Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul Read online

  Then I felt a new hand on my back. I blinked up into the sunlight, and saw Josephine’s soft smile. She whispered something to Mama, who nodded. Josephine took my hand and led me back to the sanctuary, her satin skirt swishing.

  The church was empty and quiet and big as we stood at the wooden doors. I looked at Josephine. “Go ahead and put your flowers down,” she said. “It’s time now.” She waited at the very back, and I walked slowly, carefully down the aisle of the empty church. I fingered the smooth flowers and dropped one here, then here, then here. The last orchid fell just as I reached the front of the sanctuary. Perfect. Just like a princess.

  Turning toward the back of the church, I stretched my skirt wide and curtseyed deep to my imaginary audience. Josephine’s laugh was like silver. When I looked up, Mama was standing beside her. She beamed my favorite smile, all shining and rounded cheeks—the kind that means she’s so glad I’m hers.

  I raced back over the trail of scattered flowers. Then we left the wedding, Mama with her smile, and me with my empty basket and a glow that rivaled Cinderella’s.

  Nicole Owens

  What Could My Country Do for Me?

  One of the best ways to persuade others is with your ears—by listening to them.

  Dean Rusk, former U.S. Secretary of State

  It was March 1963.

  At nineteen, I was the first in my crowd to get married, certain this young sailor was the man with whom I was supposed to spend my life. Everything was arranged. I could hardly wait to see my fiancé, Robert Frisch, when he came home for the first time in seven months, just a few days before our wedding.

  He called Sunday evening. “I won’t be there for the wedding.”

  My heart did a loop-de-loop.

  “I’ll be in the middle of the Pacific,” he explained. “All military flights from Hawaii have been canceled.”

  “Can’t you find another way back?”

  “I wanted to get a commercial airline ticket with the money I’ve saved for our honeymoon, but they said ‘no exceptions.’ So, cancel the wedding and we’ll get married later.”

  “Cancel the wedding? I can’t just cancel the church, the flowers, the caterer—everything.” Panic crept into my voice. “They can’t do this. I’ll find a way. I’ll call someone in Washington. I’ll call, um—I’ll call President Kennedy!”

  “Well, you could try, but I doubt it would do any good,” Robert replied. His lack of surprise at my idea was a reminder that he accepted me and loved me just as I was— impetuous, stubborn and perhaps a bit eccentric.

  The next morning I told my mother about my plan and phoned the information operator. (This was before the days of Directory Assistance.)

  “I want to speak to the president.”

  “The president of what?”

  “The President of the United States, of course.” I tried to sound business-like, yet nonchalant. I was neither.

  She hesitated. “I’ll have to call you back. What is your name and number, please?” One long hour later, the phone rang. “Please hold for Washington.”

  “Y’all are callin’ for President Kennedy?” The voice drawled across the line. “He’s not in Washington right now. This is George Lusk in Vice President Johnson’s office. How can I help you, ma’am?”

  I took a deep breath and poured out our desperate story of canceled flights, changed orders and the impossibility of postponing a big wedding only days away.

  “. . . And he offered to buy a ticket on a commercial flight, but they refused to let him do that,” I finished.

  “Y’mean he’s got the money and they won’t let him go?” Mr. Lusk sounded indignant. “I’ll see what I can do, ma’am.”

  Again I waited for the phone to ring. This time, however, it didn’t.

  At three o’clock, I called the naval base in Hawaii, anxious to speak to Robert.

  “Frisch isn’t here.”

  “What?”

  “Frisch isn’t here.” The phone connection was quite clear.

  “But, he has to be. . . .” I clutched the receiver.

  “No. His girlfriend called somebody in Washington. Frisch is on his way to the Honolulu airport. He’s gone home.”

  “Home?”

  “Home. Home—to get married.”

  Smiling my thanks, I cradled the receiver. We would both be at the church on time.

  Carlienne A. Frisch

  Dismally Late

  What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?

  George Eliot

  My husband and I were driving across our state to the wedding of my cherished friend’s daughter when we had a flat tire on a country road. While he changed the flat, I worried. I wanted to arrive early at the church I once attended. Friends since we were young, I was “Auntie Jeanne” to her Beth and she was “Auntie Ruth” to my three youngsters.

  It was devastating when Ruth Ann’s husband had died suddenly four months prior, but she’d insisted Beth go ahead with the wedding as planned. Although she’d suggested her daughter choose another relative to give her away, Beth had decided no one should take her father’s place walking her down the aisle. Knowing today would be difficult, I hoped to hug each of them before the ceremony.

  So I was chagrined when we were dismally late.

  Barely inside the open sanctuary doors, we slipped into the last two vacant chairs ushers had added beyond the back pews. For an instant I enjoyed the lovely organ music and the heady fragrance of orange blossom boughs decorating each pew. Then, with a heavy heart, I saw that the groom, his best man and three of the four bride’s attendants were already down front by the altar. Shortly, the last bridesmaid glided past us and on down the aisle.

  After an especially long passage of music, I saw the organist look expectantly in our direction toward the open sanctuary doors, watching for her cue to start the wedding march. No cue came. Where was the bride?

  Fifteen minutes passed and murmurs of concern stirred the audience. Her mother, seated up front, couldn’t go check but I was in the perfect position to do so. I slipped out of the sanctuary doors.

  Once into the narthex, I ran down the hall. As I remembered, there were two quick turns to the bride’s dressing room. On my first turn, I heard faint hammering of small fists against a door. On my next turn, I heard Beth calling, “Let me out, somebody! The doorknob came off in my hand and I can’t get out! Help me!”

  I ran to the door but I couldn’t open it. “Beth, it’s me— Jeanne. I’ll go get help.”

  “Oh, Auntie Jeanne! Thank heaven!”

  When we got the door open, I complimented Beth on how in-control she looked in spite of the situation. “I wasn’t at first,” she said. As she gathered her satin skirts and ran through the hall beside me, she told me how she’d started crying but soon felt her father’s hand on hers.

  “I know it sounds crazy but I heard Daddy say, ‘Don’t cry, Bethie, everything is going to be all right.’”

  Moments later Beth triumphantly marched down the aisle to “Here Comes the Bride.” I sat in the back row giving thanks for a flat tire that had put me in exactly the right chair at the right time. Dismally late? More like providentially late.

  Jeanne Hill

  My Love Is Like a Mountain

  Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

  Kahlil Gibran

  The fog was so thick I couldn’t see the mountain. But I knew it was there and my fiancé and his best man were somewhere on it. Not knowing exactly where filled me with a fear that was almost unbearable. It was our wedding day.

  The mountains were in our blood. Living at the foot of the Adirondacks as we did, how could they not be? During our growing-up years, our families lived near the tallest of the Adirondacks—White Face Mountain—a few miles from Lake Placid, New York.

  Bob and I loved hiking and one day decided to climb White Face to the top. Looking at the world below in all its peace was a surreal mome
nt.

  “This is the perfect place to share our vows,” Bob suggested.

  Not wanting the typical wedding with a church, gown, tuxedo and four-tier cake, we agreed on a nontraditional ceremony at a place where our hearts lived—on top of the world.

  Our excitement grew as we planned for a September wedding. The fall colors, that no florist could ever match, would be in bloom; and no church could compare to God’s mountains.

  We found a justice of the peace in the small town at the foot of White Face and reserved cabins for excited friends and family. Everybody met at the local restaurant for dinner and celebrating the night before the wedding. Everybody except the groom.

  Bob’s testimony of his love for me was unlike any other. He had a plan to climb White Face in honor of his commitment to me. He and his best man would climb halfway that night, camp out and then finish the climb to the top the next morning, the day of our wedding. All in time to meet me at the top by one o’clock.

  With camping gear on his back, Bob kissed me goodbye. My heart in my throat, I was worried and excited at the same time. I couldn’t believe this man was climbing a mountain to show his love for me.

  When morning came, I looked out the window and there it was—surrounding me like a large white blanket— fog. Although I knew the mountain was there, I couldn’t see it. And Bob and Kirk were somewhere on it.

  Frightening thoughts went through my mind. What if they’re lost? What if they’re hurt? What if they ran into a bear? The mountains were full of them.

  I was so upset I couldn’t think straight. Finally my maid of honor took me by my shoulders.

  “God takes care of the pure of heart,” she assured me. And that was Bob, for sure. Holding on to that thought, I calmed down—until I was faced with even more bad news. The state ranger closed the mountain to the public due to the thick fog.

  “Closed to the public?” I screamed. “They can’t do that! I have to meet Bob in three hours at the top. He’s on his way and I’m stuck at the bottom with no way of letting him know. What do I do now?”

  The park ranger was alerted that there were two men on the mountain climbing to the top. He told me they would be all right; there was a ranger at the top who would notify us of their arrival.

  Gathered at the restaurant, the rest of us worried as hours passed with no word. By now I was a total wreck and didn’t know how much more waiting I could take.

  It was three o’clock and I should have been on my honeymoon. The ranger called: Bob and his best man had reached the castle at the top. While everyone else was cheering, I was tearing. A heavy weight lifted from my heart.

  I asked if the ranger was driving them back, but to my surprise the answer was no! It was against the law. So after climbing all day in thick fog, the poor guys had to walk another two hours down. But I thanked God they were safe.

  After I calmed down, a thought came to me. The wedding! Where will we have the wedding? If not on top of White Face, where?

  Someone suggested Santa’s Workshop, a tourist spot known as The North Pole, located at the base of the mountain. The village had a small chapel, too. Our wedding day went from “on top of the world” to “Santa’s world” in one day.

  To my surprise, I didn’t even need to tell the villagers my story. They already knew and graciously opened the tourist attraction and the chapel to us at no cost. Now all that was missing was . . . the groom and his best man.

  Five hours late to his own wedding, Bob finally made it—dirty, sweaty, bleeding, hips chafed from his backpack, toes raw and bleeding. This sight for sore eyes was my sight for complete joy. My knight in shining armor had returned and, to my amazement, in his backpack were flowers he had picked for me.

  “All I could think of was you and our wedding,” he told me.

  The town was abuzz—a wedding at the North Pole! Santa’s helpers embroidered bride and groom on red hats and the “elves” were all in attendance. A sight to behold, for sure.

  We exchanged vows but to my surprise Bob had his own. “My love for you is like a mountain: strong, forthright and everlasting.” My eyes filled with tears as his words echoed in my mind and heart.

  After the ceremony we were whisked off to see Santa. Pictures were taken, jokes were made and Santa gave us a beautiful wedding candle. But our most prized gift was our wedding certificate. It reads, “Married at the North Pole. Witnessed by Santa Claus!”

  We may have gotten off to a rocky start, but after almost thirty years of marriage, our love for each other is more like the mountain every day. Strong. Forthright. Everlasting.

  Eileen Chase

  At Ease

  People who throw kisses are hopelessly lazy.

  Bob Hope

  Now in their late sixties, the widow and widower, longtime friends before their spouses passed away, chose to marry. The groom—a proud and valiant ex-Marine— arranged the wedding at the unobtrusive Marine Corps Chapel tucked over the gymnasium at Headquarters Battalion USMC, Henderson Hall, in Arlington, Virginia.

  At the close of the simple ceremony, my cousin Larry— officiating chaplain—presented the couple to the audience and introduced them as “Mr. and Mrs.” Then he suggested it was time for the groom to acknowledge his bride.

  Larry waited expectantly. The bride looked up adoringly. And the small audience held its collective breath, eager to witness the traditional first kiss as husband and wife.

  But guests collapsed into gasps and gales of laughter when the feisty groom snapped to attention and, in true military style, “acknowledged” his bride with a proper Marine . . . salute.

  Carol McAdoo Rehme

  Should We or Shouldn’t We?

  A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous.

  Ingrid Bergman

  There are some decisions every prospective bride and bridegroom must make before the big day. First, will there or won’t there be cake shoved in someone’s face? And, secondly, what kind of kiss will be shared at the end of the ceremony?

  Should it be soft? A light dusting of the lips, to avoid smudging lipstick?

  Should it be passionate? A celebration of the moment, a true indication of the feelings involved?

  Or should it be chaste? Quiet and sweet, a sign of respect to those in attendance?

  Of course, having the conversation is only a good use of time if the arranged plan is actually followed.

  In the days before our wedding, Travis and I discussed both questions: cake and kiss. On the first, I was adamant. If the cake wound up anywhere other than my mouth, our wedding night would be stormy. Although Travis agreed not to smash any cake in my face, his wide smile made me wary.

  On the question of the kiss, though, we were in full agreement. Neither of us was comfortable with a public display of affection, so we agreed to share a soft, chaste one. This insured the added bonus that my lipstick would remain intact for the photographs.

  Then the moment arrived.

  “You may kiss the bride,” the priest said.

  Travis looked deeply into my eyes. I tilted my head. Our lips met.

  But instead of the quick peck on the mouth we’d agreed upon, my groom gathered me in a very un-Travis-like embrace and gave me a passionate, lingering, breathless kiss . . . Hollywood-style.

  I forgot we were in a church.

  I forgot the priest was an arm’s-length away.

  I forgot a host of family and friends looking on.

  I’m not sure how long we stood there kissing, but we paused only when the priest leaned toward us.

  “Travis,” he chided, “there are children present!”

  To this day, those in attendance still tease us. But—I’m happy to report—our wedding photographs prove no cake was smeared on anyone’s face.

  Only lipstick.

  Raegan Holloway

  “Please, Fred—I have a headache.”

  Reprinted by permission of Masters Agency.

  He Completed Us


  The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.

  Theodore Hesburgh

  My daughter Alyssa was born in 1992. I had just turned nineteen and was left to raise a daughter on my own. I was young, alone and bitter that her father wanted no part of our life.

  I had a few boyfriends that did not mind that I was a young single mother, but I could never bring myself to include Alyssa in those relationships. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of having a daughter; she was the first person to show and teach me what true love really was. I just never trusted a man enough to include Alyssa. That is, until I met Travis.

  Travis and I met in the summer of 2000 and I think I fell in love with him the first time we talked. We had one of those conversations that seems to last forever and everyone else in the room seems to disappear. It wasn’t until we were together for a few months and we were talking about moving in together that I felt ready to include Alyssa.

  From the beginning they got along—not that it surprised me. He was the first person who actually got her to swim and get over many of her fears. Alyssa’s dad has never played a role in her life and it was like a breath of fresh air to see Alyssa with a father figure.

  The three of us grew as a family over the next couple of years. Travis’s family accepted Alyssa and me into their family as if we had always been there from the beginning. I finally had the life that I had always dreamed of, except that it was missing one thing. Marriage.

  Travis proposed on Valentine’s Day that year and I could not wait. I wanted everything to be perfect. I planned for over a year, until I was driving everyone crazy, including myself. The wedding became my weekend project, and I made sure I included Alyssa from the very beginning. I didn’t want her to feel left out. I expressed this to Travis to make sure he included her in everything as well.