“Maybe there’s a compromise,” I interjected.

Anna and Jane turned to look at me.

“I know your heart is set on next weekend,” I said to Anna, “but would you mind if we invited a few extra people, in addition to the family? If we help with all the arrangements?”

“I don’t know that we have enough time for something like that . . . ,” Anna began.

“Would it be all right if we try?”

The negotiations continued for an hour after that, but in the end, a few compromises resulted. Anna, it seemed, was surprisingly agreeable once I’d spoken up. She knew a pastor, she said, and she was sure he would agree to do the ceremony next weekend. Jane appeared happy and relieved as the initial plans began to take form.

Meanwhile, I was thinking about not only my daughter’s wedding, but also our thirtieth anniversary. Now, our anniversary—which I’d hoped to make memorable—and a wedding were going to occur on the same day, and of the two, I knew which event suddenly loomed largest.

The home that Jane and I share borders the Trent River, and it’s nearly half a mile wide behind our yard. At night, I sometimes sit on the deck and watch the gentle ripples as they catch the moonlight. Depending on the weather, there are moments when the water seems like a living thing.

Unlike Noah’s home, ours doesn’t have a wraparound porch. It was constructed in an era when air-conditioning and the steady pull of television kept people indoors. When we first walked through the house, Jane had taken one look out the back windows and decided that if she couldn’t have a porch, she would at least have a deck. It was the first of many minor construction projects that eventually transformed the house into something we could comfortably call our home.

After Anna left, Jane sat on the couch, staring toward the sliding glass doors. I wasn’t able to read her expression, but before I could ask what she was thinking, she suddenly rose and went outside. Recognizing that the evening had been a shock, I went to the kitchen and opened a bottle of wine. Jane had never been a big drinker, but she enjoyed a glass of wine from time to time, and I thought that tonight might be one of them.

Glass in hand, I made my way to the deck. Outside, the night was buzzing with the sounds of frogs and crickets. The moon had not yet risen, and across the river I could see yellow lights glowing from country homes. A breeze had picked up, and I could hear the faint tings of the wind chime Leslie had bought us for Christmas last year.

Other than that, there was silence. In the gentle light of the porch, Jane’s profile reminded me of a Greek statue, and once again, I was struck by how much she resembled the woman I first saw long ago. Eyeing her high cheekbones and full lips, I was thankful that our daughters look more like her than me, and now that one was getting married, I suppose I expected her expression to be almost radiant. As I drew near, however, I was startled to see that Jane was crying.

I hesitated at the edge of the deck, wondering whether I’d made a mistake in trying to join her. Before I could turn, however, Jane seemed to sense my presence and glanced over her shoulder.

“Oh, hey,” she said, sniffing.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yes.” She paused, then shook her head. “I mean, no. Actually, I’m not sure how I feel.”

I moved to her side and set the glass of wine on the railing. In the darkness, the wine looked like oil.

“Thank you,” she said. After taking a sip, she let out a long breath before gazing out over the water.

“This is so like Anna,” she finally said. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but still . . .”

She trailed off, setting the wine aside.

“I thought you liked Keith,” I said.

“I do.” She nodded. “But a week? I don’t know where she gets these ideas. If she was going to do something like this, I don’t understand why she didn’t just elope and get it over with.”

“Would you rather she had done that?”

“No. I would have been furious with her.”

I smiled. Jane had always been honest.

“It’s just that there’s so much to do,” she went on, “and I have no idea how we’re going to pull it all together. I’m not saying the wedding has to be at the ballroom of the Plaza, but still, you’d think she would want a photographer there. Or some of her friends.”

“Didn’t she agree to all that?”

Jane hesitated, choosing her words carefully.

“I just don’t think she realizes how often she’ll think back to her wedding day. She acted like it’s no big deal.”

“She’ll always remember it no matter how it turns out,” I countered gently.

Jane closed her eyes for a long moment. “You don’t understand,” she said.

Though she said no more on the subject, I knew exactly what she meant.

Quite simply, Jane didn’t want Anna to make the same mistake that she had.

My wife has always regretted the way we got married. We had the kind of wedding I’d insisted on, and though I accept responsibility for this, my parents played a significant role in my decision.

My parents, unlike the vast majority of the country, were atheists, and I was raised accordingly. Growing up, I remember being curious about church and the mysterious rituals I sometimes read about, but religion was something we never discussed. It never came up over dinner, and though there were times when I realized that I was different from other children in the neighborhood, it wasn’t something that I dwelled upon.

I know differently now. I regard my Christian faith as the greatest gift I’ve ever been given, and I will dwell no more on this except to say that in retrospect, I think I always knew there was something missing in my life. The years I spent with Jane have proved that. Like her parents, Jane was devout in her beliefs, and it was she who started bringing me to church. She also purchased the Bible we read in the evenings, and it was she who answered the initial questions I had.

This did not happen, however, until after we were married.

If there was a source of tension in the years we were dating, it was my lack of faith, and there were times I’m sure she questioned whether we were compatible. She has told me that if she hadn’t been sure that I would eventually accept Jesus Christ as my Savior, then she wouldn’t have married me. I knew that Anna’s comment had brought back a painful memory for her, for it was this same lack of faith that led us to be married on the courthouse steps. At the time, I felt strongly that marrying in the church would make me a hypocrite.