On Saturday, Simon and I will celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary.
He asked me to marry him by the Neuse River in Smithfield, North Carolina, and of course I said yes, because why wouldn’t you say yes to the most perfect man you’d ever met?
It was December, and we were done being 3,000 miles apart, so we set a date for Easter weekend – four months away.
Simon flew back to England, and I set about planning our country chic wedding (with more focus on the country than the chic).
It was hard being apart for the bulk of our engagement, but I was a newspaper reporter, and went to the gym after work, and spent the evenings planning table centerpieces and ordering napkins and tasting cakes, and writing emails to my fiancé, telling him just how much I couldn’t wait to be his wife.
Meanwhile, an ocean away, Simon was busy, too. He found a good job, rented a flat, and began preparing a home for me.
There was a little white clapboard church near my parents’ house that I thought would be just the perfect place to marry my sweet Simon, and so I called them up to ask if Easter Saturday was free.
No, they said. It’s Holy Week.
Oh. Have you got a service on the Saturday?
They wouldn’t budge, so we got married in the big white tent we’d pitched on my parents’ farm for the reception. It was perfect, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
Now, I understand the concept of wanting to keep the church closed before Easter, after Good Friday, to commemorate the time Jesus was in the tomb. Absolutely, I understand it.
But, here’s the thing:
He Is Risen.
And I’m not sure I can think of a better time than Easter for a Groom to claim His Bride.