How can the well of tears be so deep that even the thirty third rehearsal makes me leak?

Eight years ago two young women and three couples enacted a dance to a song called The Luckiest for the marriage conference. It captures the subtle spin of angels who bring together husbands and wives, at varying stages of life. Twirling around and bedside each unsuspecting person, they gently nudge them toward one another and the safety of each other's arms. 

In twelve days my own twins will step into the role of those angels, with three couples who are also part of the samba. One is retired, and recently spent a month chasing warmer weather in their camper. Another are still in the thick of young children, backpacks, and one more click on the snooze button. The third pair are freshly married. He brought a ring in his pocket one year ago when he played for the conference, and asked his sweetheart to be his forever partner. 

She said yes.

The twins have been practicing. They push back the furniture and match their knees to the plié in the video. Over and over and over they press replay, and chainé again. And again, I choke. 

When the dance happened eight years ago my girls were in first grade. They had gaps in their teeth and matching bunny aprons. In another eight years it could be them in white gowns, stepping to their own first dances. 

Finding my own partner has rendered me lucky. Blessed beyond measure. Watching my sons and daughters find their own makes me luckier still.