It may reasonably be supposed that, after so many months of preparation, correspondence, baking, sewing, purchasing, arranging, rearranging, and the daily arrival of parcels from a certain Mr. Amazon, there could remain very little to surprise a mother of the bride.
And yet, now that the wedding weekend had at last come to a close, Mrs. Stewart found herself seated quietly at home, quite overcome by the extraordinary fullness of her heart.
There had been, of course, the planning.
There had been the sewing, which had seemed at times to possess a life of its own; the baking, which had produced quantities of confectionery quite beyond the reasonable requirements of any gathering of eighty-five persons; and the logistics, which had required an understanding of time, distance, weather, family relationships, flowers, desserts, umbrellas, food covers, vintage automobiles and a number of other matters which, under ordinary circumstances, might never have been considered together in the same week.
There had been guests arriving from nearly every conceivable direction, for the family, being rather widely distributed, appeared to have interpreted the invitation as a challenge to international travel.
There had been flowers.
There had been cleaning.
There had been pedicures, manicures and considerable attention paid to the condition of everyone’s hair.
And then there had been the weather.
The weather, it must be admitted, had behaved in a manner entirely unsuitable to the occasion.
Rain had been forecast.
Rain had indeed arrived.
And yet, when the moment came, the sun appeared with such remarkable punctuality that Mrs. Stewart could not help but suspect that someone, somewhere, had been listening.
There had also been prayer.
Much prayer.
Prayers that everyone would arrive safely and in good health. Prayers that the family would have the strength to accomplish what had been undertaken. Prayers that the many separate pieces of the celebration would somehow come together according to Lexie’s particular vision and the desire of her heart.
For Lexie, it must be understood, had possessed a vision.
A very particular vision.
Red, on the other hand, had been perfectly content with the marriage they had already enjoyed in the backyard two years before.
But Red loved his bride.
And so, being a sensible man in at least this respect, he had agreed that if his bride desired a wedding, then a wedding she should have.
He helped.
He supported.
He loved.
And he gave her the wedding of her dreams.
Indeed, it became the wedding of everyone’s dreams.
Mrs. Stewart, seated in the front row during the ceremony, soon discovered that the family had not gathered merely to admire the flowers, the decorations, the vintage automobile or the many other pleasing arrangements which had consumed so much time and effort.
For there was a sound behind her.
Sobbing.
There was more beside her.
And, to her increasing awareness, considerable emotion farther down the row.
It was not, however, the aesthetic beauty of the occasion which had undone them.
It was the sincerity.
When Lexie came down the aisle with her father, she was crying.
Red, standing upon the platform beside the minister, was also crying.
And when Red declared that he loved Lexie with his whole soul, it was generally agreed, though no formal vote was taken, that the remaining members of the congregation had very little chance of maintaining their composure.
Those vows.
And then Lexie began to speak in perfect Romanian.
At which point even those who could not understand a single word understood everything.
There are moments, Mrs. Stewart reflected afterward, when a mother is reminded that the most beautiful things in life are not necessarily the things one can arrange.
Nicholas Sparks himself could scarcely have improved upon it.
And then, as though the day had not already been sufficiently determined to exceed expectations, Lexie and Mike arrived in a vintage car.
At this point, Mrs. Stewart could only conclude that Providence had perhaps developed an excessive fondness for theatrical entrances.
For the perfection of the day was almost alarming.
They had established the venue that morning in the rain.
They had worked beneath umbrellas and clouds and uncertainty.
They had prepared themselves in a homemade bridal suite while the weather remained entirely indifferent to their plans.
And then the sun came out.
Not for five minutes.
Not merely long enough to suggest false hope.
It came out and decided to stay.
Such behaviour from the weather could only be described as miraculous.
There was another matter which made the occasion particularly significant.
All seven children of Mrs. Stewart’s ninety-four-year-old mother had come together to witness the marriage.
All seven.
And thus, the heart of the mother was full.
Red’s mother and brother had also finally arrived from Romania, having endured an airline adventure which might have provided sufficient material for an entirely separate chapter.
And thus, Red’s heart was full.
As for the mother and father of the bride, their hearts were full for reasons too numerous to catalogue.
They were simply full.
And perhaps the most fortunate aspect of the entire arrangement was the manner in which the weekend had been divided.
The wedding was Friday.
Saturday remained available for visiting with relatives and friends.
And Sunday brought the family together once more for dinner at the sailing club.
No rushing from one obligation to another.
No desperate attempt to fit everyone into a single afternoon.
Instead, there was time.
Time to talk.
Time to laugh.
Time to sit together.
Time to recognize the people who had travelled so far to be there.
It had been, Mrs. Stewart concluded, rather perfectly arranged.
The wedding was over.
The guests had departed.
The food had been packed away.
The flowers had been gathered.
The cars had been loaded.
The family had returned home.
And yet, as she sat reflecting upon it all, she could not bring herself to regard the weekend as finished.
For some occasions do not truly end when the last guest leaves.
They settle instead into the heart.
And there they remain.
Forever
The Red Plaid Apron 