He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

by Trish Ryan

  You and Steve will be married on June nineteenth. God’s words echoed in my head. That’s impossible, I thought again. Yes, it’s impossible, God confirmed, interrupting my thoughts. But what is impossible for you, he reminded me gently, is possible with Me.

  “June nineteenth is just two months away,” Steve pointed out when I told him. “Can we plan a wedding that quickly?”

  “If God wants us to, I guess we can.”

  “Then June nineteenth it is!”

  BRIEF ENGAGEMENTS ARE a running source of humor at the Vineyard: After all, when a couple isn’t fooling around or sleeping together, they get to know each other much faster—what else is there to do but talk? And once a couple is engaged, the prospect of a grand wedding often fades into the background as they contemplate their wedding night, and starting their new life together takes precedence over waiting nine months for a certain ballroom or favorite flower to be available. Never before had I found a community that so “got” my mother’s maxim that planning a marriage should take precedence over planning a wedding. But two months was rather fast, even by Vineyard standards.

  We shared our date with Brian, the associate pastor we asked to marry us. “June nineteenth is soon,” he observed, smiling at us. “Want to tell me what led you to choose that date?”

  “Well,” I began, feeling foolish and defensive, “my mother has been sick. She’s on oxygen twenty-four hours a day and has had some severe bouts in the hospital where we didn’t know what was going to happen. We want to make sure she can be there with us, that we don’t wait too long.”

  “That makes sense—” Brian said.

  “That’s not the only thing,” Steve added, interrupting him. “Tell him what God told you,” he said, prompting me.

  I was mortified. It seemed so silly now, the idea that God spoke to me and told me when we were supposed to get married. “I thought I heard from God a few weeks before Steve proposed,” I mumbled, staring down at the table. “A voice said, You and Steve will be married on June nineteenth. But that’s not the only reason we picked this date, and it might not even be a good idea anyway . . .” I trailed off, not knowing what else to say. Who was I to claim to hear from God?

  “I think that’s significant,” Brian said, surprising me. “If God told you June nineteenth, then you should listen to that. Unless we come across some reason in our premarital talks why you shouldn’t get married so soon, then I think that’s the date.”

  That’s right, I remembered, embarrassed—Brian’s a pastor. If anyone believes we can hear from God, it’s him. I silently apologized to God for almost bowing out of our “let Him plan the wedding” agreement.

  “You won’t be able to take the marriage class we offer before your wedding,” Brian said, but I’d encourage you to take it this fall. There is valuable material there that will help you that I can’t cover in a few two-hour sessions.” We promised to take the course that September. That’s when it dawned on me that we would be married in September, that my life now included plans for when I’d be Mrs. Steven Ryan, when we’d be living together as husband and wife. I shivered in delight.

  “Are you getting cold?” Steve asked, concerned.

  “No,” I assured him with another giant smile. “I’m fine.”

  AS WELL AS that talk went, the rest of our wedding planning was bizarre. There was no rhyme or reason to our approach; we needed everything, but weren’t at all sure what “everything” was. We had no idea where to have our wedding, and no plan of what to do. Our guest list reached almost one hundred, and I balked at the idea of catering a meal for that many people. “It will wipe us out!” I fretted. “If our friends love us, they’ll be fine with a few hors d’oeuvres!” I dreamed of the simpler days of small-town life, where brides-to-be booked the local Elks’ lodge and a committee of church ladies made piles of deviled eggs and ham salad sandwiches.

  “I’m Italian,” Steve protested. “We have to feed people—it’s what we do. I don’t know how we’re going to do it, but I trust that God will work it out.”

  The food dilemma paled in comparison to our larger problem, which was that we didn’t know where we’d be doing any of this. I called the quaint church where my sister had been married ten years before. They wanted $800 to use the sanctuary, $200 to pay an organist we didn’t want, and another $100 for a cleanup guy to take care of the mess they assumed we’d leave behind. That prospect grew dimmer still when we received a call from the church secretary, who told us that their reverend would be happy to perform our ceremony, but required an additional donation and three premarital meetings.

  I told Steve the grim news. We knew nothing about this pastor—who she was, what she believed. I was sure she was a lovely woman, but she was a stranger. We had no relationship with her. That night we asked God for guidance, after which I called the church office and withdrew our request for their help. “It’s up to you now, Lord,” we prayed.

  We drove north to my home town in Maine the following Saturday with the single goal of finding a place to get married. “The Congregationalists might let you in,” my father speculated, “or maybe that Baptist church downtown.” We sat in the Baptist parking lot for twenty minutes, working up the courage to go in.

  “We’re not Baptists,” I told Steve. “This feels like a total lie.”

  “We don’t have to lie to them,” he pointed out. “I bet they have people ask them all the time if they can use their church.”

  “I can’t do it. Let’s go for a ride around the beach so I can pull myself together.”

  We drove past the library, turning down a winding back road that brought us out on a hill overlooking the river. “Take a right,” I said. “I feel like we’re supposed to go right.” Two hundred yards down the road was the Nonantum Inn, the most elegant wedding site in town. A banner bellowed out from the pristine sign: Wedding Fair Today! I gaped at it, speechless.

  As we walked up the stairs, passing rocking chairs and planters filled with flowers, I noticed how charming the main building was. Even though I’d grown up in this town, riding my bicycle and later driving my parents’ car down this street thousands of times, there had never been any occasion for me to enter the Nonantum, or even risk trespassing in its outdoor pool (which was far too close to the guest rooms to be suitable for night diving). I was surprised to find it so appealing, even filled with wedding industry experts and hundreds of brides-to-be. Weaving our way past DJs, piles of embossed invitations, and mannequins decked out in yards of tulle and satin, we found the main table in the back and met Dawn, the Nonantum’s wedding coordinator.

  Not only was June nineteenth the last date available that summer, she told us, but our late-morning time slot was discounted so they could mark their season full. After a whirlwind meeting, we booked an elegant room for our ceremony, the ballroom overlooking the river for our reception, and a catered, multicourse buffet for one hundred people—all for less than one of my friends had paid for her wedding dress a few years earlier. The florist was available for the nineteenth and agreed to do my bouquet for free. Dawn even offered us a river-view room for our wedding night, compliments of the house. Honestly, it was as if Jesus had walked into the place ahead of us and told everyone, Take care of these people, they’re with me.

  I SPENT THE next month surfing crazy Bridezilla Web sites, wondering if I was an awful person because I didn’t plan to give my bridesmaids hand-studded flip-flops, or velvet hoodies with their initials written out in sparkling Diamonique. “What kind of bride,” one poster asked, “doesn’t own a glue gun?” I had no answer for that. I had a larger concern looming on my bridal horizon, rearing its ugly head in the form of a pink-and-white Victoria’s Secret gift card Gwen bought to help me “prepare” for my honeymoon (Gwen comes from a long line of women who understand the value of some well-placed lace and satin—her mother sends lingerie care packages to missionary couples in third world countries). The card left me terrified. Ever since God had clarified the terms of what
following Jesus would entail for me (You realize, don’t you, that this means no more sex until you get married?) I’d worked overtime to purge myself of every bit of sexuality: I’d checked my outfits carefully to make sure my tops didn’t “accidentally” ride up or slip down, skipped over steamy scenes in books that threatened to “awaken love before its time,” and thrown away all five of my Janet Jackson CDs once I realized that almost every song she sang either offered, reflected on, or fantasized about some sexual interaction that didn’t sound at all like a celebration of monogamous marital intimacy. Damn, I’d thought at one point, foraging through my CDs for something safe to listen to, this Jesus thing is turning me into Tipper Gore.

  As silly as it felt, though, narrowing what I took in had helped me toe the line, sexually speaking. As a practical matter, it was far easier to keep my mind off of forbidden activities once I stopped singing about them every time I hopped in the car or ran on the treadmill. When Steve and I started dating, I veered off even more to the extreme, treating every sexual temptation as poison to our budding relationship. I’d “given the cow away for free” too many times before. I didn’t want to do that again, and the only way I could figure out to keep a hold of the cow, so to speak, was to avoid sexual suggestion entirely. So this was how I’d spent the past two years of my life, avoiding all things sensual, trying to be honest, rather than seductive or alluring.

  If there’s one thing Victoria’s Secret isn’t about, I realized, walking into the store ten days before my wedding, it’s honesty. Engulfed in a surreal sea of hot pink, my eyes swam. I felt besieged. What does one do, I wondered, to flip back on all the sexy switches I’ve flipped off? Giant pictures from the catalog hung around the perimeter of the store, Amazonian models stared down at me, as if taunting, “This is what your man wants . . . you can buy the outfit, but you’ll never look like me.” It was awful. I looked for something pretty, sexy, inviting. I wanted to be me on my wedding night, only better—a little lace, a little satin. Something beautiful in ivory that would feel good against my skin, then puddle delicately on the floor. But all I saw were giant padded cone bras covered with marabou, cotton tank tops with Let Me Be Your Angel spelled out in rhinestones, and a gold satin thong with a string of pearls—pearls?—running up the back. That was not where I wanted to keep my pearl of great price. There was nothing elegant, nothing sexy-but-discreet. It all screamed, “We’ve done this before—here’s something new to spice things up!” These were not the terms on which I wanted to start my married sex life—assuming we were already bored, trying to wow Steve with my willingness to climb into yards of elasticized costuming to keep things between us “hot.” At some point, I hoped to have a nice collection of sexy little items he’d enjoy, things we’d accumulate together over time, once we figured out how we worked. But these racks and mannequins and pictures all told me I should give up now, because I’d never be that tall, that thin, that curvy; Steve would never find me sexy. I left that day feeling pathetic—embarrassed that I thought I could be a sexy woman when it was so obvious I didn’t have what it took.

  After that ill-fated shopping trip, I found myself paralyzed, and paranoid. I couldn’t watch a movie, a television show, or even a commercial without hearing a voice in my head, taunting me that Steve wished I looked more like her, whoever the actress on the screen happened to be. I saw him glancing through my issue of In Style magazine and assumed he was fantasizing about the woman on the cover. I felt like an idiot. “What’s wrong, honey?” Steve asked, over and over that week. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I lied. “I think I’m nervous about (insert whatever wedding detail might convince him my weirdness is all wedding related).”

  By the time our final premarital session with Brian rolled around, I was a basket case. Steve wanted to see a movie that night, to take our mind off all the planning. I couldn’t explain to him why this terrified me. What was I going to say—“But, honey, movies have actresses, all of whom look better than me, which will only leave you disappointed. Our only hope for a happy marriage is to never go to the movies again”?

  Our sessions with Brian had been pretty low-key up until this point. Steve and I had remarkably parallel lives, and looked to the future hoping for pretty much the same things. Our parents loved each other and loved us, we’d weeded all the skeletons out of the closets before getting engaged, and we both liked the traditional vows Brian showed us from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer. Mostly we talked with Brian about how much we were looking forward to being married as opposed to planning a wedding. At that last meeting, though, I was antsy and miserable. When Brian asked, “Is there anything you need prayer for between now and Saturday morning?” I blurted, “Yes! I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do!” Brian and Steve both looked at me wide-eyed, stunned to hear such misery in my voice.

  “What is it, love?” Steve asked. “Are you all right?”

  “No. I’m not. I don’t know what happened. I was so excited about our wedding night, our honeymoon, finally enjoying all the marital benefits we’ve waited for. I even went to Victoria’s Secret last week to buy some things I thought you’d like.” I was embarrassed to say this in front of Brian. He’s married, I reminded myself. He probably knows about honeymoons and lingerie. “All they had,” I continued, “was stuff like you’d wear in a rap video, and models who looked like they’d give you whatever you wanted. It made me wonder, why would you want me if you could have that? And even if you want me because you can’t get that, won’t you be thinking about that all the time, wishing that was how I looked?” I gasped, smearing my mascara with a lunch napkin, sniffling between little hiccups.

  “Honey,” Steve said, “I don’t want that. What can I do to show you that you’re what I want on our wedding night, and for the rest of our lives?”

  “Nothing,” I wailed. “That’s the thing. You tell me all the time, but I don’t believe you.”

  “I know one thing we can do,” Brian said. “We can pray. Would it be all right if I prayed for you about this?”

  “That would be great,” Steve said, folding my hand in both of his.

  “I guess so,” I allowed, not at all sure praying would help.

  “Jesus,” Brian began, “we come before you today and we thank you that when two or more of us are gathered in your name, you are here with us. I lift up Steve and Trish to you and thank you for all you’re doing in their lives, preparing them for marriage. I ask you to step into this situation Trish described. We know these feelings of fear and inferiority are not from you. In Jesus’ name, I bind the evil spirits behind these taunts. I bind all spirits of seduction, manipulation, pornography, prostitution, and lust off of this relationship in the name of Jesus—I command them to leave this couple alone and go to the foot of the Cross. Trish and Steve, I speak joy and fulfillment into your marriage, particularly the intimacies you’ll share as man and wife. In Jesus’ name I bless you with passion, satisfaction, and enjoyment of one another. Steve, as the Bible says, ‘May you rejoice in the wife of your youth, may her breasts satisfy you always.’ Trish, I bless you with freedom, to bask in Steve’s love and fend off all the lies of the enemy that would come against your marriage.”

  I felt something lift off of me then, like a weight coming off of my chest. Suddenly, I was happy. Ridiculously so. Not in a fake way, but in that life couldn’t be better and why does everyone look so serious? manner that felt like a miracle.

  “How are you doing?” Brian asked.

  “Great,” I replied. “Amazing. Wonderful. I feel like me again.”

  “Well, praise God,” he exclaimed, smiling. “Lord, thank you for answering our prayers. We ask that you remind us all that you are the answer to the problems we can’t solve on our own. Thank you for taking such good care of us, and we ask that this freedom hold. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

  “Amen,” Steve and I echoed.

  “Do you want to see that movie tonight?” Steve asked as we walked back to his car
.

  “Maybe,” I replied coyly. “But first I have some shopping to do.”

  THE NIGHT BEFORE my wedding, Meg and Kristen took me out for dinner and chocolate martinis. They placed a giant plastic veil on my head, attached to a crown that had “Bride To Be” on it in blinking red lights. They prayed fervently—humorously—asking God to give my new husband exceptional skill on our wedding night, making jokes about us “unwrapping our gifts.”

  By this time tomorrow night, I thought happily, feeling my blinking bridal crown digging into my head, I’ll be Mrs. Ryan . . .

  Chapter Twenty-four

  1+1+1=1

  The next day, as I stood outside the double doors of the little chapel, my father offered me his tuxedo-clad arm. “Are you ready?” he asked with a smile.

  “I’m ready.” I nodded. And I was. I felt relaxed, standing there next to my father, and delighted in a way I had never felt before, amazed that this was finally (finally!) my wedding day.

  It hadn’t been a perfect morning. The weather was gray and rainy; my hairdresser was hung over. (When she swung my chair around to show me the results of the forty-five minutes she’d spent wrestling with my hair, all I could say was “Well, the veil will cover it.”) Honestly—miraculously—I didn’t care. I got it that morning, somewhere deep inside: I understood that the details of the wedding were no big deal. The big deal was that in a few hours, Brian would pronounce Steve and me husband and wife, and God would somehow knit the two of us together into one. When that happens, I reminded myself, it won’t matter what my hair looks like.

  Dawn adjusted my train and I looked back one more time over the yards of ivory, embroidered with pink and lavender flowers and an intricate pattern of leaves. I felt like a princess, there on my father’s arm. Tears welled up in my eyes as I heard the notes of the opening song, the same verses that had greeted me the first time I walked into the Vineyard: “Here, O Lord, is the place where I belong. Now is the time for me to find my place in your design.” That’s exactly how I felt—finally, I was where I belonged, taking my place in God’s design. Thank you, God, I whispered under my breath, looking up at the sparkling ceiling. Thank you for keeping your promise. I squeezed my father’s arm as the doors swung open, and he led me down the aisle to the man who had chosen me—me!—to be his wife.