Category: relationships

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Prince of a Man

Kennith Hayes Coates.  A name most of you have never heard.   His siblings called him K.H.; his wife called him Ken and I called him Granddaddy.  He was a prince of a man.

He was a quiet, reserved man.  Not much of a talker.  He was one of the kindest men to ever walk this earth.  He was a man of high integrity, compassion and intelligence.  He valued order over chaos; peace over strife; love over hate and truth over deceit.  He was cut from the same cloth as Atticus Finch.

I have thought a great deal about him lately.  His 107 birthday would have been this past week.

He enjoyed smoking pipes.  He always smelled of sweet tobacco and peppermint.  He had a collection of pipes which he proudly displayed.  Different pipes for different moods.  Some were ornate, some were carved, and some were plain.  They were displayed in a round wooden carousel on the coffee table in their small living room.  It is funny, I think he enjoyed sitting in his favorite recliner simply holding his lit pipe more than he did actually smoking it.

He enjoyed fishing, specifically bass fishing.  He did not own a boat, but that did not slow him down.  He would stand on the bank of a lake for hours, casting, then reeling … casting, then reeling.  He had the patience of Job.  He would wear a straw hat, Bermuda shorts, collared shirt, dark mid-calf socks and lace-up loafers.  Not the most GQ of apparel, but very practical and perfectly my Granddaddy.  He never once came home empty handled.  Today he might be called a fish whisperer.

He taught me to fish. For me, it was a hit or miss proposition.  But anytime I caught a fish he would beam with pride.  Regardless of the size of the fish, if I caught it, it was the “best” fish in the batch and would always be the fish that tasted the best at supper.

He enjoyed gardening.  Every year he had a vegetable garden.  He grew okra, tomatoes, green beans, eggplant and squash.  He always wore coveralls when he worked in the garden.  I am not sure why, but if he walked through the house with coveralls on I knew he was going out to “tend” the garden.    The vegetables he grew were delicious.  I was well into elementary school before I understood vegetables could be purchased at a grocery store.  I thought everybody had a “vegetable patch”.

The only thing my Granddaddy ever financed was the family home.  He paid cash for everything else.  He did not see the wisdom in purchasing things on credit that would not increase in value.  He taught me everything I know about finances.    He believed one measure of a man was not only how well he could provide for his children, but for his grandchildren.  I, at times, have made the mistake of not following his financial advice; which I always regretted later.

He was not a huge sports fan, but he was a faithful follower of the Atlanta Braves and the Dallas Cowboys.  Which was not surprising since they were both considered “America’s” team at the time.  One of my memories is watching the Cowboys play Sunday afternoon football.  I can remember we would look as the scores of other games were posted and we would talk about how mathematically those scores could have been made.  Touchdown, extra point, two-point conversion, field goal, safety.  Whoever came up with the most possible combinations would win.  It was great fun.  I looked forward to every Sunday.

He was a church deacon.  I remember going with him to the church many, many Saturday nights as he prepared communion for the next morning.  There was a kitchen in the basement of the church. He would carefully pour Welch grape juice into the tiny communion cups and put them in the large refrigerator in the kitchen.  The next morning he would arrive at the church early and place the cups in the holders around the altar and cover the altar with a solid white cloth.  The congregation would go to the altar in small groups, kneeling and taking a cup of juice and a communion wafer.  I remember being fascinated by this whole event.  At the time I did not understand exactly what it represented, but I did understand it was special due to the care with which my Granddaddy prepared it.

He had a tiny work space off the one car garage of their home.  He kept this space impeccably neat and orderly.  He used re-purposed clear baby food jars for storage of his screw and nails.  The lids of the jars were nailed to boards that were mounted on the wall.  To access the contents of the jar you unscrewed the jar, took what you needed then re-screwed the jar to the lid.  Every screw driver, hammer, wrench, and plier had a specific place and could always be found in its place.  His lawnmower, as well as every shovel and yard tool, was thoroughly washed after each usage and always looked brand new.

He always had a pocket knife in his possession.  He used it for a multitude of things.  He would cut fishing line, tighten loose screws and open packages.  But most frequently he would use it to cut a slice off an apple and eat it.  I never saw him eat an apple any other way. I am fortunate to still have that pocket knife.

He loved Tabasco.  He made sure there was always a bottle on the table.  I remember how tickled he was when I found miniature bottles of Tabasco.  He thought it was grand he would be able to take Tabasco with him when he traveled or went to a restaurant.

He worked for one of the largest refined petroleum products pipelines in the United States. He retired after 40 years and was given a gold watch.  I remember him receiving the gold watch and the look on his face.  He had a look of pride in a job well done.  Afterwards the watch was displayed on his dresser.  From time to time I would see him pick it up, look at it, holding it gently in his hands.  I often wondered what he thought in those moments.

The only point of contention I can remember between he and my grandmother was he would drink one beer every work night before bed.  He would be in his pajamas, with his back against the sink and I would hear “pop”.  He always kept the light off and drank a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.  I later learned my Grandmother had demanded he drink in the dark, so I would not “see” him drinking a beer.  When he retired, this practice stopped.  To my knowledge he never drank another beer, to the incredible relief of my Grandmother.

I was 28 years old when my Granddaddy died.  I remember taking some of his clothing and putting them in several  Ziplock bags, trying to save his smell.  It was effective in the short-term.  Often when having a bad day or needing advice in a particular situation I would take one of those Ziplock bags, slowly open it and take a deep breath.  Once my brain recognized that familiar smell, a sense of peace would come over me.

Kennith Hayes Coates was a prince of a man and my knight in shining armor.  Maybe I will get his pocket knife out and eat an apple in his honor.

 

 

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Enough

When I was young, before the age of 5.  When life was simple.  I spent a great deal of time with my maternal grandparents.   They lived roughly 100 miles from my parent’s home.  I would go to their home for months at a time.  About 4 times a year, my grandparents and I would travel to my parents home.  I would beg to go back with my grandparents to their home after each trip.  Sometimes that wish was granted, sometimes not.

One absolute overwhelming trait of my maternal grandparents was their consistency.  They were consistent in behaviors, reactions, responses, beliefs, love, and compassion.  They were extremely faithful and loyal people.  They were faithful and loyal to each other, their friends and to me.  They were faithful and loyal when it was convenient and when it was not.

I always felt safe with them.  Something about their mere presence made me know that everything would be okay.  With them everything was predictably calm, steady, loving and unflappable.  Both of my maternal grandparents were incredibly dependable people.  Their moods and personalities were stable.  Their actions and reactions were reasonable and proper.  In all the years I knew and loved them, they never once flew off the handle or displayed an ill-chosen response or reaction to a situation or behavior of another.  Likewise, I never observed them raise their voices or speak harsh or demeaning words about anyone.

My grandparents gave me many of my “first” experiences.  They were the first people to love me.  They were the first people I loved.  They introduced me to God, Sunday school and church. They acquainted me with Disney, fairy tales, fishing, Carol Burnett, Lucille Ball, Lawrence Welk, Hee Haw, music, letters, numbers, colors, jump rope, jacks, and gardening.  But more than anything they taught me about human decency.  They often cleaned up, generally during the holidays, the collateral damage of family disagreements and feuds.  Countless times I saw them be kind to folks who were not kind to them.

Without fail, they showed a united front in every situation.  They may have disagreed behind closed doors, but you would never know it.  The loved purely without condition, they supported without descent, they sacrificed without complaint, and they encouraged without reservation.

I cannot over emphasize the vital role the time I spent with them played in who I am today.  Their home was a polar opposite of the home of my parents.  While my parents showed me what I did not want my life to be, my maternal grandparents set an example I longed to adopt.  I did not know it then, but looking back I now clearly see their example was one of sacred authenticity.  They were true to God, to each other and to themselves and concerned themselves very little with anything else.  They each valued the happiness of the other more than their own.

It is their example I strive for in my marriage, my home and my relationships.  I am sad to say I often fail miserably, but they taught me that even in failing I am loved.  It is in that love that I find the strength to get up, dust myself off, accept responsibility and try again after each failure.

They have been gone for decades and I miss them more than I can say.  Some days my heart still aches for the warmth, kindness and unique way they had of making me feel special.  I often wonder what they would think of the path I have taken in adulthood.  Would they be proud of me?  What advice would they give me?

Fortunately, I have found if I sit very quiet and listen intently, I still can hear something my maternal grandmother said to me during our last conversation … “Sugar-foot, angel-baby … you are the most precious thing in the world to me … I love you and nothing will ever change that” … and it is enough.  Enough.

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Sexual Safety

Anyone who owns a television, radio or internet knows there has been a great deal of discussion about sexual assault and the #METOO movement lately.  It is sad in the society in which we live this remains an issue up for debate.  Truthfully, there are thousands upon thousands of males who have never been inappropriate with a female in any way.  By the same token, I strongly suspect it is nigh unto impossible to find a female who has never been harassed, assaulted or raped.  Minimally most females have been harassed on more than one occasion.  Further, the majority of those women have never told their stories to anyone and most probably never will.

The reasons behind the silence about these violations are varied.  To someone who has NEVER been violated, they often sound like excuses, irresponsibility, exaggerations, lies, or all the above.  What is often overlooked is there is something that happens inside an individual when they are forced to live in a culture of frequent harassment, or if they have experienced assault or rape.  It is something that cannot be verbalized easily and  is hard to explain.  In a very rudimentary way, a person who has experienced assault or rape or who has been exposed to repeated harassment, views the world through a different lens than people who have not had those experiences.

A profound illustration of this is an exercise my friend Ellin Jimmerson shared from the book The Macho Paradox: Why Some Men Hurt Women and How All Men Can Help by Jackson Katz.  In his 2006 book, Katz describes the exercise …

“I draw a line down the middle of a chalkboard, sketching a male symbol on one side and a female symbol on the other.

Then I ask just the men: What steps do you guys take, on a daily basis, to prevent yourselves from being sexually assaulted? At first there is a kind of awkward silence as the men try to figure out if they’ve been asked a trick question. The silence gives way to a smattering of nervous laughter. Occasionally, a young a guy will raise his hand and say, ‘I stay out of prison.’ This is typically followed by another moment of laughter, before someone finally raises his hand and soberly states, ‘Nothing. I don’t think about it.’

Then I ask the women the same question. What steps do you take on a daily basis to prevent yourselves from being sexually assaulted? Women throughout the audience immediately start raising their hands. As the men sit in stunned silence, the women recount safety precautions they take as part of their daily routine.

Hold my keys as a potential weapon. Look in the back seat of the car before getting in. Carry a cell phone. Don’t go jogging at night. Lock all the windows when I sleep, even on hot summer nights. Be careful not to drink too much. Don’t put my drink down and come back to it; make sure I see it being poured. Own a big dog. Carry Mace or pepper spray. Have an unlisted phone number. Have a man’s voice on my answering machine. Park in well-lit areas. Don’t use parking garages. Don’t get on elevators with only one man, or with a group of men. Vary my route home from work. Watch what I wear. Don’t use highway rest areas. Use a home alarm system. Don’t wear headphones when jogging. Avoid forests or wooded areas, even in the daytime. Don’t take a first-floor apartment. Go out in groups. Own a firearm. Meet men on first dates in public places. Make sure to have a car or cab fare. Don’t make eye contact with men on the street. Make assertive eye contact with men on the street.”

As a female, I daily find myself doing some of these things, as well as other precautions not listed.  I have been harassed more times than I can remember.  I have been assaulted by 5 different males.    Two were rank strangers, one was a brother of a childhood friend, one was a boss and last but not least a family member.  Two of the five violations, I have never mentioned to anyone.  And I have not mentioned all 5 violations to any one person.  The fact that one dates back 42 years, and has remained a secret, in no way diminishes the violation or the mental and emotional consequences it forced upon me.

It is not unusual for an adult male to report sexual abuse by a priest several decades after it happens and people are rightly enraged.  Yet a woman can report sexual abuse by a male decades after it happens and people are suspicious.  Why?  Have females fraudulently accused males of assaulting them?  Unfortunately, yes.  While those cases are numerically low, they have caused great damage to the accused and in many cases have been widely publicized by the media.  These instances are important and should not be minimized. But at the same time they should not be given undue weight as to undermine the true victims.

The National Sexual Violence Resource Center estimates somewhere between 2% and 10% of reported assaults are either false or baseless reports.  A false report is a report of a crime which is investigated and found to have never occurred.  A baseless report is a report in which after investigation is determined the incident does not rise to the level of a crime, but is truthful.  Yet with these reports counted against the total, a staggering 90% to 98% of assaults are reported by true victims.

All reports of harassment, assault or rape should not only be heard, but taken seriously.  Once heard, they should be investigated by a non-biased, independent third-party.  If the violation is founded, then the perpetrator should face the consequences.  If unfounded the reporting person should face the consequences.  However, in all circumstances the alleged victim should be given the dignity of being heard and the perpetrator should be given the dignity of presumed innocence pending investigation; but an investigation is absolutely necessary.

Sexual safety is not a priority in our culture.  It is doubtful it will become the priority it needs to be until men see sexual safety as a basic human right.  It is time for boys to be held accountable for “just being boys” by their male peers.  It is time for males to call out other males for making inappropriate jokes and comments.  It is time for men, real men, to step up and see the generational patriarchy for what it is … a way of life that systematically decreases the value of women.  But for any of this to become a reality, men are going to have to share the power they were born with by essence of their biological sex, with the women in their lives.

 

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The Night Time Stood Still

It was twenty days after my 50th birthday.  January 19, 2013 at about 9:00pm.  That was when my adopted mom, Guynell, died.  She had “adopted” me in her heart years earlier when I was in college.  I remember after she died, walking outside on that chilly night, waiting for the coroner to arrive at the home.  I was struck by how large the world suddenly felt and how small I felt in comparison.

My biological family was dysfunctional, hostile and demeaning.  So, when Guynell “adopted” me and became the embodiment of parental love in my life, my heart was overjoyed.  We had a special connection, because she CHOSE to love me, when my mother could not muster anything more than mere ownership of me.  Guynell did not HAVE to … She WANTED to.  For a young female who had been repeatedly told I was the greatest disappointment in the life of my parents, this love was treasured and overwhelming.

She had three biological girls of her own and naturally did maternal things.  She made sure I had a stocking on the mantel each Christmas.  She sent birthday cards, Christmas cards and “just because” cards.  She told me she was proud of me. She was interested in me and my life.  She remembered things that were important to me.  She listened, intent on hearing, when I talked to her.  She gave of herself, her heart and her time.  She was a safe harbor.  She not only told me she loved me, but unwaveringly acted on that love in practical, measurable ways.

To have Guynell as a guide into young adulthood was a game changer.    At a time when I was uncertain of how to be an adult and was grasping for a true north, she became a consistent constant in my life.  Guynell saw her girls, myself included, through a realistic lens.  She knew each of our short comings and she knew our strengths.  In her infinite grace, she focused on our strengths and generally any “ask” she had of us was strength based.  She expected her girls behave in a respectable, kind, honest and Christ-like manner.  However, when one of us fell short, we were met with nothing other than grace and love.  Consequences of poor choices might very well be forthcoming, but we always had her love and support to navigate those bumpy paths.  She always made sure we understood the difference between a disappointment in a specific behavior or choice and a disappointment in us as humans.  We all behaved in ways, at one time or another, she wished we had not; but her love never changed.

She had an infectious smile, a positive attitude and a compassionate heart.  When she took her last breath on that January night, I was genuinely relieved her suffering was over, but I felt so small.  So insecure.  So alone.  It was as if my world stopped momentarily and time stood still.

Being listed as her daughter in the obituary was one of the most cherished honors of my life.

Little did I know Guynell’s death would be the first of many emotional hits coming my way …

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Origins

I was born in Mississippi to biological parents who cared for me materially, but were not warm or loving.  I am an only child.  Sad, yet true story, when I was 12, while on vacation, my parents left me at a gas station in Arizona.  I had gone to the bathroom and they did not notice I was not in the backseat when they pulled out.  Did I mention I am an ONLY child?   Who knew supervising a single child at a gas station bathroom in the middle of the desert was so difficult?

I share this, not to paint them in a negative light, but frequent episodes of oversights like this affected me as I was maturing.  My parents are not “bad” people, just self-absorbed people who felt a child was an accessory and not a gift from God.  Their love was always performance based.  By that, I mean as long as I acted the way they wanted or expected me to act they showed love to me.  Any deviation caused shunning, loud yelling and all in all a crappy day.  We are estranged and have been for years.  I do not see that changing.  Oddly, we are not estranged for the reason most people suspect … we are estranged because “I am the most disappointing and ungrateful daughter ever born.”  Ironically the elephant in the room was never discussed … but more on that later.

You might wonder why I refer to them as my biological parents.  Well, first it is accurate.  Secondly, it is because God sent AMAZING loving families into my life who adopted me through compassion into their families.  They were love when no one else would show up and stepped up to the plate and did incredible things for my heart, my mind and my soul.  During those periods, every family became my chosen family and I treasure each of them to this day.  What a difference a willing heart can make.

In the late 1960’s when time came for me to enter school, my parents enrolled me in a Catholic elementary school.  I stayed in Catholic school through the fourth grade.  During these four years I would attend school Monday through Friday and on Sunday I would be dropped off to attend Catechism, then attend the Sunday service at the local Methodist church with my mother.  Needless to say my religious training was multifaceted and often confusing.

After four years of dissention, my mother finally insisted, if my father was not going to a practicing Catholic, she was not going to allow me to continue going to Catholic school.  My father decided he did not wish to regularly attend Catholic mass; subsequently, in the fifth grade I transferred to a local private school.  I wanted to go to the public school with my neighborhood friends, but my parents gave a resounding “NO”.  I did not understand their decision and was sad I was not allowed to attend school with my friends.  To this day my mother will say she supported the decision because the private school was safer during a time of civil unrest and racial tension and my father will say it is because the education was better in a private school.  Both, in their own vernacular, were speaking “code” for a school with only Caucasian students was superior.

I accepted Jesus Christ into my heart and life when I was 14 in 1977 at a Billy Graham crusade.  I remember getting out of my seat and walking down those stadium steps to the football field.  As a 14-year-old it seemed like a long walk to take alone.  But I was decided.  I have had many struggles in that relationship for many reasons, but finally have found an incredible peace in knowing and accepting I am loved just as I am.

I knew from the beginning, I was different.  I knew I thought differently. I reacted differently.  I saw the world through a dissimilar lens than most of the kids I knew.  My perspective was unique as early as kindergarten.  As time passed, I realized I had unusual heroes.  My dreams and goals were atypical of those of my classmates.  I came to realize I was a misfit in Mississippi, as if being from Mississippi was not liability enough.

As I entered junior high school, it became painfully, and I do mean painfully, aware to me that I was not in the least romantically attracted to boys.  I had no desire to go to dances, or date, or be a cheerleader, or anything else the rest of the girls wanted to do.  Consequently, I immersed myself in sports and found a world I loved and in which I excelled.

In high school I discovered I was romantically attracted to females. Yes, I am a lesbian (the elephant in the room).   I was a pudgy female who was attracted to girls.  I had zero fashion sense and was attending a Baptist high school.   Not exactly the environment to blossom or question thoughts or feelings.  Consequently, I did not … blossom or ask questions.  During my high school years I was very fragmented.  I made good grades, always making the honor roll … but I was not valedictorian material by a long shot.  I was the classmate the cool kids wanted to sit next to on test days.  Fortunately, my athletic ability provided a small arena of acceptance.

As each year passed, I learned to navigate and hide my fragmentation more effectively.  I made myself fit into the norm.  While I never had a boyfriend, beginning my sophomore year I had a date to each high school event, homecoming, prom, athletic banquets, etc.   By my senior year I had camouflaged myself into a role I became comfortable playing.  I was student body chaplain, most likely to succeed, class favorite, and most spiritual.  I suspect the Baptists would have stripped me of the most spiritual label had they known I was a lesbian.  Not an “active” lesbian, but a lesbian nonetheless.

I never consumed drugs. I rarely drank and never abused alcohol.  I smoked cigarettes, from time to time but never became addicted.  I stored my cigarettes in the freezer so they would not go stale.  The last pack of cigarettes I purchased cost .55 cents and lasted over a month.

I graduated with honors and enrolled in a local junior college, where I obtained an Associate Degree.  While in junior college, my life began to spin out of control.    I was very active in a charismatic church, where in the height of the AIDS epidemic, often taught that gay and lesbian people were an abomination and irredeemable.  I carried a full-time class load and worked part-time.  I met myself coming and going.  I was deeply conflicted about my sexuality, but strangely never doubted God loved me.  Even in the midst of my confusion, it seemed inconsistent with the character of Jesus to damn me to hell for something over which I had no control.  But I had become convinced, from the teaching I had heard, that being a gay or lesbian was a “thorn in the flesh”.   An affliction to be endured and I was just thankful my thorn in the flesh was “invisible” as long as I kept it a secret.

With my life feeling like it was out of control, I desperately searched for something I could control.  I was still slightly pudgy and thought I could stand to lose a few pounds.  I could control what I put in my mouth, so I put all my energy into losing weight.   I was exceedingly successful in this endeavor, so much so that I became anorexic.  I was 5’7” and eventually weighted less than 100 pounds.  I wore a size 5 pants, tucked my sweaters in and wore belts to keep my pants up.  At my lowest point I would break out in hives when walking through a kitchen or smelling food cooking.  My hair thinned, I stopped menstruating and my skin was dry and cracking.  I remember laying out by a pool and pulling the top of the leg hole of my swimsuit and hooking it over my hip bones so I could get more sun.

I remember one year in the midst of this period, my parents gave me a digital scale and weight loss drink mix for Christmas.  I named the scale the “magic machine” and was able to forego the grocery store for months.  My parents never asked if I was sick.  They never mentioned I might need to go to the doctor.  The only conversation I remember about my significant weight loss was my biological father telling me he was proud of me for losing “all that fat”.

As I think back on this now, it was clearly insanity.  But curiously and sadly at that time my life was less chaotic than it had ever been.  This self-destructive behavior continued for several years.

After graduation from junior college I enrolled in a Presbyterian college.  I majored in psychology and Christian education.  I graduated on time, with honors.  During my junior year I entered into my first relationship.  It was a 10-year relationship with a straight woman.  I remember her saying she was not a lesbian, but she was in love with me.  We had a good relationship.  In fact, if I were honest it was the healthiest relationship I had experienced up until that time.  I liked having someone to love, to take care of, to dote on.  It felt very normal to me.  Very comforting.

When that relationship fell apart; I spent 5 years alone, praying and seeking God about being a lesbian.  I wanted His thoughts on what a lesbian should do or be.  Was I really an abomination?  Did I really have a thorn in my flesh to be endured?  I never prayed for God to make me straight, but I did pray “God help me be what YOU created me to be.”  This period ended when I felt God say, “You are as I created you.  You are not broken and you do not need to be fixed”.

So I began counseling with the hopes of finding fun in life again and putting the dysfunction behind me.  Twenty-five years later I am finally able to stand up for myself, love myself and love others.  I have also done a great deal of studying the Bible and discovered it says absolutely nothing about loving, same-sex relationships.  It says plenty about incestuous relationships, sexual relationships with minors or sexual relationships based on societal or economic standings.  But it says not one word about loving, same-sex relationships between consenting adults.  The word homosexual did not appear in the Bible until 1946, and then as it is now, was sloppily interpretated.  Further, homosexuality did not become a topic of debate in the church until the very late 70’s or early 80’s when the AIDS epidemic made it politically advantageous.  Homosexuality, if viewed honestly, is a secondary theological issue.  It is in the same boat as dancing, drinking, smoking, tattoos, divorce and remarriage, etc.  Issues that separate denominations, but in no way separates a soul from God.

Between then and now I dated some wonderful women … and I dated some not so wonderful women.  I dated some women because I did not want to be alone and I dated others because I genuinely cared for them.   I dated a few men, testing the waters to see if I could make it work and I dated a few men to appear straight.  I even dated a gay man and wondered if we could make some type of relationship work.  As you can imagine, the answer to that was a definitive NO.

For the most part, I was searching for a mate whose demons played well with mine.  Not that I was looking for a broken or flawed person.  I was looking for a person who was not totally comfortable in their own skin and had processes to work through, because I had processes to work through.  When all along I should have looked for someone who had the confidence in themselves and love for me to assist me in silencing my demons.

As time passed, a light bulb went off and I finally understood it was far better to be alone than to be with the wrong person.  Within a year of making that decision, the perfect person for me walked into my life.  She did not regularly need me … but she always wanted me.  She found me to be sufficient within myself.  She believed and still does believe in self-improvement, always becoming a better version of yourself.  But she loved and accepted the current version of me without conditions.  She was not demanding in any shape, form or fashion, except in her expectation for transparent and honest communication.  She was careful and patient with my insecurities because she could see my tender heart.  She helped me understand I deserved to be treated in a kind, humane and descent way and proceeded to treat me as such.

We dated for a year, then moved in together.  At the time we moved in together it was illegal for us to get married.  Within a year of same-sex couples being given legal marital rights, we got married.  Two years later our marriage became legal in our home state.  We have a really good life.  It is not perfect, but our marriage is rock solid, we are committed and encourage each other to become better humans.  Equally as important, we give each other room to stumble in the process of self-improvement.  My family is the most important, sacred and cherished human relationship in the world to me.  Somehow, I think that is finally as it should be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Wonder of Her

I will never forget the first time I saw her.  She was in town for a business trip and walked into my office, looked me in the eye and shook my hand.  The depth of her blue eyes and the feel of her hand in mine, was surprisingly stirring.

Prior to this meeting we had spoken often on the phone discussing mutual clients.  During those conversations I was intrigued by her insight, her compassion and her no-nonsense authentic approach to life.  But to put such a lovely face to the voice was marvelous.  During our first face to face meeting, we discussed business, brainstormed ideas and creatively problem solved.  She left the office and the next day was on her way back home. She went back to her life and I tried to go back to mine.

After that brief meeting she repeatedly found her way into my thoughts.  I had never met anyone like her.  It was as if I was introduced to the person I always wanted to be, but a newer and much more improved version than I ever dreamed.  Intelligence, wit, beauty, compassion, grace … she had it all.

We continued to speak frequently by telephone with our conversations turning into light-hearted banter at times.  But most conversations were work related and during work hours.  It was not until months later, when she was out of work recovering from surgery and called me, that I had an inkling she might like me.  I tried to keep my cool during the telephone conversation, but I confess I did the happy dance, jazz hands and all, when the conversation was over.  For the first time I realized I was becoming deeply, emotionally attached to this wonderful human.

It would be several more months before we would see each other again. With each passing day I became more intrigued, more attached, more enamored. Six months later we had our first date, and wound up spending the entire day together.  I remember feeling like I was in a dream.  At times she would be speaking and I could not concentrate as I was lost looking into her eyes.  The sound of her voice and the rhythm of her speech was intoxicating.

During the next year, we dated and began to know each other on a deeper level.  During that time, remarkably I found that what I knew of her was true, what I suspected of her was true and what I hoped of her was truer still.  On a daily basis, she was kind, intelligent, witty, charming, sincere, loyal, generous, authentic and compassionate.  She is the kind of human, that simply by the way she lives, urges others to be better and work toward the greater good.

At the end of that year, we both agreed we wanted to be with each other forever.  At that time, we were not legally allowed to marry, but I wanted to buy her a ring as a symbol of my love and commitment to her.  I remember walking into the jewelry store with her for her to pick out her ring.  There was not a single ring in that store worthy of her or magnificent enough to adequately show the depth of my love for her.  Nevertheless, she picked out a beautiful ring that was perfectly her.  Truly I had never been happier than the day she accept that ring and I put it on her finger.

That day remained the happiest day of my life until our wedding day.  The day we thought would never happen.  When it became reality, it was miraculous.  Exchanging vows in front of some of our dearest friends was monumental.  Being able to commit on that level and vowing to be her chosen family was one of the most sacred things I have experienced in my life.  She was a breath-taking bride.

Now I had a new happiest day of my life.  Until … June 26, 2015 … when our marriage became legal in our home state of Louisiana.

After a decade together, I can honestly say each day I wake up, see her face and hear her voice is a good and happy day.  She is a wonder to me.