These days, emotions are running high. One minute, I’m in my truck thinking about our restaurants or the travel business, and the next, a song comes on, and I’m blinking back tears. Not over business, not over projects—over something much bigger, and way more important.
My daughter is getting married in 18 days.
I’ve catered dozens—maybe hundreds—of weddings over the years. Big ones, small ones, grand affairs, intimate gatherings. I’ve seen it all. I’ve been behind the scenes making sure the food is hot, the drinks are cold, and everything runs smoothly. I even catered a massive event when my daughter was Queen of Mardi Gras—a production of epic proportions. But this?
This is different.
This is her wedding.
For the past eighteen months, wedding planning has been a constant drumbeat in my house. I’ve learned more about venues, floral arrangements, dress fittings, and guest lists than I ever cared to know. At this point, I could probably take the exam and qualify as a certified wedding planner. But truthfully, I’ve just been a pair of ears in the room as the discussions evolved. Other than setting the budget, and working on the menu, I’ve had almost no involvement.
And in all matters of the budget, I held the line. For a solid year, I was a preacher in the pulpit, shuckin’ the corn, and delivering the same sermon: Stick to the budget. I told them our restaurants will handle the food, the bar, and the service. We’ve got a wholesale floral license and a designer on staff. “Here’s the number. No more. Stick to it,” I said. “Here is the account. You two are signatories. You two are in charge.”
For months, every conversation about the wedding that came my way circled back to that budget. Anytime they brought me a price, I had the same response: “If it’s within your budget, go for it. If it’s not, find another way.” At some point, my wife pulled me aside and said, “I am sick of hearing about the budget.” She was sick of hearing about it, but I wasn’t sick of preaching it.
Then, over lunch three weeks ago, the three of us had the first budget discussion in months.
Turns out, my grand plan didn’t just fail—it got obliterated.
The budget was blown to hell and back. My friends, who had laughed when I told them I would stand firm, were right.
I threw in the towel.
But here’s the thing—I don’t care. Not one bit.
This is my daughter. My only daughter. And I love her more than life itself. If this is what she wants, and I’m able to make it happen for her, then I’m happy to do it.
And the truth is, it’s not just about her. My wife has put her heart and soul into this wedding.
My wife is handling a thousand things at once—balancing schedules, making decisions, coordinating details I don’t even have the capacity to understand. She has always loved planning a party. But this? This is the mother of all parties. From the moment wedding planning started, she was all in—every detail, every late-night conversation about centerpieces and seating charts. She poured her heart into this because that’s what she does. That’s who she is. She is dedicated. She is tireless. And when it comes to making something beautiful and unforgettable, she’s in her element.
Our family friend, Justin, has been right there with her, working his magic behind the scenes. If there’s a puzzle piece missing, he finds it. If something doesn’t fit, he fixes it. He’s been there for every decision, helping turn ideas into reality.
And my daughter—well, she was originally just focused on three things: the dress, the band, and a tent.
The dress? I get it. Every bride wants the perfect dress.
The band? Makes sense. We both love music.
But the tent?
We have the most beautiful church in town, and she wants to get married in a tent. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. But at some point, I stopped questioning it. It’s her wedding. That’s what she wants. That’s what she’ll have.
And if I’ve learned anything in this process, it’s that I’ve been in the wrong business for the last 38 years. I should have been in the tent-renting business. My Lord.
Friends laughed when I told them I was sticking to the budget. “Good luck,” they said. “You’ll cave.” I was resolute. I told them I wouldn’t spend a penny more.
They knew better.
At this point, my wife is handling 1,000 things, my daughter and Justin are, too. My restaurant team is handling their end, making sure the food and drinks will be perfect. The only thing I’m worried about now is whether I’m going to be able to hold it together walking her down the aisle.
Or during the father-daughter dance.
I get emotional thinking about it.
My daughter is sweet, loyal, funny, quick-witted, smart, and kind—the type of friend everyone wishes they had, and the daughter of every father’s dreams. Beautiful inside and out, with a heart as big as they come.
The man she’s marrying? We couldn’t ask for better. He’s exactly the kind of person you hope and pray your daughter finds. We love him. We love his family. That’s a blessing I don’t take for granted.
I am blessed.
Not just with a wonderful daughter. Not just with a son who fills me with pride. Not just with a wife who is the glue that holds it all together. But also with more than 425 hardworking people in the food and bar business—people who have worked dozens of weddings, who know what it means to create an unforgettable experience. Ultimately, it’s their hard work and dedication that make this wedding possible.
My daughter is as far from a bridezilla as one could possibly be. She takes most of this in stride. But if she wants the wedding of her dreams, I am going to do everything I can to make it happen.
Because this only happens once.
Because I want her to look back on that day and know—with absolute certainty—how deeply she is loved.
Because I want her to have memories that will last a lifetime.
I want her to remember the moment before she walks down the aisle, when the world is still and full of promise. I want her to remember the faces of the people who love her, gathered in one place, celebrating her. I want her to remember dancing with her husband, laughing with her friends, and soaking in the joy of a night made just for her.
And I want to remember her hand looped inside my arm as we take those first steps down the aisle.
I want to remember the moment she steps into this new chapter of her life, knowing she is exactly where she is meant to be.
I want to remember the look in her eyes when we reach the altar. And in that moment, as she lets go, I’ll do what every father must do at some point—I’ll let go, too.
Less than three weeks away, and I’m a little bit of an emotional wreck. Life has these passages, these moments where you watch your child step into a new season, and all you can do is stand there, hold back tears, and hope you can keep it together.
I’m happy for her. I’m happy for him.
But when that moment comes, when the doors open and we walk down that aisle, I just pray I can make it through.
Onward.
Sugar Cookies
1 cup Butter
1 /2 cup Sugar
1 large Egg
1 Tbl. Vanilla
3 cups Flour
1 /2 tsp. Baking powder
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Cream butter and sugar; beat in egg and vanilla. Sift flour and baking powder together, stir into mixture. Refrigerate about 1 hour, or until dough is firm enough to roll. On a floured surface, roll to 1 /8-inch thickness and cut with cookie cutters. Sprinkle the tops with granulated sugar. Bake 10-12 minutes at. Yield: 8 dozen small cookies.
(Robert St. John is a chef, restauranteur and published cookbook author who lives in Hattiesburg, Miss.)
