Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul Page 15

  “If I wasn’t living it, I wouldn’t believe it!” she exclaimed.

  As they planned their wedding over the next few weeks, they easily rediscovered their love for each other. Vicki’s parents were overjoyed to have David back in their lives, treating him as if he was a son who had finally come home.

  The following June, Vicki’s parents gave them a traditional southern wedding. The invitation showed a fairytale castle with the words “Dreams Come True.” Tammy was maid of honor.

  Arriving in a horse-drawn carriage, the bride wore the long white gown of her dreams. During the ceremony, David sang a song he wrote for Vicki that told the world the miracle of their love story: “Old Love Turned Brand-New.” At the end of the ceremony, David gazed at his daughter and sang a special song he’d written called “Daddy’s Little Girl—Tammy’s Song.”

  It took twenty years to fill the empty space they’d all had in their hearts. Now their family circle was finally complete.

  Vicki Frizzell

  As told to Janet Matthews

  Got Match?

  Brides dream of a wedding day heralded with pomp and circumstance: a beautiful venue with acres of flowers, just the right music wafting through the rafters of the church, and gorgeous attendants and handsome groomsmen bedecked in the most expensive gowns and tuxedos available. They imagine themselves in the perfect wedding dress with sparkling rhinestones and sequins. They see the guests waiting in awe of their grand entrance while they delicately take steps in time to the music toward their handsome intended waiting with a smile at the end of the aisle.

  In their dreams, everything is perfectly planned and perfectly executed . . . for the perfect day.

  Perfection took on a new meaning the day of my wedding. I had planned so efficiently that everything was finely tuned six months before the ceremony.

  My friend Allen, who was giving me away, greeted me at the door of the ballroom. The music, performed by George and Diane, professional musicians, was perfect. I stepped in time to the Wedding March up the aisle. At one point I lost my balance and had to hang on to his arm for dear life. A friend on the end of a row cheered me on. “Steady. . . S-t-e-a-d-y!”

  The ceremony began, and was going smoothly until I noticed the judge skipped over the “Ave Maria,” which Diane was to sing . . . and he kept going, blasting right past the “Our Father” that was supposed to be sung next. I quickly glanced at the musicians as they turned the pages of sheet music like expert speed-readers. The ceremony was becoming a blur. My plans—the program—what had happened?

  “. . . And now, they will light the unity candle,” said the judge. He stepped to one side. Jim and I stared, dumbfounded. One unity candle with two smaller candles—and none were lit.

  Motionless for what seemed like eternity, Jim finally leaned over and whispered, “What are we supposed to do now?”

  Quickly, like wildfire, a hushed, mild panic spread through the wedding party.

  “Do you have any matches?” someone whispered.

  “Not me!”

  “Where do you think I’d put them if I did have them?”

  “I have a lighter but it’s in my purse in the back.”

  Now, as a professional speaker and trainer, I’m accustomed to thinking on my feet and quickly solving problems as they arise. I calmly and gracefully turned to the entire congregation.

  “Does anyone have a match?”

  Instant laughter erupted.

  An usher, Ron, held his arm up like the Statue of Liberty. “I have a match!” He charged up the aisle to the rescue, only to stop short when he got to the candle table. Confused, he turned to my maid of honor.

  “Which one do I light?” he whispered.

  “The outside two!” she answered.

  Obviously still confused, he lit the unity candle.

  Jim leaned over to me and announced, “Congratulations. You’re now married—to Ron!”

  Then a playful argument erupted between my maid of honor and Ron.

  “Not that one. The outside two.”

  “You said the inside one.”

  “I did not!”

  “Yes you did!”

  “Blow that one out and light the other two!”

  At this point I was crying—from laughter. And from the roars in the ballroom, you would have thought they were witnessing a comedy act.

  Once all was settled, the judge pronounced us husband and wife, and presented us to our friends who stood—still laughing—and applauded loudly. Jim turned to me again.

  “Are we done, now?”

  “Yep, we’re done!”

  “Good—my shoes are too big!”

  We triumphantly marched down the aisle together, knowing that the events at our wedding would be the first of so many humorous moments we would share.

  At the reception, all the guests freely mingled and shared laughs about the ceremony. I realized my nonchalant request for a match had eased the situation and made everyone feel at home.

  The definition for a “perfectly planned wedding” was suddenly redefined. In my reality, everything was perfectly un-planned and perfectly un-executed. And, yet, I found the best match and married my best friend. And my day was indeed . . . perfect!

  C. Capiz Greene

  7

  TREASURED

  MOMENTS

  Sometimes I would almost rather have people take away years of my life than take away a moment.

  Pearl Bailey

  A Bridesmaid’s View from the Altar

  I would expect to see her walk through any doorway but this one.

  As I stand by the altar in black satin shoes, clutching my calla lily bouquet to fight back the tears, my thoughts run back to a hundred other doorways we’ve walked through together in our lives.

  Valerie and I were five years old when we met, so my memories of her stretch back nearly as far as memories of my own family. Back to the time when we filled long summer days with the busy work of children: swapping ghost stories on the garage roof, dressing up in my mother’s old prom gowns or sitting on the swing set eating Cheetos and wiggling our baby teeth to see whose would fall out first.

  We crossed all our doorways together back then. Passed through a hundred rites of childhood in tandem. We stood side-by-side on strangers’ doorsteps in Girl Scout beanies, peddling Thin Mints and Shortbreads. We ran shivering from door to door on Halloween, ragged hobos and red-lipped gypsies clutching plastic pumpkins full of candy. We scrambled over mountains of snow on Christmas mornings to bounce impatiently on each other’s front porches, breathing the icicle air and fogging the storm door in anticipation.

  A few years later, I grew into an awkward chubby preteen standing on that same front porch every morning dreading elementary school. I learned how cruel fifth-graders could be as I struggled through that painful phase. But Valerie met me faithfully outside my classroom every afternoon, oblivious to the welcoming arms of cliques that shunned me. She stayed as unquestioning and loyal a friend as any child could want.

  Summers and winters passed by and led us through the doors of junior high, into the world of adolescence. Still side-by-side, we wrestled with our first pairs of nylons and fumbled through orchestra try-outs on second-hand violins. My ugly-duckling phase faded mercifully away and we began showing up on each other’s doorsteps for our annual Christmas present exchange, carrying rock records, sweaters and new pairs of Levi’s instead of toys.

  Then, one chilly fall night in high school, I rounded the corner to Valerie’s house to ask a question about algebra and found her leaning dreamily against the doorframe, twisting a green carnation around her fingers. Instead of sharing my anxiety over logarithms, she told me about the boy who had given her the flower. I stood at the bottom of the porch tracing imaginary patterns in the cement, and watched uncomfortably as she leaned in the doorway, ready to enter a new phase of life.

  Soon, and without asking for my advice, Valerie had a serious boyfriend. I took up with other friends and dated he
re and there, but always dug in my heels and clung to childhood more fiercely than she did. Our friendship drifted to a looser one of casual calls and shared rides to school. But the thread that bound us together proved stronger than first loves or teenage heartbreak. Like signals from a car radio winding through the countryside, it faded in and out, now strong, now muffled by static, but always there in the background.

  So many thresholds we crossed together. So many years. They slipped by silently, and now I realize the door leading back is all but closed. The vivid colors of those days have faded to the pastels of memory. They rush by in a blur of brilliant ribbons until I come to where I stand now, holding my breath as the music plays.

  I see Valerie round the corner confidently, her arm through her father’s. And it seems to me that instead of an aisle adorned with white bows and green leaves, as I watch she has passed quickly through each doorway of our lives, intertwined for the past twenty years. Far away, I see a tiny Valerie reaching up for her father’s hand. Then she approaches and steps into focus in cream satin, pearls and white lace.

  It hardly seems possible that this is the same Valerie who braved the first day of kindergarten with me, hit me in the mouth with a Zodiac ball in junior high and gave me a fat lip. The same Valerie who scolded me for singing Girl Scout songs off-key, stole Smirnoffs from my parents’ liquor cabinet with me to make our first Vodka Collinses. Shared my life. Grew up alongside me. Two doors away.

  As she unties the ribbon holding her fiancé’s ring to a velvet pillow, her nephew’s tiny hands stretch up, tightly clutching the lacy edges. His small, earnest face is crossed over with concentration on his task. I am struck by what a long time it’s been since we held objects up, stretched on tiptoe, so adults could reach down for them. And I long to have those small hands again, to be that child just for a day.

  As I watch her fiancé’s eager shining eyes at Valerie’s approach, I can hardly fight the tears. If my heart breaks, it’s not through sadness. It’s only that I feel the small hands of childhood tugging at my memory. It is a childhood I had forgotten, left lying just under a layer of dust in some happy back room in my mind, long neglected. I am momentarily aware of its existence very close: a small warm flash and then it expires. The door closes with a whisper.

  And I am twenty-six again, holding my best friend’s bouquet as she turns to face her husband on her wedding day. I force the lump out of my throat, squeeze my eyes shut. Force the sun-touched picture in front of me to soften back into focus, and chase away any selfish longing for the old days.

  I know that for Valerie this doorway leads to many more happy rooms. To summer afternoons and backyards and childhood memories of the future. Sun streams through the stained glass, onto the pews and the rapt congregation as the organist hits her first booming notes. As Valerie turns away from me and reaches out to take her husband’s arm, a cloud of triumphant recessional music filling the church, I close my eyes and let the tears roll. I wish her all the luck in the world as she passes through this doorway and on to the new rooms that lie beyond with her husband.

  Kathy Passero

  At the Ritz

  I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  My cousin Toni was my best friend growing up. I had two brothers but no sisters, so she and I were especially close. Our favorite times together happened when she would spend the night. Sneaking Ritz crackers to my room, we nibbled and watched TV in bed until the wee hours of the morning. The next day, we always woke to find the bed full of crumbs. No wonder we didn’t get any sleep, we exclaimed!

  Years passed and we remained close. When I married and had two daughters, Toni became their favorite sitter. I was thrilled when she met the man she knew immediately was the love of her life. After a couple of years, she and Chris decided to marry.

  Toni and Chris hoped to have a big wedding and nice honeymoon, but their budget didn’t allow for either. They thought about waiting and saving but decided they’d rather be married. The wedding didn’t have to be big to be nice, and the honeymoon could wait.

  I wished I could afford to give them a honeymoon as a wedding gift, but that was out of the question. Nevertheless, I wanted my gift to be extra special and memorable. When I heard they were planning to spend their wedding night in their new, sparsely furnished apartment, I decided to give them a night they would never forget.

  In a simple but gorgeous gown, Toni exchanged vows with Chris in her parents’ backyard under a trestle covered with hundreds of fragrant, climbing roses. As the evening drew to a close, a small group of friends and family watched the happy couple open wedding gifts.

  Then, I took an envelope out of my purse and handed it to them. Inside the card, they found the key to a hotel room I rented for their wedding night. It wasn’t a honeymoon suite, but it was nice and came with a restaurant for breakfast and a pool for swimming.

  Thrilled, the newlyweds shared hugs and kisses and headed for the hotel.

  No one knew I had spent my morning at the hotel. No one but me knew they’d find a nice room with two king-sized beds, the comforter turned back invitingly on one. No one but me knew they’d find a rose and a chocolate on each pillow. On the table a bottle of sparkling wine beside a tray of cheeses, olives and crackers. On the nightstand, goblets engraved with their names and the date. And on the second bed they’d find a special nightie for the blushing bride and a robe for the groom.

  Consequently, no one but me received a phone call at 2:00 A.M.

  Toni was laughing so hard she was crying—or maybe crying so hard she was laughing! They had found the wine, the glasses and the roses. She slipped into the nightie and Chris modeled the robe. Then they slid under the comforter—and found themselves in a bed full of cracker crumbs!

  Fortunately, the other bed was waiting for them, fresh and clean. But twenty years later, we still laugh about her unforgettable “wedding night at the Ritz.” And we exclaim that, of course, the crumbs were the reason they didn’t get any sleep!

  Cathy L. Novakovich

  “If there are any among us who know of some reason why Dave and Lynette should not be joined together, let them speak now or forever . . .”

  CLOSE TO HOME ©John McPherson. Reprinted by permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.

  Chain of Love

  A wise lover values not so much the gift of the lover as the love of the giver.

  Thomas à Kempis

  Ron’s eyes brightened when I walked into the restaurant. Always attentive, he took my coat and pulled out my chair. I avoided his eyes and wondered how to start.

  We had dated for two years before getting engaged a week earlier. During that time we had decided to avoid physical intimacy. We wanted to remain objective about the relationship and thought this would help. And we were true to our agreement even though it became increasingly difficult as we fell more deeply in love. Now that we were engaged it seemed silly to continue our abstinence.

  Yet I wanted to do just that.

  How would Ron react when I told him? Would he think I was hiding something? Would he think I was afraid of intimacy? Worst of all, would he think I didn’t love him?

  Setting down my glass of water, I reached for his hand across the table.

  “Ron, you know how much I love you,” I began. “And I think our ‘agreement’ has both tested and strengthened our relationship.”

  I faltered. Ron sat, silent. Waiting. My eyes focused on our clasped hands, then rose to meet his.

  “I . . . I want to continue this way.” I took a deep breath. “I want to wait until our wedding night.”

  Ron was grave as he pondered my request. I shredded the corners of my paper napkin—and waited. After a long pause, he looked up and met my anxious gaze.

  “Agreed.”

  “Really?” I gasped.

  “Really.”

  My heart filled with new respect and appreciation for the man
I was going to marry. Yet, as we left the restaurant, Ron seemed distracted. In the parking lot, I suggested dessert at the local ice cream parlor.

  “I have something important I need to see to,” he declined. He had already started driving away when I realized he had forgotten his coat. I tried to flag him down but he didn’t even see me.

  Why was my attentive fiancé suddenly so absentminded? I returned home uncertain where we stood, not sure I had really gotten what I wanted.

  Later that night the phone rang.

  “I need to see you. I need to come over.” There was urgency in his voice.

  “Why? What’s wrong? Ron?” He had already hung up.

  Fifteen minutes later Ron arrived carrying a large cardboard box. My heart sank. Was he returning all the gifts I had given him? I twisted the week-old diamond ring on my finger. I started to slide it off.

  Ron held out the box. “Open it.”

  I swallowed hard and lifted the lid. Inside the box was a paper chain.

  I pulled out length after length after length. On each link was a date, beginning with the current day and numbering into the future.

  I knew my face mirrored the questions churning inside me. I looked at Ron.

  He smiled at my puzzlement but quickly grew serious.

  “I thought about your decision,” he said. “And I plan to honor it—although it will be a great sacrifice.” He nodded at the chain draping from my hands. “The chain represents that sacrifice.”

  Ron asked me to hang it in my bedroom and tear off a link every night. As our wedding neared, the chain would shrink and so would the sacrifice.

  “With each torn link, pray for me to have the strength to be true to this commitment.” Ron gazed into my eyes. “Will you do this for me?”

  Tearfully, I accepted the chain and the commitment. All the love I felt poured forth when I kissed him like never before. Ron pulled away.