A winter night’s grace.
Last night at dinner, I felt a twinge of emotion spring into my throat. It caught me by surprise, not that it shouldn’t have: we were sitting down to Sunday supper around the table, each of the children lighting the candles of the wreath the fourth week of Advent, our plates piled high with steaming-hot food on the darkest evening of the year.
Our anniversary.
It’s been too long now for me to remember with any accuracy whether we thought much about the symbolism of getting married on the winter solstice. Rather, I suspect we chose the date because it was a Saturday. That it happened to fall on the 21st was lovely enough–we first started dating on a 21st, and my birthday is on a 21st. Kelly, a young teacher, and I, a poor college student, both knew we’d have winter break to count on for time off from work. The church was available–and, importantly for a budget wedding, already decorated. So it was that we spoke our vows to each other four days before Christmas.
