When I interview wedding couples in order to draft a customized ceremony, we discuss who will be there, the steps in the ceremony, and so on. Toward the end I ask each one of them, “What does [he/she] bring to the table that will contribute to the success of this marriage?”

I ask for two reasons. On a practical level, if they want to write their own vows or read a few personal thoughts, I will have this information ready and written down in case they call me the night before and say, “I have no idea what to say, help!”

But also I ask this to get them thinking. It's generally something the couple have not articulated to one another before, and may have not even considered. It’s one thing to love a person, the way her hair falls, the way he is with your nieces and nephews. But now the couple is embarking on a huge venture: to create a successful and long-lived marriage. This is a contract, a civil commitment with witnesses and property and families, and it’s worth considering how your partner can support the business of marriage.

I’m happy to report that, after their first surprise, couples hardly ever have trouble identifying each other’s qualities that support marriage. “His practicality supports my huge visions and hazy details,” “He is energetic and full of ideas and solutions,” “She’s so organized, and I love her sense of humor. We’re going to need that as we travel the world together.” And when one talks, the other very often has tears in their eyes, because it is something very precious to hear that your sweetheart cherishes your qualities.

It opens their hearts to each other even more.

It can also reveal any red flags as to why this couple may not be quite ready to marry. “She’s going to sober me up” is a red flag. It means that, for now, equality and independence are lacking.

Long ago I interviewed a very wealthy couple. She was the CEO of a well-known company, and he was a consultant. They shared a commitment to fitness, which they discussed a lot. The interview was nearly over when I asked them this question. She answered something about his very healthy lifestyle, and then I asked him, “What does she bring to the table?” His answer stopped me in my tracks.

“Well, in the end it’s all about me, right? I need things around me to be perfectly in tune with me so I can get into my flow. And she is never any trouble. She likes to do what I like to do. She fits around me like an old slipper.” I waited to see if this was a joke, but apparently it was not. An old slipper! Woe to this CEO when she suddenly has to work late, or travel abroad, or decides to take up a non-fitness hobby. Or gets sick!

I was young, and not bold enough to tell them my thoughts right in the room. I politely concluded the interview, and a few days later, begged off the wedding. I knew that they would marry anyway, and learn whatever lessons they had to learn. But my conscience wouldn’t let me marry them. 

I've been writing my Masters' thesis, a slim biography about my maternal great-grandmother, for three years. At first the book was mostly in my head as I struggled with structure and voice. Finally, scenes began to find their way onto paper.

During year two, I constructed a long, awkward 'spine' of a book with clunky pieces. I was still in the gathering and placing phase, and many of the pieces went off in all directions. It was such a mess! I shared it with friends who gently reflected back that yes, it was such a mess. Still, the book had come alive now, and we were in a rather obsessive relationship.

This summer, in shifts of between one and four hours of work on it every day (and dreaming about it all the time), I managed to cut and sand away the rough edges, find an internal logic, and let the story begin to shine by itself. I didn't answer all the questions I had about her, but now I could see parts of her life more clearly.

I'm a month away from submitting it to the first committee for their round of edits, and I have not performed a wedding for a year. And yet. Weddings are around me, I remember them, I think about them. Here is a clipping about my great-grandmother's engagement to my great-grandfather. . . 

And here is what the wedding was like: ​

Somewhere I have a blurry grey and white photo of the couple, but I actually think the reporter's breathless words do them better justice. A gown trimmed with Valenciennes lace! Orange blossoms on her veil! My family remembers that the wedding took place in the 'keeping room' because it was a little too chilly to hold outside. The keeping room is where dairy products were kept at a steady temperature. My guess is that the milk and butter were removed, and the room was filled with flowers.

Thank you for reading, and wish me luck on this thesis.

It’s not uncommon for one or both of the wedding couple to have parents who have passed away.

L.R. recently wrote to me and asked if there is an appropriate way to incorporate the memory of deceased parents into the wedding ceremony. She went on to add, “We want this to be a happy moment and I want to be careful not to turn it into a memorial service.” At the same time, as she said, “This is a cherished moment when they should be present and it will give her comfort taking this big step in her life.”

When I thank people for coming to the wedding, after opening the ceremony, I often say, “We also want to acknowledge those important people who are not sitting with us today.” If someone couldn't travel for health or other reasons, or is serving overseas, this is a good time to name them.

Then I say, “And especially, (the deceased person’s name or names). He (or she, or they) ARE here in spirit, and in our hearts.”  It is perfectly OK to have a poignant moment in an otherwise cheerful ceremony, and it allows everyone to welcome the memory of those people into the gathering.

As an alternative, the couple could place a photo or two of the parents or loved ones at the sign-in or gift area in the reception. The photos could be happy, so they are easily remembered with joy. Might there be a wedding photo of them?

In some ceremonies, I’ve seen the couple come down the aisle together before the ceremony started, and quietly light a votive candle in front of photos of the deceased parents. No words were spoken; some guests understood and others didn't see it, but it was a sweet and solemn gesture before a joyful occasion.

Finally, if there were particularly characteristic phrases or funny things the parents or loved ones were known for, your couple might like to have some of that woven into your celebrant's address. For example, you could mention that a sense of humor is critical to a long, good marriage (it is!), and thank goodness the bride got a boatload of humor from her dear parents.

I would choose 2-3 possibilities, then try to have an informal chat with your couple to see what sounds most desirable to them. My couples always appreciated knowing about that part long before the big day.

When you officiate at a wedding, carry a handkerchief. It should be soft, with no scratchy embellishments. It should be small enough to hide in your sleeves or notebook. You might even consider carrying one to the wedding rehearsal.
Consider that the bride has (usually) just spent hours having her makeup carefully applied. Yes, it is romantic when tears come to her eyes; that means she is fully engaged in the process of the wedding, and something has moved her deeply. At the same time, she does not want her mascara running down her cheeks, nor does she want her nose to run. Help her retain her maximum photographic advantage. Whip out your hanky and let her delicately blot the tears away.

During my dozen years of officiating, I have also used that hanky to swish away enthusiastic bees from a bride's fresh-flower headdress, and to help a bride mop away the "glow" from marrying on a hundred-plus degree summer day.

The groom is just as likely to tear up. He often has a nicely folded handkerchief in his breast pocket, but yours is more convenient while he reads his vow.

Make sure you are not emotionally invested in the handkerchief, because in the ensuing chaos after the ceremony, it won't make its way back to you.

I remember performing a wedding in a white-towered tent surrounded by a blooming lavender field. The bride had thoughtfully placed a table piled with vintage floral hankies at the entrance to the tent. Alas, there was no sign specifying that guests were able to choose and have one, and so most of those hankies went unused that day. It must have taken a lot of work to assemble that lovely heap of cotton wisps; I hope the couple later made something like a hankie quilt with them.

The brides arrived at my house late in the afternoon, having picked up their Santa Clara county marriage license the day before. They were already weary after a long, hard drive from Oregon.

We sat at my kitchen table with bottles of cold water. My daughter sat with us. We scrutinized the marriage license, which was in order.

I cleared my throat. “Do you, D, take M to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.”

“And do you, M, take D to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.”

“Then, by the power vested in me by the State of California, I now pronounce you to be a legally married couple.”

We cheered and my daughter signed the certificate as a witness. I made copies and slipped the original license into its envelope.

Then we had dinner.

Before you call this wedding completely prosaic and boring, let me continue: I had been with these women six days before, at a late morning wedding under a lace canopy in one of Portland’s botanical gardens. As four closest friends held the poles of the chuppah steady, the brides washed their hands in clear water and fed each other tastes of honey. A framed and witnessed ketubah, a visual reminder of their vows to one another, stood on an easel nearby. The ceremony lasted twenty minutes, and guests beamed with joy and even wept. Vows and rings were exchanged, and that day I said, “By exchanging your private affirmations, you have pronounced yourselves to be married.”

But that wedding is not yet legal in Oregon.

Later, the mother of one of the brides remarked on the fragile hydrangea blossoms that shone like bits of lace among the dark green bushes surrounding our ceremony. There had been no sign of blooms the day before.