Last week, I received the best package in the mail I’ve ever gotten. Ever ever ever.
They were my and Jeff’s wedding photos, from Willow Lane Photography.
The box was stuffed with shredded brown craft paper. Inside was a small laser-etched wooden box with a slide top, and inside was a wooden jump drive with our names etched on it. There were two releases allowing us to print any of our hundreds and hundreds of photos and a note from Lane, our photographer. And there was a small box with about 100 4×6 photos in it — Lane’s favorites, I assume.
I’ve already bombarded my poor Facebook friends with three (three!) albums of wedding photos, but allow me to share a much smaller number of images with you. (If you’re like, “I don’t care. I just want to see what you were wrong about,” scroll fast through the pics, and I’ll get to it, I promise!)
Going into this wedding thing, I wanted something small. Very, very small. Jeff and I started to look into lakeside resorts in the state where we could get hitched with 20 people max.
Instead, we wound up with 120 people. We had a delicious sit down dinner with out-of-this-world tiramisu wedding cake. We had a photo booth and a first dance/father-daughter dance/mother-son dance. There was a bouquet toss and a garter throw and two boxes of cigars just outside on the patio. It was enough people that I got to see everyone I love in this world, but not so many people where I ended up sending an invite just because.
A dear friend married us, and our vows were personal, meaningful and beautiful. A friend from college thanked me for inviting him and told me he takes wedding invites very seriously. He feels honored to be invited to witness vows, that the witnesses enter into a kind of unspoken promise to see to it that both parties withhold their ends of the bargain.
And that’s what our wedding was: People we loved witnessing a forever promise, and then partying like hell after.
When I told my parents about the intimate resort idea, Dad pouted. Oh, did he pout. He wanted to welcome people to his daughter’s wedding, to shake their hands, to play the proud papa. And oh, did he.
If I had my way, I wouldn’t have gotten anything like I got. I’m sure it would have been lovely.
But it wouldn’t have been perfect. How I hate that p-word, “perfect.” It paints such an impossible expectation, and I did NOT expect anything close to perfect. So how did I get it?
I don’t know, but I’m so, so, so grateful I did. Thank God I didn’t get my way.