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The summer that I was 17, I worked as a counselor at a hotel in the Catskill Mountains. Contrary to the usual hotel practice of giving the staff poor food and lodging, the owners of the hotel treated everyone nicely. Employees got the same food as guests (only a day later) and we had decent places to sleep.

At the end of the summer, the owners celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary and invited everyone, guests and staff, to the event, which included a renewal of vows ceremony.

This was something I'd never seen before. Nobody I knew had the money to do such a thing even if the idea had occurred to him. In my neighborhood, paying for the first wedding was tough enough.

The event in the hotel dining room was spectacular and beautiful. I, who had not yet been married, retained the idea that someday I'd like to have such a ceremony when I'd been married a long time. And I did.

On Oct. 30, 2005, my husband and I planned to have an anniversary party with a renewal of vows ceremony to be held at the exact day and time of our original wedding. Our rabbi was unable to be present so we engaged the cantor to officiate. We booked the Delray Beach Golf Club and invited friends and family from far and near. I shopped endlessly to find "The Dress."

As the date approached, I was so excited that I could barely sleep.

Then, on Oct. 24th, Hurricane Wilma hit Marco Island, Fla. A category-five hurricane with 125 mile-an-hour winds, Wilma was the most intense hurricane ever recorded in the Atlantic basin. It roared across Florida, knocking down huge trees, causing power outages, blowing out windows and tearing off roofs from Naples on the west coast to Miami and Palm Beach on the east coast.

We were right in the middle of the storm's path. We had no power -- this meant no lights, no cooking, no traffic signals, no air conditioning, and no telephone service. Most cell phones were dead because cell phone towers had been affected.

By Thursday, we ventured out to the Delray Golf Club, which we could not reach via telephone. The place was heavily damaged and was being used as FEMA headquarters. All bookings for the immediate future were cancelled, including ours. A FEMA employee let us use his cell phone to contact some of our guests. We gave each one a list of others to contact about the cancellation.

The FEMA people were kind enough to invite us to share their hot meal, which was being cooked in aluminum trays over Sterno heaters. It would be a while before we could cook again. Devastated, we returned home to find that melting ice cubes and thawed frozen food in the freezer had leaked water across the kitchen floor.

By Sunday, the day of the party, little had changed. As my husband emerged from a cold-water shower, a friend knocked on the front door (no doorbell). Another friend was making a barbeque consisting of everyone's thawed out food. We were invited, she said. We declined. All our stuff had been thawed and discarded. We had nothing to contribute, but the emissary would not take no for an answer.

"I'm not leaving until you get dressed and come," she insisted. Reluctantly, we agreed to attend, taking with us a bottle of wine. When we arrived, all the neighbors were sitting around by candlelight, waiting for us.

"Surprise!" they shouted. "Happy anniversary!"

The impromptu party was for us. I choked back tears amid the hugs and kisses we got. What a lovely thing to do!

Many weeks later, when things had normalized, we went to the club to rebook the big party. To our surprise, they could not accommodate us until the following year. It hadn't occurred to us that people generally book these things well in advance. This added insult to injury.

With long faces, we went from one catering establishment to another, unable to book anything in the near future. Finally, we arrived at the fanciest catering hall in town. Yes, they said. They had one smallish room available for a January date. The price was almost double the original one. We grabbed it.

We started the whole process over from scratch. New invitations, menus -- everything. This time, some of the original guests could not make the new date. Some of those unable to make the first date were able to make the new one.

The guest list was different but still substantial. My 101-year-old aunt came. So did the best man at our first wedding. Tall grandchildren held the poles of the chuppah. The ceremony was one of the peak experiences of my life.

The new ketubah was prepared by the cantor's wife, an artist. It has been framed and hangs in my living room, a remembrance of our special day.

As I held my husband's hand during the ceremony and looked at his face, I remembered us in that first ceremony -- minus the graying hair and thickening waistlines -- two kids in love, taking a leap of faith. That first time, it was a little scary. How would it all turn out? This time it was different. We repeated out vows with certainty. This time we were sure it was right. And so we re-enlisted.

Toby Rosenstrauch, an award-winning columnist, lives in Boynton Beach, Fla.