Recipes for a Sacred Life: True Stories and a Few Miracles Rivvy Neshama (best short books to read .TXT) 📖

your basic down-to-earth miracles, nothing surreal or otherworldly. They are curiously similar in the way they end. And they have a common beginning as well, for they both involve my daughter, Elise.

The first is the more mundane: I had to find a dress for Elise’s wedding. My mother had subtly and not so subtly let me know that what I had worn at my son Tony’s wedding was more suited for a hippie gathering—say, Woodstock. And in truth, while I loved my Navajo beads and white moccasin boots, I had felt a little clunky. At Elise’s wedding, I would be redeemed. But then I found out that many of Elise’s guests—including the partner of her father, my ex-husband—were having gowns made. So, the bar was raised. No problem. I was even more determined to find something special, though it wouldn’t be easy, since the only style I’m comfortable in is kind of hippy.

John and I flew to New York a few months before the wedding to visit the kids and to find me a gown. The night before The Big Shop, we were out with our friend Kenny, who asked, “What kind of dress are you looking for?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Something pretty.”

Kenny shook his head and explained, “You need to have a clear picture of what you want if you hope to find it, especially since you’ve only got one day.” Then he asked again, “What kind of dress are you looking for?”

And I suddenly knew: “Rich gypsy!”

The next day, we were up and out before the stores opened, and our search soon led to Henri Bendel’s, “New York’s legendary Fifth Avenue boutique . . . for trendsetting women from around the world.” While John worked on his laptop, I flipped through racks of gowns, gossamer and flowing, and then spotted a shorter frock hanging on a door, perhaps rejected by someone else. It was sheer and black with red beaded roses, and a gold satin ribbon encircled its waist. It looked like a flapper’s dress from the twenties, with rows of gold sequins trailing from its hem.

I walked toward it, but just then a tall, friendly saleswoman appeared and asked if she could help. I told her my challenge and she guided me to a spacious, mirrored dressing room. Then she brought in a selection of gowns for me to try, including the black one with the glittery gold trim.

“Can I wear black to my daughter’s wedding?” I asked.

“Look at the roses, look at the gold,” she said. “It’s hardly black.”

Since she looked very chic herself, like someone my mother would trust, I trusted her too.

So I tried it on and felt instant love. It reminded me of the Halloween costumes I wore in my girlhood, when I first knew I wanted to be a gypsy, not a princess. Still, as I turned this way and that in front of the mirror, making the gold sequins shimmer and swirl, I could see it wasn’t quite right. That’s when the saleswoman, whose name was Elaine, left the room. She returned with a handful of pins. First she pinned this and then she pinned that, until I looked in the mirror and smiled at what I saw. John agreed: “Rich gypsy. This is the one.”

Elaine brought in the seamstress, who finished all the pinning, and then she handed me her card. “Fashion Consultant,” it said right next to her name, and underneath was her email: GypsyWoman@hotmail.com.

I was stunned, told her why, and we both laughed. But a few days later, when I called her at the store to see if the dress was ready, I was told this: “Elaine’s no longer with us. She left on Sunday—the day after you bought your dress.”

The second miracle had a more somber beginning. Elise was pregnant, an event we were all excited about. Then, in the third month of her pregnancy, her radiologist saw something that could be worrisome and said they needed to operate—and soon. Elise was deeply saddened, afraid that the anesthesia could harm the fetus and aware that there were other risks. I was scared too. I didn’t know anyone who had surgery while they were pregnant, and I felt so sad that she had to face this.

One thing I knew: I wanted to be there with her. But the date for the operation was when we were leaving for Mexico, with nonrefundable tickets. And to get a ticket for New York just a week in advance could be unbelievably costly, especially since I didn’t know when I’d want to return and needed some leeway. On the positive side, we were booked with Frontier Airlines, the one that calls itself “a whole different kind of animal.” Okay, Frontier, show me.

I called them and spoke with a woman named Angela, who had a young and pleasant voice. “This is a complicated problem,” I started off saying, but then, I felt so scared—scared for the baby, scared for Elise—that I started to cry.

Angela made comforting sounds and encouraged me to talk. So I explained it all: Mexico, New York, Elise, and the baby. “Don’t worry,” she said gently. “I understand. I had to have an operation in my pregnancy, too, just around the third month. I was so scared! But now my son is four years old and healthy as could be!”

Well, this got me crying even more. But while I was busy crying, Angela was busy taking care of things. She made our Mexico tickets open-dated. She booked me into New York with their least expensive ticket. And she wrote into the computer that for medical reasons I could change the return date at no extra cost.

“That should take care of it,” she said. “And if you have any problems, just call me at this same extension. But I wrote everything down in the computer, so anyone can help you.” Then she added, “Most of all, don’t worry. Believe me, it will all be okay.”

I hung up feeling lighter, hopeful,