The Wedding and the War Between the States

We are finally home after an absolutely amazing Christmas break. I should probably look before I say this with any confidence, but I’m pretty sure the day we walked back into our house in Arizona marked almost exactly one year since our furniture was finally delivered and this place started to feel like home. I’m so tired that my brain is already wandering from where I meant this blog to go, so I’m taking that as my sign to just let it unfold the way it wants to.

This past week held several big, beautiful milestones. Our eight‑month‑old experienced her first Christmas — a picture‑perfect holiday in my childhood home, surrounded by siblings, cousins, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and a few “soon‑to‑be” family members thrown in for good measure. It’s not hard to imagine that with all that attention, she was the undisputed star of the show.

We also had a couple of false starts with my sister‑in‑law going into labor, which meant some unexpected quality time in an admitting room where we were gently told she just wasn’t quite ready yet. As much as we would have loved to be there for cousin number nine’s arrival, it looks like baby Colton is determined to stretch as close to his due date as possible. Families have a funny way of doing things on their own timelines.

And lastly — not necessarily most important, but certainly the most anticipated — was my little brother’s wedding to his fiancée, Genevieve. And yes, I am absolutely going to gloat that I set them up. When they have stunningly beautiful babies someday, I will be taking full credit.

When Brian proposed to Evie last Christmas, they announced almost immediately that they wanted a Christmas wedding. Evie’s family loved Brian right away, but like most people who love her, they were a little wary of how fast things were moving. Their one request was that if possible, the wedding be held in a historic Catholic church in Evie’s hometown in New Mexico.

Plans shifted in a big way after my dad suffered two heart attacks last fall. While his cardiologist said it would probably be okay for him to travel, “probably” wasn’t good enough for my mom — or any of us. After some long, gracious conversations, Evie’s family agreed to bring the wedding our direction, and the ceremony was moved to a beautiful Catholic church in San Antonio the Saturday after Christmas.

Despite the chaos our family is fully capable of producing, the wedding itself went off without a hitch. The only thing that almost spiraled was the drive down to San Antonio. Well maybe not the only thing--it was 85 degrees and humid in San Antonio on December 27th. When Evie and I were planning the wedding I had envisioned winter dresses with shawls and having Bubs drape me in his jacket as the chilly night wore on. I could have worn a bikini. 

My dad had an uncharacteristically nostalgic streak and decided he wanted to pile all four of his adult children into the old, barely‑running minivan that had hauled us across the country for hundreds of thousands of miles when we were kids. Something about watching his youngest get married must have flipped a switch. We agreed — partly out of sentimentality, partly out of fear of arguing with him — and sent our husbands ahead with the kids.

What cracked us up was how we all instinctively slid into our assigned childhood seats without thinking about it: the three sisters across the middle row and Brian in the back. What made it even funnier was that we weren’t even out of the neighborhood before we started bickering about the exact same things we used to fight about on road trips — except this time, we were in formal dresses, in our thirties, and our “baby” brother was headed to his own wedding.

The ceremony itself was breathtaking. There is something deeply grounding about a Catholic wedding — the ritual, the reverence, the feeling that you’re stepping into something much older and steadier than yourself. Evie was absolutely radiant. We found her dress on eBay, and I’m still not convinced it wasn’t secretly custom‑made for her. It fit her like it had been designed with her in mind from the start.

When Evie walked down the aisle with her dad, Brian completely lost it. He started crying immediately, and Jenn, Jess, and I exchanged a look that said, Oh. Yeah. He’s gone. Whatever doubts anyone may have had about how fast things moved disappeared right then.

Bubs stood beside Brian as his best man, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little distracted by how handsome he looked. There’s something about watching your husband show up fully for the people you love that never gets old.

The reception was exactly what it should have been — loud, joyful, and full of people who genuinely wanted to celebrate these two. I danced, made a fool of myself, and laughed until my face hurt. I regret absolutely none of it.

For once, Bubs was no longer the only non‑Texan in the room. Surrounded by New Mexican allies — including his brand‑new sister‑in‑law — my very buzzed husband grew increasingly bold. At one point, he raised his glass and toasted green chile, the Zia symbol, and what he referred to as “actual mountains,” said with just enough emphasis to make it very clear he was not talking about the Texas Hill Country. The New Mexicans cheered. The Texans groaned--and I tried to duck out of my shame that I married a non-Texan 

It was the perfect ending to a week that felt like everything at once: family, celebration, nostalgia, new beginnings, and old rivalries that somehow make it all feel familiar.

We all stayed in the same hotel and I no idea what time I went actually went to bed--my mother-in-law had taken my exhausted children upstairs long before I was ready--I know that when I laid down my heart was completely full, and reminded once again that love — in all its forms — is loud, messy, sacred, and worth every mile driven in an ancient minivan.

To all my readers--I truly hope you have a wonderful New Year and thank you for sticking with me, I can't believe this journey is going on a year and half!