Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul (28 page)

Midway through our wedding reception, I found myself breathless and happy, chatting with friends and juggling a full champagne glass and my flowers. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see a woman I had met only briefly, a friend of my new mother-in-law. In her hand, she held a tendril of ivy.

“This fell out of your bouquet when you were on the dance floor,” she said. I thanked her and began to reach for it, when she added, “Do you mind if I keep it?”

I was startled at first. I hadn’t even tossed my bouquet yet. And I barely knew this woman. What did she want with my ivy?

But then practicality kicked in. I was leaving on my honeymoon in the morning and certainly wouldn’t take the bouquet along. I had no plans for preserving it. And I’d been given so much today.

“Go ahead. Keep it,” I said with a smile, and congratulated myself for being gracious in the face of a rather odd request. Then the music started up, and I danced off in the crowd.

A few months later, the bell rang at our new home. I opened the door to find that same stranger on my porch. This time, I couldn’t hide my surprise. I hadn’t seen her since the wedding. What was this all about?

“I have a wedding gift for you,” she said, and held out a small planter crowded with foliage. Suddenly, I knew. “It’s the ivy you dropped at your wedding,” she explained. “I took it home and made a cutting and planted it for you.”

Years ago, at her own wedding, someone had done the same for her. “It’s still growing, and I remember my wedding day every time I see it,” she said. “Now, I try to plant some for other brides when I can.”

I was speechless. All the quirky thoughts I’d had, and what a beautiful gift I’d received!

My wedding ivy has thrived for many years, outliving any other effort I made at indoor gardening. As the giver predicted, a glance at the glossy green leaves brings back memories of white lace and wedding vows. I treasure the ivy’s story and have shared it many times.

Now, nearly twenty years later, I’m the mother of three growing sons. Someday they’ll be married, I know. And although I don’t want to be an interfering in-law, surely the mother of the groom can suggest that the bride’s bouquet contain a bit of ivy?

I know just the plant to cut it from.

Carol Sturgulewski

Keeping the Tradition

W
e cannot really love anybody with whom we never laugh.

Agnes Repplier

The year was 1972. Noel and I had just gotten married in southern California and were traveling—by car—to our new life together in Pennsylvania. My in-laws offered to pack the top layer of the wedding cake in dry ice and mail it after we got settled in our attic apartment.

Sure enough, a few weeks later the package arrived. We eagerly unpacked it and placed it in our “freezer,” a small metal box mounted inside the back of the refrigerator. The cake filled the entire compartment. Now we had a serious choice to make.

After some thought, a little deliberation, and a lot of conversation, we decided to forfeit ice cube trays and ice cream for the next twelve months—in honor of tradition. It was a big price to pay, but eating the cake top on our first anniversary would make it worthwhile.

One year later our anniversary arrived. I gently removed the package from the freezer and was relieved to see that our perfectly preserved top layer looked as fresh as it had on our wedding day. I made a nice dinner while it defrosted and Noel prepared for our celebration. When the meal was over, I ceremoniously handed the cake knife to Noel and asked him to do the honors and cut the first slice.

Noel pressed down on the knife.

“Something doesn’t feel right,” he said, pressing harder. We heard a strange noise, a squeaky crunch.

“Something doesn’t sound right.”

What was wrong with the cake? Noel slid the small piece onto a dessert plate. We stared in disbelief, caught each other’s eyes, and burst out laughing.

Styrofoam! Our “cake” top was iced Styrofoam!

And, to think, for an entire year we had sacrificed cold drinks and frozen desserts in anticipation of this traditional event. After we finally quit chuckling, we raced straight to the store. Now we would
really
celebrate . . . by stocking the freezer with ice cube trays and our favorite ice cream.

Dr. Denise Enete

Showered with Love

C
reativity requires the courage to let go of certainties.

Erich Fromm

“Stacy, you are my rock, my one true friend who never judges me, is always there and loves me unconditionally.”

These were the words I wrote for my best friend at her wedding shower. It was my gift. In fact, it was everybody’s gift—written pieces of memories, stories, insights and prayers for Stacy’s future.

When Stacy asked me to be matron of honor, I was thrilled and couldn’t wait to host her shower. I had my own opinions of traditional wedding showers and had decided on a nontraditional one for myself. Although I stressed to her that her shower could be any way she wanted, I was happy when she told me she liked what I had done for mine and wanted hers the same.

Relief and elation danced harmoniously inside me; I couldn’t wait to give Stacy a wedding shower with meaning.

A few years ago, several months before my wedding, three dear family friends wanted to throw me a shower. I was both touched and panicked. Touched because these women had known me since infancy and panicked because I was at the beginning of what is now my full entry into the simple living movement—I didn’t want more stuff.

I thought long and hard about my quandary and went to the women with the idea of an alternative wedding shower.

Guests would be long-time friends and family. So, in place of a gift, I asked that they write a memory or story and read it at the shower. I knew this request would disturb some people. Write? And, read it out loud?

But, in the end, my belief that there’s a writer in all of us was proven true. The final creations included kind, sentimental and humorous words read about me, to me. It was one of the most meaningful days of my life and everything was put in a keepsake book that I cherish to this day.

Remembering my wonderful experience, I couldn’t wait for Stacy and her family and friends to experience the same. Stacy was showered with everything from handwritten words on plain paper to printed words on formal stationery. While I was pleased with my own piece, complete with blackmail pictures from our junior high days, the writings from Stacy’s mother and future mother-in-law were the most moving of the day.

An only adopted child, Stacy and her mother held a strong mother-daughter bond that grew even stronger when her father passed away a few years ago. Her mother’s memories—captured from the day she brought baby Stacy home to the present day—were something Stacy would treasure forever.

Her future mother-in-law brought tears to the room when she read a prayer written when her son was just seven years old. The prayer asked God to have her son’s future mate in His care and bless her with wonderful qualities complementary to her son’s. She concluded by sharing that God had not only answered her prayer, but had exceeded it.

Tissue boxes were passed as tears flowed and love filled the room. It was a touching shower. One filled with memories. I can’t wait to give Stacy her keepsake book, a gift no amount of money can buy.

Lisa Solomon

9
WELCOME TO
THE FAMILY

A
s we are married, our families are united, the generations blended—all in a beautiful celebration of life.

Dean Walley

Our First Meeting

W
hen you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

Harry to Sally in
When Harry Met Sally

As a college student in the ’70s, I belonged to a youth program called “Contact Canada,” whose purpose was to attract potential college immigrants to Canada. I was one of only four Americans in an international group of two hundred young adults who toured in teams to several provinces.

Along the way, I met a lovely Brit, and we became friends. But our three weeks quickly came to an end, and we returned home to our respective countries. Sue and I exchanged letters over the next year.

The following summer, she flew to California to stay with my folks and me for a month-long holiday. I was immediately entranced by this exciting woman and asked her to marry me after two short weeks. We consulted an immigration attorney, who recommended that we marry on U.S. soil to shorten the laborious green-card process. After six months, we could then have a formal church wedding.

With that, my best friend Joel, Sue and I drove to Reno for a one-day trip to tie the knot after a two-week engagement. We intentionally downplayed the ceremony, telling ourselves that this was only “for the government.” We had no rings, no formal attire, and of course, no honeymoon. Aside from being love struck, our official marriage in the U.S. would shorten her request for residency to months rather than years.

The following day, I reluctantly watched Sue board a Pan Am 747 through tear-filled eyes. I hid in a corner of the airport lounge to compose myself. We would be separated for one hundred and twelve days—a time in which I would receive a letter a day from my long-distance bride.

I didn’t have the courage to ask her how her parents handled the news that their only daughter was returning from a holiday married to an American. Somewhere in the hour drive between Heathrow and their home near Gatwick, she made the announcement. As much as I missed her, I’ll admit I was relieved to have missed that awkward moment. Especially telling her father.

Each day seemed like an eternity waiting for the end of my college semester. My flight to England was scheduled two hours after my last final at San Jose State, but even that wasn’t enough time. I would have to finish my three-hour test in only one hour. Nobody has ever whipped though an archeology final with such enthusiasm.

On the plane, I sat in my window seat in a complete daze. I was desperate to see Sue again and excited to stand before God and family to exchange vows in a real wedding.

But amidst the excitement, I was absolutely terrified—a nervous wreck, wondering what fate had in store for me when I finally met my
father-in-law
. After all, his daughter and I only dated a month before getting engaged for only two weeks. My worse crime, I was sure, was not properly asking him for her hand with European formality.

I pictured him basking in the same aura of anti-Americanism that was prevalent all over Europe in the mid-’70s. My stomach twisted and burned, and my excitement was waning as the fear grew.

After my plane landed, I found my luggage and stood in the long line at Immigration, in dread of
the meeting
. I prayed the drive to her family home would be quick and the impending explosion of anger even quicker.

As I cleared customs and entered the concourse, a sea of faces surrounded me. From the crowd, a gentleman broke free and raced towards me. Although I had not met her father yet, I knew who this man approaching me was. It was time. The long wait was over, and I was prepared for my fate.

He ran up to me, grabbed my hand and pumped it up and down in a warm handshake. His left hand slapped my shoulder as he said, “Thank God, lad. I thought she would never leave the house!”

And so began my relationship with a man that I’ve loved and respected for twenty-seven years. He’s given me the gift of his daughter, my best friend and soul mate. Unexpectedly, he also gave me his gift of acceptance.

David R. Wilkins

Ode to My Mother-in-Law

I
haven’t spoken to my mother-in-law for eighteen months. I don’t like to interrupt her!

Ken Dodd

A mother-in-law, the stories all say,
Is a thing to be feared by night or by day.
For you just never know when the man that you love
Will come out with the phrase
“Well, what my mother does . . .”

A mother-in-law is a fearsome thing.
But she’s part of the package
When you take her son’s ring.

She’s your husband’s mom—the woman who knows
How to bake lasagna and launder his clothes.
Her advice may be timely but not always loved
By the wife who must treat her with tender kid gloves.

Oh, a mother-in-law is a fearsome thing.
But she’s part of the package
When you take her son’s ring.
My husband is Randy; his mother is Rita
A woman who daily grows sweeter and sweeter.
She never butts in and she never takes note
Of the mess on my floors or pet hairs on her coat.
She’s come to be part of my circle of friends
And her love for my son, well, it just never ends.
A half-century of wisdom is hers to impart
I’ve learned from her words and take them to heart.

A mother-in-law is a wonderful thing.
She was the bow on the package
When I took her son’s ring.

V. J. Coulman