JoeCode

A Wedding Toast for TJ

Good evening, everyone. For those who don’t know me, I’m Joe, Trinity’s father, and it’s my job tonight to welcome you all properly.

Now, my daughter grew up in a house where The Lord of the Rings was not optional. So she’ll know exactly where this is going.

My dear Wilsons and Taylors! Hardys and Scotts! College roommates, coworkers, bridesmaids, and assorted plus-ones!

Welcome, welcome, one and all.

As Bilbo Baggins once said to a party much like this one: “I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like.” And after tonight’s open bar, I suspect I’ll “like less than half of you half as well as you deserve”.

But truly, look around this room. Two families, dozens of friendships, whole chapters of two lives, all gathered in one place. That doesn’t happen by accident. It happens because two people were worth showing up for. So thank you, all of you, for making the journey. Whether you came from across town or across the country, you’re here because Trinity and Anneke matter to you. And that means you matter to us.

Now. Since I’ve already outed us as a Tolkien household, let me tell you one more story. It’s the one Tolkien himself cared about most.

Long before hobbits, Tolkien wrote about Beren and Lúthien. Beren was a mortal man. Lúthien was an elf, which meant she would live forever. They fell in love anyway, which was inconvenient for everyone, especially her father, who set an impossible bride price: a jewel from the crown of the Dark Lord himself. He assumed that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t. Because here’s the thing about Beren and Lúthien: they refused to face anything separately. When Beren set out on his impossible quest, Lúthien didn’t wait at home. She broke out of the tower her father locked her in and went after him. When he was captured, she rescued him. When the task seemed hopeless, they walked into the fortress of the most powerful evil in the world, together, and walked out with the jewel. And when their time finally came, Lúthien gave up immortality itself so that whatever happened next, it would happen to both of them.

Tolkien didn’t invent that story out of thin air. He wrote it about his wife, Edith. They were married for over fifty years, and if you visit their grave in Oxford today, you’ll find “Beren” carved under his name and “Lúthien” carved under hers. He believed in that kind of love because he lived it.

That’s what I wish for you two. Not a marriage without dark towers, because every marriage gets a few. But a marriage where neither of you ever faces one alone. Where “impossible” is just a word other people use. Where, fifty years from now, your names are still carved side by side.

Trinity, you have been the great adventure of my life. Anneke, welcome to the family. You’re stuck with us now, and there’s no eagle coming to rescue you.

So please, everyone, raise a glass.

To Trinity and Anneke. May your road go ever on, and may you always walk it together.

Cheers!