The wedding was in the middle of the week, about a two-hour drive from my home. I’m “directionally challenged,” so I don’t drive on highways alone. I was fortunate enough to find someone in my community who was going to the wedding who could give me a ride.

Of course, life never turns out as planned, and a few hours before the wedding my ride fell through. Putting a message on a WhatsApp ride group, the only possibility came from a woman’s ride service. I rationalized it would be well worth the money and booked someone immediately.

My driver turned out to be a lovely young woman, and we had a nice conversation along the way. Not for the two-hour ride… but for three-and-a-half! The traffic was pretty much at a standstill. I tried to remain calm, but, as those who know me can attest, it wasn’t so easy!

Finally, we pulled up to the wedding hall and I paid the driver, grabbed my small suitcase, garment bag, and sheitel box, and hurried inside. I know I scared a few children as I raced down the hallway asking in a too-loud-voice for directions to the ladies’ restroom. I changed in record time, put on my sheitel slightly askew, and when I heard the band playing badeken music, decided to forego putting on lipstick and jewelry.

I opened the first door I came to, only to discover the back of black-suited men doing a lively jig around the chassan.  I obviously had missed the badeken and hurriedly went a little further down the hallway and opened another door… and was shocked at what I saw: The kallah was being escorted out by two women, but my friend wasn’t one of them. Where in the world was Chava? What could have happened to her?

I felt a touch on my arm and saw Chava’s oldest daughter. She greeted me happily, saying, “Mrs. Steier, it’s so nice that you came! My mother is going to be so excited to see you!” There was so much activity swirling around me and loud music playing in the background, but all I could think of was: Where was my friend? I could feel my heart pounding from all the pressure I’d gone through in the last few hours.

And then I saw her. She was surrounded by her other children and… grandchildren. It hit me… Chava wasn’t the kallah’s mother! She was the kallah’s grandmother!

Well. I knew that. Over the weeks leading up to this day, Chava and I had had many introspective phone conversations about this special time. Our main focus centered around what Chava would be wearing. She wanted to look as good as possible, so people would say, “You’re the kallah’s grandmother? Impossible!”

I slithered into the chuppah room, contemplating. Could I continue a relationship with someone marrying off her grandchildren? I had gotten married later than all my friends so even though I was a year older than Chava, my grandchildren were only at the bar mitzvah stage.

During the chuppah, I watched the kallah’s parents escort their daughter down the aisle. I had made sheva brachos for them at my home! Was it really so long ago?

After the chassan smashed the glass, we went to another room for dinner and dancing. Oy, the dancing! My friend would be relegated to the circle of dancing bubbies. How in the world would she handle that? How would I?

But first, I went to hug my friend. She was surrounded by her children, whom I’d known all their lives, and grandchildren who were being introduced to me. Chava looked supremely serene and happy with all her family whirling around her. I was overcome with such a wave of guilt for having even contemplated ditching this dear, dear friend of mine.

Later, she pulled me into the center of the circle, and we danced with excitement and vigor. Her joy was infectious. This was a new stage for us, and it has its challenges, but the Circle of Dancing Bubbies is filled with so much happiness.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 937)