Singing in the rain
Originally uploaded by neloqua.
Last night at the wedding I worked, it rained so hard and so long that one of my co-workers wondered if it was the end of the world.
Water streamed down the brick walkway and into the door whenever anyone opened it; and the tent, which is usually pretty impervious to the weather, sprung some small leaks.
The bride arrived early, looking dismayed and tense. She'd planned everything so carefully. She hadn't envisioned buckets or towels on the floor amid the flowers. She'd been hoping to take photographs on the beach.
I wanted to hug her and tell her that once the wedding began, those things wouldn't matter. I wanted to tell her that marriage is all about the unexpected.
But waitresses aren't allowed to say things like that. I told her not to worry; we'd get the buckets out of there before the guests arrived. I told her the rain looked like it was letting up.
It wasn't and didn't. The buckets remained.
The father of the bride got up and read a poem about true love by Robert Louis Stevenson. The poem said that love makes the day clear and blue. As he read the rain grew defiantly stronger; it clattered on the roof of the tent like a hundred wild horses.
The wild horses said that true love is all about the unexpected.
The band arrived, and they, too, were anxious. There was a leak just over the area where they were setting up. One of them thought he saw lightning over the water.
We brought them some strong drinks from the bar.
But once the music began, everything changed. The bride relaxed into her beauty. The poem suddenly made perfect sense. The musicians forgot to worry about lightning. Everyone danced.
The rain was no longer an intrusion; it was simply part of the music. And like the best music, it was all about the unexpected.
For more meditations on music: Sunday Scribblings.