After twenty years as a priest, I thought I’d seen every wedding mishap—fainting bridesmaids, forgotten vows, even brawling in-laws. But that Sunday proved me wrong.
The ceremony began normally: elegant guests, a beaming groom, a flower-filled church. The bride entered gracefully to soft music, but her stiff smile and pleading eyes fixed on me, not her fiancé, raised alarms.
When vows were due, the groom was prompt; the bride hesitated, then handed me a folded paper. Between her scripted promises, “Please help me” was scrawled repeatedly.
She trembled, eyes hopeful. I knew the wedding couldn’t proceed. At the objection moment, with silence from the crowd, I declared, “Well, since no one else objects, I do.”
The church froze. I ushered the bride to my office, asking guests to wait.
There, she sobbed: the marriage was arranged by her parents; she barely knew the groom.
I announced cancellation: “Go home. No wedding today.”
With a local support group’s aid, Leslie found safety and started anew. Weeks later, white lilies arrived with a note: “Thank you for seeing me.”
Weddings celebrate love, but sometimes demand protection, courage, and voicing the silenced.
