I made vows at the altar.
Not just a promise. A vow. A covenant. Oh my goodness.
Don’t get me wrong, I looked beautiful in my floor-length ivory gown, my man looked handsome in his charcoal gray suit, yellow shirt, and little yellow boutonniere that I made him to match my bouquet and hair flower (we’ll get into the details of my craftiness another time). The altar itself was a gray pole of some sort that my dad and helpers made with yellow, silver, and white ribbons hanging from it as a beautiful backdrop to our vow exchange. But there was quite a bit happening in that moment.
As I walked toward this handsome man and fun and pretty altar, I knew what I was approaching. I was approaching the moment when I would no longer be just a “me,” but a permanent “we.” I was approaching my best friend in the world who waited for me where we would commit our lives to one another. I was approaching a new life that would hold surprises no matter how prepared we thought we were.
Overwhelmed by emotion, I had a “girl moment” or a “wedding moment” or an “emotional moment” – however you prefer to describe it – and all the excitement and anticipation of the day, of approaching forever my Darius, caused the tears to flow. Walking down the aisle, my arm in my father’s, tears rolling gracefully (or so I like to pretend) down my face, I made it. To the altar.
The beginning of my story.