Wedding Stories

Today Jen and I attended her cousin’s wedding. So I thought that this entry might be a good time to reflect on some of my more enjoyable wedding memories.

Let’s start with my sister’s friend Lori. Her wedding was, bar none, the weirdest I’ve ever attended. They rented out the Fulton Opera House in Lancaster and were married there. After the ceremony, the curtain opened and we had the reception on the stage. The highlight, however, was the groom’s vows. The pastor told him to repeat after her (it was also the only wedding I ever attended that was officiated by a female, but that’s a discussion for another day), and recited his vows for him to repeat. After a moment of silence, he looked at her and said, “I’m sorry – what?”

Let’s see, then there was the wedding of my friends Steve and Donna. Steve was the pastor’s son at my old church. He was a real character. Probably still it, I guess. He rewrote the lyrics to Depeche Mode’s “Somebody” (to make them nice) nand had me sing that during the ceremony. His grandmother (I think) accompanied me on piano. Except, she had no idea how the song actually sounded and just plunked away from the sheet music he had picked up at the record store. It was way too fast. Sounded like a show tune.

Then at the end of Steve and Donna’s wedding, as the wedding guests were being dismissed, he asked me to get up with my guitar and sing “500 Miles” (the “I’m Gonna Be” song). As soon as I started playing the intro to the song, my friends in the congregation looked up at me in horror, with this “You’re not…” look on their faces.

And my favorite wedding memory: my sister’s wedding. At the reception, the pastor presented my sister, Becky, and her husband, Dave, with their Marriage Certificate, or whatever the official document is called. Dave said to the pastor, “Does this mean I get to keep her now?” The pastor looked at him, slightly disgusted, and replied, “Yes, this means that you can sleep with her now.” I wonder if the pastor ever thought of Dave in the same way again.

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