It did not matter that they had not seen one another since the last awkward time of some time ago. Like two matadors facing off from across the room, they eyed each other without ever locking in, each one sneaking glances sizing up their spar. As they circled the room pretending to be interested in other goings on, neither was, just each other and the stand off ensuing for longer than either could remember. So long that neither could pinpoint where the rift first began. Something small and trivial likely. Some inconsequential something that on its own should have been forgotten and laughable. But the little trivialities grew, each one piled on the other, then after awhile sprouting into full on resentment. "What did she mean by that?" "Was she referring to me?" "Was that aimed at me?" "Was I supposed to overhear that?"  "Is she judging me?"  "Is that supposed to bother me?"

The confrontation always kept just out of reach. The fight held at bay by simply ignoring one another, by not calling, by pretending not to care. After this long, the angst is less about how it began but more so how stubbornly it has been allowed to survive this long. Neither side is vested in its end but implanted in its origins. And so they take in the scent of their foe and they dance about the room throwing daggers disguised as "I could care less that we have this between us." But truth is, they do care, both of them care.

It is inevitable, and after all the shallow awkwardness builds to a heightened peak and there is no more room to maneuver, no more corners of the room to melt into, one of them slowly inches to the center of the ring, as if to say, "Let's do this, It is now or never." And just like a double-dare on the playground, the other matador grunts, scratches at the ground, and then inches forward. Room feels silent, but likely no one else really notices or they are polite enough not to notice making room for whatever happens next.  

And low and behold the world does not stop spinning when one of them says to the other, "Have  you tried Aunt Jane's sweet potato pie?" That is it. "Have you tried Aunt Jane's sweet potato pie?" And as if on cue they chuckle which instinctively builds to a fit of laughter between. Each of them knowing that for as long as they both can remember and for even longer than the silence between them, Aunt Jane butchers anything resembling the sweet potato pie.  And now standing together in the center of the ring, they dip their forks into a single slice of pie, laughing until their bellies ache.

And they laugh and they forget and most of all they let go.

Finding the jewel buried in steel is hard to do. Its tough exterior encased as a barrier of bitter protection against opposing forces. If you are looking for steel, you can find it everywhere, anywhere. Around me I see a lot of steel, especially among aged steel that has been sitting for awhile.

I just returned from a highly anticipated trip to visit family. On the surface it was a most joyous occasion. The awesome stories of time gone by, the air of laughter, the new stories generated from new family members being added. The familiarity of places, things, songs and faint remembrances retold. And for the time spent together it was fabulous. A pallet quilted in loving togetherness.

There was also steel. It is the kind of steel where you know just how much to say and then you say no more. Just how much to shake something before you set it back down, before you break it. Just how far to enter a room before you ease out again as not to disturb the sleeping giant. That kind of steel.

You learn how to treat steel when you have been conditioned to treat it a certain way for so long. You can talk around it, about it, and in a passive-aggressive way may even be able to talk to it. But you don't handle it. At some point that only you understand you put it back where you found it. And though you may not bury it, you tuck it out of sight so that no one has to be bothered with it. Because if you don't see it, it does not exist. If you don't talk about it, you have no culpability if and when it breaks down. We expect steel to remain with the appearance of strong.

I saw a lot of steel when I was with my family. I even brought some with me. In truth, I wanted someone, anyone to ask me about mine. I was waiting for the opportunity, any opportunity to bend my steel just a bit to give its jewel a fighting chance. I was dying for someone to ask real questions about my steel. I was hoping to not only handle it but to own it together. That opportunity never really came. Those I love most kept picking up my steel and setting it back down in hopes of not breaking it, shaking it, or disturbing it. Thing is the jewel inside wanted nothing more than its steel to be broken so the facets inside could come out  and be recognized. Be realized.

Steel is tough. Getting inside steel is tough. But the jewel inside is toughest of all, if only we give it an invitation to shine.

#SpeakYourTruth 2015

.....regretted being slow getting to the hip side of the universe. I grew up and never did drugs, ever. The one time I tried to mimic "hip", I along with a couple of high school girlfriends found a strip of cardboard, rolled straw and dry grass from the yard into it, lit it under the dim lit street lights in front of our house, and pretended to get high.

My oldest brother happened upon our stupidity and ashed the rolled "grass" out on my forearm. Yes, he took the "joint" from my hands, insisted I hold out my arm and then he put out the cherry of the blunt by burning it into my inside arm. I never told anyone until now and I "never have I ever" done any drugs before or since. I do carry the cylinder brand on my forearm as a reminder to this very day.

Never have I ever regretted the look in his eyes that said, "No, not you too! I will not allow it. You are not allowed on this path."  His eyes looked guilty, desperate, and anxious. I was 16 years old with one foot out the door already. He was not going to allow me to slip. So he did the unthinkable, he burned sense into me. I never even told momma.

Thinking back, never have I ever blamed him. I saw what drugs were doing to him and others in my family. I was his hope. Hope that it did not have to end badly for all of us.

So I wear a small scar now, so that I don't have to be forever scarred by a choice that surely would not have ended with "never have I ever."

I only had to ask him one question and then I got an ear full. Somehow I thought aloud, maybe asking was what he needed? My question, when did your life change?

WADE: When I was twelve I gave momma an ultimatum. "You stop drinking or I am going to run away." I had been telling her that for months. I threatened to run away and still nothing changed. I hated how she treated me in front of my friends when she drank. So one day, I broke into a couple of houses, stole stuff, stole a car and I left. I was twelve. That's when my life changed.

For the next three years I was separated from the family in foster care. Momma had no choice, the car I had stolen was a top ranking colonel's on the army base. Momma was told, you and your other children can stay on base, but he must go. She had no choice. After she saved enough money working three jobs, she moved the family from the army base to Salt Lake City where I was living. That's what brought y'all to Salt Lake City, to reunite with me. By then though I was lost. I was drinking, doing acid, fighting and out of control. I had anger issues that started at home.

I got kicked out of middle school for fighting all the time. That's when I ended up in an alternative school, same thing for high school but by then Eric (our other brother) was with me. I was bad news with a bad temper. Once you start doing bad, bad follows you. Bad becomes you. That's what happened to me.

Why drugs? Drugs helped me forget. Thing is at first they helped cover up the things in my life that were not working out right, but after awhile there were way too many drugs and way too many things to cover up.

What are you afraid of? That's my problem. I am not afraid of anything. I used to be afraid of overdosing, I guess I still am a little. One time I had ODed and I was in a big open field. And I swear the field had one sprinkler. And just as if God opened the heavens, that one and only sprinkler system came on shooting me in the face with water in the nick of time. I swear this is a true story. That sole sprinkler saved my life.

I am not afraid of anything, I never have been. That can be good and bad. When I make my mind up to do something I do it so well.  My problem has been my mind has been more made up on the bad side of doing than the good side. It is a shame too because I have such a good heart. Do you know I have never done anything to anyone that I did not make good on? Really I have kept track, I have always fixed what I broke. I can be proud of that.

What else are you proud of? I taught myself read and write. I am almost completely self-taught. Also math. I taught myself math. I am also a really good artist. When I am bored I draw. You've seen my art right? I sent you a picture of a Indian girl from prison. You still have that piece? I hope so, that piece took a long time to finish. I hope you kept up with it (I didn't).

What do you regret most? I hate that momma died and I never gave her anything to be proud of about me. I never accomplished a single thing that she could point to and say wow! I regret that a lot. She did the best she could with me and with us and I let her down. I guess when I think about it, there were a couple of brief periods when I was cool when she was alive. I think I remember that now.

Anything else?
I am so tired. I just want to go fishing. I am so tired of starting over. One day I am going to tell you my real story. You don't spend 20 years in and out of prison and not have a story. Most of the time I went to jail it was for hurting myself not for something I did bad to someone else.  I am more familiar with the streets and how to survive out there than you will ever know. Most of all though I was never cut out to be there. I am a really nice person with a big heart, even the streets know that about me. Even people I hated I treated with respect. I have a loving heart. We all do. I am a really nice guy with a big heart. That will never change.

If we do tell my story, I want to share with you how I came to know Jesus. I was worth saving. I know that for sure. I hope my story helps at least one person. One person saved from this life would be great.

Thing is, I  come across a lot of people's stories. When I do, I listen. I lean in when leaning is needed. Sometimes it is hard to lean in without trying to fix things. But I realize better than most, sometimes fixing "it" is not what people want. Often times they just want to feel heard. And most importantly, they do not want to feel judged.

It is hard to lean in without taking on the other person's story. It becomes a part of you. That is the hard part. You begin to feel, see, and live through their pain in the moment. That's the personal cost of the lean.

And no matter how many times you lean, you never become desensitized to other's suffering. Pain is painful no matter how many times you meet it. That is,  if you leaned in with passion and engagement. If you were truly present. I have learned to be present for others, then as soon as I can,  I find a quiet place and take their story to the throne. I leave it there. God made that possible. Cast your burden on the Lord, and he will sustain you; he will never permit the righteous to be moved. Psalm 55:22. What a relief. Because without it, we become ill. So instead we cast our cares unto the Lord. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. John 14:27.

We are expected to bear the burdens of our brother.
But if anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for members of his household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever. 1Timothy 5:8. So as you can see,  man did not invent the lean. Leaning is a part of HIS master plan.

So my brothers and sisters as you go about your life look for your very next opportunity to lean in. Then find your quiet place and hand your cares unto our Lord. He is waiting for you at the throne.

I remember the anticipation of going to church on Sunday. When I was really, really young the excitement was further manifested because I got to dress up. Topped off with Vaseline on my face down to my knees. The ritual of church was an event unto itself. The bows for my hair I selected for Jesus must be returned to the top drawer right after church until their next invitation.

Never was a day that we did not leave for the church house without a pot of something or another in the crockpot awaiting our safe return. Whatever it was the meat would fall off the bone after so many hours of simmering-slow cooking is what momma called it.

Being in church was true business. There were rules that did not need repeating twice. Sit up straight, no talking, no chewing gum, no twitching in the seat, close those eyes tight during prayer, don't get up and go to the bathroom during preaching and unless you welcomed the certain beat down to follow, do not do anything on or off the aforementioned list to embarrass momma while she was in the choir singing. She had eyes everywhere. And she could curse you out with her eyes and a reading of her lips and not miss a single musical verse.

And if momma gets "happy" in church don't even think of laughing. Move stuff so she don't hurt herself, cover her legs so her panties don't show when she faints, and by no means ask, "What is wrong momma?", when she comes out of it.

When the plate is passed, whether it is for the building fund, the pastor's anniversary, benevolence, gifts and tithes, or anything else, give til it hurts. Share your church fan, don't be selfish, and if they run out give your fan to someone next to you who is sweating more.

Say amen even if you don't know why you are saying it. Turn your bible to Job even if you have no idea where Job is in the bible.  Read your program even if it is exactly the same content as the previous three Sundays. Recycle the program if there is another service to follow.

If Miss Viola offers you that mint with lint on it, take it! Don't embarrass her or me. And if Ms. Caroline with the mole bends down for her kiss, give her one. I mean it. It ain't going to kill you no how.

Do not even think of taking communion if you and your brother have not made up yet. And if you go up there and take communion, if you touch the bread take it. Wait for everyone to get theirs before eating and drinking yours. Stop asking why it ain't real wine. Stay in a child's place. Better yet why aren't' you in children's church.  Get up, someone can use your seat!

Put your right hand up when you leave, say excuse me. And you better not get anything on that white sweater. Meet me at the car right after church. Hurry up, I got food cooking on the stove!

If anybody asks you if we coming back for evening service, you tell them no. Tell them you think momma has to work. Don't look at me like that! I'm tired and you are starting to get on my last nerve. AMEN

My mother stopped going to church when I was in my early teens. She did not give me much of a reason directly, but indirectly I got the answer I had been seeking. The church had become less and less of a spiritual refuge. How I thought? How is that? Perhaps her expectations are just too high I told myself. The church is more than a physical structure, the church is its people, we are the church. And therein lies the problem. And it is no wonder Momma stayed away.

I meet a lot of people who stopped going. Momma used to say I get my church from the TV. How lazy is that? What about, where two or more gather in my name then I be there also? Was my momma a sofa-side Christian? She grew up under not one but two preacher daddies (both my grandfathers). And therein lies the problem. When church let out on Sunday, folks inside that church let her down starting from the pulpit.

The church has a mighty cross to bear. It is supposed to be that light that attracts. That beacon in darkness, even though it is full of sinners. But when the outside world gets a pew side view of its dullness, its flicker, the church becomes a repellant. I hear it all the time. "The church is full of judgmental hypocrisy." And hence people don't stay. And when they leave, they leave. Like a thief in the night. There is no exit interview asking what could we have done better? They just leave.

Once I took a dear friend of mine down south. Way down south to the bible belt. We attended church of course. The much married pastor of the church hit on her. He leaned in real close and asked my friend for her phone number. Then just minutes later, he preached one get up on your feet spit fire sermon that got folks sanctified up complete with fanning. I just left. No exit interview asking what they could have done better.

I give tens of thousands of dollars to various churches each December. One small church I gave money to for nearly twenty years. My donation was a budget line item it came so consistently. That is until the day I learned that none of the church leaders had bothered to visit my over 90 year old grandmother, their parishioner, in the hospital where she had been for several months. And so my money left. Just like a thief in the night. My money did not even leave a note. It just left.

A close friend of mine told me she attends church but refuses to serve in the church. I asked her why? She said, I don't want to know what I don't know. She says, anytime I get behind the scenes of any church I've attended I never like what I see. I don't want to leave another church because I learned it is far from perfect. I understood what she meant. Because the church, like the church around us, is made up of people and we are all sinners.

The difference I pray is the church in us is striving most to be just like Jesus. And because I believe strongly that most churches are striving to be just like Jesus there is hope. There is hope not only for our body in the church but also for the church body.

I have come to believe that there will be things that I will never know. I am comfortable with that. I don't need to know everything. Once a very successful business person told me it is most important that you surround yourself with people who know the things you don't. I get that too, sound advise.

But what I am struggling with now is who around me can help me understand how the world's most free nation, most wealthy nation, most enterprising nation on earth can be moving backwards in lightning speed when it comes to race relations? I have never felt more black under a black president no less, more so than my parent's felt in the 1950's under Jim Crow. What is happening here? Excuse me but haven't we been here before? Whatever happened to onward and upward, progress, and we shall overcome?

The climate is killing me inside. I am not afraid as much as I am concerned for all of us, all shades. Forgive me for chiming in, but I am trying to raise children here. And I thought I was doing a pretty darn good job until recently. My strategy has always been, just get them to college age, then they can fend for themselves, make up their own mind about black and white. Well now phooey on that idea. The college campus is now under siege with placards of racism. This a place where bright minds are supposed to be watered and leveraged for life-changing milestones that await just beyond. But instead, hunger strikes, sit-ins, take-overs, demonstrations, riots, threats. Must I go on? And it would be different were I not talking about the year 2015 some 60 years after segregation ended. And if these events weren't happening simply because of one or more group's skin color, ethnicity or religion. Really? How 1950's is that?

Grow up small-minded people! Where is your mother? Didn't she teach you better? We are all the same. Get over yourself already! Geeze Louise, really? How much can one person take? Don't you have bigger fish you can be frying? Racism does not wear well on you! Change up!

And on to my generation let's call a spade a spade. Perhaps if we were minding the store more closely along the way it might not have come to this. It is not as though the signs were not there, even bread crumbs painting the picture in full view. Somewhere maybe we forgot, ignored or denied that fact that we come from a speckled history. And unless told, history can and will repeat itself. Just saying.

Some of us are just trying to go about our business, but now, like it or not we are going to be drawn into this fight once again. And each of us will have to decide for himself or herself what side of history they want to be on.

Signed, #SpeakTheTruth

So yes, momma had come to collect me from the club to which I had escaped. I snuck out of the house thinking she would never know. I had gotten away with the impossible. And I found myself dancing with the finest guy in the club. I was in ecstasy, but life interrupted, momma snuck in and took over my dance.

She said, "Don't even think of stopping. You chose to be here, dance your dance." And so I danced. I danced the dance of THE HORSE in full view of the entire club. I heard the hush whispers, "That is her momma, how embarrassing is that?" It was more horrifying than the reality it road in on. I was caught. I finished my dance, even lack luster. My momma said, "No bring it, you chose this, now finish it!" Then she said right on cue, "I am going to beat your a@@ when we get home. So dance. Dance like never before."

My mother was 21 years older than me, just a child really. When we got to the RV the first thing I said was, "I hate you!", something I had never said before or since. Thinking this was the stun gun I needed, instead she responded, "I hate you too." I was floored. How could she? It could be because we were in pain and in a stand off. Whose pain would win?

The answer is no one won. I know she did not mean it and she knew I did not mean it, but there was too much pain in between. So we rested. And we became silent. And we pretended that night never happened.

And hence is that pain and problem.

As anyone who knows me knows, I am not a good dancer. This does not take away the fact that I enjoy dancing. My husband tells me I have been doing the same dance moves since he met me in the early 90s. No shame in my game. When I hear music I enjoy I follow my body. I guess my body remembers the same moves. So don't blame it on my heart blame it on my tendencies toward the routine.

I get lost in dancing. Last year I took myself away to San Diego on a road trip. Just me. I had just purchased a nice pair of noise-free head phones. I kept them on. I found myself dancing in my underwear in my hotel room facing the beach. I was lost in Tony Braxton, spinning, singing, moving, gliding across that floor. I did not even hear the housecleaner come in. Imagine both our surprise when she found me gliding in my bra, panties, and headphones in a happy place. All she could do was smile, well blush and close the door gently behind her. Every time she saw me after that she called me "the dancing lady".

I remember another day last year when I lost a big contract. I went out to eat with a friend and our daughters. We passed by a happy song playing through the doors of Starbucks and what did I do? I grabbed the hand of the first stranger I saw and we danced. This 20 something did not have much of a choice, but I did ask, and he said yes. And we danced, right there on the sidewalk. I felt better. And I gave him a story to tell for the ages.

I remember I first fell in love with dance through a dance called THE HORSE. I was  fifteen. I had snuck out of the house, thinking momma had gone fishing for the weekend. Much to my regret she circled back because she forgot her cooler. It took about 3 minutes for my brothers and sister to sell me out. And momma decided to detour that rented RV and come to the club to find me.

I had been at the club just long enough for my girlfriends and me to eye-spy the finest guy there. We huddled in a corner oohing and aahing, taking bets over who among us he might ask to dance. He looked like a black John Travolta all dressed in white and with an afro. He was beyond handsome for real and I was beyond smitten. After what seemed like a zillion songs he looked right at me and with his index finger signaled for me to meet him on the dance floor. My head became light. I asked me? You asking me? He read my lips and I motioned to the dance floor.

This is where you might want to sit down.

He did a bit of dance talking. What's your name? How old are you? Where do you go to school? Who did you come with? Then when that was over he broke out into THE HORSE full on. I was in ecstasy. And I jerked and jerked and I put my back into that dance. I was having the time of my life and made sure my girlfriends in the corner could sense it. When I got way confident I turned my back to John Travolta and without missing a stride did the horse with my back to him in full gallop. Yes I was doing my thang. When I turned back around he was smiling, so I did it again and again.

The last time I turned my back my mother had come up to him, tapped him on the shoulder and said I will take it from here. Now I was jerking all over the place in full euphoria, I was lost, spinning and in dance heaven. When I turned around to face John Travolta, instead I was facing my mother and she was doing THE HORSE.

END OF PART ONE

I was watching a segment on Oprah's Network featuring former Olympian skater, Debi Thomas. It was like watching a train wreck. I couldn't stand to look but I also couldn't look away. It was hard to watch. Worse, it was hard to listen to. As Debi wrestled with her demons, it was abundantly clear to all but her, that her demons were winning. This highly educated and talented woman, I have admired forever and a day was a broken shell of her former self. Iyanla tried to get her to see her real self, but Debi was too far from her present truth to even visit it. I found myself wanting to yell through the TV, "Just tell the truth Debi. I promise you will feel better!"

I grew up in a house of secrets. A pattern I nearly passed onto my children. Our mantra was "What goes on in this house, stays in this house." And we meant it! Even my extended family lived by this mantra, so finding out what was really going on with grandparents, uncles and aunts might only happen if I accidentally overheard something while drinking adults spoke their sober minds. I was expected to be seen and not heard. And so was the way of my upbringing. The tragedy though, when things aren't discussed and so much is swept under the rug and that white elephant in the living room is never acknowledged, then those experiences get buried inside us. We end up carrying them with us as we go out into the world. And yes they become an unfinished work inside us. I think that is a part of what I was seeing in Debi. A whole lot of unresolved conflict and in her case, it appeared to me, a bit of mental illness sprinkled in for good measure.

I can see how "young mess" grows into older mess throughout my life. Despite my constantly asking, my mother never talked abut why she and my father divorced when I was not yet six years old. That gave me the space to imagine it was my fault that they did. Throughout my dating life I became that girl waiting to be left. Not until my soon to be husband turned me to face him and said, "I will never leave you. So stop testing me," did I stop sabotaging perfectly would-be-good relationships.

There are so many ways we self-perpetuate our circumstances simply because we are unwilling and occasionally truly unable to walk back our life and "fix" what is broken. I see it over and over and over again. So, I asked a group of lady friends totaling 33, to try something with me. We will share our stories of truth both in order to free ourselves and  help others. So many brave sisters agreed, many anonymously which is perfectly fine by me. Hurt does not need a name or a face, it just needs a beginning with an end. Hurt comes in many shapes and sizes; infidelity, death, incarceration, illness, betrayal, molestation, motherless, homelessness, addictions and so on.

Everyone who shared their story said it was difficult and cathartic. Of course it was I thought to myself. I have been there done that with you. It was not easy, but we will share our stories because they need telling.

THIS IS MY STORY BUT IT IS NOT MY LIFE will be published in 2016. I know for sure God is in it because each story shares how faith and spiritual connectivity help us overcome adversity whatever it was. Some of us are still in our story and that is fine too.  Why tell the truth you might ask?

Ephesians 4:25. Therefore each of you must put off falsehood and speak truthfully to your neighbor, for we are all members of one body.

I grew up in a protective environment. With so much havoc at times I was never really sure what or who I was being protected from. Ours was a day by day existence. We grew up fast and close. It was the four of us children against the world.

In my family I was a real stand out. I mostly stood out because I preferred school and grades versus running the streets. Don't get me wrong I got my share of beatings for sneaking out to the dance club after momma stepped out or was at work. I was nowhere near perfect but I was by any discerning view different from others in my family. No matter what I tried, beauty pageants, oratorical contests, fashion shows, modeling, whatever, I always had their full support.

Our house was the was the gathering spot, simply because my mother worked nights. We created a lot of mischief in that house only to reassemble the chaos when we heard momma's car or she called to say she was on her way home and make sure "her house" was clean. We knew what that meant and so did our friends. Everyone knew we weren't allowed company when momma was not home. Momma worked so much she was hardly ever home except to sleep or cook. We always had company.

My brothers were ultra protective of my sister and me. They were the men of the house when momma was away at work. My brothers often brought their friends around. Without fail if they had friends over there was going to be a fight or scuffle. Fights happened for this reason, over me or my sister.

We lived in a small house with small living spaces. Nearly everything happened in the front room or our bedrooms. I usually did my homework in the front room. My brother Wade was notorious for fighting in that front room. It usually went like this. "Don't even look at her man. I mean it. Don't ask me about her either. Don't look her way. Act like you don't even see her sitting there. Fair warning. One warning." I kept my eyes glued to my book pretending to be studying even as I knew what inevitably awaited. I could count to about 4, his friend or friends would look my way and then POW! It was full on tussle right there in the front room. I would start moving stuff that if broken, would get us all beat, e.g., TV, cassette player, Jesus pictures, cheap African statues, whatnot.

Some of his same friends got into a fight with Wade over harmless looking every time they came over. It was crazy. But Wade did not play when it came to his sisters or he just liked to fight, I am never sure which. I know he fought a lot.

One time he begged me to set up a movie double-date with my prettiest friend Kina. She was Halle Berry beautiful. After I promised her the world in return she finally relented. My brother ran home after his cooking shift at a fast food restaurant to change and meet us there. I smelled his Old Spice from a mile away. I wish I could remember the movie but I don't. Anyway, midway through theatre darkness he asked me to join him in the lobby. He got me out there and asked, "What does she think of me? Am I making a good impression? Tell the truth." And after much prodding and 5 minutes of lost movie viewing, I blurted out, "She says you smell like hamburgers." He stood frozen in place. He teared up, this fighter from our front room. Then he says, "Smell me", as he pulled me into his shirt and his over abundance of Old Spice cover up. I lied and said, "Just a little, not really."  We walked back into the theatre and as Kina sat oblivious between us, Wade cried in his chair and I cried in mine, silent, sad, angry tears from each of us. Now neither of us caring less about the movie or Kina.

It was us against the world. Never again did I fix him up. And I didn't have to.

The day I graduated from High School I became the first in my immediate family to do so. My older brothers chose differently. I remember being chosen to give the senior class commencement address. Upon finishing, I saw someone stand alone in the balcony. He wore a McDonald's uniform. That was my brother Wade inviting the audience to join him leading a standing ovation. That was him as proud as though  he was standing on that stage with me. I will never forget that day.

The day I left for Howard University my brother Wade was there. I remember vividly him running up to the taxi that had come to collect me curbside from our tiny house in Salt Lake City, Utah. Momma could not collect herself long enough to see me walk to the taxi. She was overcome with a balance of pride and sadness that I was leaving her. But Wade was there. He had always been there. As I sat seated in the back of the taxi he says, "Hey wait a minute, get out! Do you know how... to fight?" I sat half stunned but not completely. That was his way, always looking out for me. He made me get out of the taxi long enough to learn how to get in the first punches and to protect my face. That poor taxi driver sitting there stunned, maybe even wowed by my older brother who dropped out of high school, preparing me for college. The last thing he said to me as I pulled away from the curb was, "Here take this wooden nickel, and make damn sure it is the last one you ever take." Little did I know, the next 35 years would be filled with me saving him not him saving me.

My brother had a challenging upbringing. Though we all drank from the same Kool-Aid somehow the environment we grew up in affected him most harshly. He seemed to feel things more deeply. He was and is what I will call super sensitive, quite compassionate. Never ever met a stranger. A friend to the world around him. Naïve but street smart rolled in one. Just 21 months older than me he was my mother's favorite. She used to always say he needed her more, likely he did.

I remember him being held back a year which put the two of us in the same second grade class. This happening almost killed him. He was humiliated. It was tough. And over the years we would grow apart. I would go right and he would take the road left. What brought us back together was a call from my sister saying he was in the hospital and the doctors were not sure they could save his life. After being angry yet again over what I thought was preventable behavior, I jumped on a plane. He was after all my brother, my family. I had already buried my only other brother to cancer when he was just 45, and my mother when she was 55. As the oldest living child, I had to go see about him and what I found killed me inside.

As I entered the hospital where he had already spent the better part of two months the first thing I noticed was his emaciation. What I remembered as this strong handsome twin of my mother was gone, long lost to the streets. He appeared frail, desperate, sad and most of all weak.  This brother who so many years ago taught me to fight, looked as though all of his fight was gone. He looked up at me through his methadone haze and managed a weak smile. I refused to cry, but inside I wailed. Seeing my brother lying there in a million little pieces broke me. Where on earth was I going to begin to help? I hoped just by being there was a mighty first step.

Over the next several days I got his version of the story of how it had come to this. He had been homeless, that I knew. He had been in and out of prison for twenty plus years, that I knew. That he had collapsed in a friend's back yard from pain in his spine was somewhat of a surprise to me. It was rainy and windy and cool when his friend lifted him into his car and dropped him at the hospital. That was how he was found. And the doctors were about to apply their finest technology to save his life.

He has a staph infection that has not responded to any antibiotics. The bacteria attacking his bones and organs with a vengeance. If the final antibiotic does not work he will surely die. Of the last 23 patients the hospital has seen with similar symptoms they all died. When I dropped off my rental car to return home I told my story to the rental agent. She started crying. She says I lost my brother to staph at the same hospital just six months ago.

So now I do the only thing I know how. I put my story in God's unchanging hands. And with my brother's consent,  I tell the truth so others will pray alongside me. There are a lot of Wades out there. I am not alone. I talk about it not to sensationalize it but to crack the door to healing for others like me.

When I left my brother he asked me to buy him a pack of cigarettes. I said no.  I said l love you too much. Someone else will but I can't. I remember a few, not many, people stopping by to visit him while I was with him. I would not allow any negative talk targeting him. My brother knows better than anyone the hole he has dug for himself. He does not need to be reminded. I said not today, not around me will you criticize him. I could not allow it.

So time will tell. I left him with the $25 I gave him, a smile, a hug, and choked back tears. I said I am family and I will never leave you.  His last statement to me as I walked away was, "You promise?"

I promise. I am not ready to bury my brother. God willing.