Legacy at the Wedding: Bringing Him With Us

A few weeks ago, my middle child got married. I had the honor and privilege of officiating his ceremony, and it was one of those days where joy and grief sat side by side the whole time. I could feel both in my body - the happiness of watching him step into this new chapter and the ache of knowing his brother wasn’t physically there.

What has stayed with me, more than anything, is how my living son - along with his wife - chose to honor his brother all throughout the day. It wasn’t just one big gesture; it was a thread that ran quietly and tenderly through the whole wedding.

He wore a boutonniere with a small photo pin of his brother on his suit jacket, so his brother was “with him” as he stood there saying his vows. My husband and I had a pocket watch made with an engraved photo of the two brothers together and a special saying about them still being side by side, even now. During the ceremony, we released butterflies - a way of honoring the transition, the transformation, and the way butterflies have become a sign from him to us. My son wore his brother’s favorite brand of tennis shoes with his suit, which felt like the perfect blend of sacred and playful, like his brother’s spirit was walking with him into this new life.

There was also a memory table tucked in the corner for the people who couldn’t be there: my son, and my husband’s parents, who have also recently died. Their photos sat there, watching over the day in their own way. It wasn’t loud or showy, but it was deeply present. It mattered.

He’s been gone a little over two years now, and I am still struck by how clearly he shows up in these moments - not just in the ceremony itself, but in the small details that, if you didn’t know, you might walk right past. I don’t know how to imagine a life where he isn’t carried into these spaces with us. It feels natural now to expect that he will be there, woven into the big days and the everyday ones.

My grandchildren, who are still so little, can point to his picture and say his name. They know who he is. As a grieving parent, that feels like one of the only ways I know how to survive this cosmic betrayal: to keep his name in the room, to let our grief be witnessed, to bring him with us into as many moments as we can.

His legacy, to me, is kindness, loyalty, and fun. When I lean into those things, it doesn’t feel like I’m moving away from him; it feels like I’m moving with him. I’m learning how to laugh and cry on the same day, in the same hour, sometimes in the same breath. So much of surviving grief seems to be about living in that in-between place - the gray, the both/and, where joy and pain are allowed to coexist without cancelling each other out.

Weeks out from the wedding, this is what keeps circling in my mind: legacy is the way we keep bringing our people with us.

For me, it feels like survival. And after sitting with so many grieving people over the years, I’ve seen how powerful it can be for others too - the small and big ways we stay connected, whether it’s through objects, rituals, stories, photos, sayings, songs, or a quiet moment that only we know the meaning of. There’s no timeline for this, no “right” way or “wrong” way. It’s just one of the ways our love keeps moving, even when the person we love is no longer here in the way we wish they were.

My hope, if you’re reading this and grieving, is that you feel a little more permission to follow what feels true and meaningful for you - to let your person’s legacy live in the ways that make sense in your body, your family, your life, whether that’s very visible or mostly quiet and inward.

Much love friends,

Jamie