The dance he always believed they’d have

“This day has been so special,” James Hines said, lifting his glass, his voice steady even as his hands trembled.

After thanking the guests, he turned to his daughter. “Emily,” he said, “I think I speak for all your loved ones when I say how proud we are of you.”

He told Emily she had never looked more beautiful.

It was the kind of thing fathers say at weddings, a line as expected as the toast itself. But Emily had always been striking to him — not just in how she looked, but in how she moved through the world, with a rhythm all her own. 

She had been strong-willed from the start. Told what to do, she would calmly explain why she would not. “Brush your hair,” he’d say. She’d answer, “No, I’m just going to put it in a ponytail.”

Sassy. Independent. Even as a little girl, she knew what she wanted to do. She had her own plans. 

He loved that about her then. He would need it later.

“All any father can ask for,” he told the guests, “is that his children be happy and safe.” 

There was a time when neither of those things was certain.

‘I have cancer’

In 2016, James spent most of the day at the hospital in New Orleans, waiting as doctors ran test after test on then 16-year-old Emily, leaving about midnight. He remembered the call came at 4 a.m.

“Dad,” Emily said, “I have leukemia. I have cancer.”

“You know what we have to do,” he told her. They would get through it together.

That’s who he is. A doer. “I like to talk about what we’re going to do,” James said, “but doing is my favorite part.” 

Worrying wasn’t his job. Not in that moment. Not where Emily could see it anyway. “Trust me,” James said, “her mother worried enough for all of us.”

Ever the optimist — he even served as president of his local Optimist Club, a service organization — James focused on getting Emily the treatment she needed.

When results of a blood test showed Emily had acute promyelocytic leukemia (APL), a rare subtype of leukemia, she was referred to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital® for treatment.

Her white blood cell count was high — an indicator of high-risk disease signaling that early treatment would need to be closely monitored. Emily was flown to Memphis, Tennessee, and taken by ambulance to St. Jude. James waited until Emily and her mom were safely on the plane and watched it take off. 

“That’s when I allowed myself to collapse,” James said. He fell to his knees. But only for a moment.  

Trust the process

At St. Jude, James focused on the process — the next step, the next decision, whatever had to be done. Still, there were times when it was touch and go for Emily, moments no preparation could soften. 

James kept it together where Emily could see him. Only when he was alone did he let himself feel it. Even then, James did not let himself imagine the milestones at stake. 

“Did I ever think I wouldn’t get to dance with my daughter at her wedding? No. I never thought that,” he said.  

He had already decided it would happen. He just didn’t know how.

Emily helped choose her treatment — mature enough at 16 to be part of the decision. She was treated with a new protocol as part of a clinical trial testing a different combination of medicines with minimal doses of standard chemotherapy.  

When Emily came through it, she was more determined than ever.

Life had given her lemons, but James said: “Not only did this kid make lemonade, but she also made lemon meringue pie. She made limoncello. She made lemon tarts. She used that opportunity to say, this is the life I’m going to live.” 

At the wedding, James turned to the man in the U.S. Navy dress blue uniform standing beside Emily.

“Griffin,” he said, “I wholeheartedly trust that the Navy has prepared you for this mission.” The guests laughed softly. “Mainly in your discipline,” he added, “and the ability to follow orders.”

James liked Griffin from the start. The way he listened as much as he spoke. The way nothing about the relationship felt forced. 

When Emily introduced them, he could see it immediately — that ease, their connection. Within six months, Emily was talking about marriage. “I think she almost scared the boy away,” James said. Griffin stayed.  

“I just want someone who is going to make her happy,” James said. “Griffin is uniquely qualified for that.”

The second line

Near the end of his toast, James told a story about a New Orleans tradition called a “second line.” In parades, a brass band leads the way. The second line is the group of followers who join behind the band, dancing and celebrating through the streets. 

In a New Orleans jazz funeral, James explained, the procession to the graveyard is marked by mourning — the first line. Slow music. Grief carried publicly. 

On the way back from the burial, the music changes. It becomes joyful. Celebratory. The second line of people dances and waves handkerchiefs. They send their person off with love instead of sorrow. 

“They knew their loved one was bound for glory in the promised land, just like Griffin and Emily are today,” James said. 

It was more than a charming bit of local color. It was a map.

“Get those handkerchiefs out. Get your dancing shoes on,” James said. “It’s time to party and celebrate.”

Ten years earlier, James had stood in Emily’s room at St. Jude, watching machines beep alongside his daughter’s heartbeat. He had watched a plane carry her into uncertainty, not knowing what waited on the other end.  

Now, James stood in a room filled with music and light, raising a glass as Emily stepped into a life of her own choosing.

Later, the two of them stepped out together onto the dance floor to Louis Armstrong’s iconic 1950 recording of "La Vie en Rose," a classic jazz interpretation of the French song originally by Edith Piaf. A song about seeing the world not as it is, but as it could be.

When Emily turned 16, James took her to Paris. She thought they were going to London. At the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, he had surprised her with both destinations. 

When they got to their rented apartment in Paris, a record waited on a turntable. Louis Armstrong’s "La Vie en Rose.” 

When Emily was little, she used to stand on his shoes while they danced. A wedding guest watching them joked they must have practiced. “Yeah,” James said, “since she was 4.”

This time, he didn’t quite hold it together. He choked up. “The music, the sunset,” James said. “It was all just so perfect.”

At the end of his toast, James asked the guests to raise their glasses. Soon, Emily and Griffin will leave for his overseas posting. This time, the departure feels different. 

James is not worried. She’ll only be a plane ride away. 

“My hope for you both,” James said, turning to Emily and Griffin, “is that your departures equal your landfalls, and your biggest dreams — and the most you ever hope for — is the least that you get.”