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My small, slim Canadian wedding
By Dorothy Cummings McLean
May 14, 2009
Dorothy Cummings McLean
“Your nose is bleeding,” shouted my mother. “Get off the phone!”
My nose was bleeding. Despite all my efforts to have as simple a wedding as possible, anxiety had me in its iron grip. The classmate whom I had hoped would concelebrate my wedding Mass had called in, exhausted from work, to send his regrets. The buddy whom I hoped would adorn my wedding Mass had e-mailed, about to give birth, to send her regrets. The groom whom I believed to be the most attractive and entertaining of men had been driving me insane just by existing. And I had seen a piece of thread on the dining room carpet, the carpet on which would stand over 30 guests, every one of whom I believed would judge me on the thread’s presence. A tiny blood vessel exploded in protest. My nose bled.
My nose was bleeding. Despite all my efforts to have as simple a wedding as possible, anxiety had me in its iron grip. The classmate whom I had hoped would concelebrate my wedding Mass had called in, exhausted from work, to send his regrets. The buddy whom I hoped would adorn my wedding Mass had e-mailed, about to give birth, to send her regrets. The groom whom I believed to be the most attractive and entertaining of men had been driving me insane just by existing. And I had seen a piece of thread on the dining room carpet, the carpet on which would stand over 30 guests, every one of whom I believed would judge me on the thread’s presence. A tiny blood vessel exploded in protest. My nose bled.
Fancy wedding magazines have many pretty pictures and much trivial advice. They have nothing to say about what to do just before your wedding when your groom, alarmed by your increasing anxiety, tells you that you have to want to marry him or the sacrament won’t take, and you want to hit him with a Toronto Sun box in reply. Fortunately, I went to a Jesuit school, and I recalled a Jesuit saying that when you’re in a state of desolation, you’re not supposed to make important life decisions. Running away on the Greyhound bus would have been an important life decision.
Sitting on a kitchen chair, holding the bridge of my nose while my sympathetic father vacuumed the dining room carpet, I wondered if my state of mind could be the reason why the bride is not supposed to see the groom just before the wedding. I also wondered why “cold feet” is called “cold feet” and not “freaking out bridezilla meltdown.”
From an Anglo-Saxon point of view, it all seemed very unfair. Was I not having a small, solemn, liturgically rich wedding in church? Was I not having a small, modest, sandwich rich reception at home? Had I not refused gift list inserts for my invitations? Had I not bought my flowers from Loblaws? Why then was I being visited with disasters and nosebleeds? It was a mystery. I could only hope that on my wedding day, I would be able to make the necessary act of will to effect the sacrament — and that the groom had not packed up and gone back to Scotland without me.
The great day dawned with a beautiful sunrise. This was soon replaced by black clouds, monsoon rains and pelting hail, but my bridezilla meltdown was over. I was free to be happy. I put on my make-up, my sister curled my straightened hair, and I stepped into my lace-trimmed dress. My green satin shoes I stuck in a plastic bag, for I feared the ravages of Lake Ontario, currently being dumped in various forms on the neighbourhood. Shaking with fear of dirt and water, I hurried into the garage clutching my hem.
The groom and I planned the wedding Mass before anything else. In a way, you could call ours a mixed marriage: he prefers the Extraordinary Form of the Mass with all its Latin and chant, and I am a Novus Ordo girl who likes a rockin’ Praise and Worship hymn now and again. Obviously there was a need for some liturgical compromise. For our wedding we agreed that we would have the Ordinary Form of the Mass but with all the Latin bits left Latin. We would sing as much chant as we could pack into one liturgy, but we would put a Jesuit in charge.
The reception was even easier to plan. The necessity of having a second reception in Scotland for Mark’s people made money an issue. But as we wanted to emphasize family most of all, it was not terribly difficult to come up with a list of my nearest and dearest relations and friends. Catering was taken out of our hands by my mother, who was horrified by the thought of paying someone to cook. Her idea was that a complete wedding breakfast, including cake, could be found in the pages of her Chatelaine’s Adventures in Cooking book. And so in the days leading up to the wedding, she could be found making chicken salad, laying in ingredients for punch and crafting pink icing roses for her four-tier brandy-soaked fruitcake. It was all intensely Old British Canada, and that’s exactly what Mark and I wanted.
By having a splendid Mass and a simple reception, Mark and I hoped to emphasize what our marriage is all about. We each have found someone into whose keeping we can entrust our souls. Christ, who is the beginning and the end, is the beginning and the end of our marriage. We can love each other properly only because we love Him first, and we believe that He has brought us together. Life may bring its occasional nosebleeds, but we trust the Lord to see us through.
Sitting on a kitchen chair, holding the bridge of my nose while my sympathetic father vacuumed the dining room carpet, I wondered if my state of mind could be the reason why the bride is not supposed to see the groom just before the wedding. I also wondered why “cold feet” is called “cold feet” and not “freaking out bridezilla meltdown.”
From an Anglo-Saxon point of view, it all seemed very unfair. Was I not having a small, solemn, liturgically rich wedding in church? Was I not having a small, modest, sandwich rich reception at home? Had I not refused gift list inserts for my invitations? Had I not bought my flowers from Loblaws? Why then was I being visited with disasters and nosebleeds? It was a mystery. I could only hope that on my wedding day, I would be able to make the necessary act of will to effect the sacrament — and that the groom had not packed up and gone back to Scotland without me.
The great day dawned with a beautiful sunrise. This was soon replaced by black clouds, monsoon rains and pelting hail, but my bridezilla meltdown was over. I was free to be happy. I put on my make-up, my sister curled my straightened hair, and I stepped into my lace-trimmed dress. My green satin shoes I stuck in a plastic bag, for I feared the ravages of Lake Ontario, currently being dumped in various forms on the neighbourhood. Shaking with fear of dirt and water, I hurried into the garage clutching my hem.
The groom and I planned the wedding Mass before anything else. In a way, you could call ours a mixed marriage: he prefers the Extraordinary Form of the Mass with all its Latin and chant, and I am a Novus Ordo girl who likes a rockin’ Praise and Worship hymn now and again. Obviously there was a need for some liturgical compromise. For our wedding we agreed that we would have the Ordinary Form of the Mass but with all the Latin bits left Latin. We would sing as much chant as we could pack into one liturgy, but we would put a Jesuit in charge.
The reception was even easier to plan. The necessity of having a second reception in Scotland for Mark’s people made money an issue. But as we wanted to emphasize family most of all, it was not terribly difficult to come up with a list of my nearest and dearest relations and friends. Catering was taken out of our hands by my mother, who was horrified by the thought of paying someone to cook. Her idea was that a complete wedding breakfast, including cake, could be found in the pages of her Chatelaine’s Adventures in Cooking book. And so in the days leading up to the wedding, she could be found making chicken salad, laying in ingredients for punch and crafting pink icing roses for her four-tier brandy-soaked fruitcake. It was all intensely Old British Canada, and that’s exactly what Mark and I wanted.
By having a splendid Mass and a simple reception, Mark and I hoped to emphasize what our marriage is all about. We each have found someone into whose keeping we can entrust our souls. Christ, who is the beginning and the end, is the beginning and the end of our marriage. We can love each other properly only because we love Him first, and we believe that He has brought us together. Life may bring its occasional nosebleeds, but we trust the Lord to see us through.
Dorothy Cummings McLean