In a panic-gripped world begging for even the tiniest oasis of authentic serenity, there was this cameo:
A mature woman of my acquaintance, a member of my synagogue, was married last evening in an inspirational Persian ceremony in Westwood.
One happy factor that stretched the event past the boundary of pedestrian jubilation was that this was the bride’s first marriage.
This is crucially mentioned near the top because she is a few years beyond the age of traditional brides — precisely how far is for her husband to inquire about and for no one to disclose.
She made a beautiful bride, not only because she is a woman of handsome configuration but because she displayed the breathtakingly rare quality of modesty, for which religious women are known, often scornfully so.
A lovely vision in bride’s white, her proper dress traveled up to the seldom-visited region of her neck, a gauzy veil appropriately muting a straightaway take on her clear, joyous face.
After the ceremony known as a chuppah, there was the traditional train of celebrants from the inner depths of the synagogue out to its perimeter.
Preceded by a battery of photographers and a videographer, and trailed by dancing, hand-clapping, black-suited, fedora-wearing men establishing an irresistible uptempo rhythm, the bride’s comportment was absolutely disarming.
With instructive modesty, her eyes were admirably lowered.
This permitted the bride to contain her undoubted joy entirely within herself until she and her husband were sufficiently secluded. At that point, they could, again with modesty, unleash, and exclusively devote, their true feelings upon each other.
