Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  It was April 21, 1970, my father’s birthday. A message received at my school office explained a family emergency. Someone was coming to take me home. No! I screamed silently.

  At the hospital, I held my mom’s hand, as she lay comatose. I begged her not to leave me. I still needed her. Dad needed her. The fear of loneliness took hold of my heart. My mind could not fathom life without her. Sobbing profusely, I told her, over and over again, how much I loved her. With so much nervous energy, I found myself fiddling with her tiny wedding band, now loosely hanging on her finger.

  My throat was thick with emotion as I thought of the thin golden symbol that represented the deep love and commitment she and my father had for one another. Now Mom lay there, motionless, connected to tubes and equipment. Suddenly, to my amazement, I felt her left hand squeeze my own, as if to tell me she loved me and to urge me to remember what matters most in life. She was saying goodbye.

  Later that evening, the phone rang. Dad answered and, after a long moment, tears welled in his eyes as he muttered weakly, “Oh, no . . . my Evey, no.”

  The rest of the night is a blur, except for the coldness of the air stinging my tear-stained face as I ran down the street screaming, “Mom, I need you Mom, come back!” I was sixteen years old. And I felt lost.

  At the memorial service, my brother Tom walked over to me and placed the ring of gold in my hand. He said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes.

  The days following the funeral were the hardest days of my life. Caring for my father, maintaining our home and focusing on school were all so difficult. Dad seemed lost, too. He missed his bride. He drank more. We both just did the best we could. I fiddled with the tiny gold band, rotating it repeatedly, reminding myself of the things that matter most—to love and be loved.

  My father and I moved from my childhood home to start a new life. Soon Dad began his own battle with cancer. I was holding his hand when he finally lost. He fumbled for my ring finger and, holding fast to that tiny wedding band, he breathed his last breath, as if saying to my Mom, “I promised till death do us part, but I meant forever and a day.”

  My father died on their wedding anniversary.

  That small ring of love has graced my finger for thirty-three years. It appears overshadowed beneath the beautiful diamond ring given to me by Mark, my high-school sweetheart, twenty-seven years ago. Yet, like its message from my past, it shines clear and bright.

  Love endures all things. Love never fails. Mom and Dad were not with me physically on my wedding day, or at the births of their grandchildren, and that saddens me. But they left me a priceless gift expressed through a band of gold. A circle of love that lives on forever.

  Ginger Boda

  Kitchen Cache

  It was a big step for Chet to give me free rein in his mother’s kitchen. After all, he had lived there with his parents for more than thirty years and was comfortable with the way things were.

  But, since his father died years earlier and his mother passed away months before we married, we chose to move into their fully furnished house. Although the cupboards and closets contained a lifetime of memories and possessions, we were eager to use the beautiful wedding gifts we had received—treasures that would make this family house our own unique home.

  I was particularly eager to tackle the kitchen—all twenty-four cabinets and drawers. Like other newlyweds, we had registered a favorite pattern of china; our lovely set of swirl-rimmed Regency White was unwrapped and ready to be put away.

  Chet was a trouper. He gave me free rein to make changes. Soon after the honeymoon, he devoted an entire Saturday to helping. We stretched. We strained. We cleaned. And cleaned. And cleaned.

  We loaded, ran and unloaded the dishwasher over and over. We ripped out and replaced sticky, aged shelf paper. We sorted the treasures we found. Things to discard; things to use; things to store.

  By early evening we were exhausted and tense. But we were determined now to complete the project and have everything cleaned and put away before we dragged ourselves into bed. We delved into the deepest, darkest, dustiest cabinet. We pulled out antique appliances, several serving pieces, and even a bulky bowl—grubby gray—with clumsy handles and a ladle protruding under the lid.

  Once again, we filled the dishwasher and turned it on for the umpteenth time. This would be our last load.

  After we ate and rested a bit, we headed back to the kitchen to finish. I pulled out the bottom rack of the dishwasher and unloaded the large, gray—

  No, it couldn’t be! The once gray bowl was now solid white. Delicate swirls edged the rim. I gingerly turned it over and read the bottom.

  “Regency White.”

  It was expensive. It was elegant. It was a two-handled soup tureen complete with matching lid and ladle. And it matched our wedding china.

  Where did it come from? Had it been a gift to Chet’s mother? Or did she special order it? How did it find its way to the secret depths of her kitchen? How long had it been there? Chet couldn’t recall ever seeing it before.

  To this day, the mystery remains unsolved. But we like to think it has special significance. Chet’s mother graced us with a lasting treasure from her “old” kitchen to our new one. A divine wedding gift that will always remind us of her love and her eternal presence in our hearts.

  Lucy Akard Seay

  A Tradition in the Waiting

  A promise made is a debt unpaid.

  Robert W. Service

  Tucked snugly in Gram’s bed, I watched Sunday morning dawn. I loved the way the light sidled in around her vinyl shades to dance with the weightless dust that floated in its path before falling, silently, upon Grandma’s braided rug. I could smell fried bologna and eggs and knew Gram would soon collect me for breakfast.

  I crawled out of the bed to explore.

  Across the room stood her dresser whose drawers, I knew, were full of cosmetics and perfumes and a jar of cold cream all mingling into the fragrant scent of Gram. But my attention focused on the unassuming jewelry box perched on top. Standing on tiptoe, I lifted it to the floor and knelt before it.

  As quietly as my clumsy young hands would allow, I slid the top off the box and worked my way through all the things I deemed less valuable: bangles and baubles; costume jewelry; an old photo of a much younger Pop on his Harley. . . . And then I found it—the small blue box that seemed to call to me on my Sunday morning visits.

  Despite its lackluster plastic facade, it contained the most beautiful ring I had ever seen. Reverently, I took the delicate circle from its nest of blue velour and slid it on my finger. Turning my hand this way and that, I admired its sparkle and pretended I was a bride.

  I counted the small, crudely cut diamonds surrounding the large solitaire. Eight little ones circled one big one. Nine diamonds that looked just like a crystal flower. My young eyes didn’t recognize the handcrafted workmanship. They didn’t appreciate the intricate filigree of the band. But I saw it was worn and very old, and I could almost hear it whisper romantic stories from the past.

  Gram found me gazing dreamily into her large mirror.

  To my surprise, she didn’t scold. Instead, she gathered me back to her bed.

  “Sweetheart,” she explained, “your grandfather gave me this ring as an engagement gift.”

  My eyes grew big. I knew it had a story. Listening intently as Gram continued, I reveled in the rosy glow of yesteryear.

  “It was a tradition in his family for generations. A father would pass this ring to his eldest son when he decided to marry. And he, in turn, would pass it to his firstborn son.”

  From son to eldest son. Wow. I knew the ring represented the past—our family’s past. It connected me backward through time to my ancestry and heritage. It told me something of who I was and who we were.

  But Gram wasn’t finished.

  “. . . However, your uncle seems quite content to remain a bachelor. So, I’ll make a deal with you.” She leaned closer and whispered, “If he’s still single by th
e time you get married, the ring is yours.”

  Mine!

  “Now if you don’t mind,” she slipped the ring off my finger and back into its soft nest, “the eggs are getting cold.”

  Thirteen years passed.

  At last, and never having forgotten Gram’s promise, I was ready to announce my own engagement. Although my uncle remained single, it felt strange to ask for the heirloom ring. But Gram saw that I didn’t have to.

  As she hugged me in congratulation, Gram pressed the well-remembered box into my hand and smiled.

  “Now you don’t have to make believe.”

  Lorraine Cheeka

  Golden Slippers

  In every conceivable manner, the family is link to our past, bridge to our future.

  Alex Haley

  After the funeral, the family made its way from the cemetery back to the house. Ladies from the church had arrived early, uncovering casseroles and platters of sandwiches and desserts. Nobody talked much. Poppa mumbled that he didn’t know how he was going to get along without Mama around anymore. We all agreed it was going to be hard.

  After lunch, we just sat there, all out of tears . . . not really knowing what to do without Mama there to organize everybody. I forget who it was that broke the silence.

  “Well, we need to make some decisions soon about dividing up Mama’s things.”

  There were furs and furniture, photos and antiques, crystal, handmade quilts, hats and shoes, rockers and jewelry. It all needed to be divided between the four children and their families.

  Suddenly, from the adjoining room, my thirteen-year-old daughter came running. Her ears had perked up when she overheard the conversation about dividing a household of her grandmother’s belongings.

  “I know what I want,” she said boldly. “I want Grand-mommy’s dancing slippers!”

  “Dancing slippers?” I asked in surprise. “But Grand-mommy doesn’t have any dancing slippers.”

  “Oh, yes she does. I’ll go get them and show you.”

  I followed closely as she hurried down the hallway— straight into Grandmommy’s bedroom. Not the pink bedroom where she slept every night, but the rarely used guest room at the far end of the house.

  It was a stately room, featuring a four-poster bed and an antique washstand draped with linens. In the corner was a vase full of peacock feathers from Uncle Henry’s farm. Granddaddy’s Bible lay open on the marble dresser, his reading glasses folded and resting somewhere in the Book of John. And sure enough, beside the bed, on a hand-made wooden shoebox, sat a pair of golden slippers with pixie pointed toes.

  My daughter picked them up and held them out for me to observe.

  “Honey, why do you call these Grandmommy’s dancing slippers?” I asked. “Grandmommy didn’t dance.”

  A look of disbelief swept across her face.

  “Oh, yes she did! Grandmommy always danced in these shoes!”

  As quickly as she spoke the words, I remembered. My mother had, indeed, danced many times. I had forgotten about the earlier years when we visited. She took my two children back into her special guest bedroom and closed the door. And there, before her private audience, she would put on her golden slippers and dance the Charleston.

  Often I would sneak a little peek. My children would sit on the floor, wide-eyed and watching, as my mother crossed her hands over her knees, twirled her invisible string of pearls and danced so fast she would fling her golden slippers aimlessly into the air.

  Laughing as they watched her dance the jitterbug, the children cried, “Do it again. Dance again!” So out of breath she could hardly speak, she would find the golden slippers, slide them onto her feet and start the performance over.

  Twenty-five years after Grandmommy’s death, my daughter got married. She arrived at the chapel wearing a shoulder-length veil and a white satin dress accented in butter-cream lace and pearls. A boys’ choir marched before her in the processional and as the organist played the first notes of “Trumpet Voluntary,” she took hold of her father’s arm and began her long walk down the aisle.

  Snug on her feet, sliding across the stone floor, was a pair of aged, worn-out golden slippers with pixie pointed toes. And in the air was the feeling that somewhere up there, part of a private audience, was Grandmommy, wide-eyed and watching, smiling . . . and dancing the Charleston.

  Charlotte Lanham

  The Wedding Gift

  A gift, with a kind countenance, is a double present.

  Thomas Fuller, M.D.

  I had picked out the flowers in my wedding bouquet carefully, with thought for the meaning of each one. There was blue iris, my fiancé’s favorite flower; white roses, symbolizing purity; and strands of green ivy, to represent faithfulness.

  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

  We 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 remo
ved 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

  Creativity 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.