What To Say As the Wedding Speech You Didn’t Write For the Couple You Won’t Ever See Again

One of you could get bitten by a snake.

(Just to be clear, I don’t mean one of you in particular. Either of you could be the snake-bitee in this story. There’s a big difference, so I want to make sure you understand. It’s important. I’ll start again.)

One of you could get bitten by a snake.

It’s happened before. You get married, you’re happier than you thought possible, looking forward to your idyllic life together (because at weddings, you aren’t thinking of mortgages or caring for aging parents or exactly when the dishes should be done), and, BOOM. Snake.

Of course the practical-minded among you might be poised on the edges of your seats with words like “Antivenin!” or “Hospital!” or, worse, statistics. You might think that even if a snake should bite, God forbid, it can’t have any lasting effect.

You are wrong. Sometimes, despite the best preparation, the most assiduous prevention, snakes bite, and that’s that.

Someone is in the Underworld, and someone else, moments ago broadcasting the most joyful music of their life, is struck silent. It happens. Believe me, my sources are impeccable.

So there you are. Either stuck in the darkness for eternity or on your knees on the solid crust of the Earth, wishing you knew how to get down below. Neither sounds very appealing, to tell the truth. And I wouldn’t be bringing up such sad circumstances on this, your wedding day, which is supposed to be a joyous occasion, only , you know, it can happen any time. Even today.

That’s how the story goes.

If you’re down in the Underworld, you’re the lucky one, because all you have to do is wait. That’s pretty much the default down there, waiting. No effort or planning required.

If you’re the on stuck up here, though, watch out. It’s all up to you.

That’s not fair, you may be thinking. Why me? It’s not my fault they got bitten by a snake. Why is all the responsibility mine?

(Because, you know, just because you love someone doesn’t mean it’s always easy.)

I know, I know. But snakes don’t understand “fair.” Snakes don’t understand many things, and it happens that biting is one of them and fairness is not, and that’s the way it is.

But there is a piece of good news, something you weren’t expecting. It’s one of those secrets that everyone knows but nobody think to mention, which is why it can still be a secret. Come here, and I’ll tell you, very quietly. It’s one of those things you shouldn’t speak too loud. Are you both listening?

Anyone can go to the Underworld.

It’s true. Oh, yes, that’s supposed to be the heroic part of the story. The great artist’s preternatural gift charms the three-headed dog into submission, woos the ferryman, brings him all the way to the throne of the lord of riches and other things and melts even the god’s stony heart. Perhaps we want it to be difficult, the province of only the most talented. How much more pleasant it is, to be able to say to oneself, I am not good enough to try.

Because the Underworld is an unpleasant place, even if — no, especially if — you travel there of your own accord. And what waits for you there is the most difficult part of all.

That’s the way it is, isn’t it? We tell ourselves about the barriers that don’t exist so we never have to face the ones that do.

You will make your descent, stumbling down through the darkness. You will tame the three slavering jaws and the six huge, rolling eyes. You will lift your chin as you glide across the river, and the king’s gaunt head will bow in acquiescence when you make your request.

And you will see each other again, and you will feel that the snakes have lost.

But the last part is the hardest: you can’t look back.

It’s not about trust, exactly. Oh, I know they say it is. They say it’s hard to believe the one you love is actually following without a sound or a glimpse to make sure. And “trust” is the word you’ll berate yourself with when you’re tempted.

But it isn’t really about trust, is it? The way there is always more perilous than the way back, and that’s its advantage. When you don’t know what danger will next befall you — snakes, hounds, dark rivers — there’s barely a chance to think. To feel. And those two things may be the most difficult of all.

Because as the ground slopes uphill, your mind and heart begin to wander. What is the point of all this walking? You never considered what would happen after you found each other again. You didn’t make dinner plans for the night you got back or think to make the bed in preparation for your exhausted return. Will you get home from this miraculous journey to find dirty laundry in the hamper?

Is there a point in cleaning them, when the world is full of snakes?

The thoughts, the weariness, will drag your feet. Because the second secret is, it would be easier to look. Not because you are sorely tempted, but because, if you do, the bed can stay unmade. The house can be a mess. You won’t have to dredge your feelings up from the valley where they’ve sunk, and feelings can’t follow as you lead the way. They have to be dragged by hand.

But there is a third and final secret.

There are many who have gone before you and succeeded.

They don’t feature in stories you’ve heard. Failure is a story for everyone; success is a story for the heroes alone. Failures make good stories because they end; successes don’t.

You can succeed. It won’t be easy, but if you keep walking long enough, the sunlight will finally hit your faces. But that’s not the success. You’ll still be afraid of snakes. That’s not the success either.

The success is, once you’ve walked together from the Underworld without looking back, you will know to keep walking. Because rest is overrated. And it’s not enough that you get out of the Underworld.

You need to go somewhere better too.

To the happy couple.