Ding. Ding. The bell rang and the two fighters, holding their hands high to protect their faces, inched and rocked toward each other like big cats stalking their prey. Neither boxer held hate in their heart. Rather they cultivated love, their love’s source was the images both boxers beat into their beings — raised gloves, raucous crowds, gaudy metallic championship belts, and the sweet sound of a ring announcer calling out through the microphone, “The champion of the world is…” The two women, both mothers and wives, entered the ring with polar opposite styles. One was a brute in the ring. Her feet hit the canvas with lumbering thuds and smoke thrusted from her crooked nose. The other moved like a snake knowing that all she needed to do to turn off her opponent’s lights was slip a punch and throw a violent counter punch. She thought, “I just need to catch her with one punch.” The brute came forth with imposing dominance carrying broad shoulders, sporting a ponytail, and flared nostrils. The snake slithered in the ring with a slender lean chiseled build and radiating eyes. The brute knew if one punch landed the snake would be caught in the grass. The restless crowd demanded action; the two obliged.

With a shove, life forces us into boxing rings against our will. At a moment’s notice we must decide to be the brute, snake, or something else. When life puts us into a fight, let’s inch forward, keep our hands high, cradle love in our heart, and do the damn thing. Ding. Ding.