We stood in line for nearly an hour at the Cook County Courthouse across from the Daley Center. It made for excellent people watching — an assembly line of brides and grooms, gripping their marriage licenses in sweaty palms, slowly advancing through the line one by one, as each couple went into the small room where they took their vows in front of a judge. There were brides of all shapes and sizes, wearing short dresses, long dresses, full makeup and eyelashes or just a modest white dress. There, as if illuminated by a spotlight, I saw my oldest son, Clark, and his beautiful bride Lizzy, waiting patiently for their turn to get married.
The basement-level courtroom acted as a Dr. Seuss-style machine: each couple went in, looking a little tired from standing in line, and slightly apprehensive, as if the significance of the moment was hitting them fully for the first time. Each married couple emerged from taking their vows looking happy, relieved, and glowing. With their hands clasped, they exited through the line of cheering brides — and grooms-to-be — nodding to all the well-wishers, and walked to the escalator to glide up toward the light of the sun-drenched lobby of the courthouse. Up to the future. In the space of an hour, absolutely nothing had changed in the world around them, and yet everything had shifted.
By the end of the wedding day, my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. From watching my son look at his bride with awe, to the way she smiled at him, they seemed to float through the day with a protective shield around them.
After the intimate exchange of vows at the courthouse, the rest of the day was a party at our house. We were blessed with mild autumn weather and the heated tent we rented and had put up in front of our house caused a spectacle in our neighborhood. At one point, I stole a moment alone outside the tent and soaked it all in: the warm glow emanating from strings of fairy lights, the sounds of laughter floating above the murmur of everyone talking at once while the band (made up of my other three children and some of their friends) played jazz standards. My son and his beautiful new wife flitted from guest to guest, and they looked as though they were illuminated from within. Around them, two families and dear friends who are chosen family all gathered around to celebrate their love.
Years ago, one of my children asked me, “Mom, why do people get married?” and it threw me for a bit. I paused, choosing my words. Some might answer that it’s a spiritual decision, others might say it’s a social construct born out of a patriarchal society. Some might even say it’s nothing more than a piece of paper that gives legal status pertaining to citizenship, financial stability, even health insurance. Nearly everyone is aware that nearly 50% of marriages end in separation or divorce. But despite that bleak statistic, people still get married. People still choose to walk down long church aisles, or exchange vows in tiny chapels, on beaches, or back yards. They wait in line at a courthouse with other strangers, gripping their marriage license with sweaty palms.
I said none of those things. All I could answer was the reason why I got married long ago. It’s because every day, I look down at the gold band on my finger and I’m reminded that I’m not alone; I have chosen one person on this earth and he has chosen me. The promise made between a married couple is a declaration of hope for the future. It recognizes that no matter what darkness comes up ahead, it can be faced together. It is an act of optimism. It is hope. It is love.
