Those who’ve followed my story to this point will recognize that Priscilla and I had some unfinished business with some people. I’d left things open with my other graduation guest, and the young man Priscilla had met at her cousin’s wedding was still supposed to come see her in Quebec.
So I wrote to Anne. (You know, that awkward moment when you need to tell the girl you were dating that in the few weeks since you last saw her, you got engaged to someone else.)
My letter to her crossed in the mail with a letter from her to me, reporting that she’d just gotten engaged. She, too, had spent the summer serving in another country, where there was a different language and culture, and there she and another young man had received guidance as remarkable as my own that God was calling them into a lifetime partnership.
Anne actually hadn’t been that surprised to receive my letter. She later told me that the moment she first laid eyes on Priscilla, she said to herself, “This is the person Chris is supposed to marry. Let’s see how long it takes him to figure that out.”
For her part, Priscilla wrote to the guy she’d met at the wedding and explained the recent whirlwind of events. Understandably he had questions, but the two of them worked things out in a phone conversation, and at the end he very chivalrously wished us every happiness.
This would be the place to mention that Priscilla had actually gotten engaged once before, a few years earlier, to someone from her church. But her parents had not felt he was right for her, and her friends were similarly concerned. The two of them had real difficulty communicating and making decisions together. She eventually realized that she’d made a mistake in agreeing to marry him. She went to a woman who was a trusted advisor, one of those friends-of-parents that children call “aunt” or “uncle.”
“What should I ever do?” she asked. “You can just give him back the ring,” the woman explained, “and tell him that you’re very sorry, but you no longer feel it would be the right thing to do to marry him.” So that’s what she did. This man later found a very compatible wife, and after Priscilla and I were married, the two of them even had us over for a no-hard-feelings dinner. As I think back over these stories, I’m amazed by, and very grateful for, all these people who approached delicate matters of the heart with such generosity and grace.
Priscilla’s family moved her down to the North Shore of Boston, where she’d accepted a secretarial job at Gordon College. This was only a short distance from Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary, where I was scheduled to start in the fall. Her family took a vacation by the ocean and then they all came to visit my family. There was feasting and celebrating, but I could only take part in a limited way, because I’d broken my jaw and it had to be wired shut for five weeks. Ultimately this led me to postpone seminary first for a semester, then for a full year, as we arranged for our wedding to take place a few months before I started seminary.
In the end, I would get married when I was still only 22 years old. But in retrospect, I’m very grateful for the circumstances—Priscilla’s move, and even my broken jaw—that combined to bring this about. They ensured that she and I would have many wonderful years together as husband and wife, more than I had anticipated, before she went home to be with the Lord.
I got temporary office work in Boston. I also found housing a few blocks north of Harvard Square in exchange for working as a tutor and governor for the son of a German countess. She was dividing her time between America and Europe and didn’t want to take her son with her when she traveled because she didn’t want him to miss school.
On weekends I’d take the train an hour north to see Priscilla, or she’d take it down to visit me. A great group for young couples had formed in the church I’d attended as a student—some couples newly married, some engaged like us, others dating—and together we worked through many of the issues that came with this stage in life.
As we sent out our wedding invitations, I told God that I wanted to invite Him to the wedding, too. I explained that I couldn’t get an actual invitation to Him in the mail, but promised that we’d save Him “the best seat in the house”: bride’s side, front row, on the center aisle. We would instruct our ushers not to let anybody sit there; that seat would be reserved for God.
I felt as if God responded that He’d be delighted to attend, and that he was going to send us a wedding present in advance. A couple of days later, one of Priscilla’s co-workers said to her, “I hear the two of you are looking for furniture for your future apartment. A friend of mine has a queen size bed that he wants to give away.” We gratefully accepted it.
Priscilla and I were married in a bilingual ceremony on May 23, 1981, at her family’s home church in Sherbrooke. My father and her pastor performed the ceremony. Her sister and mine were bridesmaids. One of my brothers was our reader and the other two were groomsmen, along with the friend I’d driven home just before my two-car accident.
While it’s customary for the best man and maid of honor to serve as the witnesses to a marriage, Priscilla and I asked our fathers to be our witnesses. Since they’d thought of each of us as a good match for their child the first time they met us, this seemed only appropriate.
And our ring bearer was the toddler son of Priscilla’s brother and his wife, who was the same young woman who’d sat with us on the hillside that evening years before as we watched the moon rise.