And the music played on.
I knew Chad so well, I could read his heart. He pulled her closely to him and smiled as she gazed into his eyes. Their devotion was obvious. Their affection was radiant. Their love exploded like fireworks. The stars twinkled above and I marveled that several didn’t sprinkle down on the couple.
Yet when he looked my way, I still melted. Our eyes met and a narrow smile crossed his face. My heart pounded, for I knew my life was about to undergo a drastic change.
How will I handle these emotions?
Chad was happy and his happiness meant everything to me. And, after all, wasn’t that what I had wanted for him all these years? I wanted to cry and shout for joy, all at the same time.
And the music played on.
Quietly, I continued to watch while reliving recent events: the excitement, the plans and the preparations for their big day. And now, tonight, this final party before their sacred vows would be recited. The evening was drawing to a close. The music stilled, and I saw him kiss her cheek. When, hand-in-hand they walked my way, I quickly brushed away my tears before he saw the dampness on my cheeks. I wouldn’t let him think I was sad.
They stood before me, Chad with his beautiful Lucy smiling beside him.
“I love you, Mama,” he whispered.
“I love you too, son,” I replied. “I love both of you.”
At that moment it dawned on me that twenty-seven years earlier I had given birth to a little boy who, now an adoring man, had swept a lovely young lady off of her feet. They were so happy . . . too joyful for me to be sad.
And the music played on.
“You’re pretty,” I overheard Chad whisper to Lucy, as they walked away.
My heart smiled as I watched them gaze deeply into each other’s eyes and I was filled with abundant hope and joy. I prayed that—for the two of them—the symphony of love would continue a lifetime. A simple wish, really.
That the music plays on.
Nancy B. Gibbs
This Is Our Dance
Nobody cares if you can’t dance well. Just get up and dance. Great dancers are not great because of their technique; they are great because of their passion.
Martha Graham
Jason and I were dancing before dating. During his first two years in college, Jason took dance courses and always kept an eye for partners to join him at local dances. We’d been friends for a year when he first asked me. I was thrilled, but nervous at the same time.
Jason first learned to dance as a young child at the polkas thrown by his German relatives. I’d missed out. My parents danced only when they were young, never passing down any styles or moves to their children. I’d seen Dad boogie to some rock ’n’ roll music, singing along and clapping his hands. He had fun, but rarely could find the beat. Thanks to a few lessons in grade school, I at least had some practice. My knowledge was limited, but my interest was definitely high.
I took Jason up on that first offer and we spent the evening swinging, waltzing and foxtrotting. I learned how to follow and pay attention to Jason’s slight body movements to predict upcoming steps. With his arm firmly hugging the middle of my back, pulling me close to him, I relaxed, letting him lead me across the floor. My gaze locked on his bright-green eyes, softly squinted from his broad smile.
I couldn’t resist those eyes, or the evenings we spent on the dance floors. Soon we agreed to date. Looking back, I think we already had been for months. The close contact, communication through movement and long evening talks allowed us to reach a new level of understanding and desire to be together.
We joined a college Newman Center church and soon found our true passion—swing dancing. Four times a school year the Newman Center held dances. In the tiny cafeteria, dozens of young people kicked up their heels to vibrant polkas, smooth two-steps and the wild melodies of modern swing bands. Energetic young men sent their ladies flipping, sliding and spinning with ease. We couldn’t resist. There we learned to push aside proper rules and have fun, the way swing was intended.
Over the next two years we tried our moves at dozens of dances. Our friends and parents cheered proudly as we won a trophy in a talent contest.
“That was amazing!” Dad said, beaming and leaning closer to take a peek at the trophy. “I had no idea you could do all that. Congratulations!”
A few months after the talent show, Jason proposed. We had become a complete team, on and off the dance floor. Of course I answered with a joyous “Yes!”
We immediately chose the Newman Center to be married in, but were pretty flexible about everything else— except for the first dance. Jason and I wanted to share our love for dancing with our closest friends and family, so we found a hall with an excellent dance floor and hired one of the best six-piece jazz bands in town. My aunt even tailored my dress to my dancing needs, a slender skirt hemmed a few inches from the floor. I could do nearly everything—but a flip—without worry.
Following a romantic ceremony and dreamy horse and buggy ride to the reception hall, we enjoyed dinner until—finally—it was time. During “When You Say Nothing at All,” Jason held me tight for our first dance. We couldn’t stop beaming and it was over too soon.
I had eagerly anticipated the father-daughter dance as well. Dad and I rocked slowly to the music of “You Are So Beautiful.” The smile never left his face and I held back tears as he kissed me on the cheek.
As I walked back to Jason glowing with love and excitement, I noticed he looked a little nervous and was trying to catch Dad’s attention.
“I’ll be right back,” he said hastily and wove his way through the crowd.
Several friends called for me and I soon lost sight of Jason in a flurry of hugs, photos and shared college remembrances. My sister Nikki and I were posing for another photo when the band broke into a lively swing.
“Gotta run,” I said, smiling at her and turning around to find my groom.
I nearly ran into Dad instead.
“This is our dance,” he said.
On the dance floor, Dad smiled and took both of my hands in his as I stood motionless, eyes wide with wonder. He paused, ears and feet searching for the rhythm, then looked down at me with a twinkle in his eye and took a bouncy step with his right foot. We were swing dancing!
His steps were nervous at first, but accurate. They were slightly offbeat, yet filled with energy and love. I giggled out loud when he showed some moves, including a twirl. The floor cleared, with just the two of us laughing, smiling and dancing.
As the song ended, Dad looked at me with pride and love. I hugged him tightly, still a little shaky and stunned.
“When? How?” I stuttered.
Dad pointed across the room to Nikki and Jason. “I asked them to give me secret lessons. I wanted to surprise you with a dance at your wedding. Sorry, I’m not very good.”
“It was perfect,” I said, trembling and hugging him. “Absolutely perfect.”
Amanda Parise-Peterson
The Unlikely Best Man
Age does not protect you from love. But love, to some extent, protects you from age.
Jeanne Moreau
Day after day, I saw life at its loneliest—elderly men and women wasting away to nothing with no one to visit them. I was interning at a public healthcare facility, and the loneliness I witnessed was sad.
Then I met Sophia.
Despite her deteriorating physical condition, Sophia was an assertive little lady who proved to the entire nursing facility she was still full of vitality, humor and—most importantly—romance. She would often weave tales to the staff and fellow patients of her Romeo-and-Juliet-esque relationship with her husband Carl.
One of her favorites was the story of two hearts.
As young Depression-era lovers, Carl and Sophia were in love, yet extremely poor. But Carl didn’t let that shake their love. On bended knee one Valentine’s Day, he asked Sophia to marry him. Unable to afford an engagement ring, he presented her with a small brooch with two rhin
estone-covered hearts.
“A woman needs two hearts,” Carl said. “One to love, care and live with; the other for the man of her dreams to steal.”
They had been married thirty years when Carl died of a heart attack. On his deathbed, he gave her his last wish.
“Sophia, you deserve to be taken care of. I want you to move on and find yourself another husband.”
Shaking her head in denial, Sophia cried until she couldn’t speak. Carl grasped her hand.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be watching you from above. I’ll send someone to take care of you.” A few minutes later, he passed away.
Sophia’s eyes brimmed with tears each time she repeated his last words. I’m not sure what pained her more—Carl’s short life or that, after all these years, no one was sent to take his place in her lonely heart.
Then a new resident was admitted to the nursing home.
Like Sophia, John lost his spouse unexpectedly. The two clicked immediately and were often seen dining and visiting each other’s floors. They were like two love-bitten teenagers, holding hands in the television lounge or headed out “on pass” for a date in the city.
Now, Sophia’s eyes sparkled with refound youth. And the health of both drastically improved.
Sophia’s ninetieth birthday was celebrated by all the residents at the facility with a special dinner cooked by the staff. When John was asked to give a speech, the twinkle in his eyes hinted he had something up his sleeve. Before Sophia could comprehend what was happening, he handed her a small jewelry box.
“Sophia, will you marry me?”
An emotional silence filled the room as she opened the box with shaky hands. Her mouth dropped and tears streamed when she revealed a ring with two heart-shaped diamonds.
“Every woman should have two hearts,” John declared. “One is for me, and one is for Carl.”
The couple married a month later. The nursing home chapel brimmed with staff, patients and local news crews elbowing each other to cover this sweet “December” romance. Gowned in scrubs, nurses served as bridesmaids. Sophia’s daughter gave her away. And perched on a pedestal next to John was a large portrait.
A picture of Carl.
“The best man is supposed to give the couple his blessing,” John said. “Carl gave his when he sent me to her.”
Jenn Dlugos
Given Away
I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection.
Sigmund Freud
There really is no use denying it. I’ve been given away. Sure I could attempt to hide it, make excuses for it, or just plain lie, but what’s the use? The truth is, I am what is traditionally referred to as a “Daddy’s girl.”
Now, I know women today are supposed to be fiercely independent. We don’t need validation from a man and are certainly more than capable of taking care of ourselves. We are supposed to be in complete charge of our own lives. And, although I might try to keep up a good feminist front, to be perfectly honest, my father has always been there to help take care of the major problems in my life.
As a child, I was a little shadow trailing behind the tall figure my father cast. I remained close to my father and even lived at home while I attended college. So when Mark and I discussed marriage, I must confess to being a little worried about my father’s reaction. I knew losing the little girl he had so carefully protected all these years was not going to be easy for him.
I, too, was apprehensive. I loved my boyfriend, of course, but I found the idea of losing the most dependable person in my life a little bit unsettling. Getting married required me to leave his protective wing and face day-to-day life with Mark—with whose track record I was unfamiliar.
After our engagement was announced, long weeks of wedding plans followed. During this time, my father remained conspicuously quiet. Not that he was ever in the habit of discussing his feelings at great length. And anyway, it was a noisy, busy time with little opportunity to dwell on emotions.
When the wedding day finally came, I was in a state of panic. Until then, marriage was only theoretical—full of hopeful what-if and could-be scenarios. Now marriage was in the present and it was real.
What was I doing? Did I know how to be married? What if I was making a mistake? What if I couldn’t handle all the things that marriage and married life threw at me? And how could I get through it all without my father to smooth out the edges?
Would my husband accept my attachment to my father? Would my father accept my attachment to my husband? Would there be rivalry between the two men in my life?
As we stood at the entrance to the church, I knew an entirely different life waited inside. I took deep breaths to calm my nerves. The Wedding March came on cue, infinitely appropriate. I was a soldier reporting for duty and the army had no idea I was too young and inexperienced to handle the battle.
I leaned over and whispered, “Dad, I’m scared.”
He gently took my arm and escorted me into the church. We slowly walked the aisle together and he gave me away.
And it felt perfectly natural. My father had been there for all the major moments in my life, quietly guiding and leading me, knowing instinctively when to pull or when to push. His constant but gentle nudging had gotten me through every meaningful transition in my life.
At the reception, Mark and I made the rounds, greeting and thanking everyone in a whirlwind of smiles and hugs. When we started to drive away toward our new life, I realized I had forgotten something.
I turned to Mark. “I didn’t get to say good-bye to Daddy.”
My new husband instantly pushed on the brakes, turned off the car and got out. He yelled into the crowd and, after a few moments, my father stepped out from among the guests with a puzzled look on his face.
Mark opened the door so I could jump out and give Daddy a good-bye hug. At that moment I felt I had really been “given away.” I realized my father had given me to my husband and, in turn, my husband had given my father back to me.
This, then, was the purpose of all those years of leading, nudging, pushing and pulling—to make me an adult who uses her heart generously. Who loves big and who loves in all directions. I finally understood what it meant to be truly given—to be loved yet never held back.
Renata Waldrop
6
FOR BETTER
OR FOR
WORSE
What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined for life—to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting.
George Eliot
“I hope this is a typo; it says the reception is Open Bra.”
Reprinted by permission of David Cooney.
That’s Entertainment!
You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
Kahlil Gibran
I always loved December. Mystical December with its mysterious gray skies, its magical lights, its air of anticipation. What a perfect month to celebrate a marriage.
Maybe that’s why I wasn’t disappointed when a winter snow softened the scenery on our wedding day. Although we originally planned for a horse-drawn carriage to transport us to our reception, neither of us objected to a limo ride instead. Those floating flakes of fantasy were definitely worth the trade.
The same snow that dusted our wedding path was falling heavier on the highways, but we were oblivious to those concerns. After all, everyone we cared about— friends, family and even the students from both of the classes that we taught—had already arrived. So this winter wonderland only heightened the excitement of our day. Besides, thoughts of nesting in a cozy Vermont honeymoon cabin with smoke curling from its chimney warmed our minds.
Soft snow swirled around the crowd of well-wishers who encircled us as we left the church in the stretch limo. Pe
rfect, just perfect. Everything is magic, I thought. Now, for the perfect reception.
But it was there, at the reception, that I noticed peculiar things beginning to happen.
It all started when I heard my aunt warming up her vocal cords in the bathroom while she clutched a half-empty glass of scotch. She smiled warmly as she patted my cheek.
“Lucky for us, dear, that I have talent . . . considering the circumstances.” She coolly patted my cheeks and sailed out the door. Speechless and confused, I stared after her as she breezed by me, scotch in hand.
What did she mean, “Lucky for us?” What circumstances was she referring to? And, even more importantly, what talent?
Then the receptionist from my mom’s office tested the microphone on stage—by belting out a few chords. And she was gamely singing . . . “Joy to the World”? That was a real stretch, considering she was Jewish.
Next, my aunt—obviously feeling quite confident at this point—commandeered the mike to regale everyone with Frank Sinatra hits (the only tunes she knew). And she eagerly shared them all, song after song after song, with my wedding guests.
I glanced at her two daughters. Their hands held their heads and they wore looks that said—more eloquently than any words could—they wished the performance would mercifully end. My dad watched helplessly, his own face slightly drawn.
As the events unfolded, I heard my mother-in-law whisper to my father-in-law. She requested another drink. And, when he headed to the bar, she added, “Eddie, hold the ice.” She settled down to watch the show.
Meanwhile, Grandpa—beginning to get into the spirit of things—headed to the stage to teach everyone an Irish jig. Mom intervened just before it got worse, and enlisted the aid of my two brothers, who descended upon him. Flanking him on either side—not unlike bodyguards trying to control an unruly patron at the local bar—they discreetly led him back to his table.
After witnessing what appeared to be the onset of a karaoke free-for-all among my friends and family, it occurred to me: The band! Where is our band?
Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul Page 12