I don’t do weddings very often these days, but last month I had the fun of marrying the daughter of an old friend and former colleague. The last time I had been at the church was around four years ago, when I had the sad duty of conducting the funeral for the bride-to-be’s mother, so this was now to be an occasion of real joy and celebration – a moment of moving on.
We drove down the day before, to attend a rehearsal and a pre-wedding supper. We had to remember to pack all we needed for the wedding, the rest of the weekend, and then enough stuff for holiday partly on the canals and partly in West Wales: so bags of this, rucksacks of that, a briefcase of clerical tat, and suits and dresses laid across the back seat of the car.
Having forgotten my black shoes five years previously when travelling to marry my own daughter (and had to borrow a pair from my future son-in-law), I made sure this time the shoes were in the car – and even remembered to polish them the previous evening. That was pretty good going for me – ask my wife!
All went well – the rehearsal was fine, the B and B was comfortable, and the evening out was really pleasant. On the Saturday a “full English” breakfast, a walk on the beach, and then back to change and head for the church.
I don’t do “smart” very often, but on this occasion I tried hard: the only instruction from my wife was that I shouldn’t upstage the bride’s father! So on went the modest black suit, and colourfully toned shirt and tie. And then the shoes. I eased my foot into the left shoe, and almost immediately, and to my horror, it re-appeared through the side of the shoe, as one entire seam split away from the rubber. Aghast, as the prospect of walking down the aisle with trainers beneath my cassock loomed before me, I put my foot in the other shoe, where the sole simply parted company with the rest of the shoe altogether and disintegrated on the floor before my eyes.
To laugh or cry? For lack of anything better, we sat on the bed and laughed and laughed, wondering what to do. Too late to go shopping; no potential son-in-law to borrow from (size 12 does present a problem!). Then I remembered I had packed some brown walking shoes for the holiday to come: they would have to do. And do they did. Black suit, white alb, brown shoes – a near perfect colour combination for all but the most discerning clergy-fashion spotter.
Realising, in the minutes before we left for church, that the shoes must have rotted in the cupboard for lack of light and air, I saw an opportunity. Abandoning my prepared sermon, I hastily put the shoes in a plastic bag, and headed for the church.
All went well. The bride and her seven bridesmaids were stunning; the groom turned up – and on time; even the sun shone as we entered the church. Nobody fluffed their lines, and in just a few moments I was proclaiming the couple man and wife. And then I presented the shoes to the happy couple – my wedding gift, I said, since it was hard to find anything for the couple that had everything….
And the sermon? The moral of the tale? Never think you can stuff your love and care for your partner into a cupboard once the wedding is over, leave it for five years, get it out and expect it to be still in working order. Relationships need light and air, time, nurture, even a regular polishing. That way they will last, will shine, and will always be fit for purpose. Get it wrong, and you’ll put your foot in it. And that will take more than shoe-shine to put right.
