She absolutely glowed as her father escorted her to the place where I was standing in the Ohio sanctuary that watched her grow up.
Her 72 inches of dazzling beauty, illuminating a dress handcrafted by her mother, would have brought Grace Mennonite Church to its feet without the lone trumpet to signal her entrance.
I stood confident and proud, ready to recite "before God and these witnesses" every sacred word of our solemn, eternal covenant.
Then, as she took my arm and we turned to face the preacher, I saw my young bride's tears.
By the time he got to the repeat-after-me portion, a giant lump had overtaken my throat and wrecked my voice.
"Sharon" was all I had to say to begin my vows. When both syllables tripped over my teeth and fell out of my mouth with a squeak and a crackle, I had to laugh.
I truly had no choice in the matter. The harder I tried to keep from laughing, the more futile my efforts became.
With vow after painfully long vow, the situation deteriorated from awkward embarrassment among the body of witnesses to a collective feeling of, "Oh, come now, man! Get hold of yourself!"
I repeatedly held up a finger, the international symbol for "give me a second." But seconds turned to minutes, and the finger became an instrument of blame as I pointedly told our friends and family "she did this to me."
When we finally reached the end of my vows, the minister added an unscripted "You are finished," which I dutifully repeated to the delight of those who had endured my irreverent display.
"One thing's for sure," somebody said at the reception, "nobody here's ever going to forget your wedding day."
For added insurance, Sharon had the date and the words "we became one" engraved on the inside of my wedding band.
That was 10 years ago on Sept. 13, a day that started like any other day at our house. I was upstairs trying to awaken one of the twins, while Sharon was already downstairs making breakfast for our two other daughters.
When she looked at the school lunch calendar to determine which of the girls would be packing meals that day, Sharon let out a frightful gasp, followed by a quite loud "Oh, no!"
"What is it?" I asked.
"Mark, do you know what today is?"
Obviously, something of great importance had been overlooked. When that happens, it's usually my fault. I immediately began checking off the possibilities inside my head.
House payment? No.
Softball practice? That wouldn't raise anyone's blood pressure.
No birthdays.
No holiday.
"It's trash day," I guessed out loud, "and the truck's already coming down the street?"
"No!" she shouted. "It's our anniversary! It's our 10-year anniversary!"
The best part — indeed my only saving grace — is that we both completely forgot about it.
We had to laugh. We truly had no choice in the matter.
