see what I can do, ma’am.”
Again I waited for the phone to ring. This time, however, it didn’t.
At three o’clock, I called the naval base in Hawaii, anxious to speak to Robert.
“Frisch isn’t here.”
“What?”
“Frisch isn’t here.” The phone connection was quite clear.
“But, he has to be. . . .” I clutched the receiver.
“No. His girlfriend called somebody in Washington. Frisch is on his way to the Honolulu airport. He’s gone home.”
“Home?”
“Home. Home—to get married.”
Smiling my thanks, I cradled the receiver. We would both be at the church on time.
Carlienne A. Frisch
Dismally Late
W hat do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?
George Eliot
My husband and I were driving across our state to the wedding of my cherished friend’s daughter when we had a flat tire on a country road. While he changed the flat, I worried. I wanted to arrive early at the church I once attended. Friends since we were young, I was “Auntie Jeanne” to her Beth and she was “Auntie Ruth” to my three youngsters.
It was devastating when Ruth Ann’s husband had died suddenly four months prior, but she’d insisted Beth go ahead with the wedding as planned. Although she’d suggested her daughter choose another relative to give her away, Beth had decided no one should take her father’s place walking her down the aisle. Knowing today would be difficult, I hoped to hug each of them before the ceremony.
So I was chagrined when we were dismally late.
Barely inside the open sanctuary doors, we slipped into the last two vacant chairs ushers had added beyond the back pews. For an instant I enjoyed the lovely organ music and the heady fragrance of orange blossom boughs decorating each pew. Then, with a heavy heart, I saw that the groom, his best man and three of the four bride’s attendants were already down front by the altar. Shortly, the last bridesmaid glided past us and on down the aisle.
After an especially long passage of music, I saw the organist look expectantly in our direction toward the open sanctuary doors, watching for her cue to start the wedding march. No cue came. Where was the bride?
Fifteen minutes passed and murmurs of concern stirred the audience. Her mother, seated up front, couldn’t go check but I was in the perfect position to do so. I slipped out of the sanctuary doors.
Once into the narthex, I ran down the hall. As I remembered, there were two quick turns to the bride’s dressing room. On my first turn, I heard faint hammering of small fists against a door. On my next turn, I heard Beth calling, “Let me out, somebody! The doorknob came off in my hand and I can’t get out! Help me!”
I ran to the door but I couldn’t open it. “Beth, it’s me— Jeanne. I’ll go get help.”
“Oh, Auntie Jeanne! Thank heaven!”
When we got the door open, I complimented Beth on how in-control she looked in spite of the situation. “I wasn’t at first,” she said. As she gathered her satin skirts and ran through the hall beside me, she told me how she’d started crying but soon felt her father’s hand on hers.
“I know it sounds crazy but I heard Daddy say, ‘Don’t cry, Bethie, everything is going to be all right.’”
Moments later Beth triumphantly marched down the aisle to “Here Comes the Bride.” I sat in the back row giving thanks for a flat tire that had put me in exactly the right chair at the right time. Dismally late? More like providentially late.
Jeanne Hill
My Love Is Like a Mountain
E ver has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.
Kahlil Gibran
The fog was so thick I couldn’t see the mountain. But I knew it was there and my fiancé and his best man were somewhere on it. Not knowing exactly where filled me with a fear that was almost unbearable. It was our wedding day.
The mountains were in our blood. Living at the foot of the Adirondacks as we did, how could they not be?
Again I waited for the phone to ring. This time, however, it didn’t.
At three o’clock, I called the naval base in Hawaii, anxious to speak to Robert.
“Frisch isn’t here.”
“What?”
“Frisch isn’t here.” The phone connection was quite clear.
“But, he has to be. . . .” I clutched the receiver.
“No. His girlfriend called somebody in Washington. Frisch is on his way to the Honolulu airport. He’s gone home.”
“Home?”
“Home. Home—to get married.”
Smiling my thanks, I cradled the receiver. We would both be at the church on time.
Carlienne A. Frisch
Dismally Late
W hat do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?
George Eliot
My husband and I were driving across our state to the wedding of my cherished friend’s daughter when we had a flat tire on a country road. While he changed the flat, I worried. I wanted to arrive early at the church I once attended. Friends since we were young, I was “Auntie Jeanne” to her Beth and she was “Auntie Ruth” to my three youngsters.
It was devastating when Ruth Ann’s husband had died suddenly four months prior, but she’d insisted Beth go ahead with the wedding as planned. Although she’d suggested her daughter choose another relative to give her away, Beth had decided no one should take her father’s place walking her down the aisle. Knowing today would be difficult, I hoped to hug each of them before the ceremony.
So I was chagrined when we were dismally late.
Barely inside the open sanctuary doors, we slipped into the last two vacant chairs ushers had added beyond the back pews. For an instant I enjoyed the lovely organ music and the heady fragrance of orange blossom boughs decorating each pew. Then, with a heavy heart, I saw that the groom, his best man and three of the four bride’s attendants were already down front by the altar. Shortly, the last bridesmaid glided past us and on down the aisle.
After an especially long passage of music, I saw the organist look expectantly in our direction toward the open sanctuary doors, watching for her cue to start the wedding march. No cue came. Where was the bride?
Fifteen minutes passed and murmurs of concern stirred the audience. Her mother, seated up front, couldn’t go check but I was in the perfect position to do so. I slipped out of the sanctuary doors.
Once into the narthex, I ran down the hall. As I remembered, there were two quick turns to the bride’s dressing room. On my first turn, I heard faint hammering of small fists against a door. On my next turn, I heard Beth calling, “Let me out, somebody! The doorknob came off in my hand and I can’t get out! Help me!”
I ran to the door but I couldn’t open it. “Beth, it’s me— Jeanne. I’ll go get help.”
“Oh, Auntie Jeanne! Thank heaven!”
When we got the door open, I complimented Beth on how in-control she looked in spite of the situation. “I wasn’t at first,” she said. As she gathered her satin skirts and ran through the hall beside me, she told me how she’d started crying but soon felt her father’s hand on hers.
“I know it sounds crazy but I heard Daddy say, ‘Don’t cry, Bethie, everything is going to be all right.’”
Moments later Beth triumphantly marched down the aisle to “Here Comes the Bride.” I sat in the back row giving thanks for a flat tire that had put me in exactly the right chair at the right time. Dismally late? More like providentially late.
Jeanne Hill
My Love Is Like a Mountain
E ver has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.
Kahlil Gibran
The fog was so thick I couldn’t see the mountain. But I knew it was there and my fiancé and his best man were somewhere on it. Not knowing exactly where filled me with a fear that was almost unbearable. It was our wedding day.
The mountains were in our blood. Living at the foot of the Adirondacks as we did, how could they not be?
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