Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  “What a tough break,” she said. “But I’ve got a suggestion. If your heart isn’t set on that white street dress, I could credit what you’ve put down to the lovely bridesmaid’s dress your friend is holding for you to wear in her September wedding.”

  The bridesmaid dress would cost only $30 dollars that way. Plus, I’d be set for my friend’s wedding, too. It made sense then. And the bridesmaid’s dress was beautiful.

  But, now, as I laid out the green dress, I felt a twinge of sadness at not wearing white—the traditional symbol of purity I deserved and wanted to wear. Logically I told myself the color of my wedding dress wasn’t important.

  Besides, I thought ruefully, few will be at the wedding anyway to see me in it, so why feel sad?

  As I showered and dressed, my head argued that the green was all right, but my heart was unconvinced.

  Glancing in the mirror, all I could see was a bridesmaid, not a bride. Sighing, I took a last look at the white Easter pumps I’d polished and started downstairs to the refrigerator for the nosegay of rosebuds to carry on my nursing Bible. Just then the phone rang.

  “Child, I know it’s asking a big favor,” Sister Tabitha said in her heavy accent. “But word has spread through the ward about your wedding today. The patients want me to ask if you might visit in your gown before you go to the church.”

  I glanced at the clock. I’d really be cutting it close. And in this green bridesmaid’s dress? Ugh! On the other hand, many of Three North’s patients were terminal and I really loved them.

  “Of course, Sister,” I heard myself say. “I’ll be right there.”

  I grabbed my purse and white Bible. Then I ran downstairs and got the yellow rosebuds. Once in the parking lot between the nurses’ residence and the hospital, I dodged puddles from an earlier afternoon shower. Gathering the yards of ankle-length green taffeta to my knees, I ran across the lot amid honking and cheering from passing motorists.

  Short, plump Sister Tabitha met me when the elevator door opened. “Oh, you look so lovely! The patients need to see you,” she said. “So close to death, they need to feel a vital part of life that a wedding is. Now, don’t worry child, I’ll call a cab for you. Just tell me what time they should pick you up and I’ll be sure you’re downstairs then.”

  She trotted beside me in her white starched habit as I went from room to room.

  Trying not to worry about time, I went to each patient and chatted for a few seconds. I was amazed at how their eyes, dulled from the pain of terminal cancer, suddenly brightened when I swished through the door in taffeta and netting.

  No one cared that the dress was green.

  No one noticed it was intended for a bridesmaid.

  Over and over they called me “such a beautiful bride” and asked me questions about my fiancé. As I told them about the wonderful man I was marrying, I felt my own eyes shine. Before I left, I hugged each fragile patient and kissed each feverish cheek.

  And I walked away from Three North in my lovely— green—wedding gown.

  Jeanne Hill

  Holding It All Together

  Because I was an accomplished seamstress, I decided to design and sew my own wedding gown.

  Perusing pattern catalogs and fabric selections, I opted for a sleeveless dress of white crepe with a long-sleeved, full-length coat of lace. Meticulously, I figured out every last detail before cutting into the fabric. I did the sewing in spare moments between college classes, studying, working part-time and spending hours with my beloved fiancé.

  In the 1970s, it was customary to sit for a bridal portrait in wedding finery several weeks before the wedding. This photograph would be sent to the local newspaper to appear in the society pages on the Sunday morning following the wedding.

  But when the date for my appointment arrived, the lace coat of my wedding dress was still under construction, with only the bodice complete. The understanding photographer carefully framed only head-and-shoulder shots— to avoid including the ragged edges along the bottom of the lace bodice. No one looking at the portrait would ever know I wore only three-quarters of a wedding gown.

  In the following weeks, the coat came together. But I couldn’t decide how to attach the lace train to the back of the dress. Wanting to get the full effect while trying it on, I pinned the back section of the skirt and bodice together. Pleased with my efforts, I continued the finishing touches on the gown.

  The remaining pre-wedding days passed in a flurry of last-minute details, appointments, rehearsal and packing. Then the big day dawned, and preparations consumed the morning and early afternoon. When the church sanctuary and reception hall were ready for guests, I went to a church classroom to dress.

  I was astonished to discover my dress still pinned together in back. I couldn’t believe it! I had forgotten to finish the most important dress I would ever wear. Feeling panicked, I stopped for a second and thought about it. Then I managed to laugh, realizing the wedding guests would be oblivious to the fact that I was held together with pins. No one was the wiser when I walked down the aisle in my unfinished creation.

  After the wedding, I packed my dress away. Twenty-eight years later, as I prepared to transform it into family heirlooms for my daughters’ weddings, I examined the dress more carefully. There in the back were those familiar pins . . . I had still never finished my dress.

  I was stirred by the thought that even though my wedding dress had been held temporarily with pins, the marriage had been secure and lasting. The dress was just an accessory and only had to hold together for several hours. But the most significant element of the day—the commitment I shared with my bridegroom—had endured almost three decades of better and worse, richer and poorer, sickness and health.

  Clearly, no pins were required.

  Adele Noetzelman

  Tagged for Delivery

  Somewhere, Samantha knew, there must be a young woman crying her eyes out. One of the boxes taken off the moving truck contained a wedding gown Samantha had never before laid eyes on. Great care had been taken to preserve it, judging from the sturdy white storage box and tissue paper. Sam’s name and address were on the box, but someone from the moving company had made a terrible mistake.

  It was a vintage dress—Sam estimated the 1930’s era— about size 3, with an overlay jacket and intricate beadwork. Was it an heirloom? Passed down to the bride by her grandmother? Samantha worried someone had lost a cherished family treasure.

  She made phone calls to the moving company requesting information to help her find the owner, but they refused to cooperate. Discouraged, she gave up the search.

  Over the years, Sam was offered money for the antique dress but always refused. Something about the gown defied explanation. To her romantic mind, she only knew that sometime a young woman was destined to wear this dress, marry a handsome prince and live happily ever after.

  Time flew, but for Sam and her family, life was anything but a fairy tale. Her husband lost his job and they decided to relocate. To save money, they planned to move themselves this time, but the rental trailer was small and could hold only necessities.

  I offered to hold a moving sale for Sam and began by bringing her tables and clothes racks from my home. As we sorted and tagged items, I came across the wedding dress and listened while Sam explained its mysterious past.

  “I wish I could have found the rightful owner,” Sam sighed. “Now it looks like a stranger or a dealer will get it.”

  Reluctantly, I placed a $70 price tag on the gown, and Sam hung it next to the other clothes. When we finished marking all the items, Samantha suddenly remembered she had a large patio set in the back yard. My family needed patio furniture, so I put $90 into the cash box and bought it sight unseen.

  The next morning sales were brisk. As the day wore on, however, we lowered prices in an effort to move the merchandise more quickly . . . and regretfully reduced the dress to $45. At the end of the day, the wedding gown still hung on the rack. Except for a man who’d said he’
d mention it to his daughter, no one seemed interested.

  Perhaps tomorrow we’ll have better luck, I thought. We moved everything back into the garage, closing and locking the doors behind us.

  While loading the patio set into my van, we discovered the umbrella and stand were weathered and rotted.

  “Samantha,” I suggested, “instead of refunding me half of the money I spent for the patio furniture, would you consider giving me the wedding dress instead, and calling it even? I have a sister I’d like to give the dress to.”

  “What would she do with it?”

  “She has antiques throughout her house. She’d display the gown.”

  Samantha smiled. It wasn’t the fairy-tale ending she envisioned, but somehow it seemed right. “You have a deal,” she said.

  While Sam was at work the next morning, I carefully removed the dress from the rack and put it in the house before the crowds arrived. About an hour before the end of the sale, the man from the previous day suddenly appeared with his daughter.

  “I’m sorry,” I explained. “The dress is no longer for sale.”

  The young woman’s face fell even as I noted that, just like the heirloom gown, she was tiny and petite. I looked into her eyes, and knew I couldn’t disappoint her.

  “Come with me.” I led her into the house.

  The dress fit her perfectly; she would be a stunning bride. Her father must have thought so too. He handed me a $100 bill and told me to keep the change.

  “No,” I protested. “I can’t do that. It’s right your daughter should own the dress. It almost could’ve been made with her in mind.”

  “I want you to take this,” he insisted. “Please.” He looked me squarely in the eye. “It is really amazing that we found this dress. She searched months for one like it, even looking in shops along the east coast, without any luck until today.”

  Now her search had ended.

  I took $45 for myself, and left the rest in the till.

  That night, I told Samantha about the bride, how stunning she looked and what her father had said. Misty-eyed and always the romantic, Sam drank in every word. The well-preserved dress had traveled many miles, but now its journey was over and she finally had the fairy-tale ending she always wanted.

  At last the homeless vintage gown had reached its destination.

  Pat Phillips

  The Blessed Dress

  Believe in fate, but lean forward where fate can see you.

  Quentin Crisp

  I got an engagement ring for Christmas. My boyfriend and I had been dating for almost a year and both felt the time was right to join our lives together in holy matrimony.

  The month of January was spent planning our perfect Alabama June wedding. My mother, two sisters and I went to Huntsville, the closest town with a selection of bridal shops, to buy the gown that would play the leading role on my special occasion.

  We had a wonderful time just being together and sharing silly jokes, but the day soon turned serious by afternoon: still no sign of the dress of my dreams. Both sisters were ready to give up and try another day in another town, but I coerced them into one more boutique.

  I had a good feeling as we entered the quaint little shop filled with the scent of fresh flowers. The elderly clerk showed us several beautiful gowns in my size and price range, but none were right. As I opened the door to leave, the desperate shop owner announced she had one more dress in the back that was expensive and not even my size, but perhaps I might want to look at it anyway. When she brought it out, I squealed in delight.

  This was it!

  I rushed to the dressing room and slipped it on. Even though it was at least two sizes too large and more costly than I had anticipated, I talked Mom into buying it. The shop was so small it didn’t offer alterations, but my excitement assured me I would be able to get it resized in my hometown.

  Excitement wasn’t enough. On Monday morning, my world crumbled when the local sewing shop informed me the dress simply could not be altered because of numerous hand-sewn pearls and sequins on the bodice. I called the boutique for suggestions but only got their answering machine.

  A friend gave me the number of a lady across town who worked at home doing alterations. I was desperate and willing to try anything, so I decided to give her a call.

  When I arrived at her modest white house on the outskirts of town, she carefully inspected my dress and asked me to try it on. She put a handful of pins into the shoulders and sides of my gown and told me to pick it up in two days. She was the answer to my prayers.

  When the time came to pick it up, however, I grew skeptical. How could I have been so foolish as to just leave a $1,200 wedding dress in the hands of someone I barely knew? What if she made a mess out of it? I had no idea if she could even sew on a button.

  Thank goodness my fears were all for naught. The dress still looked exactly the same, but it now fit as if it had been made especially for me. I thanked the cheerful lady and paid her modest fee.

  One small problem solved just in time for a bigger one to emerge. On Valentine’s Day, my fiancé called.

  “Sandy, I’ve come to the decision that I’m not ready to get married,” he announced, none too gently. “I want to travel and experience life for a few years before settling down.”

  He apologized for the inconvenience of leaving all the wedding cancellations to me and then quickly left town.

  My world turned upside down. I was angry and heartbroken and had no idea how to recover. But days flew into weeks and weeks blended into months. I survived.

  One day in the fall of the same year, while standing in line at the supermarket, I heard someone calling my name. I turned around to see the alterations lady. She politely inquired about my wedding, and was shocked to discover it had been called off, but agreed it was probably for the best.

  I thanked her again for adjusting my wedding gown, and assured her it was safely bagged and awaiting the day I would wear it down the aisle on the arm of my real “Mister Right.” With a sparkle in her eye, she began telling me about her single son, Tim. Even though I wasn’t interested in dating again, I let her talk me into meeting him.

  I did have my summer wedding after all, only a year later. And I did get to wear the dress of my dreams— standing beside Tim, the man I have shared the last eighteen years of my life with, whom I would never have met without that special wedding gown.

  Sandy Williams Driver

  Keepin’ the Faith

  Hope deferred makes the heart sick; but when dreams come true at last, there is life and joy.

  Prov. 13

  I always thought of the bridal gown as an extension of the bride.

  It declares what kind of woman she is. It should knock the socks off of her groom, dazzle the audience and make the bride feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. It has to be perfect.

  The dress shopping was to be all about me, the bride. After all, it was going to be my big day. However, I found that while I focused on myself, the strain blinded me from a bigger reality.

  At first, the hunt was exciting. I spent hours trying on different styles. But as time wore on, nothing seemed right. No dress measured up. Could I settle for second best? The threatening thought nearly brought me to tears.

  One Saturday afternoon, my mom asked if I wanted to shop. By this time, I was so disenchanted I wanted to stay home. Nevertheless, I went.

  A bride on a budget, I dutifully stayed away from the more expensive, designer boutiques. Yet, we decided to enter one particular shop and look for sales. I chose three dresses. The first two were unsuitable. Donning the third, I walked out of the dressing room and approached the three-way mirror.

  I blushed. My heart raced. I felt stunning.

  I posed, preened and pranced, all the while picturing myself walking down the aisle. I was beautiful, confident, dazzling. This was The One.

  I dared to look at the price tag—ugh! But there was a reason for its costliness. Duchess silk. Hand-sewn beadwor
k. Perfection.

  Thoughts of “settling” crept back into my mind.

  My mom shared my distress but wasn’t ready to give up hope. She asked the owner if she would give us a price break since the dress was a display model. No luck. The next words, however, were unexpected.

  “This particular dress will be $200 on our one-day sale a month from now,” she said. “But, if it sells between now and then, or if someone gets here before you on the sale day and buys it, then you will lose the dress.”

  A price cut of $1,500? Was it possible? Could the dress last a month?

  I fretted all the way home, imagining every possible scenario. Should I have different people call the shop and put the dress on hold for an entire month? Maybe I should’ve hidden it on a back rack? If it sold, could I plead with the new owner?

  Could it last a month? Could I?

  After explaining the situation to my dad, he and my mom agreed that it was the dress for me. We needed faith to believe it would still be there. We decided there was only one thing to do—pray.

  Our wedding dress story spread. My church congregation prayed. My colleagues prayed. My parents’ friends, whom I had never met, prayed. My fiancé, who was living in Scotland, had his friends pray. My high school students loved the story and faithfully asked about it. Some told their parents and they prayed.

  My father prayed that if anyone else tried on the dress, it would look ugly or make her itch. My three brothers offered to guard the dress with baseball bats. (I didn’t take them up on this.)

  More and more people became excited, nervous, anxious and delighted over the gown. I shared the faith of my growing supporters, but there were times when it seemed grim. When I wavered, someone assured me the dress would be there.

  I realized a wedding, and the joy that accompanies it, is about more than just the bride and groom.

  The day before the sale arrived. Petrified, I called once more to check on the dress.