Read Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul (11 page)
I thanked her again for adjusting my wedding gown, and assured her it was safely bagged and awaiting the day I would wear it down the aisle on the arm of my real “Mister Right.” With a sparkle in her eye, she began telling me about her single son, Tim. Even though I wasn’t interested in dating again, I let her talk me into meeting him.
I did have my summer wedding after all, only a year later. And I did get to wear the dress of my dreams— standing beside Tim, the man I have shared the last eighteen years of my life with, whom I would never have met without that special wedding gown.
Sandy Williams Driver
H
ope deferred makes the heart sick; but when dreams come true at last, there is life and joy.
Prov. 13
I always thought of the bridal gown as an extension of the bride.
It declares what kind of woman she is. It should knock the socks off of her groom, dazzle the audience and make the bride feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. It has to be perfect.
The dress shopping was to be all about me, the bride. After all, it was going to be my big day. However, I found that while I focused on myself, the strain blinded me from a bigger reality.
At first, the hunt was exciting. I spent hours trying on different styles. But as time wore on, nothing seemed right. No dress measured up. Could I settle for second best? The threatening thought nearly brought me to tears.
One Saturday afternoon, my mom asked if I wanted to shop. By this time, I was so disenchanted I wanted to stay home. Nevertheless, I went.
A bride on a budget, I dutifully stayed away from the more expensive, designer boutiques. Yet, we decided to enter one particular shop and look for sales. I chose three dresses. The first two were unsuitable. Donning the third, I walked out of the dressing room and approached the three-way mirror.
I blushed. My heart raced. I felt stunning.
I posed, preened and pranced, all the while picturing myself walking down the aisle. I was beautiful, confident, dazzling. This was The One.
I dared to look at the price tag—
ugh!
But there was a reason for its costliness. Duchess silk. Hand-sewn beadwork. Perfection.
Thoughts of “settling” crept back into my mind.
My mom shared my distress but wasn’t ready to give up hope. She asked the owner if she would give us a price break since the dress was a display model. No luck. The next words, however, were unexpected.
“This particular dress will be $200 on our one-day sale a month from now,” she said. “But, if it sells between now and then, or if someone gets here before you on the sale day and buys it, then you will lose the dress.”
A price cut of $1,500? Was it possible? Could the dress last a month?
I fretted all the way home, imagining every possible scenario.
Should I have different people call the shop and put the dress on hold for an entire month? Maybe I should’ve hidden it on a back rack? If it sold, could I plead with the new owner?
Could it last a month? Could
I
?
After explaining the situation to my dad, he and my mom agreed that it was the dress for me. We needed faith to believe it would still be there. We decided there was only one thing to do—pray.
Our wedding dress story spread. My church congregation prayed. My colleagues prayed. My parents’ friends, whom I had never met, prayed. My fiancé, who was living in Scotland, had his friends pray. My high school students loved the story and faithfully asked about it. Some told their parents and they prayed.
My father prayed that if anyone else tried on the dress, it would look ugly or make her itch. My three brothers offered to guard the dress with baseball bats. (I didn’t take them up on this.)
More and more people became excited, nervous, anxious and delighted over the gown. I shared the faith of my growing supporters, but there were times when it seemed grim. When I wavered, someone assured me the dress would be there.
I realized a wedding, and the joy that accompanies it, is about more than just the bride and groom.
The day before the sale arrived. Petrified, I called once more to check on the dress.
“The dress has not been sold,” the owner declared.
At four o’clock the next morning, my parents camped in front of the bridal shop. Armed with lawn chairs, Starbucks coffee and heavy winter coats to combat the Colorado freeze, they scoped out the position of the dress through the store window. I arrived and the moment the store opened, I raced in, followed by my cold parents.
I grabbed my dream dress off the rack, took it to the front and plopped down $200. And, all anxiety gone, I held a treasure in my hands. The perfect dress.
More importantly, I held a piece of the heart of all those who rallied behind me. A symbol of a vast community of people with faith to believe that even wedding dresses matter. And, all with part ownership in my bridal gown fantasy . . . which belonged to
more than
just the bride.
Greta Montgomery
A
wedding is just one of many stories in a couple’s life together—stories of special moments . . . from the vows and the kiss . . . to laughing with family and friends . . . and
especially
those that weren’t exactly planned.
Rosanna McCollough
editor in chief,
WeddingChannel.com
Carolyn gets her first glimpse of the excessive frugality that would define the next 42 years of her life.
CLOSE TO HOME ©
John McPherson. Reprinted by permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.
A
father: The first man in your life to give you unconditional love, and the one who every man after is compared to.
Becca Kaufman and Paula Ramsey
creators of
WeddingQuestions.com
It snowed like crazy on our wedding day. Not a piling up, traffic-paralyzing kind of snow, but the kind that leaves the trees sparkling and the streets looking like a river of licorice slush.
My mother closed all the drapes as if blocking the view would somehow force an end to it. But it didn’t work. By the time my father and I were ready to leave for the church, the driveway and street were slathered with a generous portion of semi-frozen grayish sludge.
My father had cleared a path in front of the house but when it was time to go, Mom still insisted I wear plastic bags over my shoes to protect them “just in case.” As luck would have it, the only two plastic bags in the house were empty bread bags.
Somehow my little-girl dreams of this day never included parading to the church with bread bags peaking out beneath the hem of the gown I’d waited my whole life to wear. Still, snowflakes continued swirling down and no alternate plan prevailed. So, on went the bread bags over my shoes, and off we went.
Carefully we made our way out the front door and to the rented silver Mercedes waiting to take us to the church. Ed, the driver, never said a word, but the look on his face was priceless as he watched me approach with blue-and-yellow-plastic-polka-dot clown feet.
As we started out of the driveway, I realized that never before in my life had I taken a ride with my dad without him driving. Gripped by this moment of truth, I turned my head to look through the back window and watched our house—and my childhood—shrink slowly out of sight.
One lone tear trickled down my cheek while Dad sat quietly beside me. Then I felt him reach over and take my hand. This small, quiet gesture spoke volumes of what he, too, must have been feeling—but never said.
The freshly fallen snow transformed a relatively short ride into a slow and cautious journey through the landmarks of my youth. As we passed the playground, the schoolyard and even the corner candy store, each seemed to call my name and whisper good-bye.
As much as I looked forward to all the future held for my husband and me, this intense feeling of ending my girlhood pierced my heart. Sensing this, my father squeezed my hand and drew me close to his side. His warm embrace assured me everything would be all right.
While Ed parked the car at the church, Dad and I simultaneously looked at each other, then cast our eyes down to the polka-dot Wonder Bread “booties,” which by now had taken on a role of their own and seemed to be staring back at us.
My father turned to me and said, “Do you really want to step out of this car with clown feet?”
“Well, not really, but what else can I do?”
The street and sidewalk surrounding the church had been on the receiving end of a barrage of galoshes, snow tires and shovels since early that morning. What started as a pristine blanket of white now appeared to be nothing more than a dirty mess that threatened to ruin my shoes, as well as whatever part of the dress and train that would end up getting dragged through it.
“Lose the boots,” Dad said. With those words he got out of the car and walked around to the door on my side.
I leaned forward and slipped the bags off my feet to reveal lovely white satin ballet slippers with the pale pink satin ribbons that twirled about my ankles and came to rest in a delicate bow. I dreaded the thought of how they would look by the time I reached the church steps.
I methodically gathered up as much of the dress and train as I could, and stepped out of the car trying to keep it all from touching the ground. As I turned toward Dad, suddenly I felt my feet lift off the ground and in an instant I was swept into his arms. Just that quickly my dress and shoes were safely out of harm’s way and my heart had wings to fly.
How many years had it been since Dad had carried me in his arms? How much like a princess I felt, and how appropriate it seemed to close the door on my childhood in such a poignant way.
Dad carried me from the sidewalk all the way up the steps and into the vestibule of the church where my mother and bridesmaids awaited our arrival. Setting me down in front of my mother he kissed me on the cheek and said, “Now that was fun. Wasn’t it?” To which I replied, “Let’s do it again!” We all laughed and a few moments later he walked me down the aisle where I joyfully stepped forward into the future.
Dad faced his own moment of truth that day. My husband and I were married on my parents’ thirty-sixth wedding anniversary. I imagine walking his last baby down the aisle on this day surely brought home to his heart that life was moving on; no turning back the clock.
My husband and I celebrated our twentieth wedding anniversary this year. Life moved on for us as it did for Dad—who now smiles on us from heaven.
The warm memories of our wedding day remain with me, but few are as tender as that precious moment when Daddy’s little girl was swept off her feet one last time.
Annmarie B. Tait
C
reativity requires the courage to let go of certainties.
Erich Fromm
Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink.
The sound of cutlery hitting the wineglasses grows to a loud pitch. The bride and groom rise from their seats and embrace with a warm, passionate kiss—much to the delight of their guests.
Most of us are familiar with the well-known tradition to get the bridal couple to kiss—“the clinking of the glasses.” Half Italian, I have attended my share of Italian weddings and know full well that before the first course or antipasto plate, the
clinking
sound will be heard at least ten times.
When Michael and I were planning our wedding, there were two traditions he did not want to follow. “Theresa, I love to kiss you, but I don’t want to hear the irritating sound of glasses clinking all night. And I won’t do the Chicken Dance.”
I had to agree with the latter. The Chicken Dance is silly enough, let alone trying to do it in a wedding dress. However, the other would be expected unless we had an alternative. But what?
Some kissing traditions involved singing a song with the word “love” in the title. A good idea if your guests can carry a tune. However, if guests saw this as a “karaoke” opportunity, it could get out of hand. Another tradition would be to have guests give a “toast,” but then who wants to listen to toasts all night?