By Katie Ginn
Photo by Followell Fotography
Three years ago this month, our wedding reception was dying down ahead of schedule. In my unbiased opinion, this was because we’d meticulously curated our set list – played by an amazing live band! – for peak enjoyment and cardio activity, and had therefore exhausted our guests with fun.
Our wedding planner walked over to us and suggested maybe we could leave a little early. Apparently, that didn’t sink in for me, and I lingered too long. By the time I moseyed over to my mom, drew her away from her conversation, made it to the bridal suite next door, and (with Mom’s help) changed into my going-away outfit, the dance floor was empty – except for my new husband.
He felt the need to keep the party going, he said. To keep people entertained, he said. And if you’ve ever met Stephen, you know he didn’t do this because he’s a ham. So there he was, all by his lonesome, grooving like he was having a blast, and on the inside, he was a flaming ball of embarrassment and stress.
I don’t remember what he said when I got back. But it felt unfair for him to be upset. I wasn’t perfect, I said. It took time to get out of my wedding dress, I said. And I hadn’t known he would take sole responsibility for keeping the dance floor “active.” He apologized then and there. No big deal.
Then our send-off music got messed up.
It was a string version of the main theme from “Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark.” Yes, you read that right. After our guests lined up outside with sparklers, the song was to play. Then, at just the right moment, Stephen’s best man would hand him an Indiana Jones hat, and we’d be off through the tunnel of well-wishers.
The song started early, before people had lined up. The track had to be started over – repeatedly. It was all wrong, and it didn’t matter that only Stephen knew or cared. He was not happy.
We smiled. We walked. We got in the car. And as the tires crunched over the gravel driveway back to Highway 22, an anticlimactic gloom settled over us.
On the drive home, we talked through what had gone wrong and how we could’ve done better. I said something about him having high expectations, which he acknowledged as true. This wasn’t exactly the mood we wanted to be in as we left our wedding reception, but we worked through it (and the night eventually improved – but that’s our business).
I could’ve freaked out on that drive home. My OCD brain could’ve churned endlessly over whether these incidents were bad omens for our future. But by God’s grace, I had reason to believe otherwise, after nearly two years of dating and engagement.
That’s not to say these same issues haven’t come up again. You know how they say that when you assume, you make “an ‘a-s-s’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me’”? Well, if I had a dollar for every poor assumption I’ve made in this marriage, I could buy Stephen a donkey.
Three years ago, I assumed he’d be fine while I took my sweet time preparing to leave our wedding. Maybe one year ago, I assumed that weird little charge from Australia on our bank account was fine. Two days ago, I assumed it was fine to tell our friends we’d sit with them at lunch after church, instead of asking Stephen if he’d prefer a quiet table for two.
To be fair, I’ve gotten better. Likewise, he’s gotten better about responding with grace when I mess up or things don’t go to plan. But we aren’t perfect, and won’t be on this side of eternity.
If you’re looking for perfection, or for someone who never sins, flubs, or repeats a mistake, look to Jesus Christ (who makes zero mistakes). But if you’re looking for a marriage partner – or to become one – prepare to offer confession, repentance, mercy, and forgiveness. On repeat.
Marriage doesn’t mean perfection. It means living out the gospel as a pair. And in the Ginns’ humble opinion, sometimes it means a killer set list at the reception.
In this issue:
- Rusty and Heather Bryant’s Redeemed Marriage
- How your marriage impacts your kids
