Thanksgiving isn’t just about turkey and pie—it’s about gratitude for the beautifully imperfect lives we lead, and for the people who walk beside us through it all. And this Thanksgiving, I am especially grateful for my wife: for her grace, her humor, and her willingness to humor me—even when I insist on staying for mass.
Forty years of marriage teaches you to expect the unexpected. Yet, nothing prepared us for the spontaneous reunion-that-wasn’t-really-a-reunion at Good Shepherd Church on our anniversary. Nor for the impromptu starring role in Monsignor Ryan’s 5 PM mass—or the juggling act to make it to Dan Tana’s by 7:30.
It all began innocently enough. My wife Renee and I were visiting Beverly Hills for a nostalgic walk down memory lane. Good Shepherd, where we exchanged vows all those years ago, was a natural stop. We hadn’t planned on meeting Father Ryan, who had been on leave when we were married, but my wife struck up a conversation with a church volunteer who casually mentioned him.
“He’s 94 now, still going strong, and celebrating 5 PM mass,” the volunteer said. “Would you like to say hello?”
It seemed fitting, almost cinematic, to meet the man we thought had officiated our wedding. The church volunteer ushered us to the sacristy, where we found Monsignor Ryan in full vestments, teary-eyed and beaming at us.
“Forty years! You don’t see that too often anymore,” he said, shaking our hands.
And then came the twist: Monsignor Ryan sheepishly admitted he wasn’t actually the priest who had married us. That had been Father Healy.
Still, Monsignor Ryan wasn’t about to let a little clerical mix-up ruin the moment. “Let me congratulate you anyway. Forty years! That’s a milestone.” He repeated our names several times, a detail that didn’t fully register until later.
As we left the sacristy and walked back toward our pew, my wife veered toward the church’s double doors.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Home. We’ve got dinner at Dan Tana’s at 7:30, remember?”
“We can’t leave,” I said. “He’s going to introduce us at mass as the couple celebrating their 40th anniversary.”
She stopped, clearly weighing the pros and cons. “Are you sure? Because if we stay, we’ll be cutting it close for dinner. And I’m not missing Dan Tana’s.”
“And if we don’t stay, he’ll look silly announcing us, and we’ll look even worse,” I said.
Resigned, she sighed. “Fine. Let’s go back inside.”
As soon as we stepped back into the church, a young usher intercepted us.
“You’re the 40th-anniversary couple, right?” he asked with the kind of wide-eyed enthusiasm usually reserved for celebrity sightings.
Word had spread. People were glancing at us, whispering to their neighbors, and casting smiles our way.
The usher had one more request: “Would you present the gifts at the altar?”
Of course, we said yes. At this point, it was clear that our plans for a quiet visit to Good Shepherd had morphed into something resembling a papal audience.
When Monsignor Ryan began the mass, he made good on his promise to announce us.
“Forty years ago today,” he said, “this beautiful couple were married here at Good Shepherd. Each of us should congratulate them as we bless their marriage.”
For a moment, I was transported back to that day. Forty years earlier, I had stood in almost the same spot where Monsignor Ryan now stood. I had looked up the center aisle and seen the most breathtaking sight I’d ever laid eyes on—my bride. I was lucky then. I’m lucky now. Honestly, I’m still not sure why. I chalk it up to one of those mysterious ways in which God works.
Our moment in the spotlight wasn’t over. When it came time to present the gifts at the altar, we shuffled nervously toward Monsignor Ryan. I’d like to say we did this with the poise of seasoned pros, but in reality, we were like kids thrust into a school play without rehearsal.
As we handed over the wine and bread, I glanced at my wife and whispered, “We’re never going to make it to Dan Tana’s.”
“We will,” she whispered back, her determination palpable. “As soon as this is over.”
When mass ended, we made a beeline for the doors, accepting congratulations from well-wishers along the way. It was sweet, touching, and a little surreal.
Outside, as we climbed into the car, I checked my watch. It was 6:15.
“We’ve got just enough time to change,” I said.
“And to think,” she replied, “you almost made us miss this because of your guilt trip about making Monsignor Ryan look bad.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, with mock indignation.
As we settled into our cozy booth at Dan Tana’s later that evening, we reflected on the day. What began as a simple nod to nostalgia had turned into an unforgettable anniversary.
It struck me how fitting it was for our 40 years to be celebrated in such an unscripted way. Marriage, after all, is rarely the polished production we imagine on our wedding day. It’s a messy, unpredictable journey, full of detours and surprises.
Like today. Or like every Thanksgiving, for that matter.
Thanksgiving isn’t just about turkey and pie—it’s about gratitude for the beautifully imperfect lives we lead, and for the people who walk beside us through it all. And this Thanksgiving, I am especially grateful for my wife: for her grace, her humor, and her willingness to humor me—even when I insist on staying for mass.
Forty years ago, I stood at the altar of Good Shepherd and promised to love, honor, and cherish her for the rest of my life. It turns out I got the better end of that deal.
And to Monsignor Ryan—thank you for the blessing. We couldn’t have planned a better way to mark the day.
Now, pass the stuffing. And the pie.
TONY CASTRO, the former award-winning Los Angeles columnist and author, is a writer-at-large and the national political writer for LAMonthly.org. He is the author of “Mantle: The Best There Ever Was”. He can be reached at tony@tonycastro.com.
PHOTOS: Including Navy chaplain Paul Teske reading a scripture during Mass; with Rivers and Tony’s longtime friend Paul Teske; Best Man, Tony Peterson, and Maid of Honor, Lisa LaSalle;
