James Whitcomb Riley
“I declare you husband and wife.” My cousin Joan placed her own rings on our fingers. “You are officially married,” she added, holding our hands together.
Robert and I were thrilled to hear these words; although we knew it was just for fun—a make-believe rehearsal for the real wedding scheduled a year later. As we gave Joan her rings back, I sensed her sadness. I pretended not to see her watery eyes and trembling hands; I avoided bringing up the obvious.
Leukemia was slowly killing Joan, robbing her of optimism and spirit. Avoidance was my way of handling it. I ignored signs of her deterioration, hoping to tether her to the physical world.
“I just know I’m not going to be able to attend your wedding,” Joan said, grabbing Robert’s hands to apologize. I felt suffocated, knowing she was right. I realized our mock ceremony was the wedding Joan wouldn’t live to see.
“Are you kidding? You’re here now! You’re the guest of honor at this special ceremony,” I chimed in with an optimistic tone. “As a matter a fact, you’re the only guest—the only witness.” She smiled and her big dark eyes glowed.
Months later, I dreamt I was walking down the aisle in my beautiful ballroom gown, holding a delicate bouquet of white roses and baby’s breath. Nobody was there, not even Robert. I felt sad and betrayed. Then a noise came from the back of the room and there stood Joan, arms wide open. She hugged me and we cried, not letting go of each other. I woke up that morning terrified of losing her.
A week later my aunt called to tell me Joan had died. I immediately recalled the dream and knew it was Joan’s way of saying good-bye and reassuring me she’d be at my wedding.
A year later, my “real life” wedding day arrived. As I looked in the mirror, I admired how the love I was feeling made me look beautiful. I closed my eyes and remembered the day Joan declared Robert and I husband and wife. I remembered the special sound of her voice. The memory made me feel rejuvenated and happy.
Our wedding was my little girl dream-come-true. We were all happy knowing Joan was there—in every song, every dance, every flower. She was there sharing my hopes, my tears, my fears . . . and my love. I know she was holding my hand, caressing my hair, comforting my soul.
I know now that expensive gowns, endless invitation lists and wedding gifts don’t make a perfect wedding. The perfect wedding happens because loved ones are there, to physically and spiritually rejoice in your love.
My wedding was perfect—thanks to my guest of honor.
Cindy L. Lassalle
The Look
We grew up viewing the documentation of our parents’ love. Every year on their anniversary a white twin bed sheet pinned to brocade drapes served as our improvised movie screen. We sat mesmerized by the sight of their 1947 wedding. Live. On film.
I loved seeing Dad’s thick wavy black hair and strong athletic build. Mom was more beautiful than Cinderella or Snow White, possessing the aura of a princess. They filled the screen with glamour, excitement and fairy-tale magic.
And then there was that look. The expression on Dad’s face as he beheld his bride taught me to search a man’s eyes for that same glowing reflection of devotion, awe and pride.
The images on our homemade screen reinforced in our minds the daily affection they demonstrated for us. The secret winks Dad sent Mom’s way were intended to fly over our heads, but of course we always caught them, and they brought a sense of security. I identified his conspiratorial wink as a sign of their complete solidarity. They were an inseparable twosome moving through life as one.
So I began a quest for the real-life personification of the images I viewed on a plain bed sheet. My dream man was crystal clear in my mind. I wanted to find a husband to love me the way my dad loved my mom. I would recognize him by the look in his eye.
Of course, it is one thing to know what you are looking for; it is quite another to find it. But miracles do happen.
Like my parents, we met at a party. Bob spotted me—as the romantic cliché goes—across a crowded room, and asked his friend to introduce us. Frank dutifully steered me over. As soon as I saw him, my gaze locked with his. I was unaware of how gorgeous he was; I was far too distracted by his eyes boring into mine.
This look belonged to me.
If it was the look in his eyes that rocked me, it was learning about him and getting to know the depth of his character that steadied my feet. He was solid, loyal, witty, compassionate and charming. He was my dream come true.
I wanted desperately to introduce Bob to my parents— my role models for love. Unfortunately, by this time Dad was deeply immersed in his battle with Alzheimer’s and was, for the most part, nonverbal. Locked away in his private world, he seldom even made eye contact.
But I needed him, in whatever limited capacity he could command, to meet and get to know Bob. I sought his approval for the biggest decision of my life. I knew Bob was the right man for me but I yearned for Dad’s recognition, too.
The first time I introduced them, Dad cursed. His hand was caught between the edge of the kitchen table and the arm of his chair. It’s funny how profanities survive in an otherwise frozen mind. I had hoped for a more tender meeting.
As we sat at the table, we watched for any sign of acknowledgement from Dad. He, however, was far too busy inspecting the tablecloth to notice us—absorbed, repeatedly rubbing his fingers along the stitched hem.
Bob said softly to me, “Honey, I think your dad may need his chin wiped clean.”
I blotted Dad’s chin with a soft cloth. His eyes lifted to rest briefly on mine and the gratitude in them squeezed my heart. In those precious fleeting seconds, I had my dad back. Then he cast his eyes downward and was gone again. I remember that moment precisely because the feeling was so overwhelming.
I was consumed with love and admiration for the indomitable, yet gentle, strength exuding from both sides of the table.
The second time Bob and I visited, we helped Mom put Dad to bed. As we lowered him down, he grabbed Bob’s arm and in hushed, slurred words requested: “Come back.” We were making progress.
The third time these two men of mine met, Dad sat in his usual silence. Not so usual was that Dad’s eyes fixated on Bob with a calculated intensity. Then for the first time in longer than I could remember, my father spoke clearly and loudly.
“Marry her,” he said to Bob. Bob was only too happy to comply.
My dad passed away shortly after speaking those words. Yet even though he was physically absent, I snatched glimpses of him at our wedding. In my mind, he was there at my mother’s side gazing at her with love-filled eyes. And when I observed my new husband across a ballroom overflowing with family and friends, Bob gave me that look I so dearly remembered, and softly sealed it with a secret wink.
Patty Swyden Sullivan
Stepping In
To a father growing old nothing is dearer than a daughter.
Euripides
“I feel sad that Dad won’t be able to walk you down the aisle.” I swallowed the small lump in my throat as I glanced at my sister.
Before our father had Alzheimer’s disease, I could never imagine saying this to my sister, but a possible wedding was only one thing that had changed now. Dad’s frequent hospitalizations that spring kept our entire family in a state of tension. We began rotating shifts, doing all we could to help on the home front, preparing meals, answering phone calls and making hospital visits while telling Dad repeatedly where he was and why he was there.
Cara and I had left our parents’ home that evening and stopped at an intimate café to unwind. As we listened to the outdoor music, I thought briefly about my own wedding day.
I remembered that just before we stepped down the aisle, Dad whispered, “You look beautiful, just like your mother.” I remembered how special I felt at the reception when it was time for him to dance with the bride. I remembered.
And I regretted Cara would never experience it.
When Cara and Greg decided
to marry three years later, Dad’s illness had progressed. His walk was as unsteady as his memory. With his shoulders slightly stooped and his head bent downward, he had to concentrate on each step he took.
With the big event only a week away, my mother and I excitedly discussed plans for the ceremony and reception. Dad repeatedly asked, “Now, who’s getting married?” Yet Cara valiantly insisted it wasn’t a time for regrets; it was a time for laughter and dancing.
At the wedding, Dad sat next to Mom in the front row. He wasn’t capable of escorting Cara down the aisle. Instead, it was Greg who took her arm. It was Greg who turned to her and whispered, “You look beautiful.”
And, when they spoke their vows we all fought our tears, trying to respect Cara’s wishes: to find and focus on their joy in the moment.
At the reception, guests gathered and the orchestra played. Since group conversation was too much for our father to follow, we hoped he’d sit comfortably and enjoy listening to the music.
Everyone smiled and applauded when Greg twirled Cara onto the floor for their first dance. Afterwards, Cara motioned to me.
“Will you ask Mom to come to the dance floor? Greg’s going to stand in for Dad and dance with her.”
Since Dad isn’t capable.
Cara didn’t have to say the words. After all, Dad hadn’t been able to dance for nearly ten years. How thoughtful of Greg to step in for him.
I nodded agreement and hurried over to Mom. Just then, my father stood. He reached out for Mom’s hand— and asked her to dance. Stifling her surprise, she took his hand. Shoulders back and head erect; he walked my mother confidently onto the dance floor. In an instant, he swept her into a jitterbug.
The room hushed. Time stopped. Quietly, everyone stepped closer to watch. And none of us held back our tears. My eyes sought my sister’s as, in that magical moment, Dad let himself go and danced joyously.
Then, before his memories slipped away again, he held out his arms to Cara and danced gracefully with the bride.
Penny Perrone
Joan’s Bouquet
I remember my mother’s prayers and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life.
Abraham Lincoln
We hurried to our gleaming limousine parked at the curb outside the church. Smiling, cheering and blowing bubbles of congratulations, guests lined the sidewalk. It was a sunny July afternoon—our wedding day.
Mark and I waved our good-byes, while the big car headed for the reception. I turned my attention to my wedding bouquet of delicate pink and ivory roses and thought of the printed words on the program: “The bride’s bouquet is dedicated in loving memory of her mother, Joan Miller.”
My throat tightened again. I took a breath of the roses’ scent and then smiled at Mark.
“On to the party!” he called to the driver.
After a festive reception featuring a prime rib buffet and dancing, I felt the need to spend a private moment with my father.
“Thanks for everything, Dad. It was more than wonderful!” I gave him a lingering hug.
Mark and I slipped into the white limousine to leave. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. Pastel balloons crowded my side of the seat, but I didn’t mind. The young driver started for our destination, forgetting about our special stop. Mark spoke up to redirect him.
“Oh, yeah, you wanted to make a stop. Just tell me where to go.” Mark gave him the location.
“It’s a cemetery,” I said softly. There was silence in the car. “My mom is buried there.”
“I bet you don’t get many requests like this,” Mark chimed in.
“No, sure don’t,” the driver replied, glancing through his rearview mirror. “But I understand. I lost my mother when I was thirteen.”
At the cemetery, I clutched Mark’s hand. How could my heart be filled with so much happiness and so much emptiness at the same time?
There we were—me, a bride in long white gown, and Mark, a groom in handsome black tuxedo—strolling on the sun-scorched grass, gazing at tombstone after tombstone, caressed by the summer evening air.
One hand held my husband’s and the other gripped my bouquet. My chin quivered as we neared my mother’s gravesite. We stood prayerfully above it in the dusk. Then, without saying a word, I bent and tenderly laid my bridal flowers on her headstone. Lightly, lingeringly, I stroked the carved letters of my mother’s name.
I just had to come here on this special day, Mom, I thought. How you would have rejoiced at our wedding. The guests, the smiles, our joy.
Mark held me to his chest while, together, we read the etched scripture my mother had chosen for her marker: “I know that my Redeemer lives.” (Job 19:25) Next to those words lay the elegant bouquet that symbolized the most important day of my life.
Julie Messbarger
As told to Charlotte Adelsperger
Pennies from Heaven
Children and mothers never truly part Bound in the beating of each other’s heart.
Charlotte Gray
My friend Jill and her mom had a very close relationship. Of the many things they enjoyed together, they often talked about Jill’s wedding day and what it would be like to plan together. But losing a battle with cancer would keep Jill’s mom from ever seeing her daughter get married. Her death was devastating.
A few years later, Jill got engaged and began to plan her wedding. Every nuptial detail brought mixed emotions during this bittersweet time. Yet, despite her loss, Jill amazed me with her strength and faith.
Soon after her mom’s death, a peculiar thing began happening. Jill would find pennies at odd times in familiar places.
Sometimes she would go to shops and restaurants where she and her mom had spent time together. Miraculously, she’d find a bright, shiny penny. Occasionally she’d leave a room only to come back and find one right in the middle of the floor, knowing it wasn’t there earlier. In the midst of stressful situations or struggles with her grief, a penny would pop up.
Jill believed they were signs from her mom.
“They’re her way of letting me know she’ll always be with me. They’re my ‘pennies from heaven.’”
On the day of the wedding, the bride, her other attendants and I went to Jill’s favorite salon to get our hair done. The stylist did Jill’s hair first, creating an elegant “up-do” with her blonde locks. The rest of us followed, taking turns in the stylists’ chairs. The morning was pleasant with lots of laughter, smiles and even a few tears of love and happiness.
While Jill was in another room getting her makeup done, the stylists softly asked how she was holding up, knowing it was an emotional day.
“She’s doing great,” I said, “thanks to her ‘pennies from heaven.’”
The two stylists looked perplexed, so I explained the phenomenon.
Astonished, one replied, “You’re not going to believe this. But when we opened the shop this morning, there was a single, shiny penny in the middle of the floor. I know it wasn’t there when we closed up the night before.”
He directed us to the corner where he had swept the untouched penny. As he placed the polished copper coin in my hand, we stared at each other. All of us decided we would plan a special moment to present this token to Jill.
After the wedding reception, we anxiously waited for all the guests to leave.
“Close your eyes and stretch out your hand,” I nervously asked. Grinning from ear to ear and with goose bumps tracing my spine, I gently placed the symbolic coin in Jill’s palm.
She opened her eyes and stared in amazement.
While we explained where we found the penny, tears welled in her eyes. Jill squeezed the comforting coin and brought it close to her heart. Then she smiled and opened her hand again to admire her wedding memento.
“She’s been here all day, hasn’t she?” I fondly asked my friend.
With remarkable calm, Jill answered, “Yes, Mom didn’t miss a thing.”
Holly Jensen Hughes
> Silverware and Sauces
Spice a dish with love and it pleases every palate.
Plautus
“How long has your grandma been senile?” my fiancé asked, after his first dinner at her house.
Truth is, while I made no excuses for my family, I had to feel pretty secure about someone to introduce them to my gene pool. The word “eccentric” doesn’t really describe them, but it’s more polite.
Still, I was startled by those words. If Grandma had turned senile, I couldn’t tell. For as long as I could remember she’d been this way. Actually, she was spoiled. Her diminutive stature, soft chin and thinning white curls were misleading. While family members often sneaked around her, no one ever dared oppose her.
On the afternoon I asked to bring Wayne to dinner, Grandma perked up, turning away from her game show to regard me carefully. Bringing a man to the house was serious business. Grandma figured this was my last prospect for silverware and china. I was nearing thirty, after all, and had no property and way too much education.
“What does he like to eat?” She was intent on impressing this man on my behalf.
“Oh, I don’t know, anything.” I tried to be casual. Actually, he was something of a gourmet chef who cooked almost all the meals we shared, but I didn’t dare let Grandma know that.
“He likes regular food,” I said, “you know, just meat, potatoes and a vegetable. Green beans, maybe.” This is what Grandma fixed every Sunday.
“But what do you fix for him?” Her eyes narrowed.
I made some vague answer. I’m sure she was suspicious, so I mumbled that he was fond of sauces.
“You mean gravy?” She was confident now.
“No, Grandma,” I said, “not gravy. He likes sauces, on all kinds of things.”
Grandma, of course, taught me what little there was to know about gravy; but I was thinking more along the lines of chasseur’s sauce, teriyaki, Dijon and hollandaise, delicacies that required shallots, imported mushrooms and wine. Such ingredients never saw the inside of Grandma’s kitchen.