THE times I have walked down the wedding aisle cannot be counted on one hand. My cousins of different degrees always needed a small boy to carry their rings or bibles for them. Since I was forced into retirement from my bearer duties when younger pillow-carrying kids were born into the family (and because not many people marry today anyways) I haven’t had the chance to attend many nuptials. The drought ended last weekend, when my cousins renewed vows on their 10th anniversary.
It was a solemn ceremony, breezy and full of warm smiles, as one would expect from a Tagaytay wedding. The poetic backdrop of mountains and skies went perfectly with the romance of the occasion.
In between my listening to the priest’s homily and gazing at the painting of a view, were flashbacks of the only things I managed to see—and understand—at weddings when I was a kid.
The only thing that mattered then was getting whatever I had on my hands across the other side of the aisle without dropping it. I couldn’t see much over pews, I just wanted to get off the itchy barong, I wanted to skip the reception and go home to play. What went over my young and naïve head were the gems of a priest’s homily.
That day, on that Tagaytay chapel, I listened ardently to every word the priest said. He switched from laying down the fundamentals of a successful marriage, the importance of saying “sorry” and the importance of not going to bed with anger for your partner. There was palpable tension among the married guests who had strained relationships when father’s homily hit too close to home.
“Marriage is hard work,” he said at one point. “And to make it work, you need team work.”
The tension diffused with each word, to each truth. Eventually, there was a silent, collective sigh of realization among the affected. At that moment, it became clear the priest wasn’t only unifying the couple in front of him.
Advice comes in different forms, with the best ones usually the simplest yet most overlooked.