December 21, 2018, was our 50th wedding anniversary. We got married during a snowstorm in Buffalo, New York, at seven in the evening. The church was filled with candlelight and poinsettias. My uncle played the organ, my sister-in-law sang, and the minister learned Hebrew prayers for our combined Jewish and Christian ceremony.
We spoke our own vows, which at that time was unprecedented.
It was the happiest day for me. After four years of loving Barry and having people tell us that a Jewish/Christian marriage just cannot work, we were actually doing it. I was marrying the love of my life. The man foretold to me by an inner voice when I was nine years old that said:
You will recognize this man as he will be tall, have dark hair, and will be on his way to becoming a doctor. He will know how to hold you when you are crying.
At the time of our wedding, we had never heard the term “winter solstice.” This was simply the only day that Barry could fly up from Nashville where he was in medical school.
