Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul (18 page)

I turned to Mark. “I didn’t get to say good-bye to Daddy.”

My new husband instantly pushed on the brakes, turned off the car and got out. He yelled into the crowd and, after a few moments, my father stepped out from among the guests with a puzzled look on his face.

Mark opened the door so I could jump out and give Daddy a good-bye hug. At that moment I felt I had really been “given away.” I realized my father had given me to my husband and, in turn, my husband had given my father back to me.

This, then, was the purpose of all those years of leading, nudging, pushing and pulling—to make me an adult who uses her heart generously. Who loves big and who loves in all directions. I finally understood what it meant to be truly given—to be loved yet never held back.

Renata Waldrop

6
FOR BETTER
OR FOR
WORSE

W
hat greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined for life—to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting.

George Eliot

“I hope this is a typo; it says the reception is Open Bra.”

Reprinted by permission of David Cooney.

That’s Entertainment!

Y
ou give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.

Kahlil Gibran

I always loved December. Mystical December with its mysterious gray skies, its magical lights, its air of anticipation. What a perfect month to celebrate a marriage.

Maybe that’s why I wasn’t disappointed when a winter snow softened the scenery on our wedding day. Although we originally planned for a horse-drawn carriage to transport us to our reception, neither of us objected to a limo ride instead. Those floating flakes of fantasy were definitely worth the trade.

The same snow that dusted our wedding path was falling heavier on the highways, but we were oblivious to those concerns. After all, everyone we cared about— friends, family and even the students from both of the classes that we taught—had already arrived. So this winter wonderland only heightened the excitement of our day. Besides, thoughts of nesting in a cozy Vermont honeymoon cabin with smoke curling from its chimney warmed our minds.

Soft snow swirled around the crowd of well-wishers who encircled us as we left the church in the stretch limo. Perfect, just perfect.
Everything is magic,
I thought.
Now, for the perfect reception.

But it was there, at the reception, that I noticed peculiar things beginning to happen.

It all started when I heard my aunt warming up her vocal cords in the bathroom while she clutched a half-empty glass of scotch. She smiled warmly as she patted my cheek.

“Lucky for us, dear, that I have talent . . . considering the circumstances.” She coolly patted my cheeks and sailed out the door. Speechless and confused, I stared after her as she breezed by me, scotch in hand.

What did she mean, “Lucky for us?” What circumstances was she referring to? And, even more importantly,
what
talent?

Then the receptionist from my mom’s office tested the microphone on stage—by belting out a few chords. And she was gamely singing . . . “Joy to the World”? That was a real stretch, considering she was Jewish.

Next, my aunt—obviously feeling quite confident at this point—commandeered the mike to regale everyone with Frank Sinatra hits (the only tunes she knew). And she eagerly shared them all, song after song after song, with
my
wedding guests.

I glanced at her two daughters. Their hands held their heads and they wore looks that said—more eloquently than any words could—they wished the performance would mercifully end. My dad watched helplessly, his own face slightly drawn.

As the events unfolded, I heard my mother-in-law whisper to my father-in-law. She requested another drink. And, when he headed to the bar, she added, “Eddie, hold the ice.” She settled down to watch the show.

Meanwhile, Grandpa—beginning to get into the spirit of things—headed to the stage to teach everyone an Irish jig. Mom intervened just before it got worse, and enlisted the aid of my two brothers, who descended upon him. Flanking him on either side—not unlike bodyguards trying to control an unruly patron at the local bar—they discreetly led him back to his table.

After witnessing what appeared to be the onset of a karaoke free-for-all among my friends and family, it occurred to me:
The band! Where is our band?

They were M.I.A.

En route to our reception, the Irish band we’d engaged had gotten stuck in the snow.

Still, the reception went on. Certainly not as I planned. But it was even better. The brave people in our lives created unforgettable memories when they stepped up to sing their hearts out for us on our wedding day.

Oh, yes, the Irish band did finally show up—a bit harried, but quite amused by the impromptu entertainment. In fact, everyone did a collaborative and uniquely spontaneous rendition of “My Way” before the band took the reins.

And we all raised our glasses to the gift of the unexpected— to laughter, to song.

Maryellen Heller

Reprinted by permission of Bill Canty.

Of Blue Jeans and Buttons

L
ove cures people—both the ones who give it and the ones who receive it.

Dr. Karl Menninger

I’m a jeans and T-shirts kind of girl. Always have been. Born and raised in a small town back East, I loved riding four-wheelers and snowmobiles and hiking in the woods. Other than special occasions like school pictures or a wedding, you’d rarely find me in a dress. It just wasn’t my thing.

But, like most girls, I dreamed of a fairy-tale wedding with my future husband and wearing that long white dress down the church aisle. Now I was about to live it.

I was engaged to an incredible man who truly showed me a Cinderella life. I went from fast food and macaroni-and-cheese dinners to dining in five-star restaurants. I grew accustomed to fine wines and having my chair pulled out for me. Ward made me feel like a princess.

But there was another reason I wanted to be that princess for him on our wedding day. Ward and I chose to remain pure until our wedding night. Both in our late thirties, this was quite a testimony to many of our friends.

With the wedding approaching, I was hesitant to go dress shopping, as I knew I would feel out of place in the bridal shops with all the fancy silk and lace.
Will they laugh at me? Will I look awkward?

My fear fell aside when I stepped into the first dress. Lined with pearls and satin, it fit just right. I looked into the mirror and couldn’t believe how wonderful and special I felt.
Why, I’m beautiful!
I envisioned our wedding and couldn’t wait to walk down the aisle to Ward. I couldn’t wait to show him I was his princess.

Indeed, our wedding day turned out to be a fairy tale. After the beautiful ceremony, we held our reception at a harbor where we ventured down the boardwalk with the photographer for black and white shots on the Ferris Wheel.

It was a whirlwind day. Deliriously exhausted, Ward and I said goodbye to our friends and family for a sunset cruise along the coastline. As we sat in the limo on the way to our bed and breakfast, we anxiously awaited our wedding night.

But there were other plans in store for us.

Soon, the excitement of the day’s events came to a screeching halt. Reality bit hard. Sudden nausea overtook me; my chest felt tight and I was having trouble breathing.

“I’m carsick! No! This can’t be happening!” I cried.

In the midst of everything, I forgot that I shouldn’t ride backward in a car—and now it was too late. I felt awful. My husband suggested I put my head between my legs. I leaned down, folded in half like a chair. The weight of a long bridal train crammed my head and squeezed my bodice even tighter.

“I can’t breathe. I think I’m going to be sick! Ward, please unzip my dress!” This was not how I envisioned our first night together. He graciously unzipped my dress, but it didn’t help.

“You’re going to have to undo my bra, too.” My head, veil and all, was hanging out the car window.

“Shall I pull over?” the driver politely offered.

“No! Just get to the hotel . . . quickly.”

When we arrived, the limo driver opened the door to . . . me, dress practically hanging off.

After Ward graciously placed his jacket over my shoulders, I grabbed his hand to attempt to exit the limo. Suddenly everything went white and my legs gave out. Holding my dress with one hand, I clung to Ward’s neck with the other while he literally dragged me through the lobby. Pin drops could be heard as hotel guests stopped what they were doing to witness the “passed-out bride.”

Sprawled on the bed in our room, I still felt nauseous.

“Could you please get me some Mylanta?” I asked Ward. “I’m so sorry.”

“No worries,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

I soon fell asleep and awoke feeling better. With Ward not back, I looked down to assess my condition. I still wanted this night to be romantic. Determinedly, I decided to put my dress back on.

It had taken three bridesmaids to get the back buttoned earlier that day.
How can I do this alone?
Realizing the dress was not going back on, I slipped it off and put on Ward’s tuxedo jacket. I positioned myself on the bed in a sexy pose, waiting for his return.

And promptly fell asleep.

When I awoke, Ward was sitting on the bed next to me, Mylanta in hand. I sat up and downed a mouthful. Lying across his lap, I began to cry. He held me, comforted me.

“I’m so sorry. I wanted to be beautiful for you.” Tears rolled down my face as I told him how much I wanted our first night together to be special.

As we sat talking, I glanced up and saw myself in the mirror. There I was—in a wrinkled tuxedo jacket, veil cock-eyed, hair a mess and black mascara smearing my face.

All the while, picking bobby pins out of my hair, Ward was telling me how I was his beautiful princess.

Maria Nickless

House to Home

S
nowflakes are one of nature’s most fragile things, but just look at what they can do when they stick together.

Fay Seevers

“Mike, you need to leave work right now. I can see your house on the news and it’s on fire.” My friend’s voice on the other line was filled with concern.

This cannot be happening to us. This is not happening to us,
I thought. I was getting married in four days and the reception would take place in the backyard of our home.

I had met Lorena three years earlier and immediately developed a wonderful friendship. I soon knew my best friend was going to be my wife. A couple of years passed and after purchasing a home together, the conversation of getting married came up in passing.

“We should just do it,” I impulsively suggested. Lucky for me, she agreed. With money tight, we planned a simple courthouse ceremony and a nice reception at our house. Little did we know our life plan would be turned upside down.