Last weekend I went to a wedding. There were scores of freshly minted adults, some still in college, others newly let loose on the world. The couple had chosen to have the ceremony outside, on a bridge, over a stream. The sky smiled on them with enough clouds to shield us from the blazing sun, yet no rain to make us huddle under the milk white tent. I chose to sit near the back, near the two dozen musicians who afforded us a concert of such caliber as to rival the one I heard last year for thirty bucks a ticket. A chorus of men included the groom, his five brothers, his cousins, friends and grandfather. I leaned to whisper to my brother in law next to me.

"Does music in heaven get better than this?" He smiled.

"Some of it," he ventured. Who were we to hypothesize about a place we have not yet been? Still, my enjoyment of the music felt complete. My heart could hold no more.

I noticed a butterfly fluttering just below the tent top. She seemed glad to be here with us, and danced to the music just above the heads of the guests. I was outside of the tent's shady protection and could see the beckoning expanse of air beyond. The butterfly could not.

As I watched her I wondered if she realized there were vistas just out of reach, or whether this compartment was the limit of her world. I knew that in a few hours the tent would be folded up and gone, and that she would have long since found her way to the wild flowers nearby.

When I try to quantify the happiness of marriage sometimes I am as nearsighted as that butterfly. I believe the illusion that this is all there is. But one day I think the tent will be whisked away, and I will expand my view to a larger horizon, one where marriage is freer than I can imagine now.

And I think the music will be even better.