Nicky and I always knew we wanted to be married in a church. Never mind Bernie and Belle (our mothers) would have killed us both if we had it any other way.
There was a (brief) period when I dreamt about being married under a shady tree with white chairs in neat rows on the grass…like this:
But then I woke up from the lovely dream and realised we would be married in January in the Eastern Cape – a province notorious for its dodgy weather.
First City Baptist was the church I went to as a teen, and where my cousin Don trained to be a minister. It was the perfect choice: a beautiful bronze organ and a lovely long aisle to sweep down with the Dad.
Don gave a wonderful sermon with a mountain biking theme that made everyone laugh (great if not everyone in your family is particularly religious).
And, despite forgetting to sing the second hymn, saying our vows in that beautiful church was an awe-inspiring experience.
All I could see was my Nicky in front of me and all I could feel were my cheeks hurting from all the smiling. We chose the old school vows, and it felt like such a privilege repeating those words. I was so happy with our churchly choice and would recommend it to anyone (and not just to avoid a beating from religious Mamas)!
