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Weddings have a way of throwing families into chaos, and ours was no exception.

My older sister, Marge, had long wanted to marry her boyfriend, Joe. Mom and Dad agreed to give the couple their blessing on one condition: Marge had to attend college for a year and still want to marry him afterward.

The year passed quickly, and Marge’s mind had not changed. Meanwhile, Joe had joined the Marine Corps and was stationed at Camp Pendleton, California. When he returned home on furlough, the couple decided it was time to make their marriage official.

That left Mom with just one week to organize a wedding.

Fortunately, one of Marge’s friends had recently married and loaned her a wedding gown. Then Jack, my beloved cat and surrogate baby, turned a frantic week into a full-blown crisis.

All the commotion on the wedding day apparently irritated him. After Mom pressed the dress and laid it across a bed, Jack climbed onto the beautiful gown and left a large puddle in the middle of it.

Mom and Marge were horrified, but there was no time for panic. Mom immediately washed out the stain and applied plenty of perfume to conceal any lingering odor.

The next problem was getting the gown dry. Rain showers and heavy humidity made that nearly impossible, so Mom pointed our largest fan directly at the dress and sent Jack outside.

Years later, a wise friend who had organized five weddings for three children offered a reassuring lesson: something always goes wrong, but it rarely matters. The bride remains beautiful, the guests have a wonderful time, and everyone remembers the celebration—not the mishap.

That is what I see now in the wedding photographs. Marge is radiant in the rescued gown. Joe, just 20 years old, is sweating and staring like a deer caught in headlights. I am dressed in a floor-length baby-blue gown, carrying a basket of rose petals and looking every bit like the Queen of the May.

Those of us from the old school understood the value of a good Plan B. We used one often—and still do.