Giving a Wedding Dress New Life in Difficult Times

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As the sound of cars combusting and trees crackling grew louder, I weighed what to pack and what to let perish. I'd already instructed my two teenaged daughters to load up our car trunk with their important belongings while my husband handled priceless artwork and photo albums.

Hours later at an oceanfront hotel (for $1 per night!), we opened the trunk in the parking garage to see what survived the Cedar Fire. I expected to find dance trophies, school awards, and yearbooks among unwrapped birthday gifts and a melted cake (it was my daughter's 15th birthday). Instead there were plastic grocery bags filled with Funyons, Pringles, and Diet Coke.

I protested until one of them pointed to a white bag wedged near a wheel well.

"Ah, is that your wedding dress?"

It was true. Instead of holding on to cherished race shirts and trophies and medals, I'd tossed in a piece of clothing I wore only once and would never wear again.

No 'Yes to the Dress' Moment

I'd been helping a friend find her matron of honor gown when, out of bordeom, I tried on a discounted, off-the-rack wedding dress (tea length, silk with lace overlay, high collar, candleight colored). It fit perfectly and despite not even being engaged, I ordered it in ivory.

Then I ignored it for almost two years.

A couple of weeks before my wedding, I went to the bridal shop. The store attendant was confused, given I never called nor did a fitting. I explained I'd already tried on the sample, and she reminded me so had other women, hinting it might be snug. I'd also never ordered a belt and had to settle for a placeholder sash, forgetting the back's importance to guests and wedding photographs.

I knew deep down my daughters would never want that dress. Both were taller and had different tastes than me. Given our family's only produced boys since their weddings, there was no chance a granddaughter might be into vintage a few decades from now. Still, I held on to it.

The Dress's Final Resting Place

That split decision during the wildfire elevated the wedding dress's stature for the next 20 years. By the time I was ready to part with it, it was still enclosed in its original plastic bag and hanger inside a cedar-lined closet. It's now in the hands of a non-profit organization that converts wedding dresses into free burial attire for newborns who pass away in NICUs.

I cannot imagine a parent's agony at such an unexpected outcome. Instead of a joyous, jittery first ride home, they leave numb from shock, the body's way of bracing for the first injection of profound, painful grief. A beautifully handmade burial gown or booties -- materially rooted in love -- is one less burden for the bereaved.

There is a good chance, even with my monetary donation to help cover expenses, that my dress ends up in a landfill or local thrift store. The fact I sent it in a regular mailing bag instead of custom box as the organization anticipated is just one indication no newborn may be sent off in the soft, smooth natural fibers I once adorned.

But I'd like to think some clever seamstress will see my dress's potential, sense its historical importance. Maybe he or she will caress that quality silk and delicate lace and deftly transform one beloved garment into another. Maybe what remains of the dress's aura will momentarily ease the aches of those unmoored by such unfortunate circumstances. After all, the dress survived more than a dozen moves and several natural disasters (fire, flood, hurricanes, even a tornado that literally raised the roof).

I held on to that wedding dress for some good reason. I let go of it for an even better one.

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