On Monday evening, Boris Johnson addressed the nation. This was a war, he said. One we would fight together — apart. He announced a full lockdown.

Bam.

Plan B went to dust.

I cried the evening away. I couldn’t do this. I didn’t want to go small. I wanted everyone there. “Let’s push off the wedding. Send the chassan and his family home,” I said. And half of me really was desperate to do that.

We aren’t chassidim but my father called the Vizhnitzer Rebbe, whom he’s close to, to put my question to him.

“We don’t push off a wedding,” the Rebbe said, “especially if there’s no definite alternative date.”

There wasn’t. Nothing was definite now.

My father put the phone down. Five minutes later, it rang again. The Rebbe was back on the line. He wanted to give me chizuk and divrei brachah.

I couldn’t cheer up. Back to the Dark Ages, I thought dismally, a wedding in my house. With no one.

Another phone call. A local rebbetzin sharing more chizuk. Then a neighbor came over, clapped her hands, and said, “We’re doing this. You don’t have to plan a thing, you’re gonna have the most gorgeous wedding right here in the house.”

I wanted her out. Yeah, right, what if this were your daughter? But she was true to her word. She rearranged everything. Plan C.

It was a day before my wedding. I hadn’t spoken to my chassan for a week. Then a letter arrived. Five handwritten pages of his strength and emunah. I smiled through my tears.

My grandparents were smiling too. They live next door, but were staying home for their own safety. With the chuppah in our garden, they could watch it from their window.

Later, there was yet another phone call. A mother of a kallah, calling between the chuppah and dinner in their home, telling us they’d just had the most beautiful chuppah in their own living room. I couldn’t even speak to her, I was crying and hiccupping. But my father held the phone near my ear.

It was probably my grandfather, who lived in Israel and couldn’t attend, who gave me the final push. He’s been through a lot in his lifetime. He spoke to me of how he’d always pushed through.

After speaking with him, I found strength to compose a text message to family and friends, letting them know that I’d be getting married in my house with only family and very close friends in attendance.

On the day of the wedding I woke up and, I was okay. Really, really okay. I could do this. I’d received an overwhelming number of replies over the night. I teared up. You will all be a part of it, I thought. And they were.

We decided to livestream the wedding so that our extended family and friends could feel part. We got over 12,000 views! Of course, there were people who were watching just for fun. Everyone was home, hanging around, why not peek in on a wedding?

We got feedback from those people. People who didn’t know us, but felt the simchah too. My wedding felt surreal — a white chuppah in the garden, a kallah chair and flower display in the spot where we played ball and had barbecues — but it was also very real.

Everyone who was there gave it their all. The gravity of the situation only heightened the sense of simchah. I watched my chassan dance up a storm, silk tie flowing with his fluid movements. His family members could be counted on his fingers, but he was flying, shining. He stayed strong for all of us, for his parents, whose first son’s wedding was so very different from how they’d envisioned.

At some point, we all let go. It was so leibedig. Spirited dancing that went on and on. Traditional songs, new releases, the pace picked up. Soon, our song became a joint tefillah: “Rabbeinu shaag b’kol gadol, ein corona, ein corona…”

Later, friends came too, two at a time. I welcomed them into my garden, into my simchah. And I didn’t have to pretend anymore. It was real, it was beautiful, it was a simchah in spite of everything.

After the wedding, people kept asking my father, “Will you do your other weddings in your home? It was so special.”

But no — weddings are meant to be celebrated with a crowd. They are meant to be big and grand.

Still, if ours was meant to be like this, we’ll treasure the memory and the message.

I’d always dreamed of an elegant affair, of tulle and flowers, tables sparkling with silver and crystal goblets. But our wedding was different; held during an eis tzarah, with the reminders of galus everywhere, it was beautiful like the smashed glass under the chassan’s foot, glinting, catching the light.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 807)