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Dear
Emily,
I hope you’ll forgive a few sappy musings from your
uncle on the occasion of your marriage. At least you know I come by
it honestly, running in the family as it does.
While you are quite rightly looking to your future, I
find myself reflecting on the past. Perhaps that’s because I have
more of it, but for a moment I’d like you to glance back through my
eyes.
Though one would never guess it by the beautiful young
woman you’ve become, you were without question the homeliest baby I
had ever seen. Skin yellow and jaundiced, head elongated from a
hard birth, you brought to mind a poor, bruised banana that no
self-respecting grocer would allow on his shelf.
It’s strange to think that you weren’t always too fond
of me, assuming you still are after the banana crack. As a toddler,
for instance, you were clearly not amused the day your parents left
you with me while they met relatives at the airport.
After hours of crying (you, though I was close), we finally reached
a truce of sorts, you playing warily in a corner, one eye on your
toys and the other on me. If I strayed within 6 or 8 feet the lip
would go up, the sniffs would start, and I would retreat. I believe
I rolled you an apple or two and scooted over a Tippee cup, but I
know I have never been so happy to see your mother.
As you grew we found more similarities than
differences. You have my nose, of course, and my coordination,
unfortunately. I, at least, have never broken an arm playing “Duck,
Duck, Goose,” which most folks don’t think of as a contact sport.
Still, like me, you have managed to reach adulthood fairly intact.
One of the saddest moments of my adult life was spent
alone with you in a restaurant the day after your father’s death.
You were 12, the same age as my own daughter today. I felt about
112. Having lost my own father young, I hurt for you and your
sister and brother in a way I could never explain. But the hardest
part was that I also knew your future, and couldn’t find the words.
I wanted you to know that you’d make it. I wanted you
to know you would survive, that the world wasn’t against you. I
wanted you to understand that the cold, thick fog of grief would
thin and lift, that there would again be room for joy and life and
peace. I felt I had failed you at that instant, but I see now that
that was just the folly of pride. You healed as you should, with
time and with God.
It may be foolish to think that any words of mine would be of value
now, but I love you too much not to try. I trust you to have the
wisdom to pick the gems from the coal.
You have chosen a fine young man: don’t forget it. It may seem
inconceivable now, but the day will come when you have your doubts.
The problem with Rich, though, is that he’s human. I suffer the
same affliction myself, but thank God your Aunt forgives me for it,
within bounds.
Not everything will be about right and wrong. Sometimes it will
just be about Rich and Emily. No two people can be completely
compatible; if we were we might as well marry ourselves. Let his
strengths be yours and yours be his, but never try to be the same
person.
The family you form together will not be the same as those you came
from, but your own wonderful creation. Love each other and love God,
expecting perfection only from the latter.
The rest you will figure out yourselves, doing what works best for
you. But don’t be afraid to turn to your parents – they will look
wiser with each passing year, and love you immeasurably.
As so do your Aunt and I, but you know that. Have a wonderful
marriage, honey.
Love,
Uncle
Brent
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