On Friday, our 48th wedding day, Roberto planned a scenic ceremony on the steps of the Guadalupe church here in San Cris. I was down — our last handful of weddings had been simple and intimate, one whispered slowly as we were falling asleep, another right under the wire after bickering about giving the dog a bath. We needed a pick me up wedding, so we drove into town to marry each other for the 48th time.
But we didn’t get married in front of Guadalupe. As weddings go, there were bumps in the night, and we decided to re-visit Guadalupe in the sunshine.
Instead, we celebrated our bumpy week with a bumpy wedding and exchanged rings as we rolled towards home.
Sloppy and spontaneous, the bumpy weddings are turning out to be my favorite weddings.
The wet bar wedding in the rain. The alleyway wedding. The pajama weddings. The post-fight weddings. The “Why are we doing this, again?!” weddings. (Those are the best. So far, there’s nothing a “We do” can’t fix.)
It’s one thing to choose each other when we are giggly and starry eyed and the road is smooth and the air is sweet. And, don’t get me wrong, I love those weddings, too.
But it’s a miraculous thing to choose each other — to choose love — when the road gets bumpy.
And I don’t mean tope kind of bumps. I mean full on careening through the air, wondering if you’re going to land in one piece kind of bumps.
And then choosing each other even when you don’t land in one piece. That’s the miracle.
Bumpy weddings are the best. Love dangerously.