The Art of Showing Up

I woke up in a cold sweat one night a few years after my 1997 wedding. It wasn’t for the usual reasons—my toddler crying for me from her crib, the baby inside me kicking and inducing nausea or sciatica or both. It was because I had a sudden memory of my friend David*.  He was standing in the grand entranceway of the historic landmark building in Brooklyn where Andy and I were having our reception, and he looked charmingly disheveled. He had just arrived from Boston, where he was in his first few intense weeks of law school, and I hadn’t been entirely sure he’d make it to the wedding. But there he was, casual laptop bag slung over his pinstriped suit. “I’m sorry I missed the ceremony,” he told me, a little breathless. He had the look of someone who had just sprinted a few city blocks. “But I’m here now,” he shouted with his famous enthusiasm. “So congratulations, Jam-Master-J!” For what had been the millionth time that glorious October afternoon, a wave of gratitude swept over me: I can’t believe you made it! You got on a train for me even though you just started school! You sprinted city blocks for me! You called me by my favorite nickname!

That moment with David was so meaningful that I was still thinking about it years later, in the middle of the night. Before long, though, my 3 a.m. fog lifted, and the gratitude gave way to guilt. His own wedding…

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Photo Credit: Wedding Wire