me with this
strange look. It was either pity or dismay. I never knew which. Later I learned that she was worried that I
was about to pass out. The room was spinning. Everything was moving in slow motion, and yet, at the
speed of light. I couldn’t get my bearings. Finally I heard a noise. It was not the determined, reasoned
voice of the doctor. It was not the responsive voice of the nurses. It was not the drug-slurred questions
of my wife. It was a different sound. The sound of awakening. The sound of insult and fury. It was weak
and utterly foreign, yet it was the most piercingly familiar sound I have ever heard in my life. It was the
first cry of my boy – my baby boy.

The nurse held him up and asked if I wanted to see him. I said, “Yes”, but wasn’t really prepared for
what I would see. Blood and mucous and umbilical cord; an open incision and internal parts that I didn’t
really ever want to see. The nurse caught me before I went down. “Sir, are you ok? Do you need to sit
down?” Before she could finish her question, I did. My legs buckled and I flopped into a chair; head
rolling back and face as white as the walls. Thank God there was a chair ready to catch me. I sat there
and tried to forget what I had just seen. I shook my head hoping the cobwebs would recede.

Then I heard it again. That wonderful, incredible sound of my son calling out – yearning, stretching,
clutching for the warmth of the womb. The nurses were cleaning him up and when they finished they
bound him in a clean blanket, and carried him to his mother. And I exhaled. I don’t know how long I had
been holding my breath, but the rush of wind from my lungs allowed some color back into my face. And
I wept. I wept for joy and for gratitude. I wept for the weight of responsibility I felt for that fragile,
tender young life. I wept for what was, and what would be, and for what would never be again.

***

There are so many snapshots.

Kneeling with him in his grandmother’s driveway, studying the beautiful red flowers he picked for his
mother, not understanding that he needed to ask, first.

The look on his face after catching a wave while body surfing in the Atlantic on one South Carolina’s
pristine beaches.

The Mohawk haircut he donned, briefly, as he took his hair down to a #1 cut, wearing his soccer shirt
and looking like some soccer hoodlum; though, not really.

His teammates lining a section of the cross country course as he ran in the State Meet. Shirts off on a
brisk, October morning. Letters painted on their chests. One letter per guy, spelling: GO BEN. Cheering
wildly as he ran by.

Seeing the determination and delight in his eyes as he conducted his first concert as the Instructor of
Fine Arts and Coordinator of Choral Activities for DeSales University.

***

Now he is getting married. He has grown to be a fine young man and he is getting married. Responsible.
Determined. Focused. Loyal. He will make a good husband. And he has chosen his partner well. They
will, by all indications, be a good fit for each other. I try not to project my life experience on him, but I
know things he can’t even imagine. I wouldn’t want to tell him what I know, not all of it anyway,
anymore than he would want to hear it. There will be time. Later.
***

Enough of this. I have a toast to prepare.