The veil hanging in my bedroom reminded me of all I had to daven for

As told to Bracha Stein

Whenever I opened my closet door, I saw the delicate layers of tulle and lace, the exquisite cream-colored gown, a symbol of all my dreams. Its very tangible, immediate presence felt like a promise: You have the gown. You’ll have the wedding soon, too.

Years ago, my aunt’s friend had given her the wedding gown she’d had custom sewn for her daughter’s wedding. My aunt had hoped to give it to her own daughter — six years my junior — but that cousin decided to wear a pure white gown. When I visited, my aunt looked me up and down, then clapped her hands in excitement. “You know, I think Shevy’s gown would be perfect for you! Why don’t you take it?”

We climbed the steps to the attic where I tried on the gown, fingering the lace as my aunt carefully zippered it. I’d already been dating for a number of years; it was hard to picture myself in a gown. But my aunt was right — it did fit perfectly. She saved it for me in her attic, and from time to time when I visited, I’d try it on.

When my aunt moved, I took the gown home and hung it in my closet. It was huge and bulky, what with the layers and petticoats and veil, but I loved having it there. Now all I needed was the chassan!

But then one year passed, and then another. And then 12 years had passed from the day my aunt gifted me with the gown; it was no longer fresh and new. Neither were my hope and optimism.

One day, my mother opened the closet and sighed. “This gown is already so old and dated, Ahuva. When you get engaged, we’ll buy you a new gown.”

It was time to give up on the gown. It was a bittersweet moment; it felt as if I was giving up, admitting that my wedding wasn’t just a few weeks away. We donated the gown and all the assorted paraphernalia that came with it.

Or so we thought. A few weeks later, I found the dek tichel at the bottom of a laundry basket. It felt like a sign, somehow, that everything would be okay, that I’d finally find my bashert, that my father’s worrisome medical symptoms would be easily resolved.

I picked up the veil and hung it in my bedroom, next to my bed. That would become my davening spot, the place where I’d pour out my heart as I envisioned my dreams coming true.