Suffering from jetlag, my head swirled with doubt about my role in a fast-approaching ceremony. Heavy traffic jangled my nerves. The “Mile-High City” thin air wasn’t helping my mental state.
But then I saw a large, green sign with white lettering: Arapahoe Community College. I exhaled and unclenched the steering wheel.
Community. I needed that word.
My wonderful stepson was marrying his delightful long-time girlfriend in their adopted state of Colorado. My wife and I flew there for a week with family and friends, quality time with the soon-to-be-married couple, sightseeing, hiking, ziplining, and planning for the welcome party. For me, this was also a week of back-of-my-mind worry that I might ruin the wedding.
Months ago, the happy couple asked me to officiate their wedding. I was deeply honored and set about researching my role. Colorado has loose marriage regulations, so I didn’t have to become an internet-certified minister, which was mildly disappointing. Who wouldn’t want to be an internet-certified minister?
Over the summer, I consulted with the couple to shape the ceremony they wanted. We discussed options, formed a plan, and agreed to keep it under three hours. (Kidding. They wanted 20 minutes.)
Leading up to the event, I refined the plan, adding personal touches about the couple and humor to brighten the ceremony. Now and then, I imagined what would happen if I bombed. I teach college public speaking courses and have given thousands of presentations, but, deep down, I’m still the little kid who dreaded show-and-tell in school. I’ve since embraced imposter syndrome, and it’s carried me a long way.
But a poor presentation at a conference or a boring book reading at a library is survivable. Most of those audience members will never see me again. But messing up this wedding would disappoint the couple and dozens of family members, people I love deeply. Failing in front of strangers is temporarily embarrassing. But disappointing loved ones would leave me even more disappointed in myself.
As the wedding approached, I stayed awake late into each night, quietly tapping out revisions to the wedding plan by laptop light in our darkened hotel room. During the day, I found solitary places to rehearse my script aloud: unused hotel meeting rooms, isolated hallways, and out-of-the-way restrooms. When the groom (who honed his driving skills as a parking lot attendant while a college student in Boston) drove us along the winding road to the top of Pikes Peak, I looked away from the dizzying drop-offs and mentally wended my way through the ceremony script.
The big day arrived, and I was still tinkering. But I forced myself to stop revising once I donned my best suit for the shuttle ride to the venue with the groom’s wedding party. I’m sure the fellas didn’t notice (imposter expert here), but my hands trembled as I huffed the thin Colorado air. The weather was warm and sunny, so my sweaty, red face appeared somewhat normal.
When the ceremony finally began, I screwed up almost immediately. After I introduced myself, my voice sounding imposter-expert strong, I tried to say how honored I was to be the officiant … but I blanked on the word “officiant.” I sputtered something along the lines of “coordinator person and stuff.” Thankfully, a helpful audience member called out “Officiant?” and I recovered.
The rest of the wedding unfolded beautifully. Not because of me, but because of the community of people who shaped our scattered lives into a miraculously coherent existence.
The micro-community of bride and groom wrote the most moving and funny wedding vows ever. The community of family members planned the wedding. The community of bridesmaids and groomsmen supported the couple. The community of guests bore witness. The community of professionals expertly oversaw the details of set-up, photography, flowers, food, music, and transportation.
Before that, the community of dedicated hotel employees ensured that our stay was pleasant and helped us connect with the community of wedding guests. The diligent airport and airline crews brought us together from far-flung locations. Republicans in Congress put aside petty bickering and extremism to … oh, wait. Never mind.
And there I was, a part of the community, the part who happened to be wearing a nice suit and asking (in jest) if anyone had any objections to the marriage. No one did, of course, because we’re all good community members. United we stand. It takes a village. Stronger together. E Pluribus Unum.
I’ve worked for three decades at a community college because I believe that we’re all at our best as individuals when we come together as a community. Individuality isn’t incompatible with community. I love the time I spent alone writing this essay, but if I didn’t send it out to a community of readers, then it would be just a meaningless spray of random, intricate squiggles glowing on a screen.
That sign along the Colorado highway for Arapahoe Community College was, indeed, a “sign.” It reminded me of more than my career serving a community of students and colleagues. We’re all connected by countless filaments of empathy, trust, and love. I needed that sign, not just to officiate a beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime wedding, but to remind me of nothing less than the meaning of life.
John Sheirer is an author and teacher from Florence. His upcoming book is, “For Now: One Hundred 100-Word Stories.” Find him at JohnSheirer.com.