Leah, the gorgeous bride.

A beautiful young woman named Leah committed herself to her boyfriend yesterday, exchanging vows in front of an intimate circle of loved ones. Their life together as husband and wife will only last days, if not hours. Leah has cancer, and the end is very, very near. She is barely 21.

I’ve never met Leah, I know of her only through my friend Holly, who is Leah’s cousin and who would do just about anything to change the hands of fate on this day. My friends and I, along with Holly’s family and Leah’s considerable army of loved ones, have prayed and prayed over these last few months. Prayed for a cure. Prayed for remission. Prayed for more time. As the news grew grim our pleas took on different shades. We asked for pain-free days, for laughter-filled moments, for strength, and for peace.

On March 30 she was told she had about eight weeks to live. She stopped all chemo, determined to spend her final weeks being able to taste food, to have the energy to enjoy simple pleasures. She went downhill fast. Two weeks ago, her boyfriend proposed. A week later — April 19 — they were married. Holly, who drove to Indianapolis to be there and hold Leah’s hand, said she was too weak to do much of anything. But “she did do her vows.”

When I read Holly’s message about Leah’s wedding, I thought of a little girl I met last weekend while at my sister Lisa’s house in upstate New York. The little girl is also, ironically, the cousin of a friend. In this case the friend is an 8-year-old neighbor boy named Jake who is such a regular playmate to my nephew and niece that when his parents put up a fence between their yards they included a gate in order to give the kids easy access to one another.

That particular afternoon Lisa and I were watching my boys play on their cousins’ trampoline when we saw Jake and his brother walking toward us, holding the hands of a little girl in a pink tutu. “This is our cousin,” Jake said. Her black leotard was a few shades darker than her tangled hair, a mess of frizzy curls escaping from the ponytail holder that was trying mightily to do its job. She didn’t say much, just watched my boys in amazement as they bounced and giggled.

“Her name is Zoe,” Jake said.

“Do you want to jump too?” my sister asked and she nodded, her eyes wider. “She’s never been on a trampoline before,” Jake said, sounding like a protective older brother. Lisa helped her up the ladder and instinctively we both reached out our hands, assuming she’d be afraid and want to steady herself. But she moved away from us, stepping lightly at first, feeling the give of the net and the odd sensation of falling but not. In a few moments she was jumping, her tutu bouncing up and down, up and down, opposite her little frame.

The big pink flower in her hair didn’t budge, and her smile never quit either, even as she fell again and again. Jake, who had wandered over to play with my niece and nephew, returned to the trampoline. After a few moments he turned to me and said, “She never slows her happiness.” The way he shook his head gave me the feeling he was talking not about Zoe on the trampoline, but about Zoe.

She never slows her happiness.

I liked the way that sounded. It’s a hard thing to do, to keep an unending supply of sunshine and rainbows trickling through your being. We all have days when everything goes our way and days when the crushing disappointments of life knock the wind out of us. It’s difficult to smile honestly in the face of adversity. It’s hard to make your eyes shine with thankfulness through tears of sorrow. Is it even possible to do both? Should we even want to?

I think so. I think our emotions can swing like a pendulum, but that pendulum can sit on a foundation of happiness, gratitude and faith that we build ourselves. Happiness is a feeling but it’s also a choice, a state of being. Thankfulness too. And love.

Just ask Leah.

When Leah’s health really started to deteriorate, she could have called off the wedding. She could have said to her boyfriend “It’s sweet of you to ask, but no. I can’t marry you.” She could have said, “What’s the point?” But she didn’t. She chose love in the face of death. I’m not saying she had no fears, or doubts, or pain, but in some tiny, unimaginably heartbreaking way, she refused to slow her happiness. That takes guts.

Using Leah as my inspiration and little Zoe and her tutu as my visual reminder, I am working on not slowing my happiness, even when I’m anxious and upset (especially when I’m anxious and upset). Choosing to be happy in those moments feels counterproductive at first, like I’m hampering my own true emotions. But then it feels intuitive, like a natural state. We are born to be happy. It’s not that we need to practice opening the happiness valve, it’s that we need to practice not wrenching it shut every time something doesn’t go our way.

Holly said yesterday Leah could barely keep her eyes open. Her breath was labored. She’s in obvious pain. But “she did do her vows.” Suffocated by a million “I never wills,” she found the breath to say “I do.”

Leah, you just did something the rest of us have trouble doing when we stub our toes. Thank you for that example, and congratulations on your wedding. May you rest in love, and happiness.

[Postscript: Leah began an eternity of happiness on April 23, 2012, with loved ones by her side until the end.]