Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul (4 page)

We entertained the idea of holding the nuptials in the hospital chapel, a suggestion from my childhood pastor who had driven 300 miles to officiate. But I so wanted to share my joyous day with family and friends, many who lived miles away.

Why me?
I thought.
What did I do to deserve having my special day ripped from me?

Suddenly the details of reception centerpieces and invitation designs, which had seemed so monumental during the planning stages, were now so trivial. Why had I spent hours and hours poring over what color ribbons to use on those darn bubbles?

Now, what was important was having my life, my fiancé by my side and a future of memories to make. I had a new perspective on the importance of marriage. We were already living the “for worse” before even exchanging vows. I knew this was a test of love—and we would pass it.

Despite the doctors’ predictions, within a month I was walking without a walker. I had renewed energy and purpose: I was determined to walk down the aisle and marry the man who had bathed, fed and comforted me through weeks of physical and emotional agony.

Three months after my accident, I sat in the bride’s room of St. Mary’s Chapel embracing the thrill of my wedding day. Yates and I would finally become one.

A torrential downpour shrouded the chapel, accompanied by soft, rumbling thunder. I smiled to myself and thought,
God is shedding His tears of joy and expressing His voice of approval of our marriage.

The emotional and physical scars I still endured were constant reminders of my mortality. I was fortunate. My experience provided a self-discovery I might otherwise never have known: I realized a perfect wedding day does not a perfect marriage make. But the strength of love between two people can make every day perfect.

Ariana Adams

Roses Not Required

L
ove one another and you will be happy. It’s as simple and as difficult as that.

Michael Leunig

My husband and I still chuckle over the memory of a summer afternoon when our two sons were small. After noticing they were busy playing LEGO, we seized the opportunity to escape to our bedroom and lock the door.

Suddenly, we heard talking right outside our bedroom. The boys must have needed us for something. With bed sheets in a flurry, we immediately ceased all activity and listened quietly, but intently.

I’m sure a small hand was raised, ready to knock on our door when our nine-year-old intervened with the now infamous words to his little brother, “Don’t even think about it. They’re having a private time.” Complete silence descended, and then a hushed discussion gradually faded down the hall. Recapturing the ambience was impossible; we were laughing too hard.

My husband and I will be celebrating our twentieth wedding anniversary, and I still can’t wait for him to come home at the end of each day. There’s a sweet warmth of completeness that surges through me. The boys feel it too. “Dad’s home!” they often announce when they hear his truck pull in the driveway.

Little did I realize as a young naive bride so many years ago that the threads of our beginnings would weave together the sumptuous tapestry of a beautiful marriage.

The way my husband looks for me when we’re separated at a gathering, the feel of his hands on my shoulders as he massages away the aches, the sight of his wedding ring on his finger, my morning cup of coffee made just the way I like it are all simple yet priceless things.

Against all logic, the magic has deepened. There’s adoration in his eyes, intimacy in his voice and a knowledge in his touch that fills me with the desire to reciprocate. Loss, grief, times of growth and change, disagreements and uncertainties have reinforced our marriage with strong resiliency. I can think of no greater gift to our children.

With busy schedules, a night out together is rare and cherished now more than when we were dating. Holding hands in the dark at a Tuesday night movie and sharing a purse full of smuggled-in chocolate bars and chips fills me with a fluttery delight.

This is the source from which real romance springs. I don’t subscribe to the stuff of soap operas or steamy novels. I don’t accept there’s such a thing as “falling out of love.” I believe in the beauty of sacrifice, the wonder of loyalty and the joy of trust. I believe in promises. I believe in forever. These are the stars my husband and I see in each other’s eyes.
Roses not required.

Rachel Wallace-Oberle

A Change of Heart

The heart that loves is always young.

Greek Proverb

Grandma got Grandpa out of bed and helped him to the kitchen for breakfast. After his meal, she led him to his armchair in the living room where he would rest while she cleaned the dishes. Every so often, she would check to see if he needed anything.

This was their daily routine after Grandpa’s latest stroke.

Although once a very active man, his severely damaged left arm, difficulty walking and slurred speech now kept him housebound. For nearly a year he hadn’t even been to church or to visit family.

Grandpa filled his hours with television. He watched the news and game shows while Grandma went about her day. They made a pact—he was not to leave his chair or his bed without her assistance.

“If you fell and I threw my back out trying to help you, who would take care of us?” Grandma would ask him. She was adamant about their taking care of themselves and living independently. The Brooklyn brownstone had been their first home and held wonderful memories. They weren’t ready to leave it behind anytime soon.

Immigrants from Ireland, they met and married in America. Grandma was friendly, outgoing and unselfish; Grandpa was reserved, a man devoted to his family. But he wasn’t big on giving gifts. While he wouldn’t think twice about giving my grandma the shirt off his back, he subscribed to the belief that if you treated your wife well throughout the year, presents weren’t necessary; so he rarely purchased gifts for her.

This had been a sore point in the early days of their marriage. But as years passed, Grandma realized what a good man he was. And, after all, anything she wanted she was free to buy herself.

It was a cold, gray February morning, a typical winter day in New York. As always, Grandma walked Grandpa to his chair.

“I’m going to take a shower now.” She handed him the television remote. “If you need anything, I’ll be back in a little while.”

After her shower, she glanced towards the back of Grandpa’s recliner but noticed that his cane was not leaning in its usual spot. Sensing something odd, she walked toward the recliner. He was gone. The closet door stood open and his hat and overcoat were missing. Fear ran down her spine.

Grandma threw a coat over her bathrobe and ran outside. He couldn’t have gotten far; he could barely walk on his own.

Desperately, she scanned the block in both directions. Small mounds of snow and ice coated the sidewalks. Walking safely would be difficult for people who were steady on their feet, much less someone in Grandpa’s condition.

Where could he be? Why would he leave the house all by himself?

Wringing her hands, she hardly felt the frigid air as she watched traffic rush by. She recalled overhearing him tell one of their grandchildren recently that he felt he was a “burden.” Until this last year, he had been strong and healthy; now he couldn’t even perform the simplest of tasks.

As she stood alone on the street corner, guilt flooded her.

Just then, Grandpa walked around the bend of the corner. Head bowed, eyes focused on the sidewalk, he took small, cautious steps. His overcoat barely draped the shoulder of his bad arm; his cane and a package filled his good arm.

Desperate to reach him, Grandma raced down the block. Relieved to see that he was okay, she started to scold.

“I only left you alone for a short while. What did you need so badly that couldn’t wait? I was so worried about you! What on earth was so important?”

Confused and curious, she reached into the brown bag. Before Grandpa had a chance to explain, she pulled out a heart-shaped box.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Grandpa explained. “I thought you might like a box of chocolates.”

A gift? All this worry for . . . candy?

“I haven’t bought you a gift in a long, long time.” His stroke-impaired words warmed the winter wind.

Tears flooded Grandma’s eyes as she hugged his arm to her chest and led Grandpa back home. She shook her head slowly.

It just goes to show,
she thought,
it’s never too late for romance.

Denise Jacoby

Dancing in the Aisles

L
ove is the true means by which the world is enjoyed.

Thomas Traherne

Money was a precious commodity and time together even more scarce in the early years of our nearly two-decade marriage.

My husband, Michael, and I juggled opposite work schedules and shared household duties, savoring one another’s company in the still hours of the night when the world became our private playground.

While most people were settling in for the night, we were eagerly venturing from our modest three-room apartment to gather treasured memories of hilarious tennis matches in the dark, long and contemplative walks under the glow of streetlights, lazy swims under twinkling stars, or friendly rounds of miniature golf at a nearby twenty-four hour course. Our wonderful, spontaneous excursions took the sting out of the endless hours we spent apart.

Although we discovered many creative and inexpensive ways to enjoy our limited time together, there was one place we returned to again and again. By far, our most cherished date was dancing in the aisles of the supermarket. On many evenings, long after midnight and in the calm of an all-night grocery store, we would sway gracefully to the melodies flowing from the overhead Muzak that filled the empty aisles.

Oblivious to other nocturnal shoppers and store personnel, we sashayed down one lane and up another in a tender and playful embrace, filling our shopping cart with necessities and our hearts with romance.

In those innocent days of twirling among cabbages and oranges, boxes of Jell-O and cartons of milk, we unwittingly defined our relationship and set the tone for our future together.

Amid pot roasts and canned vegetables, we learned to mingle the mundane with the eternal, accepting our challenges and successes while staying focused on each other and the love that brought us together in the first place. Surrounded by bags of chips and sponge mops, we became best friends, ready to respond to life’s triumphs and tragedies.

Adversity inevitably finds its way to every home, and ours was no exception. In our modest eighteen years of marriage, we suffered the discouragement of infertility, the worry of illness and the loneliness of rejection. We endured the fearful frustration of unemployment, the weariness of unexpected debt, the agony of miscarriage and stillbirths.

While every couple must find its own way to face the difficult times and still protect the romance, for us the answer is a simple one: We’ve never stopped dancing in the aisles. Almost every time we go to the store, in good times or bad, in sickness or health, in depression or joy, madly in love or feeling wounded by the other, we dance together.

We have learned to feel safe with one another. To trust and go with the flow—of dance and of life. To make everything an adventure. To find joy whatever the circumstances.

We have learned to count our blessings and prepare for our future. To marvel at the miracle of birth and the joy of parenting. To understand the power of prayer and righteous living. To share hopes and dreams.

We appreciate these major life experiences because we never forget how to have fun and laugh a little along the way. Midnight waltzes have given way to sometimes chaotic Saturday family shopping trips; his hair is now more gray than chestnut-colored, and my girlish figure is well padded. Money remains a precious commodity, and time together is scarcer than ever.

Hand-in-hand we continue to dance the dance of daily life with the same beauty and enthusiasm as those days of sweet innocence. Maybe even more so. You see, we have come to understand the wisdom that longtime dance partners already know.

The longer you dance together, the better it is.

Amanda Krug

The Porsche Factor

I held my ring under the light and watched it sparkle. Newly-married life was as bright as my new diamond . . . except for one nagging shadow of doubt. The Porsche factor, I called it secretly. Yes, my new husband actually owned one of those sleek, red cars that belonged in a James Bond movie.

The Porsche was a constant reminder of the different worlds we came from. His family belonged to a country club, donated generously to charities and took exotic vacations. My family struggled to make ends meet. We shopped at thrift stores, cut coupons and took public transportation.

Rich people seem to care so much about stuff,
I thought. After the honeymoon was really over, would my husband love me more than his stuff? If only there was some way to be sure.

On his first morning back to work, he handed me his keys. “I’ll take the bus,” he said. “You drive the car.”