The ceremony has a spine.
These are the moments you add between its beats.

After the vows I say a few words about what the sand means, then you each pour — first one, then the other, then both together. Kids? Add a color for each of them and it becomes a family sand ceremony. Takes about two minutes.

You bring: two colors of sand and a vessel — on the beach, one with a lid, because of the wind. I bring: the words, and I'll set the table.

After the rings, the glasses come forward — two for the two of you, or a round for the bridal party as well, and your parents in the first row if you want them in it. I bless the drink and what it stands for — the sweetness ahead, and the strength for the days that aren't sweet — and you drink while the room watches. It runs about a minute, it lands every time, and it walks us straight into the pronouncement. Some families do it with tequila; I'm not here to judge. The whole room toasting isn't the default — if you want everyone in on it, tell me and we'll plan the glasses for it.

You bring: the bottle and a glass for everyone who's drinking — two for just the two of you, more if the bridal party or the first row is in — and a quick check that your venue allows a drink at the altar. I bring: the words and the timing.

Your mothers can light the two side candles during the procession, and you light the center one together after the vows. Not one for the beach — even a light breeze wins.

You bring: two taper candles, one pillar, and something to stand them on. I bring: the words.

You write the letters before the day and don't read each other's. During the ceremony you place them and the bottle in the box and seal it. I tell your guests what it's for. It's a time capsule for your marriage.

You bring: the box, the bottle, your two letters, and a hammer if it's the nail-shut kind. I bring: the words.

You join hands, and as I say each line of the blessing a cord is draped over them — one for each promise. Family members can each bring a cord forward if you'd like them in it. Ancient, Celtic in origin, and it works in any setting.

You bring: the cords or ribbons — two or three, in colors that mean something to you. I bring: the blessing.

I read the verse, and one of you braids the three strands while I speak to what each one is. Usually the gold strand is God, and it goes in the middle. About ninety seconds.

You bring: the three-strand cord (they're sold as a set). I bring: the scripture and the words.

Each of you brings soil from somewhere that matters — a parent's garden, the place you met — and pours it in together. I'll say why. It's the unity ceremony for couples who'd rather have something living than something on a shelf.

You bring: the sapling in its pot, two small containers of soil, and a trowel. I bring: the words.

Right after the gathering, before the vows, I say a few words about the two families becoming one. You each take a rose to the other's mother — a hug, a moment — and come back. Two minutes, and it's one of the most photographed parts of the day.

You bring: two roses. I bring: the words. Want the statue of Our Lady beside the mothers for it? See below.

After the rings, you exchange a rose. I explain the idea: in the years ahead, when you can't find the words — a rose on the pillow says it. Simple and it stays with people.

You bring: two roses. I bring: the words.

I start the rings on their way during the opening, in a small dish or tied to a ribbon so nothing gets dropped, and they come back to me before the ring vows. Perfect for intimate ceremonies; with a big crowd they won't make it round in time.

You bring: a small dish or a ribbon for the rings. I bring: the words, and I'll keep an eye on where they are.

Early in the ceremony I name them, say what you want said, and we hold a breath together. Then we move on — with them. Tell me who, and what you'd want your guests to know about them.

You bring: a candle, a framed photo, or a saved seat — whichever feels right. I bring: the words.

This one belongs to your family's tradition, so they run it the way they know. My part is to place it in the ceremony where it fits, tell the room what's happening and why it matters, and give it room to breathe.

You bring: the tea set, and someone who knows the order. I bring: the introduction and the pause.

Usually after the vows. I say what the lei means — an unbroken circle, love without end — and you exchange. If you're leiing your parents, we do that at the gathering instead.

You bring: the leis (fresh ones, ordered for the morning of). I bring: the words.

After the vows, your padrinos de lazo come forward and place the lazo over your shoulders in a figure eight. Then the arras: I bless the coins, and you pour them into each other's hands — his promise to provide, hers to keep, or however you want it said today. Both stay on through the rings and come off before the kiss. This is part of the Catholic Inspired Experience; it's not something I add to a civil ceremony, and I'll tell you honestly if what you're picturing needs that tier.

You bring: the lazo and the arras — often family heirlooms — and your padrinos. I bring: the blessings, in both languages, and the order of it.

Tell me where you want it and how much — a single line, a full prayer, a reading from 1 Corinthians or Ruth. I'll match the weight of it to the rest of your ceremony so it feels like part of the whole, not a church service dropped into a beach wedding.

You bring: nothing — unless there's a verse that's yours. I bring: the prayer.

It's the last thing before you walk back up the aisle. I tell the room where it comes from — its roots in African-American tradition, and what it meant when marriage itself wasn't allowed — then you hold hands and jump together. Count of three.

You bring: the broom — decorated or plain. I bring: the words and the count.

Right after the pronouncement. I say what the breaking means — and there are several beautiful readings of it — and cue the room for the shout. If you want the full Jewish ceremony, that's a conversation with your rabbi; this is the moment couples most often ask me to carry into a ceremony that's otherwise their own.

You bring: the glass, wrapped in a cloth or a pouch. I bring: the words.

Close cousin to the lazo and arras, and I'm glad to weave the two if you're a Filipino-Mexican couple — that happens more than you'd think. Your sponsors do the placing; I hold the order and the words around it.

You bring: the veil, cord, and coins, and your sponsors. I bring: the introduction and the flow.

I introduce it so your guests understand the three cups and what the numbers mean, then step back and let it happen at its own pace. Someone in your family who knows the order should pour.

You bring: the sakazuki set, the sake, and a family member to pour. I bring: the introduction.

I won't pretend to lead a rite that isn't mine to lead. What I can do — and have — is build a ceremony for a couple where one side is Hindu and one isn't: your pandit performs the saptapadi, and I carry the vows, the rings, and the words around it so both families see themselves in the day.

You bring: your pandit and the fire setup. I bring: everything else.

If there's an elder in your family who carries this, they lead and I place it. If you're drawn to it without that connection, let's talk about it honestly — there may be a way to honor the idea that's yours to hold.

You bring: the person who carries it. I bring: the space.

Bring them written — on a card, in a little book, on your phone if you must — and I'll cue you when it's time. I don't need to see them ahead of time, and you don't need to show each other. A minute or two each is plenty; the best ones are short. If you'd rather not write vows, don't: mine are good, and I've said them a few hundred times.

You bring: the words, and a copy in case of tears. I bring: the cue, and the ring vows after.

It goes between the gathering and the vows, and I'll introduce your reader by name and relationship so the room knows who they are to you. In Spanish, English, or one of each. Pick something under a minute and a half; long readings lose the crowd.

You bring: the reading and the reader. I bring: the introduction and the microphone if you've added audio.

This is less a ritual than a permission: tell me the story, and I'll find the place for it. I like getting the crowd cheering before the solemn part starts — a laugh early makes the vows land harder.

You bring: the story. I bring: the timing.

Not my moment — it's yours and your photographer's — but I mention it because couples who do it tend to be more present during the vows. If you'd rather keep the aisle for the first sight, that's beautiful too. Just decide on purpose.

You bring: a quiet spot and fifteen minutes. I bring: nothing — I'll be setting up.

I'll write a line for it and cue the release after the pronouncement. Doves come from a trained-release company that collects them afterward; butterflies come in a box and need warmth to fly. Cold morning, no flight. Plan for it honestly.

You bring: the release company or the butterflies, and the venue's okay in writing. I bring: the cue.

After your vows to each other, you turn to them. I'll help you write a promise that's short enough for a seven-year-old to understand and true enough to matter. A necklace, a ring, or their own sand in the vessel makes it something they can hold.

You bring: the kids, and a small keepsake if you'd like one. I bring: the words, at their height.