Brad, Virgil, & Jeff: Paving the way by laying the foundation and raising the roof

Weddings are a wonderful combination of tradition and personal flair. Timeless but fleeting...the architecture constantly evolving while the sturdy foundation remains resolutely the same. 

Sydney and Douglas put a lot of time into planning their wedding; carefully sifting through what was essential and what was just expected. Opinions were sought as our family, as obnoxious as we may appear, rarely offers suggestions unsolicited (We just ruthlessly criticize them later). Sydney honored me greatly by asking if I would accompany Brad and her down the aisle on her journey to her betrothed. What a privilege...to be included in those final steps where Syd was still just "ours." My narcissistic nature of course wanted to share that limelight but my oddly sentimental side immediately declined...wanting, so much, to watch my husband escort his little girl down the aisle. And, boy, that scene did not disappoint. Thirty-six years of marriage and I still see stars.

The Father/Daughter Dance was another matter.

Sydney Lynn circled the wagons and summoned the three men in her life that hailed her as a princess, held her feet to the fire, would have walked through hell for her, and would hire on as hit-men for her. 

The dance began, of course, with her father, her cornerstone...sappy, sweet, and sentimental before taking a crazy and comedic turn. With a wild whoop of recognition, Virgil caught his cue as effortlessly as any bridesmaid catching the bouquet. Naturally, his walk-on music would be Grateful Dead-themed and the dance floor and the crowd enthusiastically sang back-up as Virgil grabbed his girl for a spin. And then the beat dropped, and it was Jeff's turn to be recognized and honored for his valued place in the foundation of her formative years. We yowled like alley cats as he circled the floor..."She's a brick...how-se..."

It couldn't have been better. 

Pure, uninhibited joy.

Loud. Obnoxious. Loving.

Us.

These three men...brothers...architecturally different but foundationally...crafted from the same mason. The jokes and teasing are cut-throat. Geographically split but spiritually-centered. The polarized push and pull that defines the relationships of men...cast adrift for months...sometimes years...and then, suddenly, the homing signal inexplicably kicks in and the great continental trek begins...reuniting a fellowship forged in infancy, surviving the tumultuous teen years, and enduring well into adulthood. 

Such a blessing.

Not everyone is fortunate enough to have even one stable male role model in their lives.

In attendance at Syd's wedding, twirling her around the dance floor, my daughters have three.

There's no raisin to feel awkward when Putin on the Ritz

Sydney's beautiful wedding venue provided her with a spacious, sprawling, comfortable space for her bridesmaids to gather, giggle, and get ready. So naturally, they all crowded together into the one stalled bathroom.

What a pleasure...to watch women fussing over one another...straightening straps, smoothing hair, plucking lint from satin fabric. My heart filled to bursting as I saw the sisters...my daughters...caught up in this ageless ritual of women. Where once they were constantly AT one another's throats, I now saw Sydney, squinting, as she fought with the dainty necklace clasp adorning Savannah's neck. Where once pleasure was derived from knocking one another down, Savannah was now crouching, to help Sydney with her shoes. 

And I, an apparition, floating around, through, and above this timeless tableau. 

I did not speak this language or understand this culture. My currency is sarcasm and inappropriate innuendo. Sophistication, for me, is when a restaurant provides a pre-packaged wet-nap. Fine dining is when the flight attendant gives you the dry-as-dust, nut-free, pretzel mix AND a package of teeth-breaking, nut-free, brownie bites during the SAME flight. I don't know how to have intelligent exchanges. I nodded wisely and then quickly removed myself from a conversation about the uncertain political climate in Laos. "They're in talks with Putin, you know," I was told. "That b@st@rd," I commiserated before jumping up to open the door. "Oh, look! The cheese is here!"

The artisan charcuterie board that arrived could have been featured in a museum. "Is this brie?" I asked, carefully, trying not to give away my utter lack of class. "It's goat cheese. You will detect a subtle note of citrus," the server told me. Is he serious? I couldn't detect a hammer to the head. Even the crackers were above my pay-grade and comfort-level. Preparing to leave after adjusting a minute mis-alignment of a plump, juicy craisin (In my world, craisins are dry and shriveled...just raisin's cousins...putting on airs), the server mis-over-heard my muttered comment lamenting my cracker crisis and smiled. "Yes, many people have compared our facilities to the Ritz." I shook my head. We are so not the same.

So, I was mostly an observer of the festivities...winging in a wry comment, here and there. Lurking awkwardly in the background. Feeling like a fraud as I sampled sophisticated cheeses while longing for Poly-O. But I am also a chronicler...making mental notes and sifting feverishly through each special moment to file away forever as a part of our family history. Which is why, as everyone was crammed in the dressing room, vying for mirror space and admiring Sydney, I thought it would be a good idea to hoist my gargantuan-sized body up onto the closed toilet lid and straddle the stall to capture this moment for posterity. 

It was as classy a moment as you are imagining.

Especially the part where I cracked the lid.

Later that evening, in a quiet nook, watching as guests sipped their wine, chatted, and danced, I gently nudged the event planner who had helped us throughout the day. "It was just beautiful," I told her. "Did it bring back memories of your own wedding day?" she asked me. I smiled at her. "Oh my gosh, yes. Did I tell you that our reception was in a fire hall?" She laughed before quickly covering her mouth with her hands. "That does not surprise me," she answered before hustling over to straighten a crooked craisin. 

We are so not the same.

A drop in the bucket: My cup runneth over (God's gift registry)

 I tend to be somewhat zealous in my interpretation of God's presence in my life. Better to see Him EVERYWHERE than no-where is my very strong defense. Crammed into Douglas's car, the many Mosimans who had made the trek to Sydney's wedding were barreling down a crowded freeway in San Diego when we passed a faded road-side sign, standing sentinel among the palm trees, almost lost among a backdrop of buildings. Hearing my sigh, my husband quickly scanned his surroundings to find the catalyst. Spotting the "Denny's" sign, he fought his eye-roll to drop me a quick wink, immediately realizing that I was thinking of my dad. 

There's no sense in arguing with me when the Lord so clearly sends me a (literal) sign but Brad Mosiman is always game. "Spotting a Denny's can hardly be counted as a miraculous occurrence," he teased me later. "There must be close to 2,000 Denny's in America. It would be like going to Canada and being shocked to find a Tim Horton's there." Thank goodness Sydney is more sentimental. "I thought of Grandma and Grandpa, too," she whispered. It was my dad's go-to place...a consistent menu with consistent prices. We would be graciously treated to a Denny's dinner for birthdays and anniversaries.

Dad would show up again later as Sydney and I approached the entryway for her receiving room at the venue. I paused beside the rusted old bucket hanging decoratively among the vine and flowers, thanking God for including Dad in this special day.

Really, Amy? An old bucket? Now you're really reaching.

Haven't I told you this story?

Where a young and foolish (as opposed to old and foolish) Amy DeLong snitched her father's metal bucket to pick wild grapes with a friend. The two idiots climbed the prickly pine tree ladders high up into the air, hanging the bucket on a branch so they could fill it with fruit. Suddenly, Amy's friend fell, plunging 40 (4) feet before catching hold. Scared straight, both children scrambled to the ground, forgetting about the bucket until it was too late. Neither kid was brave enough to retrieve it. Naturally, Amy never confessed her crime to her father who, we must imagine, never learned the fate of his missing bucket. (I'm sure he suspected...I was very naughty).

Years went by. My parents moved. But every time Brad and I drove by the property, we would glance up into the roadside woods to see the bucket, still hidden...like a needle in a pine tree. 

One day, driving by, I was startled and saddened to see that the highway department had trimmed back the trees. "The bucket is gone," I told Brad, my eyes wildly searching the vacant branches. My husband pulled over. Walking across the road, he jumped down into the ditch and immediately emerged with his prize. That bucket has been with us every since.

The Lord, of course, was not done with me. I wandered away, giving Sydney and Douglas a private moment before the craziness began. I toured the barn space that would house the bar, buffet, and dancing area. The walls and beams felt nostalgically comforting, filled with farm tools and implements. Stopping short, I saw one beam decorated with "random" license plates. Smiling, I noticed New York and California, separated geographically by 3,000 miles, parked right next to one another. And then my eyes widened as I read the letters on the New York plate...immediately spinning around to retrieve Sydney and Douglas. Pleased and thankful, I snapped the picture: Art Mosiman's great-granddaughter, on her wedding day, beneath her home plate. 

In mind, body, and soul...we were all there.

The Wedding Rabbit in Red: Celebrity stylist of the star-struck

I am not a confident woman, when it comes to my looks. Over the years, all of my self-described strengths have been systematically debunked. Swan-like neck? Rippled with wrinkles with a triple chin cherry on top. Dainty, gazelle-like ankles? Sturdy, like a peasant.

So I didn't exactly embrace the notion of being transformed by a stylist for Sydney's wedding. You are talking to a woman who once accidentally glued her eyelids closed. Little did I imagine that, years later, I would learn that you could also perm your eyelashes. Just picture those tiny rollers!

Sydney is fearless. She may be the one credited for bringing the belly shirt from California to Wyoming County.

We should have known because, even as a child, she refused to bow to popular convention. She created "The Unicorn," proudly pointing her long, blonde hair heavenward in a single silken spiral. She modeled a braided look based on the museum display-cased model of a Pacific-Northwest Native American girl dated from well before the pre-colonial era. She'd gazed intently at the diorama, taking mental note, before turning to me and saying, "We can do that." Ha. We. Adorable. I had to have the neighbor girls teach me to braid off of My Little Pony toys because I'd never learned before becoming a mom.

And now, all these years later, it was we again.

And Doris.

Oh my gosh.

Doris.

I frequent hair cutting places that feature the words shed, shack, and cave in their titles. Fifteen dollar hair cutting rates delight me. When I succinctly describe the style boasted by the little Dutch boy on the can of paint, my stylist does not even attempt to question my choice and, snip-snap, I'm being fitted for wooden shoes. 

"She styles the hair for that woman on Shark Tank," Sydney mentioned, minutes before my being introduced to my tiny-but-toned tresses technician. Oh boy. Cue up the Jaws theme music.

I began as I always do, by apologizing for my homespun hack-sawed bangs.

Realizing she had an anxiety-ridden, emotional basket-case in her chair, Doris distracted me with small talk while performing magical sleights-of-hand in my hair. Delighted to discover that we were "neighbors," I followed a young 21-year-old Doris from her family home in Toronto out to LA to pursue her passion in make-up and hair. She taught me the art of flipping houses and the struggles of male cat incontinence all while effortlessly wrestling my startled hair into an elegant chignon bun. 

And then it was Sydney's turn and I could not look away as art was created before my very eyes.

Sydney has had a flair for hair for as long as I can remember. She is also ruthlessly pragmatic and adaptable. She is not afraid to experiment; learning with each experience. For Sydney, it's just hair. A blank canvas. It'll grow out/grow back. And with Doris, Sydney had a studied practitioner to bring her vision to life.

And come to life she did.

Not out of marble. Or sandstone. Or still-life.

Shimmering red waves...Venus emerging from her shell...

Rita Hayworth.

Jessica Rabbit.

Sydney Mosiman.

Wedding-day ready.

We bid a reluctant farewell to our fascinating and talented new friend.

And now it was just Syd and me, staring at one another in the mirror. Me...reflecting upon the little girl she once was...my little girl...and the amazing woman she's become. As my daughter began the timeless process of applying the paints and powders that shape and color the landscape of a woman's features, I reveled in her careful and patient ministrations...confident of one thing. Our journey through the Looking Glass together was far from over.

She says the stupidest things, bless her heart

Brad and I put on our fancy duds and went to a wedding last night.  We ran a youth group some ten odd years ago and one of our girls, Bethany, had graciously invited us to witness her vows of love and fidelity to Eric before God.  It was an honor and a blessing to watch as this committed couple took the first steps along Matthew 7's "narrow road."  Like so many other things in today's society, relationships have taken on a disposable quality.  Whereas once the natural end to a marriage was the inevitable death of one of its partners, the synonym for marriage today is "divorce."  Even worse...why bother to marry at all?  How courageous for a couple to pledge their loyalty, love, and lives to one another.  How humbling to know that Brad and I played a microscopically small and insignificant role in Bethany's younger years and have been afforded this amazing opportunity to see how the subsequent chapters of her story have played out.

Later, at the reception, Brad and I were delighted to have been seated at the young people's table.  Even better, we found ourselves reunited with Holly and Kristen, who had also been part of that original youth group.  Holly has been married a year to her long-time boyfriend, engineer, Phillip while Kristen is currently seeing Chris who is also an engineer.  Conversation was intelligent and lively.  "The bridesmaids' dresses are a beautiful color," someone observed which started a twenty minute argument.  "What sort of purple is that?"  "Plum," one member of our party said confidently before getting dogpiled upon.  "Plum, my rear," came one response.  "Who made you Little Jack Horner," asked another color consultant.  Then began the listing and ultimate dismissal of every shade of purple ever known to mankind.  To end the debate, I snagged a passing bridesmaid.  "The color is called sangria," she informed the table.  Shocked silence descended momentarily on our group.  We sure hadn't seen that coming.

With our colorful debate settled, we then discussed Phil and Holly's seven-toed cat until our entries arrived.  Apparently the youthful aspect of our table worked against us as management didn't trust us with knives.  Adaptable, we spread our butter with the back of our spoons but the roast beef posed an etiquette issue.  Responding to our petition, the busy waitress begrudgingly assigned our desperate group of knife-less knaves one semi-sharp serrated implement.  We shared it without complaint.

Not surprisingly, we began to reminisce a bit.  As youth group leaders, Brad and I always tried to be models of virtue.  Unfortunately, we find out, more often than not, we fell miserably short.  "Why are you throwing me under the bus here," Brad asked, "This little anecdote has nothing to do with me."  "Remember those vows you took," I reminded him, "we're a team here, buddy."  The girls were eager to share that, even after all these years,  an Amy Mosiman quote had found its way into their everyday vernacular.   On our way home from one of our youth group excursions ("The one where we were almost caught up in a tornado?" Brad asked.  "No."  "The one where someone almost drowned?" Brad asked.  "No."  "The one where a tree almost fell on our tent during a wind storm?" "No."  "The one where you made the associate pastor with one lung blow up a four-foot-tall inflatable palm tree?"  "No."  "The one where we were stalked by a mountain lion?"  "No."), the one where we defied our pastor's concerns and took the kids to the coolest haunted house EVER, I was driving the noisy girl van (as opposed to the stinky boy van) when we passed a uniquely decorated house, painted a hideous shade of purple (not plum or sangria).  Without thinking of my role-model status, I said, "That is the ugliest house I have ever seen."  As the girls suddenly quieted to look at this spectacle, I realized it was still someone's home so I quickly added, "Of course I mean that in the nicest possible way."  REALLY?  Ten years and THAT is what they remember? I must have uttered SOMETHING somewhat deep and meaningful when I was with them.  2 Timothy 2:16 warned me but did I listen?  No-oo-oo.  Avoid irreverent babble (but Tim, I am the Queen of irreverent babble.  It's my primary language!), for it will lead people into more and more ungodliness (That seems a little harsh there, Tim-bo.  Humorously negative...yes.  Ungodly?  C'mon, really?).  My table correlated my witty little observation with the Southern equivalent for immediately negating harsh observations.  "She must have cut her hair in the dark with children's safety scissors, bless her heart."   "Her cooking tastes like crap, bless her heart."  "You're ugly, bless your heart."  Well, in that light, it appears that our friend, Tim may have been onto something.  This has been a valuable life lesson for me.  I believe I will make a vow.  A vow pledging to say only pleasant, positive things.  I know what you're thinking...this will be her last blog.  Well, you're wrong, bless your hearts.

Song adaptation:
                                         Oh, be careful, big fat mouth what you say.
                                         Oh, be careful, big fat mouth what you say.
                                         Or your careless words might get repeated every day,
                                         And quoted back to you ten years later....-ay.
                                         Oh, be careful, big fat mouth what you say.