Guest Editorial
June Bride: A Father's Perspective
By the time you read this, she’ll be married and my dear wife and I will be both broke and broken. But there are prior concerns; she’s only 19! She’s been driving for just three years, for Pete’s sake. As with driving, shouldn’t we issue marriage permits before a marriage license? Emily, we’re so proud of you for going through the rigorous pre-marital counseling and the two of you taking that battery of assessment evaluations to determine degree of compatibility, existence of any personality disorder (on his part, of course), relationship strengths and weaknesses, and evidence of any psycho-pathology (again, on his part, because we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there can be no flaw in our Emily). But shouldn’t all of this simply grant a person a permit, which allows that fortunate individual to be with their beloved as long as someone who possesses a marriage license accompanies them—someone such as myself. Upon successfully completing, in my dear Emily’s case, the six-year probationary period, then the individual could marry at age 25. If permits and licenses work for driving, why wouldn’t the concept work for marriage?
I argue with her. "Em, from a developmental standpoint, you can’t believe how much more emotionally mature you’ll be at 25 than at 19." And she replies, "Well, Dad, it’s been 26 years since you were 25—what happened to you?" So I throw my teddy and remote aside and approach it from a different angle. "Well, don’t you think you should be more financially solvent before taking on this lifetime commitment and accompanying responsibilities?"
"Dad, how much money did you and Mom have when you got married?" She knows we got married on a ranch in northern California in the mid 1970s when peace and love was all you needed, dude. So much for the financial stability angle. And where does she get off referring to the example Leslie and I have provided?
So, exhausting my multi-faceted approach, I concede and a June wedding it is. Prior to this, my brain was engaged in attempts to dissuade her. Now, however, my heart is engaged as I prepare for this momentous day. To be honest, it’s a bittersweet day. I’m going to dearly miss her. In many ways I am losing her, even though I am gaining an honorable, trustworthy son-in-law, a young man of faith and integrity.
A couple of nights ago Emily got in after we were in bed asleep, and as is the Harris custom, when she arrived home she came up to our bedroom, knocked, opened our door, and whispered loud enough to be heard, "Mom and Dad, I’m home." Well, sometimes this is annoying—a little frustrating—to be roused from a sound sleep and then try to get back to sleep again. Only this night was different. When she said "Mom and Dad, I’m home," I acknowledged her presence, and Les resumed a sound sleep, but it hit me like a heavyweight’s punch to the heart—a few more weeks and I’ll never hear those words again. I’ll never see her silhouetted in the doorway again. I lie there in the quiet of the night and tears trickle down my face.
There is much I will lose. I will even miss those sleep interruptions, her sloppy room and endless reminders to pick it up, the chore list from which she can never recall which one is hers, the endless arguments she and her two sisters engage in, the heated disagreements over whose chore is whose, her propensity for "little" car accidents to which she typically responds, "Oops," as she sheepishly grins while she informs us.
Other than actually being able to see the floor itself, what will it be like to walk into her bedroom once she has moved out? No stacks of Modern Bride, no piles of laundry, no bottles of mousse and other cosmetic paraphernalia littering her dresser. And no Emily.
That’s what I’m having such a difficult time accepting. I’m losing her, not the dispensable accessories she has accumulated. What will I do without her? For 19 years she has been a given, an integral part of my life, our family life. But now she is giving her heart and soul to another. Now I find myself bequeathing so much to Steve, her fiancé, soul mate, and lover. It has all crystallized for me; this is the essence—I don’t want to let go of her. But I must and I will.
On that grand June evening I will ever-so-slowly walk Emily down the aisle, her arm in mine, and too much of her still in my heart. I have got to let go!
The minister will pose that centuries-old question, "Who gives this woman to be wed?" I would love to respond, "Her mother ... and I’m vacillating." But I will say with conviction, "Her mother and I." Yet it will be a bittersweet conviction. Bitter in that I’m letting her go. Sweet in that I’m letting her go, knowing that like a homing pigeon, she will always remember the nest.
The day I have both denied and delighted in has arrived. Emily, it is time to release you. Fly, little bird, fly. Fly with your mate by your side and leaving yet remembering our nest, may you build a loving and lasting nest of your own. TPW
I argue with her. "Em, from a developmental standpoint, you can’t believe how much more emotionally mature you’ll be at 25 than at 19." And she replies, "Well, Dad, it’s been 26 years since you were 25—what happened to you?" So I throw my teddy and remote aside and approach it from a different angle. "Well, don’t you think you should be more financially solvent before taking on this lifetime commitment and accompanying responsibilities?"
"Dad, how much money did you and Mom have when you got married?" She knows we got married on a ranch in northern California in the mid 1970s when peace and love was all you needed, dude. So much for the financial stability angle. And where does she get off referring to the example Leslie and I have provided?
So, exhausting my multi-faceted approach, I concede and a June wedding it is. Prior to this, my brain was engaged in attempts to dissuade her. Now, however, my heart is engaged as I prepare for this momentous day. To be honest, it’s a bittersweet day. I’m going to dearly miss her. In many ways I am losing her, even though I am gaining an honorable, trustworthy son-in-law, a young man of faith and integrity.
A couple of nights ago Emily got in after we were in bed asleep, and as is the Harris custom, when she arrived home she came up to our bedroom, knocked, opened our door, and whispered loud enough to be heard, "Mom and Dad, I’m home." Well, sometimes this is annoying—a little frustrating—to be roused from a sound sleep and then try to get back to sleep again. Only this night was different. When she said "Mom and Dad, I’m home," I acknowledged her presence, and Les resumed a sound sleep, but it hit me like a heavyweight’s punch to the heart—a few more weeks and I’ll never hear those words again. I’ll never see her silhouetted in the doorway again. I lie there in the quiet of the night and tears trickle down my face.
There is much I will lose. I will even miss those sleep interruptions, her sloppy room and endless reminders to pick it up, the chore list from which she can never recall which one is hers, the endless arguments she and her two sisters engage in, the heated disagreements over whose chore is whose, her propensity for "little" car accidents to which she typically responds, "Oops," as she sheepishly grins while she informs us.
Other than actually being able to see the floor itself, what will it be like to walk into her bedroom once she has moved out? No stacks of Modern Bride, no piles of laundry, no bottles of mousse and other cosmetic paraphernalia littering her dresser. And no Emily.
That’s what I’m having such a difficult time accepting. I’m losing her, not the dispensable accessories she has accumulated. What will I do without her? For 19 years she has been a given, an integral part of my life, our family life. But now she is giving her heart and soul to another. Now I find myself bequeathing so much to Steve, her fiancé, soul mate, and lover. It has all crystallized for me; this is the essence—I don’t want to let go of her. But I must and I will.
On that grand June evening I will ever-so-slowly walk Emily down the aisle, her arm in mine, and too much of her still in my heart. I have got to let go!
The minister will pose that centuries-old question, "Who gives this woman to be wed?" I would love to respond, "Her mother ... and I’m vacillating." But I will say with conviction, "Her mother and I." Yet it will be a bittersweet conviction. Bitter in that I’m letting her go. Sweet in that I’m letting her go, knowing that like a homing pigeon, she will always remember the nest.
The day I have both denied and delighted in has arrived. Emily, it is time to release you. Fly, little bird, fly. Fly with your mate by your side and leaving yet remembering our nest, may you build a loving and lasting nest of your own. TPW