Even the videographers cry at weddings

Someone is getting married. And I’m here to film it! Why?

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The sweet musk of roses, hydrangeas and peonies, a Spotify playlist that is comfortable with Enya, the Piano Guys playing Canon in D or Kendrick Lamar, a little sign resting on a mason jar that says “Pick a seat, not a side and leave a little cash for the honeymoon!”

Someone is getting married. And I’m here to film it! Why? No clue! Every time I tell myself that’s the last one — never again.

But I’ve got a little Aaron Rodgers in me and just can’t seem to hang it up. At weddings, I usually don’t have to run away from 6’7’’ men who are trying to kill me, and hopefully I’m more successful on the day than the Jets.

But there are awkward moments — I once bumped into someone with my camera, and when I apologized thinking I’ve just broken someone’s hand, they drunkenly replied “Hurt me, daddy.” It was a man. I turned off my camera and went to get a third piece of cake.

Sometimes the entire wedding party is married, so that leaves the wedding videographer as the next closest eligible bachelor to set up with the Bride’s cousin, who is really nice, but you just got out of something and you know, it’s just not a good time. But she really does seem nice (being married and/or having a kid and getting fatter has made this much easier).

And then there are photographers.

Most of them are nice. And the truth is they are more important than video guys because my video isn’t going to hang on walls or sit on the grandkids’ mantle someday.

But some photographers think they are a painter with the lens and you are the artistic equivalent of a guy airbrushing tee shirts in Gatlinburg (some of those are really pretty, jerk. You try painting mountains with one shade of neon green).

I dread filming weddings in the days before. I feel the nerves pulling into the parking lot, and then I turn on the camera, get lost in their story, and the day slips away. Then it’s sparklers, bubbles, or silly string as the couple dashes off to a BMW, a limo, or I’ve even seen The Ramblin’ Wreck from Georgia Tech.

And I’m sad to see them go. It could be the delirium of the end of a 12-hour shooting day and champagne flights of sweat, but I feel a small grief that these meaningful moments strung together with these people in this place have passed.

I’ve gotten to be with them for 12 of the most significant hours of their lives. I saw tearful prayers in bridal suites when the goodness of God that’s been humming the background tune all day becomes the melody that carries us into the ceremony.

I’m there when two people make a promise to be one person come sickness, health, or moving into the in-laws’ basement.

And now I’ve got a daughter, so the dads walking down the aisle fog up my camera lens. And then the dad gives a speech to his little girl, and I’m a puddle on the floor that can only be revived by a 4th piece of wedding cake (You did this to me, you know who you are out there).

I don’t work weddings every weekend, and I’m glad I don’t. Because I don’t get numb to the little present I get from being part of the story, being more than just a spectator but in a place to be close enough to tell the bride she looks so beautiful and congratulate the groom, to get a hug from the bride’s mom and an extra piece of cake for the road.

Repetition has a way of lulling me into a stupor and not noticing that song that’s really always being hummed in the background of life in this place.

I think weddings are my reminder to hum along.