Posted by: Dylan Stafford | March 5, 2025

22 Months, Bouncy Run

Originally published February 25, 2009

Jack is 22 months old today. It’s just before midnight and I should be in bed. I have to work tomorrow.

Why do I want to write? Because I’m afraid I might miss life, and writing is one way to catch it, to catch life.

We sang a 22-month-old-Happy-Birthday to Jack this morning. It was in the middle of dressing him for school. His nighttime clothes were off, and he had a long-sleeved, white undershirt. When we sing to him, he gets curious and stops his normal dressing struggles and watches us. “And many more…”

We finish our song and he smiles. Thanks mommy and daddy, you can sing for me anytime. That’s what I think he’s thinking.

I hug his little body after we finish. He’s big and little at the same time.  He’s big for his age, long and tall. He’s big compared to the other children at his daycare, and getting bigger all the time. But, he’s still little. He’s still my little Jack. My hands go almost all the way around his rib cage. His wrists are slender.

We went back to school today after staying home Monday, the actual sick day, and Tuesday, the required 24-hour buffer day after symptoms subside. Outside his classroom, he squealed with delight. Then he ran away from the door and made circles out in the play yard. It took me three tries to get him to come through the door and into his classroom.

He loves his daycare friends. We say the names of his classmates in the car as we drive.

“Who are you going to see at school today?” I ask.

He says “Aki”, his name for Alexandra.

“And who else?”

“Mimi,” he replies.

“And who else?”

“Nina,” he answers, his name for Elena.

We go through the names of his classmates and teachers. He’ll interrupt periodically to point out a passing bus, and its color.

“Bus! Red-a!”

“Bus, Geen.”

“Bus, Bue.”

Green has no R. Blue has no L. Red has two syllables.

When we’re in the yard, as he’s running in circles and not going into his classroom, I’m mostly seeing him from behind.  He’s always running away from me.

There’s so much joy in his running. It is baby boy running. It is all bouncy. It makes me smile watching him. Even though I’ve missed two days of work, and I have that nervous feeling I need to get to the office, I slow down and enjoy his joy.

How long does will that childhood joy come so freely? When do we slow down and stop bouncing? When does life start to outweigh our bounce?

We had our parent teacher conference today. Tamika is his primary teacher. We meet once a quarter. She’s had her own child, who is now 4 months old, since we started working with her. I realize after the conference is over that I didn’t ask about her son. I’m embarrassed.

She’s at her job, taking care of our son, while we go to our jobs. Who is taking care of her child while she cares for Jackson?

Tamika says that Jack is smart. I perk up at that part. I always thought smart was good, but one of the joys of being almost 40 is that some of those old ideas start to morph.

We also talk about him being social. I am much more interested in him being social than in him being smart. You have to deal with people in life, and I’m thrilled watching him grow as a little social being.

Jack makes sure other kids get food served to them. He wants others to play “pretend doggy” with him. He shares imaginary food with the animals in his bedtime books. I imagine he can do great in life, if he’s aware of people around him.

Tamika says his language is exploding. We see this too. He’s a parrot, repeating back the last word of an adult sentence. She warns that this is the time to start monitoring our word choice around him. Uh oh, I think.

Yesterday, I heard the first three-word string.

“Take-a-bath,” he said.

Those were his first three words in a row. Up to now, “Bath” has always been a single word, accompanied by the sign language signal for bath which is an open hand circling the chest, and bath was never spoken, but rather whispered. After dinner, or during dinner if he got bored and wanted to leave, he would look at us, circle his hand on his chest and whisper bath in an airy, breathy way. But yesterday morning, “Take-a-bath,” blurted out with no whisper and no sign language.

Tamika tells us in our parent conference that he’s a champion in the bathroom.

“He can come right into the bathroom, pull down his pants, pull down his diaper and either pee in the urinal or sit on the potty. He still needs help to get a new diaper back on, but once it’s on, he will go and wash his hands on his own at the sink without prompting.”

I’m potty-proud like he aced his SAT exam.

We are told we can continue to work on boundaries and limit setting. What we teach now will become a pattern that will go through childhood, the teen years and beyond. I appreciate the advice but start worrying, what if we don’t teach the right rules…

Are the guidelines for adults as clear as the guidelines for Jack that we are hearing? There’s that book “All I Really Need to Know I learned in Kindergarten.” Maybe I should re-read it and apply it to my life.

She tells us the importance of making-a-plan, communicating the plan, and then sticking to the plan. Again, this is sheer brilliance. Yes, I think it will help me with Jack, but I’m also pondering the profound impact that would have in all areas of my life if I could do that: plan, share, and deliver. How much calmer could my life be?

Jack is learning about quiet and loud. Tamika thinks he knows the difference. He has a loud voice, and he knows when he is using it. But also, sometimes, he’s very unaware that he is loud. When he wakes up from nap time, he wants the other children to wake up too and looks around and starts to talk to the other, still sleeping, classmates. “Aki Wake.” “Nina Wake.” Tamika has to calm him and ask him to whisper and wait and let the others sleep.

I’m on the back porch tonight, typing. There is a bathroom back here has a leaking showerhead. I hear the pitter patter of the water dripping, and the occasional croaking from the drain as a little pond of water pools up and then lets loose and gurgles away.

How long will it take me to call a plumber? One more thing to manage. Like doing our taxes is one more thing. Like replacing the headlight lamp on Marisa’s car is one more thing. Like I’m going to New Jersey this weekend to see my best friend Humberto turn 40 and I don’t have a gift. One more, one more thing.

But Jack is in the moment. He goes from one activity to the next. Tamika pointed out that is why kids can remember so much, their head isn’t full of all the one-more-things that distract us as adults.

I saw a faculty member’s office today with clear table tops and Japanese garden tranquility. How do people achieve that sort of cleanliness and order? It is beyond me. My life is in bags and piles and there are cracker crumbs sprinkled over all of it. My laptop is missing keys and my camera has a smudged lens, both thanks to my ever-active boy Jack.

That is one reason I am write.

Black and white words on a page is clean. There is just black and there is just white. It isn’t complicated. It isn’t one more thing. Rather it is one thing, and it gets done sitting here, drippy shower distractions and all.

Writing is where I get to be bouncy.

Writing is where time gets to stand still. It is where I get to tell the universe thank you that I get to be married to my wife (She hasn’t dumped me!)  It’s where I get to tell the universe “thank you” for the gift of a 22-month-old son.

Today is Ash Wednesday, the kickoff to Lent. I’ve barely been Catholic two years, but I still managed to forget Ash Wednesday. With the Jack’s fever we missed Mass this weekend and celebrating Lent fell out. But I saw colleagues with ash crosses on their foreheads today at work and I realized that today is the start of Lent.

What can I give up for Lent? What can I let go of?

Jesus asked, “Why do you worry over many things?” That is my favorite part of Christianity.

I give up worry. I give up worry. I give up worry.

Thank you, God, for today, for Marisa and Jack and all of it. Thank you for the bouncy walk. Thank you for busses, be they Red-a or Bue or Geen. Thank you for all of it.

Good night Jackson.

Amen.

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Posted by: Dylan Stafford | March 1, 2025

Tinkle Tale

Originally published December 14, 2009

Email tortures me. Emails multiply like rabbits—one goes out and two come back. I get too many emails, and I miss details.   

Last week, my friend Elizabeth emailed me an invitation for a Saturday night holiday gathering. I assumed it was a tree trimming party. Marisa thought it sounded lovely and coordinated with our friend Jen to babysit Jack.   

Later, Elizabeth sent a second email asking if we were coming because she had to buy the food. When I skim emails, I miss key details. Her second email should have been my clue, that if she needed a headcount then we probably better be on time.

I knew we were going to be late because of Jen’s work schedule, but because I assumed it was a big tree-trimming event with lots of people I didn’t think our lateness would disrupt anything.

So I didn’t tell Elizabeth, nor consult with Marisa.

Jen arrived and we did the babysitting handoff with Jack. Marisa was still blow-drying her hair and Jack was playing Legos in front of the fireplace while I was watching an ESPN documentary about University of Miami football.

La la la, all the time in the world.

We got in the car at 8:00 p.m.

Marisa was fighting a cold and she said, “Let’s make sure we leave by 10 tonight. I want to get a good night’s sleep and not push myself.” 

I replied that we would leave by 10.   

While we were driving Elizabeth called to check and see where we were. She was super sweet but after I hung up I started wondering if I had missed something. This was a tree-trimming party, right, and she was supposed to have a houseful of people, so she wouldn’t step away to call us, would she? And why did it sound so quiet in the background?   

We arrived at her home and walked into a warm living room that smelled like cinnamon and candles and Christmas. Instead of dozens of people everywhere as I’d imagined, there were only two other couples. Instead of a half-decorated tree, there was a fully set dining room table with centerpiece and crystal and show plates. I looked at the well-noshed trays of appetizers with the sinking realization that I had missed a very important detail.

This wasn’t a tree trimming party. This was a formal dinner party. We had made our host wait over an hour. My heart dropped as my embarrassment rose.   

Elizabeth never gave the slightest hint of annoyance.

She graciously greeted us and guided the evening with toasts and courses and gifts. The other couples were longtime friends of hers. One couple was Jewish, and in honor of Hanukah Elizabeth served potato latkes with apple sauce and sour cream. The green salad had blackberries and blueberries and strawberries as well as cream cheese and nuts. The main event was a sweet potato casserole, seasoned green beans and chicken breasts with rosemary and citrus drizzle. Desert was a platter full of creamy calories. All this, plus gifts and stories and it was 11:50 p.m. when we left.   

It was a magical dinner. Elizabeth is a gifted host.

But driving home, I was upset to the point of not knowing what to say.

Everything should have been perfect after such an exquisite meal but I felt like a double-loser: we both showed up late, and now were leaving late. I had inconvenienced Elizabeth at the beginning, and Marisa and Jen at the end.

Marisa was tired from her cold and she wanted to get a certain medicine but we missed the closing of the drugstore by five minutes. I sped off from the pharmacy parking lot.   

“Dylan, it is ok. I’ll be fine,” she said. “You don’t need to speed.”    

I held the steering wheel with both hands and didn’t say anything.

In my mind everything was dark.

The thoughts came fast and bitter. “Why can’t I pay attention? I can’t even read a darn email right. Why am I always in such a hurry? The one night I’m in charge of our social life and I screw it up! How are we going to get to Orange County in the morning if we are out this late tonight? When did we tell Jen we’d be home? I bet I made her angry too. She’ll never babysit again and now Marisa can’t get any medicine.“

Bang, bang, bang my brain shot nasty-grams at me.   

I slowed down my driving and silently prayed for intervention, “God, please remove my defects of character.” 

I wasn’t specific. Any defect would do: frustration, anger, fear, worry. I tossed the prayer up, Hail Mary style, hoping for any relief.   

But my broken brain did not stop. It kept throwing guilt and shame at me like a monkey in a food fight.   

The last chance for cold medicine was a liquor store and they did have some night time medicine.

We arrived home and hugged Jen and heard about Jack’s evening. Jen was on the couch watching an old Western and all was well with her. She said Jackson had a good evening but every now and then he would remember Mommy and Daddy were gone and get upset.

Jen was fine that we had stayed out past midnight. She gathered her coat and left. Marisa and I brushed our teeth quietly. Jack was asleep in his bed, his body cocked up at a funny angle over a pillow with his blue-striped fleece pajamas keeping him warm.   

We crawled into our bed and I gave Marisa a kiss on the cheek. “I love you love.”   

“I love you too.”   

* * * * *

The next morning Jack came into our bedroom at 7:00 a.m. rubbing his eyes and requesting Mommy. Marisa gamely got out of bed to go play with him while I slept a little longer.

When I got up there wasn’t much time left.   

Every month Marisa and I go to a breakfast salon with a group of friends. We eat brunch and drink coffee and try to solve the world’s problems—by noon. We rotate houses and this month our friend down in Orange County was hosting. The salon starts at 9:00 a.m. so we needed to leave by 8:00 to make it on time.   

“Do you want me to make you some coffee?” Marisa asked.   

“No, there will be coffee there and I’m already running late,” I replied.   

Marisa dressed Jack while I took a shower. We bundled him up and into his car seat and I kissed Marisa on her cheek. Still fighting her cold, she was staying home to rest.   

Driving on Sunday mornings, I imagine life in Los Angeles before it got crowded. The traffic flows freely. The air is clear and the mountains are easy to see. That California cliché about surfing in the morning and snow skiing in the afternoon only makes sense on Sunday mornings.   

Jack and I made great time to Orange County. We were only about fifteen minutes late to the salon.

I greeted my friends and explained to them that Marisa was congested and had stayed home. Our host Kay had prepared a feast of a brunch. I started catching up on my morning coffee quotient to get my caffeine up to my normal levels.   

In twelve-step recovery people say, “If one drink is good, then five must be better.” I don’t think that way about alcohol anymore, but these days you might say I am powerless over coffee. Why wake up to one cup when I can have a half pot to myself?

My normal routine is to prepare the coffee maker at night and in the morning hit brew on my way to the shower. I have my first two-to-three cups at home, my warm-up pot, and then drink more when I get to work.   

And, if I drink less, I get a solid headache in the afternoon. I was afraid this might happen today, since I was having my first cup of java three hours later than usual. We had our salon, talking about life and love and politics, and I sat on the floor leaning against the couch and sucking down coffee.   

The salon went long and it was almost two when Jack and I headed home. My plan was that Jack would fall asleep in the car and get a long nap while I drove north in the afternoon traffic. I might even drive beyond our house if he was still sleeping, to make sure he got a full nap. My Dallas Cowboys were playing the San Diego Chargers and I planned to listen to the game on the radio.   

Often Jack is asleep in minutes but today he was in his car seat chatting away about Kay’s house and the muffins and the doggie and the trucks on the highway. He was wide awake and the traffic was moving well and my nap plan was falling apart. If we got home too soon Jack’s nap would be too short, and he would be cranky the rest of the day.   

Fifteen minutes later he did fall asleep, instantly, like a light switch turned off. Maybe it was the white noise of the radio football or maybe he was just tired. The traffic slowed and I felt better, that he was getting his nap. But I also started to feel something else, not better.

I needed to pee.

Big stomach, small bladder. Same as ever.

And adding to that, the caffeine headache I had tried to avoid was happening anyway. My head was beginning to pound driving into the bright California sun.   

Jack was blissfully asleep in his car seat. My Dallas Cowboys were playing painful football on the radio. My headache was pulsing. My bladder was bursting and the sunshine was making it all seem worse.

I started going through my options:

If I pulled over and went into a restroom, I would have to take Jack with me but his nap would end. Jack would be cranky the rest of the day and Marisa would be disappointed.

If I kept driving he would sleep, but I might have lifelong kidney damage.   

If I pulled over on the shoulder but kept the car running so Jack wouldn’t wake up it would be like taking a leak on the fifty-yard line during halftime. Worst-case outcomes ranged from getting a ticket to getting rear-ended and dying in a giant fireball, a fireball that smelled of burning urine.

I had to keep going.   

The only grace was that Jack continued to sleep.

His nap was up to forty minutes now and he was still sleeping. If I could only hold on for twenty more minutes of napping we would have reached the magic hour mark. Anything over an hour is a success for a weekend nap and wards off the evil crankies. But twenty more minutes for my ballooning bladder seemed like too much.   

The traffic started flowing again and we were coming up to our exit.

It wasn’t a full hour. We were at fifty minutes of naptime. The exit ramp had a red light at the bottom and I had to stop. Jack twisted in his car seat and in the rear-view window I could see his eyes starting to open slowly, like a dinosaur head rising out of a bog. He’s a toddler now and he doesn’t wake up crying, but rather he mumbles as he gets his bearings.   

“We home?”   

“No Jack. Almost home. Not quite.”   

Dear Reader, Don’t think about an elephant.   

You, Dear Reader, don’t do it.

Don’t think about an elephant.

It’s hard to do isn’t it?   

Well that’s where I was with the pee.

All I could think about was pee.

We were only five minutes from home but I had to pee so badly. If I made it to home and ran in the door to the restroom and left Jack alone in the driveway in his car seat, that didn’t seem like a very good parenting. I didn’t think I could make it anyway so I started looking for someplace to pull over.

There was an empty Gatorade bottle in my car.   

I pulled behind a restaurant in an alley but there were two old guys standing around a small grill. Darn it. It wasn’t private but it was better than the highway and the fireball explosion death.   

“What Daddy doing?” Jack asked from his seat as I maneuvered.   

“Jack, Daddy make peeps,” I replied, definitely feeling like father of the year at this point.   

“Why Daddy make peeps?”   

This conversation was going nowhere.

“Everybody makes peeps Jack. People make peeps.”   

“Why?” Jack asked again but he wasn’t really interested. He was looking out the window at the men at the grill.   

The relief was bliss.

The bottle filled and the only question was whether it was going to be big enough. I could see the pee slowly creeping up the sides. It was going to be close. Nope, the bottle wasn’t big enough.

Whatever that inside muscle is that makes pee stop, I flexed it. It worked, sort of. I put the cap back on the bottle. My bladder cried thank you. My headache still pounded. My Dallas Cowboys were still losing. But I didn’t have to pee anymore and Jack almost got a whole nap.   

Marisa was feeling better when we got home. She laughed at my tinkle tale.

“Glad you didn’t get rear-ended. Glad you didn’t overdo it,” she smiled quietly.

In our marriage, Marisa runs the details and we have a beautiful home. I think God made us this way on purpose, complementary gifts, hers and mine, but mostly hers. When I read the emails, I miss details, but somehow, we keep going. We had a beautiful dinner yesterday. Marisa got to rest today.

You + Me = We

One + One = Three

Details + The Big Picture = A Beautiful Life

Thank you, God, for letting me be a husband and a daddy, today.

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Posted by: Dylan Stafford | February 23, 2025

Five Magical Moments

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

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