Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul Read Free Page A

husband-to-be sat next to me on the hospital bed, caressing my hand with sympathetic understanding. We both knew our journey together would not commence that day.
    An unfortunate twist of fate two days prior left me with a collapsed lung, several broken ribs, a fractured pelvis and a fractured clavicle. Hours of phone calls ensued, canceling vendors and airline reservations, informing family and friends. Anger welled as I relived—over and over— the memory of the truck that ran the stop sign a block from my home. It T-boned my car, catapulting me into the passenger seat, leaving me virtually paralyzed, physically and emotionally.
    We entertained the idea of holding the nuptials in the hospital chapel, a suggestion from my childhood pastor who had driven 300 miles to officiate. But I so wanted to share my joyous day with family and friends, many who lived miles away.
    Why me? I thought. What did I do to deserve having my special day ripped from me?
    Suddenly the details of reception centerpieces and invitation designs, which had seemed so monumental during the planning stages, were now so trivial. Why had I spent hours and hours poring over what color ribbons to use on those darn bubbles?
    Now, what was important was having my life, my fiancé by my side and a future of memories to make. I had a new perspective on the importance of marriage. We were already living the “for worse” before even exchanging vows. I knew this was a test of love—and we would pass it.
    Despite the doctors’ predictions, within a month I was walking without a walker. I had renewed energy and purpose: I was determined to walk down the aisle and marry the man who had bathed, fed and comforted me through weeks of physical and emotional agony.
    Three months after my accident, I sat in the bride’s room of St. Mary’s Chapel embracing the thrill of my wedding day. Yates and I would finally become one.
    A torrential downpour shrouded the chapel, accompanied by soft, rumbling thunder. I smiled to myself and thought, God is shedding His tears of joy and expressing His voice of approval of our marriage.
    The emotional and physical scars I still endured were constant reminders of my mortality. I was fortunate. My experience provided a self-discovery I might otherwise never have known: I realized a perfect wedding day does not a perfect marriage make. But the strength of love between two people can make every day perfect.
    Ariana Adams

Roses Not Required
    L ove one another and you will be happy. It’s as simple and as difficult as that.
    Michael Leunig
    My husband and I still chuckle over the memory of a summer afternoon when our two sons were small. After noticing they were busy playing LEGO, we seized the opportunity to escape to our bedroom and lock the door.
    Suddenly, we heard talking right outside our bedroom. The boys must have needed us for something. With bed sheets in a flurry, we immediately ceased all activity and listened quietly, but intently.
    I’m sure a small hand was raised, ready to knock on our door when our nine-year-old intervened with the now infamous words to his little brother, “Don’t even think about it. They’re having a private time.” Complete silence descended, and then a hushed discussion gradually faded down the hall. Recapturing the ambience was impossible; we were laughing too hard.
    My husband and I will be celebrating our twentieth wedding anniversary, and I still can’t wait for him to come home at the end of each day. There’s a sweet warmth of completeness that surges through me. The boys feel it too. “Dad’s home!” they often announce when they hear his truck pull in the driveway.
    Little did I realize as a young naive bride so many years ago that the threads of our beginnings would weave together the sumptuous tapestry of a beautiful marriage.
    The way my husband looks for me when we’re separated at a gathering, the feel of his hands on my shoulders as he massages away the aches, the sight of