Standing at the altar my heart raced and my hands shook slightly.

My first words were shaky as I thought to myself: "Don't cry. Don't stutter. Try not to turn bright red. Remember to smile."

It was a cool October afternoon in Southern California, with the temperature just low enough to give me a slightly runny nose and a breeze just strong enough to make my contacts sticky and my vision a little blurry.

It was my second wedding as an ordained Internet minister. I thought it would be easier, less stressful with one under my belt.

I was wrong.

The tiny words on the printout of the service were tough to read. And my thoughts were jumbled as I tried to explain to two of my dearest friends what I thought of them on the most important day of their lives so far.

"Wing it, Caldwell," I thought, as I misread one sentence and had trouble reading another.

Then I hit my stride.

In the end, it went well enough, and my friends John and Andrea are now legally bound. But for some 30 minutes I was stricken with an overwhelming fear that I might somehow mess it up.

___

HATCHED IN A BAR

It was the same when I married my friend Jacob and his bride, AmyJo, on a July evening in a Portland, Ore., rose garden.

When Jacob had asked if I would become an ordained minister — a process that takes less time than ordering a beer at an empty bar and costs less than a nickel gumball — I didn't immediately think about the potential for panic.

He and I hatched the scheme to become Internet-sanctioned clergy one night several years ago over a cheap bottle of Yuengling beer at a Philadelphia bar. It's the kind of amusing idea born of a long night at a bar.

It became less funny after Jacob called to say that he and his bride-to-be were sober and serious.

Saying no never occurred to me. But the more I thought about it, the more I worried.

Then I wondered to what I would have to pledge my faith to become a Universal Life Church minister. I grew up Catholic and didn't want to do anything that might get me disowned. Lucky for me the "frequently asked questions" section of the church's Web site spelled it out clearly: as long as I believed in something I was a welcomed minister. And if I so chose, I could forgive sin, too.

To become a minister, one simply supplies his or her name, address and e-mail before clicking on a button that says, "Ordain me." Pastoral staff reviews the information and e-mails a confirmation within days. One also receives a paper certificate of ordination, which I tacked to my filing cabinet.

___

GOOD TO GO?

When John and Andrea later announced their engagement I jokingly offered my newly acquired credentials. John later called and barked out, "Caldwell, is this Internet (expletive) legal?" He was abrupt, but to the point.

"According to the Universal Life Church of Modesto, Calif. it is," I said, without much confidence.

To be sure I was right and not just making stuff up, I started making calls to marriage license offices in Portland and Los Angeles.

"Um, hi. I have an odd question...," I said to the unwitting clerk in Multnomah County, Ore.

She laughed at me. I couldn't blame her. I had to laugh too as I explained that my goal was to avoid explaining to someone's future children that their parents weren't really married because my cyberspace credentials were bunk.

I had the same conversation with a giggly clerk in Los Angeles. Both said I was good to go.

Relieved that the marriages were legal and I wouldn't have to pledge my faith to anything that would get me left out of a family will, I started preparing for the actual weddings.

Everyone had a suggestion -- perhaps I could don my graduation gown and master's hood for that official look or I could somehow plug the church's Web site or even thank Al Gore's Internet for my chance to legally marry my friends.

The jokes were easy to ignore. But still I was nagged by a few undeniable realities.

I cry at weddings. And weddings make me nervous. And when I get nervous, I stutter and turn bright red.

Luckily, the racing heart, shaky voice and runny nose were about the worst of it. Well, I did briefly lose Jacob's vows, but recovered with some dictation from a friend in Phoenix who was kind enough to save her mockery while hacking into my e-mail to retrieve the misplaced page of the ceremony.

But since I am an Internet-approved minister, a misplaced ceremony page is the best of what could have gone wrong.

___

asap contributor Alicia A. Caldwell is the AP's El Paso correspondent.

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