I 'm conflicted about telling this story (you'll see why) but I think it's necessary since it's been on my mind since May 27th. The day Zach and I were married.
photo credit: John Olmsted
We decided to get married one week before the 27th. The extent of my planning included: calling San Francisco City Hall registrar, booking a small public ceremony, buying my dress at Anthropologie and nice clothes for Zach at Banana Republic, and informing my family that they were to meet us at 12:30 on Thursday. I purposely kept it as low-key and stress-free as possible.
Still, I felt nervous the day of the ceremony and regretted that I hadn't thought it through more carefully. My legs weren't shaved. Both of us needed haircuts. The shoes I bought didn't really match my dress. I didn't even order a bouquet. A bit of bridezilla began to creep in as I called local florists to see if they could whip up something within the hour, only to be told that they couldn't. Panicked, I threw a bunch of scrap ribbon, fabric, and scissors into the car at the last minute, thinking we could at least stop by Trader Joe's and pick up some tulips or lilies. No roses...
We left the house too late to pick up any flowers at the store, and then hit traffic on I-280. I could feel my anxiety level rising. We're going to be late for our registration appointment and they'll cancel the ceremony, I thought, and I don't even have any damn flowers on my wedding day. And I look really fat in my dress (well, I was six month pregnant at the time. dummy.).
What actually happened: we pulled up at the steps of City Hall with five minutes to spare and scored a great parking spot right out front. My father and step-mother were visiting from Washington, and they parked their car in front of ours. We were back on track.
I hurried over to my father's car to give the two further instructions, when a man standing a few feet away from me on the sidewalk suddenly spoke.
"Flowers, miss?"
He was not from America. Possibly East Indian, but I wasn't sure. He held a large bundle of red roses and he looked cold and desperate. I automatically said no thank you and didn't give him a second thought, turning back to talk to my father through the passenger window.
"Flowers, miss?"
"No THANK you." I rolled my eyes at no one in particular.
I continued to ignore his requests to please buy a flower as we pulled our clothes out of the trunk, filled the parking meters, and started walking up the steps. I turned around when I noticed that my dad wasn't with us. He was still standing on the sidewalk, having a conversation with the man. My father had a serious, sympathetic look on his face, and his hand rested on the man's shoulder. It looked like the man with the flowers was crying.
"Seriously?" I said in a loud, exasperated voice.
I was annoyed because this was typical behavior for my father. Always trying to meet strangers on the street, listen to their stories. And it usually meant that we were late to wherever we happened to be going. What followed is the part of the story I feel most ashamed of. I was so concerned about myself and my special day that I felt nothing but resentment toward the man and my father for taking attention off the task at hand...me, me, me.
"He's probably faking it so he'll buy a stupid flower," I muttered to my sister, her boyfriend, and Zach.
Minus my father and step-mother, the group of us walked into the building and went through security. They joined us five minutes later, my father holding four roses in his hand.
"WHY did you buy those? He was probably just crying so you'd feel sorry for him!"
The look on my father's face revealed a mixture of emotion: concern, sadness, compassion, and ultimately, a little disappointment at my self-centered and jaded reaction.
"No...he was really crying, Ariel,"
He went on to explain the plight of the poor man. How he came to the States to meet family. How a series of unfortunate events had left him homeless with no money to return to his country. How he didn't even have enough money for his next meal. So my father gave him twenty dollars in exchange for the roses. He hugged the man with the flowers and wished him luck for a better today and tomorrow.
"And now you have flowers for your wedding," he added.
Oh.
I was smacked with guilt...and still, anger. I felt very selfish, privately wishing all of this didn't have to happen right before we were getting married. Why did he have to stop and talk the man? Why couldn't he be more like me and the rest of the world and ignore those men and women on the street? Look the other way and go about his life?
The answers are always the same.
Because my father is good man.
(I shouldn't have expected differently. I remember when he worked as a barista in a Seattle coffee shop years ago and befriended a homeless man. He would let the man wash up in the restroom and gave him money for a couple tools (a shovel?) that the man offered to sell him. It was clear that the man suffered from mental illness, especially when he returned to the shop one day demanding that my father return the tools to him (my dad refused), but I clearly recall loving my dad for being the way he was at that time and has always has been...kind and respectful to everyone.)
I ended up with flowers on our wedding day. My step-mother took the roses, scrap lace and ribbon, a paper towel from the public bathroom, and artfully transformed them into a sweet little bouquet for me. It wasn't professionally made and I wouldn't have picked roses myself, but it was perfect. Because regardless of whether or not I wanted that man to briefly enter our lives, whether he was lying or telling the truth, whether I acted like a brat and then learned an important lesson in humility, I am grateful for the way everything happened. For the important lesson I held in both hands as I married the man I loved. For my father's act of kindness to grace us that special day.
*****
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Let's all be grateful for the blessings in our lives...
xo, Ariel
