Alan and I spent this weekend in Richmond for his sister Barbara’s wedding. Everything ran like clockwork and it was a flawless event. Barbara was glowing and her new husband Paul was sporting a constant grin whenever I saw him. It was how a wedding SHOULD be.
The added fun was that Alan got to officiate and wrote the homily himself. He looked frighteningly official (I guess that’s the point) as he stood in front of Barbara and Paul in his tuxedo. For a minute I started to sweat, worrying that he might hear God’s calling and decide to be a man of the cloth, preaching “hellfire and brimstone” and teaching Kylie that dancing is sinful – until a certain Ren McCormack moves to town, plays chicken with a tractor and convinces the town to host a prom.
Fortunately, I only indulged in this Footloose fantasy for a split second before remembering that Alan was ordained for the day as the head of the “Church of the Naked Pants,” and therefore merely looked official but actually had a 50/50 chance of wearing breakaway stripper pants on the pulpit.
In all seriousness, Alan did a great job presiding over the event. It was one of the most personal ceremonies I’ve witnessed, and the homily perfectly communicated the wishes of a protective older brother for his sister.
Even so, I’ll admit that I’m breathing a little bit easier now that his tux has been returned. When he stops insisting that I call him Father, I’ll truly rejoice.
pithypants 
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