I was conducting the wedding of friends from our congregation very recently – a privilege I had long been anticipating.

We had all the usual preparations and minor traumas as they settled on hymns and readings etc.  The groom was anxious that I included the bit about his wife ‘obeying’ but as it had been suggested with tongue in cheek, it wasn’t included although we designed a service for them, having the flexibility to do so in our tradition, apart from the ‘legal’s’ of course.

As they had found that special happiness second time around, it was very moving, particularly as the bride’s son gave his mum away and spoke very maturely at the breakfast about all his mum had coped with and done.
But of course the photographs are a key factor these days – both moving and still.  Our album from 48 years ago was lost somehow on our way to Africa and we only have odd black and white ones scrounged from other family members and friends.

Nowadays, things are much more sophisticated and the photographer(s) try to be as unobtrusive as possible (!) as they flit around in the ceremony.

Whilst I noted out the corner of my eye, two or three adult photographers, I became aware of a very young embryonic paparazzi flitting very professionally about the church.  It was only afterwards that I was able to ask one of the guests who he was. It seems he was the son of the official photographer and was learning how to be a photographer by imitating his father.

Isn’t there a message there somewhere?