I remember this day five years ago. It was a hot and muggy, and by mid-morning the rain was coming down pretty hard. The ceremony was in the afternoon at the Ancaster Old Mill, a favourite restaurant of ours that proved to be the perfect place to get married. The venue was an outdoor chapel tucked against the rock of the Niagara Escarpment; it was a place that was – at that point – probably soaking wet.
I didn’t care.
Now this is coming from an Olympic-caliber worrywart. If there is something about which you can worry, I’ve probably worried over it long before you. Erin and I had spent months planning every last detail of the wedding to try to make it as perfect as possible. We had enlisted legions of friends and family to help us. We had rehearsed and choreographed and specified until we hurt. Now a thick summer thunderstorm was about to drown the whole thing.
A single thought kept me from the world’s greatest breakdown:
That day, no matter what weather came our way, no matter what obstacles were thrown before us, no matter the delay, the collapse, or the catastrophe, I was going to marry my best friend.
We would go home together that night. We would leave our families and start our own. We would publicly declare before all the people that mattered most to us that we would tough out every dark storm to wait together, hand in hand, for the sun to break through again.