When I think about expanding my calling to healing and mentoring Black men, BELIEVE me, I have had my doubts!
Where do I even start to make sure they know they are loved? How will it work?
When I pray about it, it sounds like this:
I don’t know how, God. I don’t know if they will listen to me, I don’t know if they will hear me.
I don’t know if they will even like me. I don’t know if they can deal with my edge, my heat, my
passion, my brilliance, my genius. I don’t know, God. I really don’t know.
What I DO know is that Nanna loved me. Before I could love myself, when I was so wounded that I was mean and very hurtful to her, I kept trying to push her away to prove that I wasn’t worth shit. But she didn’t leave me. She loved me more. She helped me heal.
And that’s the key—if we take on healing ourselves so we don’t react to other people’s wounds, we can change the world.
I don’t know the exact how yet, but I believe that God will never give me a dream that wasn’t already manifested in His eyes.
I will do this. If I can honor my mother, I can honor my father. If I can heal my mother’s wounds, I can heal my father’s wounds.
I can’t help but wonder what it might be like if every Black man in our life knew he was loved.
Can you imagine it?
Please comment below so we can bear witness: What might it be like if you took on loving every Black man in your life? Even in his woundedness, even in his ugliness, even in his pettiness … instead of taking it personal, can you just love him?