Fifty-Four Years

It's nice to have articles of faith, no matter how small, to cling to. They are a comfort when the rest of the world seems arbitrary, mysterious, or downright cruel. - Greg Garrett in Cycling.

Day 130. Today's ride was downright cruel. Sixty-two miles of windy, hot, humid misery. Sweat pouring out as fast as water from my Camelback could go in. My body started hurting at mile three. I think it was longing for Tennessee.

My parents reaffirmed their marriage vows today as part of centennial celebrations at the church in which I was raised. It is a beautiful Methodist church near downtown Oklahoma City, built in turn-of-the-century splendor with huge stain glass windows and a large, elegant nave. My mom was baptized there, as were me and my brothers and all of our boys. About twenty couples who were married in the church were there to renew their vows. My parents have been married for 54 years; four of the couples had been married for over 60. Joining hands, my parents tenderly repeated their vows to one another. Two sentences in, tears trickled down both their cheeks. I cried like a baby.

The pastor performing the ceremony was a delightful woman - warm, gracious, and lively. She spoke with refreshing lightness about love that endures, about the reality of sharing life with a mate, about the church community's role in enfolding couples within a greater love. I looked around at the aging couples in the pews. Most of them have known me from birth; we spent countless Sunday mornings together well into my 20's. My mom has gone to the church for over 60 years; my dad since they were married. When the pastor was blessing their union, she asked if they had met at the church. My mom replied, in front of God and everyone, "No, he was a Baptist when I met him." The pastor replied, in front of God and everyone, "Oh! That's a real success story!" I burst out laughing. Laughing in that formal, sacred sanctuary felt right somehow.

I taught a Sunday school class when I first moved back to Oklahoma from Washington in 1991. A man who had been in my class named Jack, now in his 80's, reaffirmed vows with his bride of three years. She, a young thing not a day over 79, was wearing high heels and a flouncy mini skirt. I love Methodists! One of the couples celebrating over 60 years together approached the altar, she navigating a streamlined scooter that she drove like a seasoned Formula One driver; he tall and erect in a blue linen suit. After their blessing, he moved to return to their pew. She sat solid and said, "I'm not leaving without a kiss." He bent over and planted a kiss on her upturned lips that put most first wedding kisses to shame. No wonder they've been married 63 years.

At the reception in the renovated dining hall, we ate three different kinds of cake decorated with fresh flowers, and admired wedding dresses from 50 and 60 years ago displayed on the walls. The punch was awful. I drank three glasses. My partner and I sat at a white-linen covered table with my parents and two couples they've known since before they were married. Conversation was disjointed, since everyone seated around the table is deaf. Didn't matter. Words aren't really necessary to convey such obvious feelings of love, connection, history and survival.

I hugged my parents good-bye, thanking them for the love that sustained them through 54 years of marriage and triumphed over my dad's alcoholism. It was a good day. My Buddhist faith wraps right around my Christian upbringing, continuing and expanding a spirituality based on love, compassion, and enlightenment. Best of all, the occasion yanked me out of my quagmire of Nothingness back into the world. What a beautiful world it is.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc