Read Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul (33 page)
She told me there was always enough room in their bed, because from the moment they slid in, both had their emotional compass set for a lifelong commitment. No matter what occurred during the day, they knew hard hearts are softened in small beds. In the center, they found each other’s hand, and—so entwined—peaceful sleep came easily.
Now, in front of us that afternoon, a permanent peace had come as easily. Her husband had found his final rest, and, at her advanced age, she was likely to join him soon in a place where their souls would be permanently entwined.
As I looked at them, it occurred to me that while I had seen the pageantry of many formal weddings, it was rare to see the beauty I was witnessing here. This was the final fulfillment of vows taken by a couple that meant what they said when they promised “for better or for worse, ’til death do us part.” The marriage that had begun with this vow had been fulfilled with the keeping of it.
Well, everything my wife and I own, from Tinker Toys to washing machines, is in a truck making its way down Interstate 5 toward Sacramento. And somewhere wedged between a dresser and a washing machine is an old queen-sized bed.
It will be our own nightly meeting place for years to come.
Norris Burkes
R
eal love stories never have endings.
Richard Bach
Claire was ninety-three years old when I met her several years ago. I had recently gotten married and our conversation quickly turned to the wonders of love. Her face broke into an enormous smile and her eyes began to sparkle as she told me about her husband, Harold, now gone from this world.
“He was the perfect man and treated me like a queen,” she told me, looking off in the distance, reliving a memory. “He’s gone now, but that’s all right. Part of life is accepting that it doesn’t go on forever. And I’ll be with him again, someday.”
“I’m sorry he passed,” I said, showing my respect and hoping I didn’t bring back painful memories of his death. But Claire waved my sympathies away.
“Oh, it’s been quite a while now. I definitely don’t need anyone feeling sorry about it,” she replied.
Her acceptance of her husband’s death intrigued me. I’ve met many elderly people who live in a state of depression or anger because of the loss of a spouse. But not Claire.
“How long has it been?” I asked.
“Almost sixty years,” she replied, her face still serene in memory.
“Sixty years? He must have been very young!” I said.
“Yes, yes he was. He was thirty-five. Had an accident at work. But it was quick, so he didn’t suffer. We had been married five years, and we had two babies. It was a rough time, but I always knew he was with me, so I made it through.”
“Did you ever remarry?” I couldn’t imagine being widowed at thirty-three, with two small children.
“Oh, no! Why would I ever do that? I had perfection! There was no need to look for anything else.”
I chose my words carefully. “Claire, I think it is incredible that you are so happy. I mean, five years? And you were left alone with two small children? A lot of women would be extremely bitter.”
With the wisdom only a woman in her nineties can give, Claire took my hand and looked into my eyes. “Honey, how could I possibly be bitter? At one time in my life, I had something that women search their entire lives for, and many never find. True love. I would have been happy with a single day, but I had it for five entire years! How could I be anything but thankful?”
Claire is now with her perfect man again, and I’ll never forget the smile she wore as she spoke of him on that day. It was the smile of a woman truly in love, love that survived death, love that survived decades.
I think of Claire’s words often, and they make me appreciate that true love is a very precious gift. One that we all search for, but not all of us are fortunate enough to receive. Although I hope that I can spend sixty years with my husband, I have to accept that I will get “until death do us part.” And whether that is for sixty years, or just one day, how can I be anything but thankful?
Kelly Gamble
Over the years, my grandparents’ house became a tribute of their lives together. On the tranquil days I spent visiting them each summer, I would walk from room to room reading the plaques and decorations commemorating their wedding anniversaries—silver, gold and beyond.
I studied the pictures invariably showing my grandparents sitting side by side, smiling broadly, surrounded by their seven children. Styles of glasses and clothes changed, hair grew gray and thin, but the smiles never faded.
For sixty-seven years they worked on their memorial until my grandfather died at the age of ninety-one. Shortly after, unable to live in the house that held so many memories, my grandmother moved into a seniors’ home.
Aunts shouldered the task of closing the house and dividing personal items among children and grandchildren. Everyone would have memories of the house and the people that had been so precious to us.
I received my portion of the mementos shortly after my new husband and I moved into our own house. A tablecloth and an apron reminded me of time spent in the kitchen and photographs conjured up thoughts of golden summer days.
But one item seemed a peculiar choice: a wall plate, rimmed with yellow roses, celebrating my grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. I was at a loss; it belonged on my grandparents’ wall, not mine. But to pack it away belittled its worth as a keepsake.
As I considered this, I began to think about the plate not as a familiar decoration but as a representation of a promise kept.
My grandparents had made a pledge and honored it— through births and deaths of children, through long days and nights apart when Granddad worked for the railroad . . . and through the growing interdependence of old age, surgeries, long recoveries, and one last illness. All those years, they kept a promise made to each other when they were young and had no idea what they would be facing.
The plate was . . . a trophy. A trophy won after fifty years of loving enough to stick with it.
I hung it on the wall of our bedroom in tribute to my grandparents—who did a remarkable thing in their unremarkable way—and as a goal for my husband and me.
Someday, we will earn the trophy for ourselves.
Daphne Dykeman
L
ove at first sight is easy to understand; it’s when two people have been looking at each other for a lifetime that it becomes a miracle.
Amy Bloom
I have a friend who is falling in love.
She claims the sky is bluer, she’s lost fifteen pounds and she looks like a cover girl. “I’m young again!” she shouts exuberantly.
As my friend raves on about her new love, I take a good look at my old one. My husband of almost twenty years, Scott, has gained fifteen pounds. His hairline is receding and his body shows the signs of working long hours and eating too many candy bars. Yet he can still give me a certain look across a restaurant table that makes me want to ask for the check and hurry home.
And then my friend asks, “What will make our love last?”
I run through all the obvious reasons: commitment, shared interests, unselfishness, physical attraction and communication. Yet there’s more.
There is spontaneity.
After slipping the rubber band off the rolled newspaper, Scott shot it playfully at me and started an all-out war. At the grocery store, we split the list and raced to see who could make it to the checkout first.
There are surprises.
I came home to find a note on the front door—leading me to another note, then another, until I reached the walk-in closet where I found Scott holding a “pot of gold” (my cooking kettle) filled with the “treasure” of a gift package. In return, I’ve left notes on the mirror and presents under his pillow.
There is understanding.
I understand why he must play basketball with the guys. He understands why, once a year, I must get away from the house, the kids—even him—to “play” with my sisters.
There is sharing.
Household worries, parental burdens, even ideas—we share them all. Scott came home from a convention and presented me with a thick historical novel. Although he prefers thrillers and sci-fi, he read it on the plane because he wanted to be able to exchange ideas after I’d read it.
There is forgiveness.
When I’m embarrassingly loud and crazy at parties, Scott forgives me. When he confesses losing some of our savings in the stock market, I give him a hug and say, “It’s okay. It’s only money.”
There is sensitivity.
Scott walked through the door with an it’s-been-a-tough-day look. He wept as he described a stroke victim and her husband caressing her hand. How was he going to tell this man his wife would probably not recover? I shed a few tears myself . . . because my husband is still moved after years of hospital rooms and dying patients.
There is faith.
One week I listened to the heartache of friends coping with cancer, divorce, aging parents and death. But I also noticed the boisterous blossoms of gladioli outside my window, the laughter of my son and the cheerful sight of a wedding party emerging from a neighbor’s house. I described it all; Scott listened. And we helped each other acknowledge the cycles of life and joys that counter the sorrows. It was enough to keep us going.
Finally, there is knowing.
I know Scott will throw his laundry just shy of the hamper every night, he’ll be late to most appointments and he’ll eat the last chocolate in the box. Scott knows I sleep with a pillow over my head, I’ll lock us out of the house regularly and I’ll eat the last chocolate if I find it first. I guess our love endures because it is comfortable.
So, no, my friend. With a lasting love, the sky is not bluer: It’s just a familiar hue. And the two of us don’t feel particularly young: we’ve experienced too much that has contributed to our growth and wisdom. It’s taken a toll on our bodies, yet created our memories.
But, to my way of thinking,
that’s
what makes love last.
Annette Paxman Bowen
Many of the stories and poems you have read in this book were submitted by readers like you who had read earlier
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In the spirit of helping families and individuals in need, a portion of the proceeds from
Chicken Soup for the Bride’s Soul
will support the following organization.
Share Our Selves (SOS)
was founded in 1970 by a generation of visionary individuals who believed that in doing the ordinary they could create the extraordinary. The founders began caring for the poor in simple acts of kindness, responding to the conditions of poverty, and providing advocacy for change to create a sense of mercy and justice in community.
Today, with over 450 volunteers, SOS is the largest emergency-relief agency giving out direct aid in financial assistance, food, resources and referrals in Orange County, California. SOS has also established the only free comprehensive chronic-care program and adult dental clinic to the homeless, working poor and unemployed residents.
The daily service offered by the 450-plus volunteers is an inspiration—each one touching a client or patient and making a positive, often life-changing difference to that individual or that family. The volunteers serving in emergency services keep families in their homes by providing food and necessary resources. The clinics teach parents how to care for sick children, provide medications for critically ill patients and excellent care for dealing with injuries and illnesses for those who have nowhere else to turn for medical or dental care.
SOS community response to one another is truly a legacy. To learn more about this organization, contact:
Share Our Selves
1550 Superior Avenue
Costa Mesa, CA 92627
(949) 642-3451
(949) 642-7885 fax
www.shareourselves.org
Jack Canfield is one of America’s leading experts in the development of human potential and personal effectiveness. He is both a dynamic, entertaining speaker and a highly sought-after trainer. Jack has a wonderful ability to inform and inspire audiences toward increased levels of self-esteem and peak performance.