Read Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
When Shane was in third grade, he met another child named Ryan who attended every neighborhood baseball game. His health precluded him from physically participating, but not from being the play-by-play announcer, supplying a voice of enthusiasm. Ryan and Shane hit it off, the root of a friendship that would blossom over years.
Ryan did not have the athleticism Shane possessed. His twisted, contorted body suffered from the spinal atrophy of severe muscular dystrophy. Limbs underdeveloped and fragile, Ryan was unable to move on his own, mobile only by wheelchair.
Theirs was not a relationship built on activity, but truly an event of the heart. They loved each other through junior high and high school and even into college. In a twist, Ryan went to college while Shane stayed home and worked. But it would not be long before their friendship brought them back together.
A very intelligent Ryan faced incompetent caretakers at college. Ryan’s mother, in an unusual request, asked Shane to consider attending Indiana University to take care of Ryan while he attended classes. Not even enrolled in the school, Shane immediately quit his job and moved to the college town of Bloomington.
Each counseling session with Shane and Melissa revealed a bit more of this incredible friendship story. Shane was reluctant to share the details of his and Ryan’s relationship because people’s admiration made him uncomfortable.
“I’m not a hero; I’m just a friend,” he said quietly.
I was beginning to see more of what this young woman saw in Shane.
As the wedding day approached, I had one last form to fill out and needed the attendants’ and groomsmen’s names.
“Shane, who will be your best man?”
The answer came in a need-you-even-ask tone. “Ryan, of course.”
“Yes, but will he be able to do all that is required?” I felt almost ridiculous asking. My question unmasked some of my own prejudices and betrayed my handicap of mind more than exposing any of Ryan’s limitations. Shane responded like the friend he was.
“He’ll do just fine.”
I knew Shane was right.
The day of the wedding, Ryan traveled down the aisle in his motorized wheelchair to meet the maid of honor. She took his arm and the two made their way to the front, preceding a beaming bride and groom. But the best these two had to give each other was still waiting in the wings.
In order for the union to be complete, I needed the signatures of the participants on the marriage license. I approached Shane and asked him who would be signing. My assumption that Ryan was incapable of signing the license was clear.
Shane’s response was the same as before. “Ryan, of course.”
I had no idea I was about to witness something sacred.
Shane took the license and walked over to Ryan. He gently wedged the pen between Ryan’s stiffened fingers. Then Shane propped the license against the pen. As Ryan moved his hand ever so slightly up and down, Shane moved the paper in perfect rhythm. They had danced this dance many times before. To the final stroke, they coaxed the signature from the pen in a waltz not of pen and paper, but of hearts. Ryan’s signature appeared in beautifully smooth script.
A tear trickled down my cheek and soaked a line on my tux. I could now clearly see what this young woman saw in Shane.
The Bible says, “the two will become one.” Few people ever achieve this wonder. Only a few even glimpse its awe. But before my eyes, I realized this young man already knew what it took to share one’s life to the extent that two become one.
Mrs. Davis, you are a very lucky young lady.
Keith A. Wooden
“Who will walk you down the aisle?” my mother worried.
My fiancé and I had been planning this wedding for months. I had taken care of the dress, the flowers, the hall, the catering and even the cake. Our invitations proclaimed, “Dreams do come true.” But to my mother’s question, I had no answer.
My father died about a year before I started dating Lou. I was haunted by the thought that Lou loved golf, my father’s favorite pastime, but they never had a chance to play a single round. Sadly, they never even knew each other.
I thought about walking down the aisle alone. But I wanted it to be a happy occasion, not a reminder that I no longer had a dad. I didn’t want people to feel sorry for me.
“What about David?” my mother suggested.
My brother? Maybe he could!
I sensed a glimpse of hope—until all the obstacles surfaced. He’d have to fly in early to rent a tux and make it to rehearsal, but because his work required him to be on call, it would be difficult for him to request time off. I was reluctant to ask.
“Mom, you know David is very busy.”
“If you want him to do it, you should ask,” my mother encouraged.
I knew I wanted my brother by my side during the most important time in my life. He always was in the past. Together we’d endured a traumatic accident, Dad’s battle with lung cancer and, finally, his death. No matter what, David was there. It seemed only right for him to take my father’s place. I decided to place the call.
When he answered the phone, I asked, “D-David? Do . . . do you think you could walk me down the aisle?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “It would be an honor.”
“You mean it?” my voice escalated like a shy schoolgirl’s. “You’d . . . you’d have to come a couple days early for a tux fitting and to make the rehearsal.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Now that’s a problem. I’m not sure I can get more days off. I’ll have to speak with my boss and get back to you.”
“That’s fine. If you can’t, don’t worry about it,” I said in a rush, hoping my voice didn’t betray my disappointment. I decided his response was a kindhearted excuse for “No.” Maybe I was asking too much. My heart sank.
And the weeks passed without another word from David.
Four days before my wedding a strange car pulled up in the driveway. I went outside and saw my brother standing before me.
“Are you that blushing bride I’ve been hearing so much about?” he asked, with a proud grin on his face.
I ran and threw my arms around him. “But what about work?”
“I found a new job. This one pays better and gives me more free time.”
Knowing my brother, I had a funny feeling that wasn’t the only reason he’d switched jobs. “Really?”
“Yes!” He quickly changed the subject. “Now what size tux do you think I wear?”
The next few days passed quickly leaving me little time to spend with him. But when the famous strains of “Here Comes the Bride” cued him, David knocked on my dressing room door.
“It’s time.”
I swung the door open and stood in front of him in bridal white.
“Wow!” he said, offering his arm. “You look beautiful!”
At that moment, I saw my father’s pride beaming at me through David’s eyes, the same shade of blue as my father’s. I realized that in many ways Dad was with me on this important day. And so was the brother I had always relied on. David and I walked down the aisle, smiles gleaming and tears flowing, but most importantly, arm-in-arm.
Michele Wallace Campanelli
F
or there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather;
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands.
Christina Rossetti
My sister Jayne and I were as close in age as we were alike in looks. In fact, as teenagers, we liked to pass ourselves off as twins. We adored
Fantasia,
our mum’s stories and each other. We were best friends and close companions.
So when Jayne got sick I was devastated. It was a long time before she was diagnosed: a rare and deadly blood-vessel cancer. Jayne was tired and lethargic and tried to put on a brave face, but the fear showed in her eyes.
There were specialists to consult, tests to run, treatments to endure and decisions to be made. Naturally, the family spent most of their time going to the hospital. So it was that, with my wedding approaching, I found myself on my own—alone with all the arrangements it entailed. I had no one to help with the myriad details and, more importantly, no healthy sister to share my excitement.
Finally, doctors decided surgery was the answer. They removed both the tumor and an entire muscle from Jayne’s leg. Due to a serious infection, it took many months for my sister to become well enough to leave the hospital, unable to walk or even stand.
At last my wedding day arrived. As our limousine slid to a stop at the church, I peered out the window. I saw my entire family waiting outside and felt a pang that Jayne wasn’t among them, wasn’t well enough to share this big moment with me. It was the only dark spot on the happiest day of my life. But she had survived the ordeal and that was enough for now.
Stepping from the limousine, I rearranged my gown and entered the church. I swept down the aisle to the traditional bridal march . . . and then I saw her. Jayne!
Jayne smiling. Jayne standing. Jayne—supported by crutches.
Dreamily, I paused in the middle of the bridal march to walk over and kiss her on the cheek. I recognized the pain, what it cost my sister to be there, to stand, to even walk a little. She could not manage it for long, yet she did it for me.
Now, several years later I thumb through my bridal book and turn to the page listing presents. Among the entries a special one reads: “Jayne’s gift: My sister walked on my wedding day.”
Hers is the gift I treasure most.
Ann Cooke
S
ometimes our light goes out but is blown into flame by another human being. Each of us owes deepest thanks to those who have rekindled this light.
Albert Schweitzer
For some reason, Melisa, a popular player on our junior high softball team, took awkward, unathletic me into her heart and under her wing. Fast friends from then on, we grew up together. Those early years passed quickly and, when Melisa got married, I served as one of her bridesmaids.
Then one day the phone rang.
“I just came from the doctor’s office,” Melisa’s voice quivered. “Remember when I told you about all those headaches and how my vision sometimes got dark? My neurologist ran a CAT scan.” She paused. “I’m going blind.”
Blind? Melisa?
Melisa . . . who traveled the road with her trucker husband to soak in the sights across America?
Melisa . . . who contacted me monthly by letter or phone to describe those breathtaking views?
Melisa . . . who was only twenty-three?
“It’s only a matter of months, two years or less. Retinitis pigmentosa they call it,” she explained. “I’ll lose up to 85 percent of my sight. The specialist recommends that I stop trucking and attend school for the blind. To learn Braille. . . .”
Both of us were stunned. Not knowing how to comfort her, I told her I would keep her situation in my prayers.
As time went on, letters I sent to Melisa went unanswered. When I called, her voice didn’t sound the same; she seemed bewildered and despondent.
“Cursive is difficult. Please make your print larger,” she advised, “so I can read your letters. Try using black ink on white paper . . . and type it.”
I continued reaching out, printing my letters in a large, size 20 font. My typing improved over those weeks but her writing got increasingly more scribbled and illegible.
After months of exchanges, Melisa expressed her feelings about her new schooling. Learning how to use a cane, to command a guide dog and to read Braille was taking its toll. It wasn’t easy; reality was sinking in. It was only a matter of a few short months before she would depend on these skills permanently.
Depression overwhelmed her. Melisa spent hours crying and often refused to leave her house.
By now, Louis and I had finally set our wedding date and I wanted Melisa to be my matron of honor. But, was it too much to ask? Would she be willing to stand up with me? Would she compare it to her own wedding when she had perfect vision?
I wasn’t sure I should ask. But then, it didn’t seem right to ask anyone else. No one meant as much to me as Melisa.
I broached the subject during one of our phone calls. “I have a question for you. But if you say ‘no,’ I really will understand.”
“Sure, what is it?”
I took a deep breath. “I’m getting married in a few months and I was wondering if you would be my matron of honor?”
“No,” she replied without a second of hesitation.
“I understand.” I paused. “So. What did you learn in school today?”
Melisa described a stove that “spoke” the temperature it was warming to and told which burner was hot. Although tears threatened, I tried to be supportive.
Suddenly, her voice trembled. “I’m sorry I can’t be your matron of honor. I just wouldn’t want to trip down the aisle and . . . embarrass you.”
“Mel, you could never embarrass me, ever! Do you understand? Ever! I am so proud to have you as my friend.”