On the same day I found my dream wedding dress, my cousin passed away from cancer.
She was a master equestrian who knew I had the horse bug at an early age. She loved her family, and she was the person who brought Jeff and me together.
The next few days were miserable. After all of the months of doctor’s visits, pain, falling, and everything else, I had found my dream wedding dress. Joy prevailed.
And a few hours later, that joy was drowned in sorrow.
The funeral was held on Thursday in town.
Afterwards, Jeff said, “I need to get something out of my truck. Do you want to drive or walk to the square?”
I didn’t know what was going on. A drizzle of rain had started, flowing down my nose and cleaning my face.
As soon as he returned to my place on the sidewalk and offered his arm, lightning flashed and buckets poured down. Thunder rolled long and low.
It was glorious.
We walked to the courthouse, connections firing in my brain.
“Oh! Oh!” And I started dancing giddily.
We stepped down to the basement first to dry off. My dress pants were soaked, but my sweater was dry thanks to my Outback jacket. Thousands of droplets flew onto the floor from my knitted hat as I shook it. I shucked some water from my face, grinning in the mirror.
Jeff called the clerk’s office to let them know we were coming, and then we took the elevator to the lobby, dark wood calming, and hopped up the majestic staircase to the second floor.
Because it was such a spontaneous visit, I didn’t have the identification pieces I needed, so we returned to our vehicles for the necessary papers.
Then, we returned and picked up our marriage license.
It was a good thing we did because that afternoon, the department heads were convening to decide whether or not to close the courthouse. Some area courthouses were already closed.
Now, we have 60 days in which to marry.
And when the entire world doesn’t know what each day will bring, planning a wedding in the midst of a pandemic is another story in itself.