Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
The soft music of guitar and flute continued to play after the sonnet had been completed. The church was fragrant with flowers and bathed in candlelight. Father Kenneth Townsend stood solemnly facing the congregation, resplendent in his finest robes.
“Dearly beloved,” he read, “we have come together in the presence of God to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony . . .
“The union of husband and wife in heart, body, and mind is intended by God for their mutual joy; for the help and comfort given one another in prosperity and adversity; and, when it is God's will, for the procreation of children and their nurture in the knowledge and love of the Lord. Therefore marriage is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently, deliberately and in accordance with the purposes for which it was instituted by God . . .”
The pews were filled with well-wishers. Old friends and new ones were seated next to each other, watching the proceedings with extraordinary interest. Vince Angelo had flown in from New York. David Jacobsen, the former hostage, sat with his son Eric. Several Los Angeles news reporters and television personalities were present. Even Red Jeffrey, Harold Fuller's cranky Marine Corps friend, was there in full-dress uniform.
The bride wore a gown of shimmering ice-blue silk, with strands of pearls braided into her hair. She carried long-stemmed white roses tied with a blue satin ribbon. There was no fear on her face, and although she wasn't quite smiling, hope surged in her heart and shined out through her eyes.
At her left was her matron-of-honor, aglow with joy, seated in her ubiquitous wheelchair. No one but Joyce Jiminez could have been at Betty's side on that particular occasion. The two women had little in common but their mutual faith, their dedication to Christian humanitarianism, and their common concern for Jon Surrey-Dixon. But that was reason enough to provide the diminutive Hispanic woman with an honored role at the wedding.
The groom was dressed in a traditional tuxedo, a white rose in his lapel. At his right stood Jim Richards, his old friend, and a fiercely loyal one at that. If no one else had been there to pray, the handful of people who stood at the front of the church would have stormed the gates of heaven themselves, pleading for a blessed future for the bride and groom.
As the ceremony progressed, an unusual group of men gathered at the left of the altar. They were dressed somewhat more carefully than usual, but Brian Demetrius' band still had a uniquely ragged look. When they began to sing, however, their hair styles, earrings, and attire were quickly forgotten. Betty's song would never sound more beautiful.
. . . Lands and oceans come between us,
People, places, months and years,
But the eyes of God have seen us,
And He's smiled through His tears.
He knows the way, He has the answer,
Somehow, some day we'll never say good-bye . . .
At last, that some day had come. Jon drew an unsteady breath as the song finished. Memories of his nightmare in Lebanon had caught him off guard. The miracle of the song, of hearing it for the first time in answer to an urgent prayer brought a flood of tears to his eyes. He shook his head and smiled at Betty, who was trying to retain her own composure. Not surprisingly, the guests at the wedding were also moved by the lyrics, and by the popular band's willingness to perform it in such a private, sacred setting.
Father Ken turned toward the bride.
“Elisabeth Fuller Casey, will you have this man to be your husband, to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”
God, you know I mean it. Don't let me fail again.
“I will,” she responded, firmly and with all the determination she could muster.
“Jonathan Keith Surrey-Dixon, will you have this woman to be your wife, to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?”
“I will,” Jon replied, looking into Betty's eyes, hoping his voice wouldn't break.
“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”
Harold P. Fuller stood ramrod straight in his best suit, starched white shirt, and black necktie. “I do!” he barked just a little too loudly. Relieved to have his responsibilities behind him, he sank into his assigned pew, praying from the depths of his soul that this would be his daughter's last wedding.
Betty handed her roses to Joyce, and she and Jon stood hand in hand, repeating their vows. The words sounded like poetry “. . . for better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish . . .” Had she ever really made those promises before? No, never like this.
Once their rings had been exchanged, Father Ken joined Jon and Betty's right hands together and pronounced them man and wife. “Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder.”
The congregation was led in prayers for Jon and Betty's future life together. As Betty listened, she longed for them to be literally fulfilled. Were people really paying attention to the words?
“. . . that each may be to the other a strength in need, a counselor in perplexity, a comfort in sorrow and a companion in joy.”
“Amen.”
“. . . Give them grace, when they hurt each other, to recognize and acknowledge their fault, and to seek each other's forgiveness and yours.”
“Amen.”
“Make their life together a sign of Christ's love to this sinful and broken world, that unity may overcome estrangement, forgiveness heal guilt, and joy conquer despair.”
“Amen.”
“Give them such fulfillment of their mutual affection, that they may reach out in love and concern for others.” “Amen.”
Betty and Jon had elected to have a communion service during the wedding. Once it was completed, and the benediction spoken, the musicians began to play Bach's beloved melody, “Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring.” The bride and groom turned, smiled radiantly at their friends and swept down the center aisle together. As they reached the back of the church, Jon glanced at Betty who was still fighting tears. “It's too late for you to change your mind now, Mrs. Surrey-Dixon.”
“Not a chance,” she laughed, kissing his cheek. “I'm not going anywhere. Besides, you're the one who ran away the last time.”
He took her in his arms and held her. He was just about to kiss her with his whole heart and soul and mind. Suddenly the church's rather elderly wedding coordinator impatiently interrupted their embrace and herded them into the social hall at a brisk pace.
“You stand here,” the bespectacled woman commanded. “No, not
there.
You stand
here!
”
She took Betty by the arm and led her to an invisible spot. “And the bride stands
here.
”
Betty scowled rebelliously.
And you stand right over there, little lady, right outside the door.
Jon, who was feeling benevolent at the moment, squeezed his wife's arm. He gave her a kind but cautionary look.
Jon and Betty were soon joined by Jim, Joyce, Harold, Ken, and Erica. Fortunately, as if by magic, the cranky wedding coordinator utterly vanished.
Before long the air was bright with flashbulbs. The sound of laughter filled the room. Along with their guests, the bride and groom celebrated their long-awaited wedding by cutting a tiered cake, posing for photographs, and opening gifts. Friends and loved ones had brought their own particular best wishes and presents and dozens more had come by mail.
There were greetings from David and Peggy Say. “I told you he'd be out soon!” Peggy's note reminded Betty. A $25 check had come from Ricky Simms Ministries with a letter inviting the happy couple to participate in a “Free-at-Last Interview.” Arthur Nichols, who had denied milk to starving babies not many months before, sent a card and a personal check for $500.
There was nary a word from Mike Brody. After debating with herself for days about risks versus the rudeness involved in inviting or not inviting him, she'd finally done so, pretending she hadn't seen herself address the envelope and praying that he'd ignore it. She'd actually been half afraid he'd show up at the wedding.
To her immense relief, he hadn't.
In the midst of all this, the bride and groom raised their glasses with their friends in a series of heartfelt toasts to all their tomorrows.
“Here's to a wonderful honeymoon!”
“Here's to a healthy, wealthy future!”
“Here's to good friends and happy memories!”
“Here's to no more trips to Beirut!”
Mrs. Kenneth Townsend leaned across her husband and spoke discreetly to Mrs. Jon Surrey-Dixon. “Here's to that love story with a happy ending,” she whispered with a broad grin.
Betty smiled hopefully at Erica, nodding her head in full agreement. She had just given Jon a wedding surpriseâ two round-trip tickets to Hawaii to be used within the year, secretly financed by Harold P. Fuller. “You'd better get this one off to a good start,” he'd gruffly warned his daughter.
But the most unexpected gift came back to Betty from her own heart, from her own pen. Just as the reception was ending, Jon presented the new Mrs. Surrey-Dixon with a wedding gift only he could have created. It was a sepia-tone photograph of her, taken just a week and a half before as she sat at the foot of the Victoria Beach tower. She was gazing pensively toward the camera, her hair windblown, a poem in her hand.
Along the side of the tower, was printed a verse she had written and all but forgotten. It had been among the first group of poems she'd sent to Jon, before they'd ever met.
“This is my prayerâour prayerâfor our marriage, for our home, for our new life together,” Jon remarked softly.
Everyone fell silent as he read the simple rhyme aloud.
For our fears, give us courage.
In our tears, find a song,
For our doubts, grant conviction,
Where we're weak, make us strong.
Turn our faults into blessings,
Turn our griefs into praise,
And for dark hours of sadness
Give us bright, golden days.