The wedding approaches…
The wedding approaches…
By Ward Peck
The most important thing to understand about TABOR is the effect it will have on…
Just kidding, I’m not going to write about TABOR. Instead, I want to discuss something that is much more central to your day-to-day lives and will have a fundamental influence on the future of Maine: my upcoming wedding.
Back in August, as you may recall, I asked Kari to marry me (long story short – she said yes. We’re very happy. Blah. Blah. Blah).
Of course, after popping the question, the next thing to do is pick a date. Since we had been dating for four years, a long engagement wasn’t the way to go. But this is Maine and there is a limited window of opportunity for any function that involves people coming from away. January to June is out. Planning a wedding any time between the first of the year and tax day is basically daring God to conjure up a blizzard. May stinks in Maine. There are April showers, but May flowers? Not around here.
So it had to be sooner than later. But it couldn’t be too soon – they are called wedding “plans,” not wedding “we’ll get a keg and a bag of Doritos and call it good.”
There were rings to size, churches to rent, priests to meet, and banquette halls to rent.
So we quickly settled on Dec. 2. It sounded like a good date; Portland is all Christmas-y and it’s still too early for a deep freeze (right God?). In early August, December feels very far away. We’d have plenty of time to get everything done.
It was such a good plan and we felt like we had so much time that we spent the first month or so in a state of blissful denial. There was plenty of time, especially since our wedding would be a small causal affair– immediate family and a few close friends ¬– not one of those gaudy, gilded-age affairs, right?
Wrong.
We spent much of the second month in panic mode.
The first minor crisis was securing the church and meeting a priest. It was my decision that we would have a Catholic ceremony and Kari, being Lutheran, indulged me. She did have some concerns about what exactly we would be agreeing to by having a Catholic ceremony – would we be promising the Church our first-born? (Turns out that actually is part of the deal).
It also turn out that Kari wasn’t the only one with concerns. The church has it’s own concerns about marrying outside the tribe.
Our priest, a wonderful man whom both Kari and I like very much, told us he would need to get the Bishop to permit our “mixed marriage” (he assured us it was just a formality, although this formality did slightly offend Kari).
We also met with the pastor of the church we wanted to get married in (another delightful man) and left that meeting thinking we had the whole ceremony part figured out.
A week or so later I got a call from a decidedly less delightful priest from the church. He wanted to know if we had the permission of my pastor to get married in a different church? The pregnant pause that was my answer led to a more accusatory question: did I even belong to a church in Maine. The answer of course was no. Since moving to Maine, I had neglected to officially join a church.
My defense, which this priest never heard because of my fluster, is two-fold. Firstly, I’m not much of a joiner. Secondly, I thought I had lifetime membership to every Catholic Church after those Baptism, Communion and Confirmation sacraments I remember. Well, maybe I don’t remember the Baptism one, but I’ve seen pictures.
So then I had to go to the church in Portland and meet with the pastor to officially join his congregation. Have you ever had to sit down with a priest and explain how hard it is to find an hour once a week to spend at Church? Whatever your excuse, a priest isn’t buying it.
Actually, he was very nice (three out of four – not bad) and wrote up the letter I needed in exchange for a promise that he’d see my face more often.
I could go on but I won’t (Everything is working out great. We’re very happy. Blah. Blah. Blah). After all, I still haven’t told you about TABOR…
By Ward Peck
The most important thing to understand about TABOR is the effect it will have on…
Just kidding, I’m not going to write about TABOR. Instead, I want to discuss something that is much more central to your day-to-day lives and will have a fundamental influence on the future of Maine: my upcoming wedding.
Back in August, as you may recall, I asked Kari to marry me (long story short – she said yes. We’re very happy. Blah. Blah. Blah).
Of course, after popping the question, the next thing to do is pick a date. Since we had been dating for four years, a long engagement wasn’t the way to go. But this is Maine and there is a limited window of opportunity for any function that involves people coming from away. January to June is out. Planning a wedding any time between the first of the year and tax day is basically daring God to conjure up a blizzard. May stinks in Maine. There are April showers, but May flowers? Not around here.
So it had to be sooner than later. But it couldn’t be too soon – they are called wedding “plans,” not wedding “we’ll get a keg and a bag of Doritos and call it good.”
There were rings to size, churches to rent, priests to meet, and banquette halls to rent.
So we quickly settled on Dec. 2. It sounded like a good date; Portland is all Christmas-y and it’s still too early for a deep freeze (right God?). In early August, December feels very far away. We’d have plenty of time to get everything done.
It was such a good plan and we felt like we had so much time that we spent the first month or so in a state of blissful denial. There was plenty of time, especially since our wedding would be a small causal affair– immediate family and a few close friends ¬– not one of those gaudy, gilded-age affairs, right?
Wrong.
We spent much of the second month in panic mode.
The first minor crisis was securing the church and meeting a priest. It was my decision that we would have a Catholic ceremony and Kari, being Lutheran, indulged me. She did have some concerns about what exactly we would be agreeing to by having a Catholic ceremony – would we be promising the Church our first-born? (Turns out that actually is part of the deal).
It also turn out that Kari wasn’t the only one with concerns. The church has it’s own concerns about marrying outside the tribe.
Our priest, a wonderful man whom both Kari and I like very much, told us he would need to get the Bishop to permit our “mixed marriage” (he assured us it was just a formality, although this formality did slightly offend Kari).
We also met with the pastor of the church we wanted to get married in (another delightful man) and left that meeting thinking we had the whole ceremony part figured out.
A week or so later I got a call from a decidedly less delightful priest from the church. He wanted to know if we had the permission of my pastor to get married in a different church? The pregnant pause that was my answer led to a more accusatory question: did I even belong to a church in Maine. The answer of course was no. Since moving to Maine, I had neglected to officially join a church.
My defense, which this priest never heard because of my fluster, is two-fold. Firstly, I’m not much of a joiner. Secondly, I thought I had lifetime membership to every Catholic Church after those Baptism, Communion and Confirmation sacraments I remember. Well, maybe I don’t remember the Baptism one, but I’ve seen pictures.
So then I had to go to the church in Portland and meet with the pastor to officially join his congregation. Have you ever had to sit down with a priest and explain how hard it is to find an hour once a week to spend at Church? Whatever your excuse, a priest isn’t buying it.
Actually, he was very nice (three out of four – not bad) and wrote up the letter I needed in exchange for a promise that he’d see my face more often.
I could go on but I won’t (Everything is working out great. We’re very happy. Blah. Blah. Blah). After all, I still haven’t told you about TABOR…
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