Vietnam would become the 35th international country I would visit. So many people in the states asked me why Vietnam? My answer was the same to all, it was time. I was born in 1964. My father served in Vietnam during his second tour in the Army. He did not experience combat because his job was to repair damaged aircraft. But he was there and we were home. While serving, my mother wrote my dad a Dear John letter. This was my Vietnam. A place where daddies went and never came home.
 
I asked my father recently about Vietnam. He does not remember much. His experience was more contained it seems. I think I might have experienced more of the war in an afternoon at the WAR MUSEUM than my dad did serving there 11 months. I had the opportunity to visit both the war museum and the Vietcong Tunnels. A short time later, I cruised along the Mekong Delta that saw more than its share of combat. The entire experience was surreal. In my mind, I could not process how a place so absolutely beautiful could have been at one time guerilla killing fields. But they were and there is no escaping that history.

Vietnam became the first place where my sixteen-year old took a genuine interest in US history. She was the first into the war museum and the last one out. The hardest on us all was something called the ORANGE ROOM. It was a room painted orange that told a horrific visual story of agent orange and its 200-year impact on this country Vietnam. I can’t erase the visuals of conjoined bodies, kids born without arms or legs or eyes or all of the before mentioned. Pictures of kids without feet or with three faces, or orifices growing in unnatural places, limbs extending from the body grotesquely configured. Imagine a leg growing out of a child’s back. Imagine seeing hundreds of baby fetuses saved in formaldehyde jars so the world does not forget the atrocity of this dangerous war chemical.

Many of these children are still being born every day as the chemical remains active for up to 200 years in the soil. Whatever consumes it, e.g., vegetation, livestock, human, runs the risk of being forever changed by it. I want to believe so much this outcome was unplanned by my government. I will never believe we would knowingly have anything to do with the monstrous impact of this agent.

What I have read and seen and heard is we dropped the chemical to kill the jungle vegetation. That way the bombs we also dropped would then be more effective. I can’t argue that truth, but I can tell you we killed a lot more than vegetation. We have impacted generations and cursed their unborn children through no fault of their own. I saw this up close and personal and with my own eyes. I hope everyone sees it and nothing like agent orange rears its ugly head again in civilization.
 
Vietnam to me will forever be about its people.  They are simple and beautiful. Vietnam is a very young country with most of the population being born after the war so I am told. They call the war The American War. What I admire is their fortitude. Their eyes shine with happiness. They love with such beauty in their hearts. They seem to have forgiven the past. You will often hear them express that they are happy because there is no more fighting.

Their country has been at war for too many years to count, French, Japanese, French again, Cambodians, each other North and South, the Americans and the list goes on. No more fighting they say. They have paid a hefty price. They will defend the only place they call home again if necessary. Men, women children raised in arms if need be.

But for now and I hope forever, they live in peace. I was thrilled to come in peace among them.

I recently went on a fabulous holiday vacation to Southeast Asia with my family. My thirteen year old son who has traveled to 17 different countries at last count, said to me, "Mom everyone keeps staring at me, I guess because I am so tall."  My response, "Well that is one reason." I went on to tell him it is also because he is black. He then said, well duh I know that and they might also be looking for all those black male stereotypes in me too. I nearly tripped on the sidewalk right there in Hoi An. I had no earthly idea he was even slightly aware. And then he ended by saying, "I will give them no validation of those ill-conceived thoughts."

Well this is one aspect to traveling abroad. One that I think  people of color and particularly African-Americans carry with them on their trips. That is their identity beyond just being American. It does not help that when you arrive the one or two local TV stations are showing reruns of  Good Times with closed captions and worse still Sanford and Son.

On this particular trip, I asked our guide Sooky what nationality the native Cambodians think we are (meaning my family of African-Americans)? Expecting him to say African, I was quite surprised when he simply said brown French. He said many in the towns and nearly everyone in the countryside have ever seen any other person except Cambodian, other Asian, or white French.

So it becomes that we are not only representing the American we are the ambassadors of the African-American race too when traveling abroad.

There is another more relatable but true aspect to traveling out of the US. And this is especially true of the remotely traveled, less frequently traveled country destinations. That is the silent but uncontested 'bond with a glance' blacks share with one another.

Okay white people I realize I must explain more. When white people travel outside of the US they blend in most places they travel to or at least they do not become the fly in the milk. Often wherever they travel the nationals are used to seeing them come and go. Not necessarily the case for blacks. This is not to say we don't travel, quite contrary. We just don't travel to the same places at the same time in substantial numbers and frequency to become normalized in our destination. We are still a "sighting." I have even had my hair touched in Hong Kong on a train in the 90's.

So whereas we might be on vacation counting on one hand the number of other people like us, white people of my conjecture do not do this. Do not even think of doing this.

So here is the inside intel on this. Black people not only notice one another, we instantly make a connection with one another whether or not we say one word to each other or not. The eyes, the nod, the wave of the hand, all say, "Hey you good? Great seeing you. Happy to see you. This place treating you okay?" And then the ultimate silent speak of, "Thank you, so glad I am not here alone."

Now to be clear, this is not going to happen in Western Europe like it will Australia or Asia. Just to be clear.

And if that extra step is taken and you stop and talk, that time is complete nirvana. Hugs, phone numbers exchanged, occasional new friendships.

Now white people don't go looking for those moments in black people when you are out there traveling. It happens too quickly and it is an exchange of artistry. Moreso, it is so subtle if you blink you might miss it. And in the end, it is not all that important if you don't understand. Okay gotta go, I think I see one. A taxi that is....

Happy travels. All people. My people. We the people.

 It took her three hours to dress. She planned her outfit two weeks before. Anticipation would not come close to describing how she felt, though anyone looking from the outside would laugh out loud. The two of them had been married over twenty years for goodness sake. Why then was she still getting so worked up over a date together? She was acting like a giddy teenager she thought, but she didn't care one bit.

He arrived home just about the time he said he would. He had gone to wash the car, grab his things from the cleaners and grab her a bundle of roses from Mr. Johnny's flower stand on his way home. Those he left in the car, out of sight. Those he would bring out later. A perfect surprise to a wondrous evening.

She liked to be on time, he preferred fashionably late. This night they split the difference. They pulled up to the valet and he insisted he be the one to assist her from the car. He was her date and he intended for her to know it all night.

The music was right on time a good mix of R&B and Jazz. She swayed in her seat hoping he would ask her sooner versus later. And as if on cue he did. "Of course was her reply. I would love that very much." He positioned himself close behind her one hand placed gently upon her shoulder and they made their way to the center of the dance floor. The song that played, played just for them. They were all alone and she was ecstatic.

She looked up at him as he towered over her. He was as beautiful today as the day she said "I do" so many moons ago and a million dances danced. He smelled of cologne, one she had chosen especially for him three Christmases ago. He said he really liked it and tonight it provided a perfect blanket of velvety midst.

She loved the way he turned her, slowly and gingerly. Every once in a while he leaned down a bit and asked, "Everything okay baby? Are you enjoying yourself?" Her eyes said it all. This night she wanted to last forever. And he moved with her, nice and slow, never once taking his eyes off hers. And they danced and swirled and floated. And with every movement, gliding around that floor they had all to themselves she is reminded of how much she loves and adores him. Her lover and her friend is to her the perfect dance partner.

And then after what felt like a magical ride, the song slowly ended. They moved through the final beat. And then he leaned down and kissed her softly upon her lips. And she kissed back. And then when there was nothing left to do, he wheeled her carefully back across the floor and pushed her comfortably up to their table which awaited. He locked her wheels in place and reached for her tender hands to embrace.

For her last dance in 2015 she could not have chosen a better dance partner.

I loved the movie Rocky. I watched it the for the first time in 1976. I was 12. I have watched the movie too many times to count since. I liked it because of the love between Rocky and Adrian. I liked it because of Rocky's rise from nothing to victory and success. I liked it because it told a good story with a man who kept getting up and putting himself back in the ring. I liked all of that and more.

I know a lot of Rockys. Those who work so hard for so long pushing themselves to their own end points all for something they believe in. The Rockys I know all have something in common. They do not believe in failure and they will do whatever it takes to win.  I know of women who work two or three jobs rising in the morning from mattresses they sleep on from the floor, wash themselves from hot water they boiled in a pot on the stove and then added to cold water waiting for them in the sink. They go to jobs where they punch in, bring their lunches to lunch meetings where co-workers gather in restaurants. And without missing a beat they pull out their brown bag determined not to allow the shame in their gut to rise to their face. They catch the bus to the train to the bus and then walk the last 1 and 1/4 mile back home, just after scratching the bottom of their purses for milk, eggs and peanut butter money that may not be there. They arrive home to kids who have dreams squeezed between hungry stomachs and cold rooms with stoves that are barren except for the heat turned to 350 heating the rooms inside. I know these Rockys. The ones who know for sure they are alone and that babies' daddy is not sending what he promised yet again. She stopped begging a long, long time ago. His lies are not even creative any more.

I grew up the child of a Rocky momma. So I know a little of what I speak about. I know so I can tell it. I am one of them. I have boiled that pot on the stove.

And from my Rocky I emerged victorious because of her fight early on. It is because she kept getting back in that ring, bruised from fighting life's fight that I drew my strength. I saw how she made things stretch. I pretended to agree when she sewed some of our clothes saying, home made is better than store bought any day. I smiled through crocodile tears in the thrift store when we shopped for back to school clothes or when she handed the teller at Albertsons food stamps.

One thing I knew for sure, I was not about to let my sensitive attitude pile onto her fight. She had enough fighting against her already. Her Apollo Creed came in many shapes and sizes. The landlord who worked with her but still expected his rent. The unofficial car lender, who worked in payments and interests he created and tracked. The life insurance agent who came every quarter until he stopped coming when she could not keep up with the premium. She did not need my crocodile tears mixed in that fight.

I saw over and over and over how she came home between jobs to rest some, regroup, fix herself up and get back in that ring to face her Apollo. And from all of that emerged me. I collect rent from properties I own outright, my life insurance is paid in full, and I have not had a car note in over ten years. I get it from my Rocky and I am winning!

I am now Rocky Balboa because she faced off with her Apollo Creed. Thank you Rockys everywhere. We see you. We hear you. We love the fight in you!

Happy holidays!

There is this saying - happy wife happy life. Every single time I hear the phrase I smile and nod in agreement. It is funny really, so I laugh. There is another.  If a man speaks in a forest and his wife is not there to hear him, is he still wrong? Funny too, and yes, the answer is undoubtedly yes. How about this one? A good wife always forgives her husband when she is wrong. I could go on and on. Last one. I haven't spoken to my wife in years, I don't like to interrupt her.

There is a lesson in these moments of satire. A lesson for each of us. No matter if you are married, dating, engaged or prowling, one thing is clear and worth knowing. Once you get us home, we do not come with instructions. And if women are anything like my girlfriends and me, if there were instructions, we know men would not read them. Men like to create from scratch, leave off non-essential pieces, hope it works, pray that it won't break and end up paying twice as much when the thing inevitably breaks down. And it WILL break down.

Let's give a real example. Imagine a husband is fixing his dishwasher. Granted the wife wanted a new one but he says, "No babe, no need to spend money on a new dishwasher, I can fix this one and make it just like new."  He takes the entire machine apart careful to lay every single item about the floor. He might even count the pieces, like doctors do when they do surgery. They count the pieces of gauze going in and count the number of pieces of gauze coming out before closing the patient up.  Great idea, right? Right.

The thing is, when the husband is finished, there are still pieces on the floor. And the machine starts, and it runs, and it turns and it acts like a dishwasher. But the dishes do not get completely clean. And no matter how hard she tries she can't convince him that the machine still needs fixing. What he did was merely another patch. He can't be swayed. Because he had touched every single part of that machine and he had heard it running, therefore nothing was wrong with it. Remember she wanted new. She knew something was really wrong, but she could never convince him.
 
So the very next day, without him knowing, she went out and got herself a new machine that worked. And that is how she made him pay.

Marriage is like that. Every piece is needed to make it work.

The year 2015 was a different kind of year for me. Different not being what I would call a bad thing, just different. I spent a lot of time in 2015 looking for things I had lost. Some I later found, others I gave up looking for and declared them forever lost.

A few lost things include losing a Tiffany bean necklace created by Elsa Perritti. This was a designer piece I bought myself for my 50th birthday. I wore it exactly twice. Though I have not completely given up on seeing it again, I lost it about three months after purchase. I bought another one and gave it to my close friend who had brain surgery. She still has hers.

I lost a Anne Klein watch my husband bought me for Christmas last year. I lost it in Morocco celebrating my 50th birthday. I owned it for less than a year. I went online to buy it again before my husband found out but I could not find the exact watch. I had to fess up. He looked at me not especially surprised.

I lost my I-Pad after leaving it on an airplane. The I-Pad I later recovered but that story is far too interesting and with too many layers to reconstruct here. Suffice it to say, it became quite the operation to get reunited with the device but in short, police were involved. Lots and lots of police.

Okay full disclosure, I lost a pair of glasses and noiseless headphones on planes too but at least the glasses I lost in 2014 for those of you keeping count.

I lost not one but two blazers in 2015. The first, the blazer to a blue suit. This one I likely left in a taxi-cab in DC. Good luck finding that one. Still trying to figure out how to salvage wearing of the suit without its blazer. I hate waste, so I will figure it out.

The other blazer was a stand-a-lone CAbi one that I wore just a couple of times as well. I was so sure I left it in a store while trying on clothes over and over and over again. I stalked that store until they found my jacket. The store, Chicos not only found my blazer but they sent it to my home from another state via FedEx without charging me one cent. I was so happy. So what did I do? I I went to my local Chicos and shopped some more. I did not lose anything this time nor did I buy anything.

I lost a pair of sweat pants a good friend gave me with the tags still on them. Likely these were stolen right from under my nose. Perhaps whoever took them thought they belonged more to them than to me? What a pity.

All this losing brings me to this point. When I think back on all those lost things they become just that, things. I would have rather not lost them. This is true. But truly they never really belonged to me either, not really. They were placed into my life as a test of my attachment to them. Provide yourselves with moneybags that do not grow old, with a treasure in the heavens that does not fail, where no thief approaches and no moth destroys. Luke:12:33.

In 2015, I lost my reproductive organs. Losing these was an informed choice between
three of us, my husband, my doctor and myself. My health hung in the balance.  Upon waking from surgery I found out that ovarian cancer was not found and I had lost a lot except not my ovaries and through God's grace, not my life.

As this year comes to a close and I reflect on all that I lost, I come to realize, I did not lose anything at all. All the things can be replaced or more important, I can live without them. In all cases, I never regretted the loss of the thing itself as much as I deplored the fact that I had been so careless with my stewardship over it.

So in affect, it wasn't that I had lost, it was that by losing I could not maintain the feeling of having won.

Through the acts of losing I found out something about myself. The only loss that mattered was losing pieces of me. Each loss was a test of losing. The questions being tested were:
1) Where would I turn for remedy and relief?
2) Who would I trust to provide my remedy?
3) How would I internalize the loss?
4) Who do I believe would provide a solution?
5) What was my attachment to the loss?
6) How attached was I to the found?
7) What kind of loser was I?

As I enter into 2016 I will do so through a spirit of winning. I will allow bygones to be bygones and cast aside my attachment to all things ungodly. I will lean on His promises and will not define my days by winning back what I have lost or by chasing excess. I pray that in my losing I have found a new, better part of me.
 
I will guard my soul with simplicity and find new ways to build up my spirit richly. For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it; but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it. Matt:16:25

The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in the field, which a man found and hid again. Matt: 13:44.

In 2016, I will move in search of my treasure.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. I pray I greet you on my path to happiness!

I don't always put up a Christmas tree. I have only one reason when I don't. That reason is I did not feel like it. When we do put up a tree there are one of two reasons, the kids are young and really expect one or I felt like it. Don't get me wrong I love the look of Christmas trees. Having a tree in my living room during the holiday season is not of the highest importance to me. I am not a scrooge. Far from that.

This year we will not have a Christmas tree or exchange gifts, but I do have a lot of ornaments I carry with me. I would like to share some of those ornaments with you now. There are many more, but here are the ones I want to share during this holiday season.

The first is a small one shaped like a rubber boot reminding me of my first boyfriend crush at age four. Lee also four, helped me slip on and off my rubber boots that fit over my shoes in kindergarten. My first ornament would be for Lee.

My second ornament would be shaped like a honors ribbon as I remember  Ms. Hawthorne. She was my ninth grade AP teacher in high school. When no one else went above and beyond, she did. She took me all over the city on her own time, showcasing my intellect and academic achievement among the world of academia. She was the first to make me believe I could leave Utah far behind and go out into the world on my own.

The next ornament would be shaped like a door knob for Dinitri Dantley, wife of former NBA player for the Utah Jazz, Adrian Dantley. She was the first to introduce me to Howard University. She drove me to the front steps as a senior in High School and asked, "You really want this?" I responded, "Yes." She said, "Then get out, go get it." She opened the car door and nudged me out.

There are many more ornaments I will leave out along the way, no slight to their significance in my life. I remember them all fondly. I feel compelled to mention just a few more.

Next would be an ornament shaped as a plate, reminding me of my oldest brother John who died of cancer at age 45. My brother hated to waste food as poor as we were. Anytime we left food on our plate he would finish it just to see it not go to waste. He used to say to all of us, his siblings, "Only take what you can eat." His humble spirit has stuck with me always.

The next ornament would be in the shape of a ring symbolizing the bond I have with my husband of 24 years. I was a woman used to being left by men in her life. After one year dating he wrote a year ahead in my diary. He wrote, "On this day, La Detra and Bob recommit themselves to one another." He has shown me what commitment really means and I love him dearly.

The next ornaments would be joined together in the shape of eternity rings, symbolizing the bond I desire for my  two children for one another. I have a constant prayer that they will become and remain friends for life.

I can't forget a special ornament for my friend Kimberly shaped like a diamond. Words can't express her definition of true lifetime friendship. I can't imagine not talking her into being my friend so many years ago. She finishes my sentences like nobody's business.

The last ornament would be a cracked ornament showing wear and tear. It would not be the prettiest one on the tree by far. From a distance the eyes may not even notice it. It may appear a bit unfinished or odd but there would be something about it that would draw others to it. Its true beauty would be behind  and inside the ornament telling an authentic story of where it has been and how it got here.

That ornament would be of me.

I am curious. What ornaments would hang on your tree?

A dear friend of mine recently shared that her church did something I have never before heard. Her pastor gave each and every adult twenty-one or over $100 in cash. This may not sound so awesome except that the total amount given away in one morning was $800,000 cash. He told them I am showing charitable giving. Do with this what you might. Let your heart speak. My friend gave away $50 of that gift before lunch time to someone who was trying to get home on the bus for the holidays. I asked her how did she know the woman's story was for real. My friend responded, "It is not for me to know, but to give charitably."

I am reminded in July of 2000 my mother brought me to her bedside and told me, "Promise me you will always take care of your sister."  Three months later she was dead from heart failure, no history of heart disease whatsoever. Some time later, I bought a small home in Stone Mountain, furnished it with things I liked, filled the fridge with food, and invited my sister (shown above) and her children to move into it here in GA away from struggles in CA. I gave charitably. She rewarded my giving by buying her first house less than ten years later. She is among the very best at giving til it hurts, as she co-raises her two grandchildren, with a hundred other good deeds she juggles on a single day. I am super duper proud of her.

My mother passed at the tender age of 55. For about six years, I asked 55 friends for $55 in honor of her death. With this money each year I took a female and her family from homelessness to a new home. My only requirement was the family must be actively doing something to help themselves. One such person we helped sent me a $55 check for five years until we lost touch. She gave charitably by paying it forward.

Another time in recent years, I learned of a family whose house burned down a few days away from Christmas. The mother, a custodian at my children's school, was raising her grandchildren and children. As soon as I learned this, I moved out of my office, a small bungalow style home/office space in Decatur, GA. I asked my secretary to work from home. We bought a welcome mat, Christmas tree with ornaments, put presents under the tree for the grandchildren and invited the family to live in this home until they could get on their feet. I gave charitably.

A couple of years ago my two children and myself went to Walmart a couple days before Christmas in a very poor neighborhood. We took with us $50 gift cards totaling $500. We dressed in Santa hats. First we stopped at Applebee's and devised our giving strategy. Who would receive the cards? While I was overthinking it as I do most things, my son interjected with, "Mom we will know, God will lead us to them." And he was right.  We gave charitably. We saw a lot of surprised tears. It felt great! I was thrilled that my children gave freely and saw their giving being transferred firsthand. I hope it stays with them forever. I think it will.

I tell these stories now in hopes that you will be driven to give heartedly during this season of Christ's birth. There are so many around us struggling day to day and this pressure is felt more heavily with the pressures of the holiday season. Whether big or small I appeal to you to find a way to show your charitable side. The rewards will come back to you ten-fold. I guarantee it.

Happy Holidays!

Want to help someone in need? I have such a friend in real need. Let her share her story with you. Her email zbethenatr@comcast.net. God bless.

I will use the wings I was born with and soar the open skies. No one will ever be harder on me than I am on myself. I will soar higher than I dreamed, sing louder than the chorus and dream bigger than the sleep that formed it. I will be awesome in every endeavor and will not allow the limitation of my mind to dictate the points of interest in my heart. I will dive in deep oceans of curiosity. I will not be intimidated when not knowing. I will strive for excellence not for the applause, but for the accolades in my spirit.

I will rejoice in the success of others. I will not covet my neighbor's donkey. I will create a stable of my own. I will paint beyond the canvass of my current situation. I will borrow brushes from my neighbor when I need to and return two-fold the favor they loaned toward my creativity. I will own my past, step into my present and run toward my destiny. I will never believe I am alone. I know the hand that holds my own. I will not doubt the creation of my excellence. I will humbly step into my beauty. I will build beyond my faults. I will never doubt His  plan for my life.

I will make good on bad promises.I will forgive those who trespass against me. I will seek understanding where there is none, love where it is lacking and draw on compassion when I have forgotten the grace that has been poured into me from the Almighty.

I will never forget that I belong to a master's plan, a manuscript  designed before I drew my first of many breaths. I will look around and anticipate only good poured into my life. I will be the first to forgive, the first to give and the first careful not to relive my failures.

I will ask forgiveness when I fall short of my excellence and best behavior. I will be short in temperament, short in memory when it  comes to counting the wrath of others directed toward me. I will begin my prayers with thank you and end them the same. I will forevermore remember from whence I came.

This is my declaration.

Her name is not important. Her age, exactly 54 years and 364 days. She awoke early, early at least by her standards, 6:15 AM to be precise. She dressed for the indoors. Nike head to toe. This is only important in that she always wore Nike. Nike translated into T-shirt, jacket tied around her waist, sweat pants, socks and yes Nike shoes. She dressed for the indoors mall.

By 7:00 she had made the short drive from her home where she lived alone to the Liberty Mall. As coincidence might have it, the same mall she had purchased every inch of her Nike wear. What is not a coincidence is on this day she chose not to shop the mall but for her first time ever, to walk the mall. A nice brisk walk the distance of the mall before it opened. Just like countless others, mostly seniors.

Less than a day from her 55th birthday she planned the intentional end to her life by her own hands and choosing. Her plan was to walk the mall as a way of doing something perceived as worthy, then return home and hang herself, the most unworthy act ever. But she was determined.

Two marriages had failed. Before that, a college education interrupted in its junior year by an unplanned pregnancy, heartbreak and eventual miscarriage shortly after that. He left her proclaiming "it ain't mine" left echoing in the air as he fled stage left from her life. She did not even bother to mention to him, he had been her first. Unless she counted her true ugly first occurrence at age six snatched by a family relative.

She was alone with nothing substantial to show for it. Who would miss her anyhow? Her parents, maybe, but they called on holidays. An obligatory check of the box, WE ARE CONCERNED PARENTS box. Inside she knew better. Mom loved controlling everything including dad and with time dad loved being controlled, or at least put up little resistance to being controlled. Without any acknowledged siblings, she was alone to fend for herself. She had long ago traded their love for the scraps of love the universe doled out to her. She told herself, the universe has me on a love diet. And deep inside she believed she must have done something(s) to deserve it.

She arrived at the mall with the idea to walk it exactly 4 times then return home. Four times around was 2.25 miles. She had read that and she took it at its word. Because she researched everything, she knew  2.25 miles was 4,250 steps. These many steps separated her from life and death. As she entered the mall she saw an inscription on a plaque near the door. It read, What we call our despair is often the painful eagerness of unfed hope. GEORGE ELIOT

END OF PART ONE

My sixteen year old daughter had plans to hang out with a girlfriend. The friend asked to cancel at the last minute. The reason? She had a breakup with her boyfriend and did not feel up to going out. She lost her first of many feathers. Not quite a sprang or a break in the wing but a slight tear. A very early tear.

Women will love with a broken wing for too many reasons to share. We are nurturers, we forgive easily, we believe big and in vivid vibrant colors. We give of ourselves generously. We do.  I have a girlfriend tell me just today, "Women stay even if we are broken. But we are always seeking to heal our heart." I believe that. As she was saying it, my heart was nodding in agreement. I found what she said profoundly true. Men often grossly underestimate what women will do to find healing.

I have a friend who is a divorce attorney in Texas. She told me once over sushi, that by the time women make it to her they are done, finished, finito, terminado. Men on the other hand, come with these women ready to do anything and everything to save it.  I asked her why that is? Her response, because by the time women come they had been trying to save it all along. With a broken wing I imagine.

Once the wing is broken no matter we will try to carry on. We will take care of the children and stay for the children. Women will continue to care for the home, plan vacations, attend church on the front pew. We will spray our pillow cases with lavender, put out fresh flowers and cook dinner following tedious recipes. Even with a broken wing.

Thing is each vacation, each Sunday service, each meal prepared she realizes without complete healing, her love will never again take flight. And the longer the wing is broken the wing will never be itself again.

Next time you see someone you know with a broken wing, give her a hug. Whisper in her ear, "I understand. I stand with you. I pray for the healing in your wing."

I pray for healing in all wings.

I have a dear friend who over a delightful lunch, told me the most adorable story about her parents. It was a short story of unyielding love. I was so struck by the adoration her father showed her mother that it stuck. It reminded me of why God made lightning.

Each day when her father returned from work, he removed his work boots before entering the home and then he made a B-line for his bride. Wherever he found her, he knelt down on his knees and covered her with kisses while caressing her softly. This is the young groom, the middle-aged groom and the aging groom. He did the same each and every day. They were a team. They were deeply in love. They stuck.

I was so overtaken by this story that I made my friend pinky-promise every word of it was true, no exaggeration and was without refute. She laughed at me. She told me her parents' shenanigans were adoringly well-known among her friends. They teased her about it. "Tell your parents to get a room", they joked. They had a room, they had the entire house. And they used it, so I was told.

I believe that lightning is possible in every relationship between two people who care deeply and respectfully for each other. I believe without a doubt, lightning can come from glances, from thoughtful indiscriminate acts, from spontaneous moments with less is more words peppered over with authenticity.

I believe lightning occurs best when conditions are welcoming. In order to have lightning a charge must occur between one cloud and another cloud or between a cloud and the ground. In either case it takes two to tango. In a loveless one-sided relationship there can't be lightning but there will be thunder. Lots of thunder.

We must make room for what we want in our relationship. My sister often tells me, "A closed mouth does not get fed."  We must ask for what we want. We must be willing to give generously ahead of our wants. And we must be willing to give up or give in when our wants conflict with the collective ability to remain in harmony. I find when both people are willing to trade-off giving in,  they become more willing to want to see their partner's desires realized. Said another way, with constant giving and receiving in a way that is balanced yields two people desperate to make the other person happy.

When one person is always giving and the other always taking this births resentment and coldness. Lightning rarely strikes in cold environments.

Lightning comes when there is room left for it. And when it strikes we find houses on fire, just like at my friend's parents home. Shocking? Doesn't have to be. Make room for your happiness.