My Twenty Years as a Priest Didn’t Prepare Me for the Hidden Plea That Made Me Stop a Wedding
I’d officiated hundreds of weddings over two decades. I’d seen every combination of love, nerves, family drama, and pageantry—couples crying, laughing, promising forever. I thought I knew the rhythm: processional, vows, rings, kiss. That Saturday ceremony started like any other. The church was dressed in white roses and baby’s breath, sunlight pooling across polished pews. The groom, Parker, arrived early—33, sharp in an expensive navy suit, adjusting his tie, beaming, shaking hands. “Beautiful day for a wedding, isn’t it?” he called, grinning when he saw me. He spoke with the easy confidence of a man certain this was his moment.
The guests filed in. The music cued at 1 p.m. Bridesmaids in pale pink drifted down the aisle, smiles bright. Then Leslie appeared.
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