I have walked down the aisle many times throughout my life: when leading a children’s processional, rushing to a band practice, or walking with dignity to the choir loft.
I remember, most strikingly, the first time I walked down the aisle at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church in St. Andrew’s, Scotland. I was one of a dozen choristers, decked in a heavy robe of a deep red hue and marching steadily with my hymnal clutched against my chest as the crescendoing sound of the organ rattled my bones.
In that moment, I became a bride:
My robe of red was my deserved garb, for my sins are many.
The mighty reverberation of the organ made me bow my head, for my place is lowly.
My approach toward the altar, above which shone the stained glass face of Christ, grew fearful, for His light is too much for me.
And now, I am preparing to process down the aisle once more, this time as a bride. As I think on this, I see every previous processional as a rehearsal. My wedding day, too, will be a rehearsal—indeed, a dress rehearsal—for the final marriage that is yet to come.
My dress will be white, for I have been saved from much sorrow.
The fanfare of the musicians will announce my entry with joy, for I know such amazing grace.
My approach to the altar will be filled with wonder, for my Savior has chosen me for himself and given me to another to love.