Dylan Stafford

Here’s a story I wrote 13 years ago, that will be in my upcoming book Daddy Muscles Too,
available for Father’s Day 2025.

     Originally published February 13, 2012

A good wedding—hopefully—has one magic, breath-taking moment. This wedding had five.

I’m sitting in the El Paso airport, in an empty food court, watching a dusty sun set behind the mountains, waiting for my connecting flight back to Los Angeles. It’s Sunday evening and I’m flying home from attending Priscilla and Scott’s wedding.

I’ve known Priscilla since kindergarten. Scott is a new friend; we met in junior high. We all grew up together in Denison, a tired Texas railroad town on the border with Oklahoma. Their wedding was 25 years in the making.

I love being from a small town, knowing people my whole life. Even though I left Denison in 1987, I still keep up with my friends. I’ve been to weddings. I’ve been to funerals.

Priscilla and Scott each have children from their previous marriages. Priscilla’s two twins are becoming teen-agers while Scott’s son is a young man of 20.

I don’t know what it’s like to date after a divorce. I never hear anyone say it is easy.

“It’s different out there now,” I hear them say. “It’s hard to meet good people and everyone is older and has history and it’s not the same.”

About six months ago on Facebook, long distance from Los Angeles, I started to suspect sparks might be firing between Priscilla and Scott. Being so far away, if I smelled smoke there was probably already a bonfire. It made my heart glad that they might be dating, knowing they are each loving people.

Then, before Christmas, I received a wedding invitation in the mail, question answered.

Together with their three children

Priscilla and Scott

Joyfully invite you to celebrate their marriage on

Saturday, the eleventh of February

Two thousand twelve…

The invitation had a pink bow and an illustration, a line drawing of not two, but rather five people wearing tuxedos and dresses and holding hands, like a wedding-version of those white decals you see on mini-vans.

“Do you want to go?” asked Marisa.

“Well, February is my busy time at work, and we’re trying to save money,” I replied. “I don’t think we can really make it fit.”

This was before Christmas and I was tired from the fall quarter and the expenses of the holidays lay ahead and I didn’t see how I could afford the time or money.

“Well maybe you should go,” she counter-offered. “Think about it.”

I’m stubborn. I don’t like being told what to do. But I’m not stupid. I know my wife is smarter than me about life stuff. I kept thinking about it.

Marisa watches “Say Yes to the Dress” every week. I like to cuddle on the couch with my wife and watch TV, but oh, I-just-say-no to that show. It never makes sense to me, a TV show about trying on dresses? Really? What is the point? You put on the dress. You take off the dress. You like it. You don’t like it. Ugh.

My wife is a romantic. She placed the wedding invitation on the top of the mail pile, to stare at us and make sure I didn’t forget about it. We came home from our Christmas visits to New Jersey and Texas, and Marisa brought it up again.

“You better check prices if you think you’re going to go to that wedding. It’s starting to get close,” she said.

I got online and looked at prices and times and checked with my weekend work obligations and called my mom and my sister and my best friend Travis and all of a sudden, I had tickets booked. Ding—you are now free to move about the country. I had a flight and a rental car and the whole trip would be about 36 hours start-to-finish; deep down I’m a romantic too.

I kept thinking about my other friends who’ve had to start new chapters in their lives. I kept thinking about raising my four-year son and feeling baffled by daddy-details and how hopeless I would be on my own without Marisa. Here were two good people, Priscilla and Scott, making a new future for themselves and their three kids, and I was going to get to see it begin.

On Facebook, I posted that I was coming to the wedding and started to hear about the other friends who’d be attending too.

Life stayed busy at work and we’re going to kindergarten open houses in Los Angeles for Jackson and we’re waiting to adopt a baby and Marisa has contractors making plans for a room addition that we can’t afford and all of a sudden it was Thursday night before the wedding.

I called Priscilla and with the two hour time difference reached her and Scott as they were coming in the house from having dinner with his family.

“How are you all feeling?” I asked. “Are you ready for the big day?”

“We’re doing great. We had dinner with Scott’s family. My mom’s got most of the details under control and the kids are getting excited. It’s all coming together,” said Priscilla. She sounded like a basketball player being interviewed pre-game, fired up and ready to win.

Priscilla’s the oldest of three the same way I am the oldest of three. We are both in the same kindergarten picture from 1974 and we went to the same elementary school, since our homes were only three blocks from each other.

Priscilla’s mom Kay was a big part of our lives. When we were younger, she threw great birthday parties for Priscilla with fun games and food.

When we got older, it was more complicated. Kay was the mom who knew everybody and everything and when we all got to be teenagers and started to push boundaries she’d know about our mischief almost before it happened. It was like she had satellites and computers and tracking software—back before there were such things. Today, raising my son in huge Los Angeles, I can only wish there was a “Kay-network” as tight as we had in Denison.

Kay also made sure Priscilla learned piano as a girl. Priscilla was always taking piano lessons and it paid off as she became a very gifted piano player and singer. She sang at church, she sang in choir, and later she was in the Miss Texas pageant and she sang there too.

In high school in 1986, when the song “That’s what friends are for” was popular, Priscilla decided that she and Roger and I were going to perform it at the talent show. (I’ve known Roger even longer than Priscilla, since pre-school. He sang the Ave Maria at my wedding to Marisa.)

At the talent show, in the spotlight to sing and I got stage fright and I kept telling myself, “Sound like Roger. Sound like Roger.” The harmony may have suffered but I survived. We ended up performing that song a couple more times before we graduated.

At sixteen, when we started driving, since our houses were so close to each other, Priscilla and I started giving a friendly little honk as we would pass each other’s house. It slowly expanded from a quick honk to a game of let’s start blowing the horn a block early and see if we can keep blowing it until a block past. It got obnoxious for the neighbors and my dad told me to knock it off.

My dad always liked Priscilla, and maybe that’s why it took him a long time to ask me to cut it out with the horn blowing. He would always ask how she was doing and he followed her progress more than he did my other friends. Priscilla was the only friend I had with red hair and I always thought Dad liked her partially because his mom, my grandma, was a red head and partially because he was a choir director and appreciated her music.

Back to 2012, the Thursday night before the wedding, I continued my conversation with Priscilla.

“Remember how earlier I thought my sister Lisa might come with me to your wedding and then it didn’t work for her? Well now her schedule has changed and she can go. Does that mess up your count for the reception? Can Lisa be my and one?” I asked.

“Sure,” she replied. “We have room and it would be great to see her.”

“Thanks,” I said. “How about your husband-to-be. Could I talk to Scott for a minute?”

Priscilla put Scott on the line and I asked him how he was feeling, so close to the big day. He sounded calm but excited at the same time. We talked a few minutes and I learned his mom had come in from San Diego. I told him I appreciated getting to come and bring Lisa and he said he appreciated me making the effort from California.

The next time I would see him, 36 hours later, he would be in a tuxedo in front of the church.

I got up about 4:45 a.m. Saturday, journey-proud and ready to go. I did my morning meditation and stretching and quiet time routine I use to start my day. The house was silent as Marisa and Jackson were still in bed so I had time to get online and do one email for work and then post on Facebook about going to the wedding. I printed the Yahoo! map of the route I would take from Dallas to Denison. I drew the route with a sharpie and took a digital photo and posted it on Facebook with the heading of “Priscilla and Scott’s Wedding.” I jumped in the shower and by the time I got out there were already “likes” accumulating.

Marisa and Jackson took me to the airport for an 8:25 a.m. Saturday departure. I kissed Jackson through the window, marveling that I would be home in time to tuck him before bedtime on Sunday. We live in amazing times.

On my laptop, I got some work done on the flights to Dallas. Ding ding Southwest airlines always makes you take multiple flights to get to Dallas.

I landed at 2:45 p.m. and my sister Lisa was waiting for me outside and we had enough time to make it for the 4:00 p.m. ceremony, 60 miles north of us, if we hurried. It was a clear, cold Texas day in February, 28 degrees with a steady wind from the north. Lisa had the car warmed up and we launched up the Dallas Tollway to 635 and then to 75 North.

We were listening to my sister’s massive iPod collection and talking and laughing and drinking Diet Coke and it felt like a long-ago road trip, coming home to Denison after some concert in Dallas. We pulled over and I changed into my dress shirt as I pumped gas, jumping in the cold air to stay warm. The whole weekend fit into a carry-on bag so I was traveling light, a better shirt but the same pants and shoes I wore on the plane.

We got lost at the end. We’d never been to the church and GPS in the country doesn’t always sync.

Marisa called me at about five minutes to 4:00 p.m. She was hanging out with Jackson at the park.

“We’re lost,” I said nervously.

“Don’t worry. You’ll find it and remember, weddings never start on time,” she told me.

The GPS missed the last turn. It told us to go left when we should have gone right. Lisa and I made one more U-turn, re-crossed the highway, and headed down an old country road until we found Friendship United Methodist Church.

The church looked to be about 100-years old, wooden and painted white, with a steeple on the left side and an old cemetery off to the right. It looked like a church from a movie.

I needed to use the restroom from all the Diet Coke—my sister loves Diet Coke—but we were late and I’d have to hold it because this was one of those churches where you walked in and you were already in the sanctuary.

We sat down on the bride’s side and started playing that fun game of trying to recognize people you haven’t seen in a while. I spotted my high school friends and we all ended up sitting in two pews together. I didn’t recognize either Priscilla’s younger sister or brother, as I hadn’t seen either of them in over twenty years.

The room was wider than it was long, so it felt like it was turned sideways. The walls had wood paneling and there were pretty stained-glass windows on either side. There was a small balcony behind us with a tripod for filming and the younger kids running around having fun.

I thought we were going to be the last ones but people were still arriving. The church was brim full when we started about 4:30. Marisa was right. Weddings start late.

The first magical moment was about to happen.

Priscilla’s children are fraternal twins, one boy and one girl. They are almost teenagers. Sister was a bride’s maid and came down the aisle by herself, confident and beaming and enjoying being in the spotlight. Priscilla was escorted by her son. He had his arm in hers but he was a full foot shorter than his mom.

Half way down the aisle he got shy. Unlike his sister, the spotlight wasn’t comfortable for him and his body language was something I’ve seen Jackson do many times. His shoulders came up and his head bent and he leaned into his mommy.

And he stopped walking.

Priscilla stopped walking too.

She turned and whispered to her son. 

There she was on her big day, gracefully stopping being a bride for a moment to be a mommy. She could not not be a mommy any more than I could not cry seeing them.

Magic number one complete.

The ceremony was conducted by Priscilla’s brother, who is a minister. He was dressed Texas-casual, not wearing a tie and not wearing vestments. He added heartfelt words of his own to encourage his sister and Scott.

When Priscilla spoke her vows her voice almost cracked, the emotions were so close to overflowing. We were hearing her raw, regal love for Scott. She was not a blushing bride, bubbling with naïve hope. She was a noble single-mom to two pre-teen twins, choosing to give marriage and love a second try.

Magical moment number two.

I’ve been to a lot of weddings because I’m a PK, a preacher’s kid. I have this mischievous little snarky PK voice inside my head. It’s kind of like my little devil, and as long as I don’t put it on loud-speaker, all goes well.

After the vows had been exchanged between Priscilla and Scott, as they stood holding hands and staring peacefully into each other’s eyes, there was a pause and the organ gently started to play a melody.

The pause was long enough for my little-devil PK voice in my head to speak. This would be a great time for Priscilla to burst into song, it snarked silently. I squelched an urge to chuckle inappropriately, but even as I was squelching, Priscilla did begin to sing.

She didn’t burst into song. This wasn’t Miss Texas. This was her wedding. She didn’t perform. She was vulnerable. She gave us the gift of her voice. She let us all witness.

She gently coaxed out the beautiful words for her about-to-be new husband Scott. She was singing only to Scott; we all became invisible.

Pricilla sang,

When the rain
Is blowing in your face
And the whole world
Is on your case
I could offer you
A warm embrace
To make you feel my love

“He didn’t know she was going to do this,” whispered my friend Joy into my left ear as she set another Kleenex on my knee. I was leaking out both eyes as Priscilla finished her love song.

 “That’s Bob Dylan,” said my sister Lisa in my right ear—Lisa who knows everything about music. “Adele covered it, plus some kid on American Idol. I popped a contact lens crying.”

The whole congregation was a sniffle-fest for the rest of the service.

Magical moment number three.

I asked Scott afterwards, how he kept it together.

“I didn’t know she was going to do it. I heard the music and said to myself, Oh boy, she’s gonna sing. I know you’re not supposed to, but I locked my knees,” he said.

The couple shared more vows and Priscilla’s voice, the same voice which moments earlier had sung so confidently, that same voice was again tender and fragile. And again, I appreciated that I was witnessing something special. Lots of people get married in the unlimited optimism of early youth, when there’s nothing impossible and the sky is the limit. But we were watching two people do that more remarkable thing, to claim a future in the face of clear evidence that life doesn’t always work out. They were each choosing marriage a second time, courageously. Courage isn’t the absence of fear, but having fear and acting anyway.

I cried some more, hearing their vows and witnessing their courage.

Magical moment number four.

Priscilla’s preacher brother brought us home. We were sniffled-out and soon the kiss and the benediction and this wedding would be complete.

But instead of that predictable wrap-up, there was one more moment coming.

“Today is something special,” said her brother. “Today, we are not only joining one man and one woman, but we are joining these three children. Priscilla and Scott have prepared words for the children too.”

Oh nelly! Could there be any more? I bounced my shoulders left and right, nudging Joy on my left and my sister on my right. This was too much.

Priscilla went first. Her new step-son is himself a man of twenty and a tad taller than his father Scott.

She walked over and took his hands and looked him in the eye, “I want you to know that you will always be important to me. I want you to know I will always be there to encourage you and we’re going to be together for the long haul.” She took his left wrist and placed a bracelet on him.

Scott then went to the twins and shared with them that he would be there for them too. The daughter he gave a bracelet and the son, a Lego.

Magical moment number five.

My Kleenex was damp all the way through.

Keep smiling
Keep shining
Knowing you can always count on me
For sure
That’s what friends are for…

Those were the words back in high school, when Priscilla got Roger and me up on the stage to sing together.

Those words fit today as well. Scott and Priscilla had taken our breath away over and over. They left a church full of dabbing eyes and deep, sniffling inhales. We had witnessed them make a miracle, a new family of five.

Congratulations Priscilla and Scott. Thanks for sharing your special day. Thanks Lisa, for driving us. Thanks Marisa, for being a romantic and getting me to this magical wedding. That’s what friends are for. I’ll be landing soon.

P.S.

Fast forward to February 2025:

Happy 13th Wedding Anniversary Priscilla and Scott!

I am grateful to hear you like this new treatment of the telling of your amazing wedding day.

All best,
Dylan