It gets better?

When I was in middle school, the high schoolers stressed over college applications.

When I made it to high school, the older ones trembled out of exhilaration with concerns about the real world.

When I enrolled at VCU, the young professionals lamented over bills and made questionable purchases.

And now that I am 27, in the big leagues, in bed on a Sunday evening, I’m perplexed by it all. I’m trying to figure out if I mistakenly took their word for it.

If I could go back to 2000, I would ask Jordan on a date (and get rejected). I regret chickening out.

Hey, do you believe that a single flap of a butterfly’s wings could change the ocean’s current? It both frightens and inspires me to know that a moment in history – a spoken word or action taken – could change the course of another individual’s life.

Be careful of what you tell someone.

Make sure you think before you speak.

… that leads me to think that everything I’ve gone through, what I’m undergoing now, may have been the result of the nuanced, delicate flaps of people’s tongues and gestures.

I know that won’t make sense to others; too many men and women have advised me over the years. Who I am now is obviously a culmination of encouragement, discouragement, and narratives. Pair those with my personal experiences.

Well, the point is this: to try and not make sense of it. My future stays constantly uncertain. I get it. My destination is a censored bleep on a show more unpredictable than Jerry Springer. Roger that. Why bother to guess what happens next?

Regardless if it gets better or not — honestly — I don’t care. If that’s what I’m working hard for, fine, so be it.

I’m praying He sends me someone who truly understands this principle, one who loves and accepts me for me, has confidence in my insufficiencies, and believes truly that God is the end-all, be-all, in the long haul.  this, my friends, is what’s been on my heart as of late.

Proposing to someone with motives to benefit yourself is not only ill-advised, but detrimental to your spiritual, emotional, mental, and physical condition.

Especially if that person says, “Yes,” off impulse.

You Don’t Like Football!?!?

I’ve built a few relationships with the staff at BP. One cashier is an aspiring rapper, currently working on his second mixtape. I stood outside the gas station with the twenty-three-year-old during the wee hours of Monday morning, shared a few concepts, spat a few bars. The man has talent.

Another cashier, I won’t mention any names, is the mother of “two daughters and a spoiled, thirteen-year-old son.”
I asked her if he plays any sports. He does. Baseball and football. Quarterback. That last tidbit about him stuck out like Brittney Griner standing in a room full of hobbits. I told her that if there was anything I could do to help, to let me know.
“Sure,” she said, grimacing, “but I hate football.”
“What? You don’t like football?” I responded in disbelief. I immediately realized how ignorant that sounded.
“Yeah, everybody loves football, right?” she questioned, then answering her own, “Not me, because it caused the death of his father.”
She thought that I had already known. I did not; I would have avoided bringing up something so deep, so tragic; her heartbreak.
In 2008, the man who fathered two of her children won a Super Bowl bet, however, the sore loser didn’t want to pay and what escalated afterwards between two grown-ups led to a cruel and unnecessary murder.
There I was, dumbfounded, trying to contain my tears. I’ve been fortunate to not lose a loved one and it was difficult to relate to that type of pain. I was too young at my grandfather’s funeral. I, sympathetic, apologized for having her recall the traumatic experience—she smirked saying “it’s okay, I’m not over it yet and I may never get over it.”

No she won’t. How could she forget? She sees “him” every single day.

She doesn’t go to watch any of her son’s games and whenever she asks him about how he feels, he remains quiet.
Five years has passed since the incident but here she stood, unshaken, sharing with me how God is always good, and that everything happens for a reason.

I admire this woman’s courage. I thanked her for sharing a piece of her testimony with me. Do you believe in divine appointments? I do. There’s a reason why God grouped football, her and I tonight, and it has definitely stretched the screen of how I view the sport. Perfect timing too, I needed a slap of reality before I graduate next week.

Readers, of the millions of requests that I have, I simply ask if you could lift up a prayer for her. She informed me that her testimony would take an entire day to write out, and says she’ll have her life story published someday. Pray for her three children as well; God’s purpose for her family is great. Also, readers, please pray for me. I ask for an increase of humility and that I would never shove a plate of football in someone’s face. Football teaches about life values and teamwork–but gambling on the game should never cause the loss of a loved one.

Thanks.

I have nine journals of handwritten stories. Before posting this one in particular, I had to decide whether or not blogging about it was appropriate.
I decided to do both, log it in my journal, and share it with the world. It’s a sensitive subject, which is why the latter was a challenging task. I appreciate all of your support and thank you for walking with me on my journey. Feel free to leave comments.