My dad’s wedding

I cannot remember the last time I have seen my father look as happy as he did last weekend at his wedding, and I have definitely never seen him in a tuxedo.

“When is the last time you wore a tux?” I asked him over the phone.

He laughed. “I’m not sure. A long time ago. Probably in high school.”

Anyone who knows the history of this newspaper (or my own personal history) will know that my dad’s wedding is a fairly ironic thing for me to be writing about in this space. (For a hint one needs only consult my byline.) But it is an occasion so momentous that to not write about it would seem to me to be strange.

My dad and Ari’s wedding was held at the St. Mark Church in Lackawaxen, PA last Saturday, and was very charming, storybook even. Forty close friends and family gathered in the small country church on a beautiful day, a slight breeze floating off the river and a view of the Roebling Bridge in the distance.

I was the best man and Ari’s two sons and two daughters were groomsmen and bridesmaids.

It was not his first wedding or his second, but I am confident it will be his last. And it makes me happy that he has found someone to share the rest of his life with. (And that she and I get along well.)

When Ari turned the corner and appeared down the end of the aisle, my Dad tensed up. There was an audible gasp in the room and I could see tears in his eyes. She looked beautiful, and watching her walk toward him (escorted by her two sons) turned out being more emotional for me than I had expected.

At the rehearsal the night before, the pastor asked if I would help him administer communion. I said I would. Funny, because before the wedding I had never even taken communion in my life and wasn’t sure that I would be invited to do so.

The pastor showed me how to hold the wine goblet and how to wipe off the edge after each person sipped. The whole explanation took 15 seconds, and as I took the cup out of his hands on the day of the wedding, I was immediately terrified that I would spill it on someone.

“The body and the blood of Christ shed for you.” The pastor said over and over.

My mind raced. How high should I tip it back? How quickly? I pushed thoughts of all the things that could go wrong out of my head, and was relieved when a few people dunked their crackers into the wine so I did not have to pour it into their mouths. Gradually the line grew smaller and smaller until there was no one left.

I breathed a large sigh of relief.

It was a lovely service.

It is an amazing thing that as one’s parents get older, one starts to worry about them. They are no longer the indestructible giants and superheroes of our childhood. They become normal, vulnerable people that you think the world of and want the best for.

My family has not been “typical” for a long time. It has grown and shrunk at different points in my life. And despite being slightly compartmentalized and a little complicated, it continues to be incredibly loving and supportive.

The last time I saw my dad in a tuxedo, he was dancing with Ari at their wedding reception and both of them were smiling from ear to ear.

-Zac Stuart-Pontier