On a crisp March morning standing on an ancient bridge overlooking the Eiffel Tower in Paris, Jacob asked Sara to marry him. She said “yes,” and we were all thrilled, and they started planning. The invitations were sent in June. It was to be a formal wedding in Decatur, Georgia in October, complete with tuxes and floor-length gowns.
And so, the search for the perfect MoG (mother of the groom) gown commenced. I took into consideration the location: Georgia, the season: Fall, the weather: 74degrees and humid, the color of the bridesmaids’ dresses: shades of green, the color of Sara’s mom’s dress: periwinkle blue, and my red hair. I scrolled endlessly through several different websites carefully evaluating my options, expensive, inexpensive, beaded, plain, A-line, mermaid, off the shoulder, scalloped neck, etc, etc, etc. I drove to shops in Salem, Portland, and Vancouver and tried on countless gowns. I ordered and returned at least seven options, all of which were beautiful, but just not quite right. I asked for opinions from my mom, my sisters, my daughter, my friends, my sons, my husband. What do you think of this one? How about this one? Check this one out.
After modeling the umpteenth selection for Kenny, his dress-o-meter cracked. “It’s like I smelled one too many perfumes. They all look the same after a while. Please don’t ask me about one more dress.” Truly, he was spent. I moved on to my sisters and friends for their opinions and nearly wore them out.
“Remember, the day is NOT about you,” a wise friend texted me ever so frankly, more than once, as I waffled just weeks before the wedding.
“Thank you for saying that,” I responded politely and sheepishly not able to hide my embarrassment. It was getting ridiculous.
I was experiencing analysis paralysis. But why?
In a quiet time, when I finally slowed my mind and posed the question to the Holy Spirit, a dream I had many years ago came trickling back to me not like a raging river, more like a gentle stream.
I was in a small, square room, sitting at a vanity brushing my hair and staring at my reflection deeply in a lighted mirror. I wore a beautiful floor length gown and was evidently getting ready to go to a formal event like a ball or a banquet. There was a knock at the door. The door opened revealing a ruggedly handsome man in his twenties standing in the doorway. He was tall with dark features, wearing a tuxedo apparently waiting to take me to the ball. The scene changed and I went from sitting at the vanity to sitting on the floor like a little girl playing with her toys. Our eyes met. We both knew I was not ready to go with him. I could tell he was very happy and at peace. The look in his eyes was only love without a hint of disappointment. One day, I’d go with him, but not now.
At the time of the dream, I could only interpret it with one meaning because it happened about a year after my son, Sammy, died, when Jacob was only eighteen months old. The young man in the dream was a twenty something year old version of Sammy in heaven, mature in body, mind, and spirit. I was immature and not ready to be where he was.
Was I now walking through the dream differently? Getting ready for a formal event, my son Jacob’s wedding?
It occurred to me that I could not decide on a dress because I had been searching for the dress in the dream. A dress that could not be found because I could not see any details of it.
But more than that. It didn’t have anything to do with my physical appearance, the dress, hair, or makeup. I was looking deeply into myself and finding myself wanting. Did I feel ready for the leaving and cleaving that God ordains in marriage? How did I want to show up for my son and his bride? Of course, I wanted to feel beautiful in the eyes of my son; but who was I now in this new role of mother of a married man and new daughter-in-law.
Ready or not, the day arrived.
To describe their wedding as beautiful would be an understatement. It was like a fairy tale from start to finish. I had to pinch myself. Several times. And it wasn’t so much about elaborate ceremony, (yes, the flowers and decorations were spectacular, everything was polished and perfect, simple yet stunning, and the sparkler send off….wow!) but it was the purity of it. It was about Jacob and Sara and the people who were there and how they showed up to celebrate them. A little heaven on earth. A dream come true.
Even as I write this, I am considering a third interpretation of my dream. Jesus is the man at the door. “I stand at the door and knock,” says Jesus in Revelation. Daily, I am invited to commune with Him. This does not have to stay a dream. There is no waiting until I die. He brought heaven to earth for me now. I don’t have to be perfectly ready or dressed up or polished. He sees me just as I am and He loves me. This can be my reality every day. I just need to open the door.
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Julie, I recall all too well that day Grant brought home the news of Sammy. Along with all who knew you, we grieved and cried tears of such sorrow. But your words at his service have stayed with me to this day. You said no matter how much you loved him and if it was within your power to have him back in your arms, you would not take him away from being with Jesus. That love expressed so well has been helpful to me in my own losses, especially with Grant. And now to read this beautiful recollection of the dream and its significance, and the blessed marriage of Jacob and your precious new daughter, my heart is full. Thank you for sharing your blessings, and a few giggles over the gown dilemma. I think most women can relate. The only easy choice is comfy undies!
Thank you, Sharon.