Completed in 1929, the remarkable Ambassador Bridge over the Detroit River is about a one-and-a-half-mile suspension bridge that connects the U.S.A.’s Detroit, Michigan with Canada’s Windsor, Ontario. Being likely the most unobservant person you’ve ever (or maybe never) met, it amazes me that I’ve never found myself unintentionally on the entrance ramp. I’d have approximately 7500 feet to contemplate how to handle my situation upon arrival. My chances of being prepared, dignified, and self-assured are nearly nada.
“Hi! Give me a hug! Finally, we meet! And me, without my passport.”
Women who are new to our country, culture, and language enter Miss Tatyana’s classroom for their first day of school. For many, it is their first day of school, ever. They enter a clean, well-lit, lovely room. They are greeted with warm, smiling eyes, and an offer of tea. They see words they can’t read, written on a large whiteboard, “I didn’t come here to teach you. I came here to love you. Love will teach you.” These words, from ancient Indian scripture, speak the heart of their new teacher. She translates the words to their own language, and watches as their nerves visibly ease. They hug, love in return, and begin to learn.
When welcomed inside and planted in prepared soil, non-native plants thrive.
There are those who travel because they have the desire and the means.
There are those who travel because they have the need to escape with no means.
And there are those who travel because duty calls them … and this means they must.
These are the sisters who, steadfastly, walked in service to our country. They served intentionally. Honorably. Sacrificially. Heroically.
Love of their homeland drove them. The road they chose wasn’t easy, nor was it safe.
It was demanding. Challenging. Grueling. Trying.
It took discipline. Heart. Courage. Resilience. A willingness to be at risk, knowing they will likely be unacknowledged and unseen, as had their sisters before them.
They chose this road not for glory, but for the betterment of the land and people they love.
And this road they’ve chosen is one theythemselves built with broken ceiling’s glass.
It was my honor to read this poem at the Women Veterans retreat sponsored by American Legion Post #587 and Women Veterans Initiative yesterday, (February 21, 2026). It was humbling being in the presence of these women.
You know the saying: “There aren’t enough hours in a day.” For me, it seems true. Whether I’m swamped or have a relatively clear schedule, tasks sit languidly. Then there’s, “God gave them more than 24 hours in a day.” This isn’t a saying. It is simply what my husband and I tell each other regarding a few people we intimately know. These are people whose eyes appear to focus on the manifold good God seems to ask of them. Their hands and feet don’t falter. They accomplish more in one day than I do in perhaps a month. Evidently time is of no concern when motivated hearts are in sync with God’s own.
“She would have helped had she but found the time,” the saddest stone cries.
I am not there, where you are. I try to understand through your eyes. Through your heart. But I am not there, where you are.
Sometimes I think, perhaps, maybe we are experiencing life in multiverse.
I am not convinced it even exists.
But I am not there, where you are. I look at what you look at, but I don’t see what you see. I listen to what you listen to, but I don’t hear what you hear.
And you are not here, where I am. You look at what I look at, but you don’t see what I see. You listen to what I listen to, but you don’t hear what I hear. You are not here, where I am.
Mom and Dad used to live two doors down from us. Some mornings Dad would walk over, sit down for a cup of coffee and a few laughs.
Eventually, coffee became an excuse for a talk. For questions.
One day his question was, “Will you keep this in a safe place for me?” He opened a tiny matchbox-sized box, pulled out a piece of paper that was folded, and folded, and folded, and he read it to me. It was a poem. The first he’d ever written. He was a young boy, and it was to his dad who had unexpectedly passed. I watched him fold and fold and fold and carefully put it back in the box while I pondered why suddenly, after close to 7 decades, did he need me to keep it safe for him?
One day his question was from his doctor: “Do you have a plan in place for if she becomes violent?”
One day his question was, “Do you think I need to worry about her beginning to wander?”
One day his question was, “What will I do the day we wake up and she doesn’t know me?”
pictured words 