How to Break Up and Keep Your Heart Intact

"Begin Again" Taylor Swift.

It is insanely painful. ~ Jennifer, on breaking-up

While Taylor Swift has mastered the art of channeling break-up pain through her music, when it happens to most of us, we just hurt. intensely. insanely. like we will never love again. ever.

Those of us who are the "loyal-like-Rihanna-is-to-Chris type" understand the dread of losing relationships.

It's over. Because you feel cheated. Tired of the constantly changing terms.

Sing it, Taylor, girl:

You paint me a blue sky and go back and turn it to rain
And I lived in your chess game but you changed the rules everyday. 
("Dear John" by Taylor Swift)

Endings always leave an empty space.

Recently I was walking out a very real heartache as a friend messaged:  He hurt me today deeply.

She shared of one of those moments when the earth drops out from under you – a time for tissues, Häagen Dazs and girlfriends.

Yet, amid the tidal wave of emotions, I could hear love. Demanding. Shouting. YOU WILL LOVE AGAIN.

How?  How do you mend a heart that's shattered into a million pieces?

My friend knew she'd done the right thing breaking up with a man who was not meant to be her husband.  And there in her pain, came perspective so many of us need to hear.

Even though he may be a great man, he may not be YOUR man.

Loving yourself may mean having the courage and fortitude to let go. And be alone.  It may mean eating dinners alone. Nights alone. Holidays without him at your side.

In our hearts, we know spending a lifetime with someone we're not meant to be with would be worse than breaking up.  But, oh, it is insanely, intensely painful and lonely. RIGHT NOW.

And indeed, you will have doubts every day, says Jennifer.

I try to think of some word of comfort.  Some verse of hope.  Some promise from heaven. And all that comes out is...

"Time WILL heal the wound. Life WILL be beautiful again."

...trying to decree healing where right now there's only broken pieces.

Shut the door.  Eat M&M's until your fingers turn rainbow shades. Weeping may endure for the night. But in the morning, wake up expecting a new chapter to begin.  Because that is His promise.

And when you feel like you're finally starting to breathe on your own, love will come knocking. Daring you to open the door ever so slightly.  And you will find that your heart has healed and reawakens to something new...reshaped through pain, readied to love again.

Thinking all love ever does is break and burn and end
But on a Wednesday in a cafe I watched it begin again. 
 
~Taylor Swift, "Begin Again"

'Ditch Your Scale!' - Lent Event: Getting Started

'Ditch Your Scale!' Lent event is underway over on my Facebook page.  Here's how to get started if you want to join us.  We're not going to be on a diet. No gimmicks. No short-term fixes. Just you and God on a faith-based journey to lifelong health for the next 40 days.

Most of these ideas are in my 'Getting Started' video and there are a few more below:

1.  Take starting weight/measurements if you want.

2.  Set aside time for a daily date with God.

3.  Ask God for a verse, poem, song, art, watever speaks to you about His love for you.

4.  Read my article, 'Throw Away Your Scale to Lose Weight for Life' about changing a deprivation mindset (www.feelrich.com).

5.  Journal.

6.  Ask others to pray for you, or join you!

7.  Seek God about setting healthy goals - but don't worry about making them happen just yet, we'll get to external changes later.

8.  I'll be posting healthy recipes from contributors, inspirational stories and more on my Facebook page - like it to join us daily.

Get creative!  I believe God has a plan tailored for you.  Come discover it!

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Mean Girls

Lindsay Lohan star of "Mean Girls."  Photo:  Humza 

A talent agent told me I come off too sweet. "Too 'pink,' not enough flavor," she said. "We need to see the naughty in you."

I can hear my childhood friends roaring with laughter.  I was a mean girl long before Lindsay Lohan.  

The trouble started in 1st grade with a new kid at school.  He  didn't fit in wearing Sunday clothes to school.  He cut in line at recess. I punched him.  He socked me in the eye.

By 4th grade I'd moved on to bullying - teachers. "Hey, guppy lips!"  I taunted one who had a mouth like Mick Jagger.  

Another time Mrs. L. broke down in tears as I led a class revolt against 'the witch.' 

By high school I was hanging out with a crew of misfits who cut class and drank Mickey's in the park. 

Despite the trouble, A's came easy.  "You're going to college," my dad insisted, shipping me off to the Ivy League with the warning, "I don't do bail once you're 18."   

Later as a crime reporter, I confronted killers, gang members, sleazy politicians, with the steeliness of a true mean girl. 

Yet God - radical love - had somehow begun to pierce a hardened heart. 

Too sweet? A friend put it best: "When you're looking for a brand of 'edgy' that is filled with desperation, despondency, depression and dejection and encounter a different brand of edgy filled with love, joy and peace it's difficult to deal with." 

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Whitney

Whitney Houston in "The Bodyguard." Photo: Noel Phillips

What happens when you reach the end of hope?  

Not a comforting thought to wake up to on Valentine's Day but there it was...then just names - lost hearts. Whitney Houston. Amy Winehouse. Michael Jackson...

What about faith?  Doesn't that sustain even when hope fails?  

Whitney grew up in the church.  She knew faith. divine love. even sang "Jesus Loves Me"  to party guests the other night. 

Why didn't that carry her through the storm? 

Most journalists will tell you no matter what the coroner eventually says, Whitney's another statistic.  Most of us have seen prescription drugs trafficked from Hollywood to the Hamptons as openly as fake Prada purses.

Not long ago I got a lead into some places filling questionable prescriptions. Went to my publisher with the story idea - an investigative piece exposing suppliers might put some out of business and save lives.  He killed the idea. 

"No one will buy an ad around that kind of story," he said.  Wary advertisers meant lost sales.

News directors had quashed some of my controversial stories before but this time I was furious.  Where was our courage? We had a platform to confront our nation's drug epidemic and instead we walked off the stage because a pharmaceutical giant might yank an ad?

where do broken hearts go. when melodies are gone. can they find their way home...Whitney, I pray you did.  We will always love you.

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After the Vows...

Wedding day.  Photo: K. Lewis 

If marriage is God's design, why does it seem so hard to make it work? And virtually impossible in Hollywood?  

I got to thinking about this as a friend announced her engagement; the same day another friend announced her break up. 

Sadly, I've seen as many endings to marriages as beginnings.  Covering the crime beat, cops will tell you some of their riskiest responses are when one partner is trying to leave the other.

To make ends meet at my first small market TV news gig, I took a part-time job at a women's shelter.  Police brought in most victims with only their kids and the clothes on their backs.

I never got used to seeing the swollen faces, black eyes, bruises...I didn't understand how mothers stayed with men who shattered their kids' bones, or worse. 

"They feel like they have no choice," the director tried to explain, "Most go back."

Later, I was the one dialing 911 for a friend fleeing an explosive husband.  She was terrified he'd come home and find her packing. 

I'd been there when they met.  Celebrated their engagement.  Helped pick the wedding decorations.  We saw no warnings; the beatings started after the vows.  

"I'm calling the police," I said, "That'll give you time to get out."  I'd covered enough crime stories to know this one could turn fatal.

My friend's experience is common; one in four women are in abusive relationships.* The reasons a marriage goes from flowers to fists are as intricate as the lace of a wedding dress.  And love's promises - to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish...until death do us part - just as fragile. 

*Domestic Violence Resource Center www.dvrc-or.org

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With This Ring

Will Smith and Jada Pinkett-Smith. Photo:  Mr L. Davis

It's impossible to live in Hollywood and avoid celebrity gossip like the Will Smith and Jada split rumors.

The Smiths have stood out as a triumph over divorce statistics - especially for African-Americans. We apparently have the worst rates of any racial group, according to an article, "Marriage is for White People."*

"This author is writing a story on the state of relationships between men and women," said a colleague who called to ask me to be interviewed for an Essence magazine article.

The subject matter made me skittish. Truth is journalists often make lousy partners. Constant deadline stress, long separations from home, traumatic experiences - our relationships pay the price.

The numbers are especially dismal for highly educated black women - we're the least likely of any group to marry.* 

But I don't want statistics to keep my heart locked up.  Just because we screw up marriage doesn't mean the plan is flawed any more than a car wreck means the engine design is defective. No matter how "hostile" - the Essence writer's description of male/female relationships - I believe the vows still matter.

Due to  the magazine's lead time, the article won't come out for a few months. Maybe Will and Jada will be on the cover - celebrating another anniversary.

*Marriage is for White People, Joy Jones, The Washington Post

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He said. She said. the iPad said.

They say dog lovers choose pets that look like them. And that after a while, even couples start to resemble eachother. 

If only communication worked the same way.  Instead it seems many couples barely speak over time.

The breakdown starts when we're singles seeking love. 

He texts. We should hang out. 

Does he mean I think you're hot or The guys are busy hang out?  

We make it just as confusing for guys. 

You ask us for a date and we say: "Find me on Facebook." Which means, You're not my type, or Leave me alone, stalker.

The Millennial generation - they consider texting and sexting a quality relationship - often gets blamed for the death of dating but maybe they're not the culprit.

I wrote on Facebook: "Saw the sweetest proposal! Guy takes his girlfriend to look at iPads. When she turns it on the message on the screen asks, 'Will you marry me?'"

He needed to man up and not do it via technology.

He needs to stop hiding behind technology.

I am not a fan of men trying to get at women via technology.

Quelle backlash, ma cherie!  And from my 20-something friends!

I saw how much effort the guy put in to surprising his girlfriend so I defended the digital proposal. "I don't like guys using FB or texting to ask for a date, calling's better, but he'd obviously spent time to make the proposal memorable."

My 20-something friends won't budge. They say people hide behind technology. So maybe dating's demise can't be blamed on Millennials but instead on the enduring fear of rejection...or that we'll wind up looking like a pug.

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Jump Cut

Photo: Maria Peterson Photography

"Mommy says my legs are fat," the little girl said quietly.

I'm all for fighting childhood obesity but she didn't even look chubby. Labeled "fat" by first grade, I wondered what demons lurked in her future: self-hatred? depression? perfectionism?

I was such a perfectionist that a professor worried I'd crack under the intense pressure of a TV career. 

"You're too hard on yourself," she cautioned as I tried to fix a jump cut (an unintentional edit in news that makes it look like there's a jump between two shots) in my story.

While a jump cut isn't fatal, there's no room for imperfection when performance is measured frame-by-frame. The bad edit was like a neon sign: FAILURE. FAILURE. FAILURE.

To prepare us for TV's relentless demands, certain mistakes meant automatic failure. 

Misspelled name? "F." 

Mispronounced city? "F." 

Late to class? Don't bother coming. "Doesn't matter who you are," our professor warned, "the news airs without you."

It took years for me to see the difference between perfectionism and excellence. I finally got it when I heard a speaker say, "If your perfect life is coming between you and love, you're paying too high a price."

What he meant is: If your husband is afraid to kiss you for fear of smudging your perfect makeup and your kids walk on eggshells for fear of ruining your perfect house, then your perfect life costs too much.

For the times when life is messy or our thighs are fat or there's a jump cut in our story, perfectionism is unforgiving; excellence gives grace.

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Trinkets and Trees

Maria Peterson Photography

Tiffany's and some other luxury brand stores just opened in our coastal town. Amusing -  the juxtaposition of beach-goers dressed in tank tops and flip-flops toting those exclusive little blue bags.

Did you know you can actually buy Tiffany's boxes on eBay?  

"For those who want to try to illicit the oohs and aahs without the genuine article," wrote Luxist blogger Deidre Woollard.

Deceiving loved ones by giving them fake gems in a Tiffany box? The Grinch would be proud. Reminds me of the story of Jesus cursing the fig tree because it appeared lush yet was bearing no fruit. No one wants to be deceived, whether by a trinket or a tree.

It seems we're growing tired of the chasing the elusive Hollywood and Madison Avenue fantasies. We long for the genuine: real love. intimacy. purpose. Maybe we're searching for substance over shallowness because of misfortune, maybe because of tragedy - the kinds of things that make us seek deeper meaning.

Whatever the reason, I pray you experience God's heart of love this Christmas and not settle for an imitation...even if it's wrapped in a pretty blue box.

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Brides, Brooms and Grooms

I've been home visiting family and a four-year-old who quoted me lines from Disney's The Princess and the Frog while insisting we rehearse for my wedding. 

Never mind that I'm not engaged.

Four-year-old is dead set to be a flower girl. She's decided I'm her best bet. 

"Let's practice for your wedding," she said, "You just need a broom."  Took me a second to realize she meant groom not broom.

I wasn't about to leave the warm diner where we were sharing Mickey Mouse pancakes for a fake ceremony in the cold. I tried offering alternative relatives.

"Practice with my niece," I said.

"Not her," four-year-old rolled her eyes dramatically, implying niece is a bad girl.

"What about grandma?" I tried.

"She has too many wrinkles," countered future Bridezilla.

Ever try arguing with a four-year-old wearing a pink tutu and tin foil tiara?  Arms linked, we walked slowly through the restaurant humming, "Here Comes the Bride."  Never mind strangers staring - when you're four, nothing inhibits love.

Surrendering the heart is so much harder as adults. I thought of several friends who are having marital trouble.  Love has grown cold. 

But then I remembered Solomon, the king who falls for an improbable bride: "See! The winter is past. Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, come with me."

Flower girl may have seen one too many Disney flicks but I envied her openness to love.

Maybe the weather wasn't so bad after all. "Shall we walk like brides out to the car?" I asked. She excitedly replied, "And if you don't get a broom, maybe you can borrow my daddy!"

Love really is simple when you're four.

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Freely

On Tuesday, I will get up and choose what clothes to wear.
Somewhere else in the world a woman will be forced to cover her face, hair and skin in black cloaks.

On Tuesday, I will wear a gift--a necklace bearing a cross.
Somewhere a man will be executed for revealing his faith.

On Tuesday, I will drive to my appointments.
Somewhere a woman will face imprisonment for breaking the law by driving a car.

On Tuesday, I will make dinner with friends.
Somewhere a woman will be murdered for talking to a man who is not her husband; an "honor killing" her family will say.

On Tuesday, I will go to the store by myself.
Somewhere a wife will remain trapped inside her house, forbidden to travel, get an education or go out alone.

On Tuesday, I will dream about my wedding night.
Somewhere a girl will be subjected to genital mutilation; later, even while still in puberty, she will be forced to marry a man who may treat her worse than his livestock.

On Tuesday, I will flirt with my neighbor.
Somewhere a woman will be stoned for a suspected "sexual indiscretion" that she may never have committed.

On Tuesday, I will watch kids play in the park.
Somewhere children will be gang-raped and tortured; "spoils of war" soldiers will say.

On Tuesday, I will go to my polling place.Somewhere a man will die fighting for his voice to be heard.

On Tuesday, I will say a prayer of thanksgiving.
Somewhere from behind bars prisoners will pray for freedom.

On Tuesday, I will Dress. Drive. Work. Play. Dream. Love. Pray. Vote...freely. Please vote on Tuesday.

© 2010 Shay Holland

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The Road Less Traveled

"I took the one less traveled...and that has made all the difference." ~Robert Frost
Photo: Maria Peterson Photography

"Shay?" said a woman's voice on the phone. I knew what she was going to say before she said it. 

"Shay, he's gone." No one calls at 6:00 a.m. on a Saturday with good news. 

Not even when it's your birthday.

He'd taken the road less traveled hoping to save souls in San Francisco. He'd fed the homeless when their stench made it nearly impossible to be around them. He'd befriended the skateboard kids who came looking for food, and sometimes to steal money. He'd helped me settle in the city not knowing whether or not I was just another con artist trying to take advantage of his kindness.

He encouraged me to take the path less traveled, to follow a dream....a long shot by anyone's standards. Too old, too dark, too "thick" by Hollywood's standards. 

"Go," he said. "Pursue the adventure of God's calling."

"You're setting out to do something only God can accomplish," he wrote to me in an email as I headed to Hollywood in the spring of 2007. 

At times when the way seems impossible and I've grown weary, I get this picture of him cheering from heaven. "Go!" he shouts. "Follow the yearning in your heart!"

He left on my birthday but somehow I know he'll share with me in the fulfillment of an impossible dream.

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Love in a Red Sack

Photo:  Maria Peterson Photography

This picture my friend Maria took hints to me of love. Blooms and candlelight and music. Expectancy.

I've wanted to write about marriage even though I don't have relationship credentials. But do prayers count? Do tears? Does faith?

I've stood at the altar with friends who vowed to cherish eachother forever. I've wept with those same friends as their vows deteriorated into ugly words, sexless nights and shattered plates.

Most times there was no unfaithfulness, no beatings, no addiction; just a slow death of love. 

"I feel like he walked out of the marriage long ago," said one friend.

Once passionate hearts turned to hearts of stone. Irreconcilably broken. The enemy of love whispers, These are my friends. I'm so much like them. Will my marriage die, too?

Statistically, I'll never marry. The stats say I'm too old, too black, too educated. I read this Washington Post article, Marriage is for White People, that said, "African American women are the least likely in any society to marry." 

Given the odds, you'd think I'd be jaded about marriage.

But I'm not. See, I think marriage was meant to be the closest representation of heaven on earth; to reflect the very heart of God singing a song to our heart. When God banished man from Eden, He made sure he wasn't alone.

So I don't just see a woman shopping in the photo. I see the bright bloom of possibility. Expectation. Hope fulfilled. Overflowing from a cheerful red sack.

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Navigating Love

As friends pray for a miracle to save their dad's life, I'm amazed at the strength of their faith. It's made me think about family. Love.

Back when we owned a big, white Buick and no one wore seatbelts, I loved being my dad's navigator on road trips. He'd let me read the map even though I'd sometimes get us lost.

I remember a near-miss one winter. Icy roads. A car plowing through a red light. A thick utility pole. My dad's split-second decision - throwing his body across mine, trying to save me from the impact.

Another memory...one trip where my dad entrusted me with his big bag of coins for the tolls. Leaning across him, I'd toss our fare into the bucket. 

"Pay the toll," he said at the second plaza.  

"But I paid it last time," I said. 

"What do you mean?'" he demanded. 

"I already paid it," I insisted.

Not knowing the coins were meant to last us through three states, I'd emptied the bag into the first toll without him noticing.  My dad dug out his wallet to pay the fare.

I eventually grew up, bought my own car, moved cross country to work in TV.  Family took a backseat to career.  Dad and I struggled to navigate love far apart.

One foggy day, a near miss. A car swerves into my lane. I pull over, shaken. A memory from years ago. Icy roads. A utility pole. My father shielding my body with his. 

"Your dad would do the same thing all over again," I sensed God saying.

Our car had stopped inches from the pole that day when my dad had been willing to sacrifice his life for mine. Pain and distance melted away. I was again navigating safely at my father's side.

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Brazilians and Bachelors

Brazil got me thinking about love and affection. Everyone greeted us with hugs and kisses; there are no strangers in Brazil.  So different than our American culture where anything more than a quick handshake is suspect.

The touchy-feely Brazilian nature is as foreign to me as the language. Growing up on military bases, salutes were exchanged more than hugs. In Brazil I challenged myself to let down my guard, to the amazement of friends back home.

"You couldn't even share a bed with me," Tina reminded me, "You asked the hotel for a cot." Yes, but who sleeps with the bride the night before her wedding?

Why is it so hard to speak the language of affection?  Is our addiction to shows like the The Bachelor a way of meeting an unmet craving for intimacy?

Season 3's Bachelor lived near me so I watched as 25 women competed for the rose. Meet Andrew Firestone and enter to win a year's supply of Top Ramen, our grocery store would have these absurd promotions.

The neighbors were truly sad when Andrew's engagement fizzled. What did they expect? In 14 seasons, no bachelor has ever married the lover holding the final rose.

"Harmless habit," friends defend tuning in to a show with a 100% failure rate. Or is it porn for the heart? Cheap romance to fill a void? Exotic locales, steamy kisses, rose-petal strewn bedrooms. "It's the fairytale aspect," said one writer.

Of course. Fantasy sell. Sex and champagne can woo a heart for a season. But tenderness and affection? They'll win it for a lifetime.

Do you know what it means to come home to a woman who gives you a little tenderness and affection?  It means you're in the wrong house. 
~Henry Youngman

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Justice of the Heart


A friend sent me a casting notice for a movie about a serial killer based on true events. I never imagined the possibility of auditioning for the role of a TV newscaster would reveal the ending to a real life case.

Friends have suggested I write books about the murder cases I've covered but the idea never appealed to me; maybe because there aren't any happy endings.  "You go on but you can't forget the things you saw," said my mother.  Can't forget the victims - or the killers.

No Movie Script
I wish it had just been a movie when my TV station sent me to cover the murder of a nurse named Martha Bryant who'd been attacked driving home from work.  The horrific killing rocked a quiet Oregon town. 

I can't forget police describing how the killer tried to rape her: "When he realized she was of no use to him sexually due to her injuries, he executed her."  Shot her point blank in the head in the back seat of his car.

Police began to suspect a soft-spoken family man who lived nearby. My cameraman and I went to his house to interview him but workers were tearing it down.  Someone had torched it. 

"Found this," a worker handed me a charred slip of paper, "don't know if it means anything."

Chills ran through me after one glance. It was a search warrant showing cops were looking for possessions of a dozen women in the man's house. 

If my hunch was right, police thought he may have killed before. Many times.

Phone calls confirmed the women listed in the search warrant were either missing or dead. The trail of possible victims ran from Florida to Oregon. 

I went on the air with the exclusive report that a serial killer might be at work. Police asked a judge to have me arrested for illegal possession of the warrant because I refused to reveal how I got it.  

Until now.

Cesar Barone eventually went on trial for Martha's murder and more. I sat behind him at the defense table every day in court.  During a break, he spoke to me for the first time. "Can you do me a favor?" he asked. "Can you check on my dogs?"

I never aired his comment; seemed too cruel to the victims' families.  Never aired his wife's story either; she'd met Barone a decade earlier through a personal ad.  She had no idea she'd fallen in love with a serial killer.

No Hollywood Ending
Today I learned Barone is dead.  Died on death row at 49 still insisting he was innocent (crime writer Anne Rule wrote a book about him but he never gained the notoriety of his former Florida cellmate, Ted Bundy).

I wish it had been a movie and the director would say, "Cut!" but there's no tidy Hollywood ending for Barone's wife and kids or his victims. 

But maybe life scored justice in the end:  Barone died of a cancerous tumor wrapped around his heart.

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Haiti: Part 5 - Beauty for Ashes

medical team planning for the day


I've posted a few stories about covering the earthquake in Haiti.  To read part 4, click here.

Our Haiti relief team is having a reunion tonight! This was one of the best groups of people I've ever met. Most of us plan to go back to Haiti at some point. Even though I still don't see how it all fits together - the journey from Hollywood to Haiti - it was where I belonged.

Haiti - part 5

We're leaving Haiti today. We have to return to the U.S. a few days earlier than we'd planned. The re-opening of the main airport in Port-au-Prince will mean tighter restrictions. 

Even though we came into the country legally, our leaders are worried Haitian authorities might give us trouble trying to get a large team of nearly 40 doctors, nurses, paramedics and journalists back out.

I'm torn between wanting to stay and wanting to go home. Someone asks if I've said goodbye to baby Kevin - I can't hold him one more time and just walk away.

Our gear's loaded in the tap-tap by 7:30 am. I hug the staff at New Life Children's Home and say goodbye to a teammate who has chosen to stay behind a few weeks to help run the clinic. I met Sarah through a Facebook friend and two weeks later we were on a plane to Haiti. She's a hero to us - a lifesaver to the injured children with nowhere to go.

Dr. Jolie & Sarah Wimmer (rt) (Scott Mortensen photo)

We give Sarah one more hug, jump in the tap-tap, and drive through the orphanage's teal gates one last time. We truly experienced beauty in the ashes.

Back in the US
A teammate hospitalized with life-threatening dengue fever wrote:

In the worst moments, I would close my eyes and see the faces of the sweet souls we met in Haiti and wonder who was caring for them. I'd find myself falling asleep praying for the lives in the countless images that play across the slide show in my mind and heart. That in itself is the silver lining to this. ~Bree

"Don't forget me."  Scott Mortensen photo

A photographer who took these pictures urged us to make sure the people we met are not forgotten. I will do my part until I return, Haiti.  Map vini an Ayiti anko.

To read about my return to Haiti two years after the earthquake, click here.

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Haiti: Part 4 - Miracles

"If God had a face, what would it look like?" Joan Osborne

Haiti - Part 4

Today we're heading to downtown Port-au-Prince to tour the ruins of the January 12th earthquake.  This is our first trip to the wrecked Presidential palace.

The weather's been mercifully fair and cloudy all week - low 80s, some drizzle - so we can ride in the back of the tap-tap (flatbed truck taxi) without scorching in the sun. Mercifully as well, aftershocks have been mild.

The city is destroyed as far as they eye can see. Rich and poor, famous and unknown, white and black - every neighborhood equally devastated.

We nicknamed our tap-tap (truck taxi) "big blue."

Driving in Haiti is nuts!  Carts and people often block the roads, there are very few traffic lights at intersections and drivers use whichever side of the road is open.

Our tap-tap (truck taxi) gets blocked by a dump truck stuck on the narrow dirt road.  We climb out of the tap tap to see if we can find anyone who needs help since we won't be going anywhere for a while.

We're sorry

A young man calls to us in Creole. "He wants help recovering the bodies of three family members so he can give them a proper burial," our interpreter tell us. "They died when their house fell on them in the earthquake."

What can we do? We don't have the heavy equipment needed to move the tons of stone that became their grave.

Dane Melberg photo

For a moment, I wonder why God sent us here if He wasn't going to do miracles like He did when He parted the Red Sea. Why is God so seemingly blind to a nation's despair? I long to see God do something Hollywood filmmakers couldn't copy if they tried a hundred years.

Our driver inches forward as traffic starts moving. "We're sorry," our translator tells the man as we jump back in the tap-tap, "We can't help you."

If a miracle happened that day, I didn't see it.

A mother's touch
Back at base camp, I'm overcome by a sense of futility. What difference can we make in the face of such tragedy?

It may not seem like much, but there is one thing...I walk to the orphanage and cradle a starving infant - abandoned without ever knowing a mother's touch.

baby Kevin holding my thumb

Back in the US
It hits me that I did see miracles in Haiti. 

I saw the miracle of faith as doctors, nurses and others said, "I'll go."

I saw the miracle of hope as they set broken bones and comforted broken hearts.

I saw the miracle of love as they held strangers and gave water to thirsty children...miracles you see not with your eyes, but with your heart.

To read part 5, click here.

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See...

Zoe Saldana in "Avatar." 

Heading home from the midwest.  After the icestorm, blizzard and freezing temps, I can't wait to hit the beach! Even 2,000 miles away from Hollywood though, I couldn't escape its influence.

After being snowed in more than a day, we decided to venture out to the theater in my sister's SUV. I was outvoted on which movie to see. Avatar 3D: 5 votes; Princess & the Frog: 1 vote.

The sci-fi flick tells the story of a blue-skinned tribe whose planet is threatened by humans. It follows two characters' journey from enemies to lovers.

When they first meet, the Na'vi being calls the Avatar/human man foolish. "You don't see," she tells him.

As I sat in the theater adjusting my 3D glasses, I kept thinking about that line for some reason.

James Cameron, the director who brought Titanic to the big screen, started developing Avatar nearly 15 years ago. Cameron said he couldn't produce the movie until now because, "technology needed to catch up."

Fifteen years from conception to realization.

"I see you," the Na'vi woman and the Avatar whisper after falling in love.

Zoe Saldana. Photo:  Plastic Pals

So maybe that's the point - love sees. Sees the craftsman who carries a dream for years without quitting even though the tools don't yet exist to bring it to life. Sees the pioneer who embraces the unseen, believing one day there will be a finished product. Sees the artist who, though the vision tarries, waits for it.

As we left the theater I thought, "I, too, want to see."

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Superheroes

Tobey McGuire stars as "Spiderman."  Photo: Oh My Magazine

"Can you be at the casting studio at 2:30?" my agent asked. "Sure," I said. Checking my email, I saw a problem.  The director wanted to see tall actors for a role opposite a Superhero. Though only 5'2," I knew I could nail the part: She's tough, lean and statuesque.  So I put on my 4" heels and strutted to the audition.

The director liked my audition. I would love to be cast as the Superhero. Who said crimefighters have to be tall? Tobey Maguire is only 5'8" and that didn't stop him from becoming Spiderman.

I was one of those kids who honestly believed that I was born with superhuman powers. Accompanied by my Superdoll, Dusty, I would climb the highest trees, whip bullies on the playground, race cars on my bike - all in training to save mankind.

I would tie a makeshift parachute to Dusty and throw her off a cliff into a pile of leaves (some stunts I knew better than to risk myself) to make her fly. 

One awful day, Dusty missed the landing pad. She crashed with a horrific snap on the concrete. Her head snapped off with a "pop" like the sound of someone prying off a bottle cap.

"Your dad came home to find you prostrated with grief," my mother recalls. "He got a shoebox and shovel and out to the backyard went gravedigger and chief mourner. The beheaded dolly was buried amid tears and deep sorrow."

She bought me a new doll but it was never the same as Dusty. 

That day I learned even Superheroes are mortal.

These days my definition of a Superhero is different. They're the ones whose faith births miracles.  Who love the unlovable. Who remain hidden so others can shine. 

Their courage produces a divine exchange: beauty for ashes; joy for sorrow; strength for weakness. Their names are Melissa, Steve, Phil, Esther, Jackie...friends who's hearts are set ablaze with a vision to rock the world with their gifts.

Oh, in my heart I still dream of whipping bad guys and ridding the world of evil. And if the call comes to play a Superhero, a less-than-statuesque physique won't stop me any more than it did Tobey.  Besides, like the world's top webslinger, I'm a journalist - already have the perfect cover.

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