Had you been loitering about near the grounds of the National Cathedral early Saturday evening, you might have been puzzled by the sudden, klaxon-like ringing of a solitary bell that went on for a solid fifteen or twenty minutes.  What was happening, you might have asked yourself?  Were the Reds coming up the Potomac? Had the tigers escaped from the National Zoo again? Had foot-and-mouth disease broken out along Embassy Row?

Well, I am happy to report that there was, in fact, no cause for alarum.  The bell – which belongs to little St. Albans Church, nestled into a corner of the Cathedral grounds – was being rung in celebration of the wedding of some very close friends of ours. (I’ve been threatening to link their wedding blog for some time.  Now that the knot has been tied, here it is.)  More to the point, the bell was being rung by the three gels, all of whom had just completed their first successful gig as flower girls, and who now were being indulged by the rector, whose only comment was that the anti-noise restrictions don’t kick in until 11:00 PM in those parts.  (Had the gels sabotaged the proceedings by cutting up in one way or another, I’m sure that the bride would have used the bell rope to hang the lot of them.)

I must say, in all fairness, that after a good bit of initial fretting, I was quite pleased with the gels overall.  Despite the fact that they were ricocheting off the ceiling beforehand, once the balloon went up they conducted themselves with poise and dignity.  They processed down the aisle like angels, they didn’t fight or fidget while standing through the ceremony and they knew exactly what to do throughout the Eucharist without any prompting.  My only concern came when the six year old took it into her head that she was going to recite the Lord’s Prayer louder than anyone else in the church.

Mrs. R and I participated in the ceremony as well, herself beaming like a searchlight as Matron of Honor and yours truly handling all the lay-readings.  I must confess that I’ve always enjoyed doing this.  Although usually rayther retiring and self-conscious, there is something about such public fora that brings out the sekret actor in me.  And unlike some people who like to get up and lilt, delivering their lines with that sort of joyful breathiness which I can’t stand, I have always taken a much sterner tone.  Perhaps it’s my Scots Presbyterian ancestry, but I’ve always felt that the scriptural reading ought to carry the underlying reminder that HE is watching, and He’s taking names. Oh, sure, I implied as I read from the Song of Solomon, the spring is come, the flowers are up and the turtle-doves are cooing, my love, but hoots! It kenna last long if ye keep a’cuttin up! Hoots! Toots! In all modesty, I do believe that the congregation, many of whom did not appear to be regular church-goers, were suitably impressed with my solemnity.

Of course, whatever air of rightiousness I might have generated at the church was utterly thrown away later at the reception as I tried – and failed miserably – to dance with the gels, sometimes singly, sometimes in combinations of twos and threes.  Five minutes of boogie-woogieing or shaking my bootie or whatever it is the kids say these days would have been ample for my tired old frame.  They kept me at it for what seemed like hours.