In a few weeks a dozen French students will arrive to visit my twins' school. One of our daughters will reciprocate by going with a group to Paris next summer. The hope is that everyone will be able to communicate at least their bare needs, like hunger and where to sleep. Maybe they will even make friends. 

One of the boys will be staying with us. I am a tad nervous about this, but will be investing in a steel bolt to attach to the girls' door. Maybe rent a big dog. Not like the two puff balls on my road that couldn't scare a bunny. 

Being able to speak someone else's language is a terrific step in building a relationship. It takes effort, if you have grown up on different sides of an ocean. 

A friend was telling me about the impasse in her own marriage back when her husband had no concept that her love language is touch. His was not, and he probably felt as if his communication was just dandy. He understood himself after all. He expressed his devotion in Acts of Service, but what his wife spoke was skin. He may have believed he was saying "I love you!" twenty times a day, but there was no translator. The message was lost somewhere on the ocean between them. 

It got to the point where she had an exit plan. Started looking for an apartment. Her hunger for affection increased a sense of deep loneliness with no change in sight. Being in the same house and even the same bed is not always enough to cross the divide. Sometimes people just sputter and stop. 

He had no idea. Then in some miracle of circumstances, he understood. Touched her more, sat next to her on the couch. Held her hand, and made love. 

She stayed. 

No one is wrong for speaking French, or Spanish, or Quality Time. But if you want to articulate what your heart longs to say, you need to invest in how your partner really hears. 

It doesn't work when you talk and the only one listening is yourself.