THE PRIEST WAS THE LAST TO ARRIVE

The Lodge was available in Grand Lake, Colorado for a Memorial Day wedding reception. My daughter and her fiancé were thrilled! It made sense to exchange vows in a small, Catholic Church tucked back among Aspen and Evergreens and only a short distance from the sparkling, mountain lake. After all, they sailed competitively on this body of water and now they would sail through a wedding ceremony and, more importantly, a long and happy life together.

The guest list was so lengthy that it curled like a grocery receipt. Both families had many friends and none were the same. Shortly after the invitations went out, our daughter and her fiancé rushed into our home to express their delight that most of the invitees had accepted. My husband Sean and I sank deeper into our comfy family room chairs as they told us how excited everyone seemed to be. It appeared that most were willing to travel over a mountain pass for this event. The setting would be beautiful and cooler weather would be a welcome relief from the heat that had arrived in Denver earlier this year. The happy couple walked out and Sean and I looked at each other with quizzical expressions followed by a long moment of silence.

“It will be a spectacular wedding,” I said!

“You betcha,” was his unenthusiastic response.

“And aren’t we fortunate to have retired Monsignor Kelly as the priest,” I commented, faking positivity.

“I imagine he’d rather be fishing,”

Memorial Weekend, 1995 came in no time, it seemed. The lodge had rental cabins and they were filled rapidly by eager guests. Our family of four arrived to find water a rare commodity in the cabins. A tiny stream oozed out, if lucky. I immediately made up my mind to be the first one up to shower. Never mind the bride. Let her wait. She set this whole thing up. I succeeded to rise early, shower and slip into my pink, crepe ‘Mother-of-the-Bride’ suit before the others arose. 

I added a parka to my outfit and walked outside to falling snow and fallen faces. Disgruntled family and friends, upset about the lack of water, flooded me with complaints. Ignore them and carry on, I told myself. Back in our cabin my daughter stood shivering in the wedding dress I had once worn. My husband and son were ready. So, off we drove to the sweet, little mountain church. The place was empty. No one was there, but we were early. There was nothing to worry about. The guests slowly began to enter the church. I looked away when the cabin folks walked in with grim expressions. 

A full, freezing church warmed up a bit, but not warm enough by the frozen stares I received. Eventually, all were there except for two important figures in a wedding scenario, the photographer and the priest. News then circulated that the photographer was stuck in snow on top of the mountain pass. A friend who expected to witness a wedding ceremony stood up and rushed to his car. He pulled out a camera from the trunk. How smart I was to invite a former newspaper photographer!

A mountain man, friend of the groom, joined him and returned with his guitar. He provided music for the ceremony, strumming and singing Fill my thirst by Bill Stains. Okay, that part was taken care of! But what topped our worry list was the 95-year-old priest, who was to marry them.

My thoughts returned to earlier wishes. By now, I could care less whether my daughter and her fiancé sailed happily through life together. Just let them sail through these turbulent wedding ceremony waters successfully.

But, the good news was that we now had a guest photographer and a cowboy guitarist, fresh from the pews. The major problem was a missing priest. I stood visualizing all sorts of reasons he wasn’t here, none of them good. Freezing temperature, impassable mountain roads and his age made for unsettling explanations.

Sean and I conferred while looking over our guests, shivering on cold, wooden benches in the church, which my daughter and I once thought was quaint with its mountain, woodsy simplicity. 

“Who in this crowd could perform the marriage ceremony?” I asked him.

“What about the protestant Youth Minister, whose wife dragged him here to witness her friend’s wedding ceremony?” he responded.

“I can’t think of anyone better,” I replied.

It wasn’t quite legitimate, but we had no other choice so we began to approach him when the crowd heard a loud, angry voice near the church entrance. I could see that we finally had a priest but, not a happy one.

“What #%@&^* took my parking place,” he yelled. 

The entire congregation had turned, first with feelings of relief, now doubts, to see that the he had finally arrived. The Best Man, brother of the groom and vintage car collector, sheepishly walked to the church entrance, made his confession and went outside to move his 1957 gold Dodge. The ‘going away car’ sped away earlier than planned. He had graciously gotten the priest’s keys, part of his penance, and parked his jeep in the Reserved for Priest space.

The priest threw on his vestments and headed down the aisle, waiting to greet the young couple and begin the Wedding Mass. In his fury, he forgot the ceremonial booklet and stumbled through the wedding ritual with my daughter’s help. After all was official, the congregation clapped. and the priest left without a word. At that point, I regrouped and extended my earlier, kind wishes to the newlyweds. 

Everyone cheered as they climbed into the gold Dodge, sporting a Just Married sign on the rear, for the drive to the Grand Lake Lodge where they would join family and friends at the reception. Monsignor Kelly walked out of the church in a parka, gloves and boots. He glanced at the couple he had just married. A smile cracked his crusty face and he waved to them. Then, he left for his cabin in the woods. Fishing was on hold, though, for another day. The guitarist wasn’t the only mountain man among the group. 

An hour later, a weary, disheveled photographer with all his gear, trudged up a snow-packed path to the little church in the woods. He opened the door, looked around at the empty structure and snapped a picture.