The other day, a friend asked how I was doing and I answered “I won’t complain!” He responded “You mean, “you can’t complain”?” I looked at him and smiled. He had this awkward smirk on his face as he attemtpted to smile back. He looked like someone had told a joke and he didn’t get the punchline. As we stood there I thought about the many times I heard someone say “I can’t complain.” It dawned on me that “can’t” and “won’t” are two very different words. Can’t is defined as “a contraction of the word “cannot”, meaning; not able to or not allowed to. It denotes a lack of ability, skill, or permission.” Won’t is defined as “the contraction of “will not” meaning “something is refused or will not happen in the future.”

Over my years I realized that often when someone says “I can’t complain” there is a complaint lying just beneath the surface! Especially when they follow “I can’t complain” with, “but it won’t change anything!” See, “can’t complain” is supposed to represent being in a state of contentment. This is to say, “I’m fine with how things are right now.” However when we add “no one would listen” or “it won’t change anything” then to say “can’t complain” takes on a whole other context. The description changes from contentment to disdain. Underneath there’s the notion that “Oh, I can complain about a lot of things, but what good will it do!?”

Being in the presence of people dealing with substance use, non-residency, or mental health issues, I encounter this type of resignative reply quite often. Unrelenting habits have enforced a cycle of negativity that disqualifies even the smallest amount of positivity toward daily life circumstances and the desire to change. The unfortunate theme that “I can’t complain, but what good will it do?” underscores the deeper issue of “what can be done to alleviate the dire situation?!”

Now, when we transform “can’t complain because…” into “won’t complain”, then the sentiment moves from defeatism towards possibility. The door is opened for a world of positive reinforcement that begins with acceptance. This acceptance isn’t for hardship representing a permanent circumstance. But one that can become better or the acknowledgement that things could be far worse.

When I say “I won’t complain” in my life today, I’m grateful that I truly have nothing to complain about. Not that everything is in place either. I’m a mess! That’s being honest about where I am. I could complain about not having, not getting, not being, this, and not being that! From the time I open my eyes, until I close them to sleep I could find a cornucopia of dissatisfactions about the way I see my life to complain about. Instead because I won’t complain, I turn the imperfectness of my life, the times of anger, sadness, and dejection into reasons to be grateful for things as they are. But not that they will always stay that way; there’s now room for the hope that they will get better as long as I keep moving toward a better result.

I told my friend “I won’t complain because no one situation or circumstance is at fault for the coices I made that cause the hardships I face daily. My hardships are small in comparison to what some face everyday. I won’t allow negativity to influence the positive things that are taking place along my journey. Brother, when I say “I won’t complain” I’m saying “I am encouraged that no matter what I go through, as long as I hold on, stand strong, and look for the best possible outcome, everything is; and will be just fine.”

Dear reader, I’m so glad I made it through this far. The tears I cry today are not from sadness and calamity, nor about the things that are wrong in my life. They are for the gratefulness I have to God for bringing me such a mighty long way! I won’t complain because I didn’t throw in the towel! I’ve taken the punches, stood in the trenches, almost gave up, but I realize that God still has a plan for me! I have a sound mind, use of my limbs, roof over my head, food to eat, and the hope for even better tomorrows! God has been, and continues to be, so good to me! So what is there to complain about?

Psalm 51:10 “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.”

Open heart surgery is a procedure performed by trained surgical professionals to fix what’s been broken or disrupted with one of the body’s most vitally important organs. It is such a tediously delicate operation that said professionals undergo years of medical preparations in order to perform the task with highly favorable results. However, each success is based solely on probability. Meaning, the chance of success depends on how well the other internal organs work with the new heart or surgery. In other words, there is no gaurantee the operation will completely repair what’s broken. Yes, having the surgery according to medical purpose and recommendations, fixes the issue (It wouldn’t be performed if there were no need). But, the variables for failure are too numerous to put a stamp of gauranteed success on the procedure.

For years I needed surgery but hoped the issue would resolve itself. When I started these post, my heart was broken. I’m not talking about broken as a result of a relationship that ended. My life was broken. The guilt of past mistakes. The shame I carried. The lie’s I lived, had devastated my integrity and moral stability. I was a mess that needed fixing and no matter what I did to hide it or get better on my own, nothing worked. I needed a professional to perform the surgery on me. Someone that was a trained expert at repairing the the issues that affected my life.

I tried psychiatry. Mental health therapy. Various groups and treatments, and they helped to a certain degree. But the issues that plagued me were beyond the abilities of human ingenuity, or scientific reasoning. You know; it’s amazing how other’s can see more good in us than we can see in ourself. During the divorce from my second wife she told me “I don’t know who the Carlos you’ve started acting like is. I just want the Carlos I married back. In that man, I saw us living a beautiful future together.”

Listen, I always knew something wrong was going on inside my heart. On the outside I told the “right” lies. I acted like I was “ok”, but inside I was torn apart and the truth was hard to face.

I often use an analogy that says “When (we) are sick, (we) go to the doctor to find out what’s wrong and how can (we) be healed. I finally realized that I had to go to the only Doctor that could not only reveal what the issue was, but also completely heal me of the affliction. That One is the God.” I had been willing to try everything else, and nothing worked. Why not give God a try?

Open heart surgery can sometimes be a quick fix, however, for the most part it is a time consuming procedure because of how intricate the details of making it successful can be. There are several differences between the one performed by humans and the one performed by God, but the biggest one is that doctors anesthesize the patient. God performs the procedure with our eyes wide open. We aren’t numbed from the pain. We have to undergo the operation fully aware of what’s going on. To God, that’s the most critical part. See, in order for the surgery to work I had to be willing to have the lie’s, guilt, past mistakes, traumas, torments, and shame exposed. And not to anyone else, but myself first! I had to be aware of what was broken if I was to allow God to fix it.

Just like the physical surgery wherein the internal organs have to be able to adjust to the new organ. I had to embrace what was being done and make the proper adjustments to receive the transplant God was performing in my life. I had to be confronted by my moral degredation. By this; I acknowledged that the old one was killing me spiritually, mentally, emotionally and physically. I had to realize that my sins were not just bad outward actions; they were the result of a corrupt inner condition. I ASKED God to CREATE a new heart within me, also to fix the inner source of my corrupt thoughts and desires, so that I could be made whole. I understood that I couldn't fix myself (nor could another human being). The only thing that can work is a miracle of divine grace. And God is the only Being that can supply it.

As of this article, I AM STILL ON THE OPERATING TABLE! Geesh, it can be painful sometimes! There have been days when I have cried out “AREN’T YOU DONE YET!?!” At times I have even wanted to just say “Please stop. I can’t do this anymore.” But with tears streaming down my face, I pray, “Lord, I need You to fix me. Please give me the strength to endure.” Today, I can see where I was, and believe me when I say that “where I am right now is far better!”

There are so many people in my life that I can thank for things being made “better”, but ultimately God deserves ALL the praise because if it wasn’t for Him, and the open heart surgery He’s performing, those people wouldn’t be in my life.

Looking back over my journey…… After speaking to a group about my life experience, strength, and hope one of them came up and said “I’m sorry you had to go through a lot of that. You went through hell!” Man. That’s deep.

However, what I’ve been through is nothing compared to what I believe “hell” to be. I DO NOT WANT TO GO THROUGH THAT! The Bible says in that place, the “Lake of Fire”, the “Bottomless Pit”, the “Second Death”, "the “Place of Retribution”, in THAT place “there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth!” Mind you, some of the life situations I’ve been in closely compared to this! I’ve had to claw and scrape to get out of certain situations alive! I’ve wept so deeply that I couldn’t catch my breath and saliva dripped from my mouth! Yes, those times can be compared to the weeping and gnashing, but the big difference is the weeping and gnashing of those situations only lasted as long as the situation! The weeping and gnashing the Bible speaks of will last for eternity! FOREVER! NEVER-ENDING PAIN AND TORMENT! Phew!

See, the storms I went through were temporary. The wounds healed although the scars remain. But the experience had a beginning and an end. Eternally going through hell means there is no ending. At times the storms I went through seemed to last forever. Sometimes I felt I was being punished for the choices I made. But, I can’t imagine what it feels like to be punished forever. And honestly, who wants to?! Our earthly, tribulations are sometimes more than we care to bear. At one time, the torment I was dealing with had me thinking suicide was the answer to rid me of it. I was beat down so badly at times that to give up was a viable option. Yet, that is nothing compared to spending eternity in anguish and not being able to do anything about it! In eternity, though we have forever, it is too late to change anything.

Listen, right now we have the opportunity to get whatever is wrong in our life; right. We can recover from whatever is causing us pain and suffering. We can repent of our sinful ways and start anew! No matter how low things have us feeling. No matter what we’ve done. No matter the situation or circumstance, we all have this one chance to change it. This is it! Right now, is the only chance we get. No one knows if tomorrow will come. And if by chance it does, we may not make it through the next second that passes. The blink of an eye is all the time it takes for this life to be over. The question is, “where and how do we want to spend eternity?”

Many do not believe in heaven or hell. I admit; the subject can be unbelievable. One place is ideal. The other horrendous. Nonetheless, let’s just say they are real. Then what? As for me, I’m not taking a chance on them not being real. I live today with both in my sights. I live today with the hope that I will spend eternity where there are streets of gold! Where I will see loved ones that have gone on before me! Where there will be no more tear’s, or sickness, no more anguish, or torment, just joy, forever!

Yes, this journey can be hard at times. The roads we walk can be “hell-ish”. Yes, we will go through some stuff! BUT, this earthly life is temporary and far from being eternal hell. I know one thing for certain…… I DO NOT WANT TO SPEND ETERNITY WHERE THERE WILL BE CONTINUAL WEEPING AND GNASHING OF ANYTHING! What about you!?

A donkey or “Jackass” is known as a “beast of burden” because it is primarily used for heavy labor. However, it is more famously known for being stubborn! If a donkey doesn’t want to do something it can become quite boisterous about not doing it. They have been known to bite, kick, lay down, or refuse to move, period. But, their “stubborness” is actually misunderstood or what I consider to be an “urban legend”. They are actually highly intelligent animals with strong survival instincts. Unlike horses that will flee when faced with danger. Donkeys freeze to assess the situation before acting…… Hunh.

In the biblical account of Balaam and the donkey. Balaam was riding his donkey when an angel of God appeared before them. Balaam could not see the sword wielding angel barring them to pass where it stood, but the donkey saw the danger and refused to go any further. 3 times the donkey took evasive actions, so on the third attempt, Balaam struck the donkey in anger hoping it would finally obey his command to proceed. Instead the donkey became even more resistant and asked “What have I done to make you beat me!?” Balaam argued that the donkey had made a fool of him and the donkey replied “Am I not your donkey that you’ve ridden all these days until right now!? Have I ever been in the habit of doing this to you!?!” Balaam said “No.” (Which I can imagine was a sheepish retort realizing he had wronged the animal through distrust. Or because of the urban legend he had heard about their stubborness, caused him to become frustrated, and disregard the animals loyalty.) As the story goes, at this point God opened Balaam’s spiritual eyes to see the angel standing there about to kill him if he had tried to pass.

A lot of summaries can be derived from this verse alone. But what comes to my mind is the fact Balaam’s spiritual ignorance made him stubborn, not like a donkey’s survival stubborness. Balaam’s stubborn behavior derived from the human exurberance to be right, to be the master, and to have things done the way we want regardless to what anybody thinks. There were other motivating human factors that lead him as well. Greed, disobedience, and spiritual blindness were the primary catalyst for Balaam to “go against the grain” and pursue something he thought was right but would have destroyed him.

I am reminded of the years I spent “going against the grain”. On a path to destruction. I was spiritually blind and unable to see divine reality. A reality that was telling me time and again there was something trying to destroy me. But what I saw, wasn’t what that “something” really was. Eventually, the survival instincts I developed were based on the decisions I made and the results of the environment I placed myself in. Unlike a donkey’s positive instincts for survival, I would negatively, and voluntarily place myself in situations that were unsafe or illogical. Rather than plant my feet and refuse to comply because of the threat of danger. I would blindly attack situations that caused fear. I was under a tremendous amount of stress and rather than plant my feet to assess the situation in a positive manner, I acted out dangerously which produced negative outcomes. The world view of me meant more than God’s view. I misused the independence of choice and manufactured this persona that allowed me to be wrong. A lso to stand firmly on how wrong I was. In my mind, I would have died to prove that my wrongs were right. In my ignorance, I would have justified my being wrong to the death.

The thing is, like Balaam, I am a sound thinker. Meaning; I know right from wrong. The difference between good and bad. Yet, I beat rational reasoning like it was a stranger! Like Balaam, I chose to be spiritually blind to the physical dangers imposed through the life I lived. My heart would tell me something’s wrong with my choices (call it intuition). And, there were peope that told me the consequences for my actions wouldn’t be good, but I would ignore the warnings. Even though Balaam and I shared similarity in the way we processed reality. There is a huge contrast in that process, being the event of Balaam and the donkey happened one time, while mine lasted for over half of my life! Being blind means we can’t see how “dumb” we truly can be! While everyone else sees it, we run around totally oblivious!

It wasn’t until I finally became willing to open my spiritual eyes that my perception changed. I realized I was the stereotypical “stubborn beast” instead of being the intelligent man of wisdom God created me to be. Unlike the donkey that chose not to follow the intended path because of the danger, I had refused to follow a path of righteousness, and went head first into the danger where I underwent years of turmoil. The miracle is that now, those past experiences that were cursing my life, have been turned into a blessing! Today, I am able to share and relate with those that are in the same situation as I was. My experiences make me an effective witness to the mercy and goodness of God. My testimony is of God’s saving grace and the beautiful spiritual transformation that can happen for even the stubborn(est) of people!

Today I am a firm believer in the fact, God’s will and vision cannot be thwarted by human stubborness and blindness. Fortunately for me, God put up with my disobedience! Balaam was eventually killed because he continued to “go against the grain”. I was saved and now I’m used to serve as the donkey did, warning people against the impending danger being spiritually blind can lead to.

I often use this analogy: “We are all walking along the higway of life. We can see the horizon, but it is far away. Between where we are, and that horizon is wilderness. Along the way we come to crossroads and pause. We look to the left, and see old growth. Which more than likely is places and things of the past that are still there waiting. There is life there, but it isn’t going anywhere significant. Then we look to the right, and everything there seems brand new. It invites us to explore with the hope it will be better than the past. But it is only a distraction.

We look ahead. It is so very far to that horizon. From what we see there is nothing between us and it, but wilderness. Rough terrain. Dry places. Nothing. However, there is something about the horizon that bekons us. If only we can make it there and to see what it is. But, that journey onward shows no promise, so oftentimes we venture off to the left or right. There’s familiarity in this decision. Only after we venture off the path do we realize that the past isn’t going anywhere and what seemed brand new only lasts temporarily. There is no substance either way. We then reflect, “If I’d just kept walking toward the horizon!”

The moral is this… “In the wilderness there is room for growth. It may feel burdensome and worthless. But everywhere we pass, seeds are planted by our presence. These seeds will either be positive or negative. Eventually we will reach the horizon and look back to see that what once was wilderness; now has habitation. And depending on which seeds were sown determines what growth is left there for the next traveler that comes along on their journey. The negative will always leave us saying “If I had just…” while the positive will leave us inspired to plant more seeds, and leave us feeling amazed at the beauty created in our wake.”

When I began these posts on my phone, I had no intentions of sharing these tidbits of what I call “hope and inspiration” with anyone. I felt they were messages for me alone. But God had other plans. He eventually gave me the courage to share them with others. I am writing a book that includes these “tidbits” now. I have titled this book “The Journey: Through” because what I have learned is we all go “through” something every day during this wilderness journey. Whether happy or sad. Struggle or peace. These moments will define what we’ve done, and what we can do. Who we are and what we believe. I encourage everyone I talk to today to keep forging onward towards the horizon. While every now and then, taking a look back to see what has grown along the way. From my experience where once all I would have seen is hopelessness and decay. Now I can see the fruits of righteousness, faith and hope. I pray God’s Spirit always touch you all and inspires you to be sowers of righteous seeds. That those seeds may encourage others to press onward towards Gods horizon, while planting righteous seeds of their own.

In the book of John there was a dialogue between Jesus (who was to be crucified) and Pontius Pilate (A Roman governor whom the Jews wanted to carry out the execution). Before Pilate, the Jewish leaders had accused Jesus of being a criminal. Pilates first question to Jesus was “Are you the king of the Jews?” and Jesus responded “Is that your own idea,” Jesus asked, “or did others talk to you about me?” Pilate then replied, “Am I a Jew? Your own people and chief priests handed you over to me. What is it you have done?” Jesus then answered “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my servants would fight to prevent my arrest by the Jewish leaders. But now my kingdom is from another place.” Which was an answer to Pilates first question. So Pilate responded with a statement that reiterated the first question. “You are a king, then!” he said. Jesus then answered, “You say that I am a king. In fact, the reason I was born and came into the world is to testify to the truth. Everyone on the side of truth listens to me.”

The dialogue continued and this part of it brings about the moral to what this post is about. I imagine Pilate had become frustrated that this man he was being demanded to crucify was not proclaiming His innocense. The Jewish leaders had revealed that He had called Himself the “Son of God.” And yet, instead of begging for His life, He was talking about other worldly “kingship”. Something Pilate being Roman could not fully believe. But Pilate understood because what the Jews had said about who Jesus claimed to be, made him afraid. So he wanted more clarification. “Where do you come from?” he asked Jesus, but Jesus gave him no answer. “Do you refuse to speak to me?” Pilate said.

There is 2 pertinent things that I noticed in this scripture. 1. Pilate asked questions based on what Jesus’ “own people” had told him. 2. Jesus answered, then He didn’t. Have you ever talked to someone (especially a “loved one”), and no matter what you say, it’s not enough? Or whatever answer to their question you give, it’s not what they want to hear? For instance: (Them) “What do you think I should do about this situation?” (You) “Well, I think you should do this.” (Them) “Yeah, but I want to do it this way.” (You) “Okay. However, that doesn’t seem like the right way to handle it.” (Them) “Well, what do you suggest I do?!” Hopefully you get where I’m coming from?”

My grandpa used to say talking to people like this equated to “talking to a brick wall”! I took this as a forewarning that no matter what is said to that person, they ain’t listening! I used that particuar scripture because here Jesus was about to be executed. Yet, after saying all He had to say, He stopped trying to convince Pilate. Of course, there was an ulterior motive for His silence. But it reminded me about some of the things I’ve talked about, also some of the people I have talked to throughout my journey. Sadly, there was one or all of the following happening during those particular conversations: 1. Willing to die being wrong, 2. Stubborness, 3. Ignoring the advice, 4. Refusing to listen to reason. In other words, that person’s rationale has become closed off to anything reasonable, anyone has to say.

You know what makes the situation worse? When we know the person isn’t being receptive to anything we’re saying, and keep talking about it anyways! Sometimes we keep trying to convince them because we have experienced what they are going through, and know that their way of handling the situation will end badly. Other times it may be because they asked and we were just trying to help with what we think is sound advice. Needlesstosay, the worse happens when our convincing becomes adamant. The conversation then turns from humble acceptance, to down right defiance.

“So, what’s your point Carlos?!”

We should know we’ve said “enough” when (and if) our point has been clearly delivered, there is no further value that can be added, or the situation transitions from a productive exchange to an argument, frustration, or moot point that drains us. There is another saying that fits this exactly “talking til (I’m) blue-in-the-face”. The way I see the conversation between Jesus and Pilate (for this post’ purpose), Jesus recognized that His core message had been delivered. He realized that adding more to it would have been over-explaining the matter, to someone that wouldn’t understand it regardless of what He said. In Jesus’ silence was submission. He had resigned to His fate, and sometimes we have to also realize when the conversation has shifted from a constructive dialogue into an emotional debate, argument, or personal attack. We should be aware enough to recognize when someone is also resigned to their fate.

I know it’s hard to watch anyone seeking advice or a suggestion that will help them avoid pain and suffering, become stoic, refusing to actually take what’s been given to heart. But, at those times we have to make the hard choice for our own well being and sanity which is “I’ve already said all I have to say. I have reached my “conversational limit” on this matter. The rest is totally up to you.” and be silent.

Here’s the kicker! After their “bad choice” is followed through with we aren’t to say “Didn’t I tell you it would end this way!?!” Alternatively as loving human beings we should say “I love you. Let’s try it another way this time.” There is one thing we can never get enough of hearing (when it is said with sincerity)…… “I love you.”

Birdiesis a neighborhood staple. The atmosphere is inviting, and it doesn’t matter if the weather is rainy, cold, foggy, too hot, or whatever, Birdies is the place to get a good meal. Theres only one employee, no menu, or common amenities that describe modern eateries. And although I’ve never eaten at Birdies, I can tell from the hundreds of patrons that visit the “spot” each day, the food has to taste great; because they occupy every available space Birdies provides! Sometimes while waiting to be served there are skirmishes between patrons as they jostle for position in line. (Birdies isn’t “tech savvy”). There are no electronic “buzzers” that alert waiting customers when a seat becomes available. No host to show them where to sit. It’s funny, but in a way, Birdies is kinda primitive. It’s first come, first served so if the patrons are slow, hesitant, meek, or non-aggressive, they have to wait until the rush hour crowd dies down before they can enjoy a meal. However, the one thing that stands out to me the most is there’s always the opportunity to grab a bite. And many are frequent guest that come and go all day long. From the rising of the sun to the setting of the same, they flock to partake of Birdies cuisine.

Birdies mostly offers eat in service, however, there’s a to-go option that many use at times. They fly in, grab a quick morsel, then fly out unscathed by the crowd. It appears that is one of Birdies best, most used options because many use it over waiting for a perch to sit for a minute or two.

The one thing I notice most is that there is no “division” amongst Birdies patrons. There’s no color barrier, no particular breed, no concern about stature, or circumstance. Any living thing can eat there (if one chooses to partake of what is served). It doesn’t matter where one comes from, neighborhood denizen, or one that migrates from place to place. If theres a place to grab a bite, Birdies is it! And based on how many come and go, there’s no doubt in my mind that the word is spread each day to “stop by Birdies”!

Despite the infrequent patron skirmishes, Birdies is a safe place to eat. The skirmishes aren’t violent. No one gets hurt. No punches are thrown. No firearms are drawn. From what I can tell, they mostly happen when one patron occupies a space too long. Or in the hustle and bustle to get in and out as fast as possible, the to-go orders get scrambled. Sometimes there’s complaining, but it’s never about the food, or service. It’s always about there not being enough room for everyone, or the speed in which one eats a meal. Nonetheless, for most all of it’s patrons, Birdies is accommodating down to the last letter!

“Where is this great restaurant” you ask?! Well, it is right outside in my front ! I have but to take a few steps to it, or open the blinds to see it!

This my dear reader is “Birdies”! The best restaurant in the neighborhood!

I sit and watch the activity going on each day at Birdies and think about life. It never ceases to amaze me how the human race (we that are so intelligent), is so divided. While these “un-tamed” lesser intelligent beings come together daily with harmony and purpose. They don’t steal from one another, it’s like they instinctively know there’s plenty for everyone to share. The little birds that can perch on the feeder, drop kernels to the ground (I believe this is an intentional action) for the birds that are too big to get some. So everyone eats. The skirmishes I mentioned earlier are momentary. Unlike human skirmishes where someone gets hurt, or wars breakout as a result. At Birdies, there’s no ill will, no lingering anger, or NATO conferences to determine who’s a threat. They just gather to eat, drink and be merry.

These birds are “primal”, meaning "they use the most basic, instinctual drives to survive”. Yet, in this community there is unity. They aren’t babarians. Yes, they are a little unkempt (evidenced by the droppings on the squirrel deterrant)! Yes, there’s the fundamental instinct to persevere, but not at the expense of others. There is no greed, no intimidation, no malice. No one species is better than the other. No hierarchy. No judgement. Everyone eats.

Ornithologist study birds. I’m not one. I just watch and observe. But I’m sure they have noticed the disparities between humankind and these “animals” as I do every day. What is supposed to separate humanity from “wild animals” is our capacity for abstract thinking, self-awareness, language, and the creation of complex cultures and technologies. These abilities allow us to actively manipulate our environment rather than merely adapt to it. Being human suggests we exhibit traits like friendliness, sociability, and cooperation which are to give us the advantage over “wild animals”. We are the supposed to be the apex community of goodness. Far better than the birds that frequent Birdies. However, our darker impulses are becoming more brutish and nasty toward one another; rather than instinctively responsible and accountable to each other.

I thank God for Birdies. This “simple” display from “wild animals” teaches me the depths of love that thrives from productive community interaction. It teaches me lessons about how God intended every living thing on this planet to exist in harmony.

Matthew 5:14-15 “You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house.”

Each morning I stand outside facing the sun. There’s something refreshing and powerful about feeling it’s warmth on my skin. This orb which is millions of miles away touches me like it’s just within my reach, and distance is the least of my concerns. It never ceases to amaze me how this works! Of all the stars in the sky, this one source of light is the primary source of light for the entire solar system! It dictates climates, seasons, and day-night cycles for all the planets in it’s system. It’s energy is an essential part of sustaining life on earth. It’s light gives the earth power and maintains the global temperature for all life to exist. And it does all this from roughly 93 millions miles away! Wow!

Now think of this, “We are all sources of light!” Just like the sun sets high in the sky, we are physical manifestations of this same intensity! Good or bad, our talents, faith, and deeds are always visible. Even those we try and conceal. Just like the sun we emit light that radiates outwardly into whatever space we occupy. We are capable of generating our own “energy” (vibe) from the life we receive from the sun.

There is so much darkness in the world today. Dark hearts, and minds that seem to be changing the complexion of life as we know it. Because of crime, hate, and prejudices; many lights of goodness have become afraid to “stand out” from fear of “being seen” by the “wrong” people or influences. The thing is, light can not be hidden. No matter how hard one tries to conceal it. Especially if that light produces good. Like the sun, even in the darness of the sky, it’s light radiates and reflects off of everything in it’s orbit. And it does not just orbit a stationary point, it orbits the center of the Milky way galaxy! Thus, “dragging” our entire solar system (8 planets, 5 named dwarf planets, hundreds of moons, and thousands of asteroids and comets) with it!

According to this scripture we are meant to banish the darkness of evil deeds and illuminate our surroundings with the light of goodness, love, and hope. Just as a light on a high hill naturally and automatically catches the eye from miles away, we are distinctly visible as well but this visibility concerns our morals, values, and actions. Verse 16 connects this imagery directly to daily living: "In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.”

We are living lights. We can’t escape it. The question is, “What kind of light are we radiating?” I pray that it is the light of goodness. The kind of positive light that leads other’s to stand in it’s rays, and empowers them to shine with goodness as well.

In the movie Forrest Gump, theres a scene where he runs across the country. There is no literal counting of days, but his appearance changes as the adventure continues from place to place. This gives us the sense his endeavor has taken some time to complete. The part about this scene that I like the most is when he stops running. After all he went through along the way. All the lives he interacted with. Unbeknowest to him was a purpose, nor direction, and suddenly one day he just stopped running. His narration of the event goes “After running for exactly 3 years, 2 months, 14 days, and 16 hours. I just stopped running.” He then turned to the crowd of people that had been following him for quite some time and said, “I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll go home now.” One of the followers then shouted “Now what are we supposed to do!?!”

God knows I have done my share of running! New York to Virginia, to Florida, Georgia, Ohio, Texas, Arizona, Las Vegas, North Carolina, and various places in between! And like Forrest, a lot of my running was impulsive, or what I chose to do to deal with situations that had brung me the point I thought running would alleviate my loneliness, pain, shame, guilt and free me from their grasp. No one knew the circumstances of his life before they met him. And although he was broadcast on national news outlets. Talked personally to people along the way, or had this large following, it was never made clear that he expressed what was on his mind so heavily that he had to run away from or towards a solution.

As I think about this scene my own journey is clearly before me. Like Forrest, I wasn’t running for a “world” cause. There was something inside us both that had reached a volatile climax which caused us to run away. For me running took on a different perspective because in my quest to be free, I always thought a new location would bring about a new “me”. However, a line from the 1979 movie Buck Rogers in the 25th Century says “No matter where you go. There you are.” Thus until I made a conscious decision to face the things that I was running from, they would continue to keep me running.

Like Forrest, it took quite some time before I finally became completely tired of running. Through this tiredness came surrender. Not the type that gives up, but which liberated me enough to realize something was wrong inside of me. Also that until I professed this “something”, identify it as an issue, and face it, then I would never be allowed to move on from it.

In the beginning of the movie as a child, Forrest had leg braces that restricted his legs from moving properly. For me; childhood traumas that I was unaware of how detrimental they would become, restricted my capacity to live. These traumas later led to an alternate lifestyle where I took on another identity. Even though I became someone else, I still carried the weight of trauma, and subsequently this led to substance use issues. I was trying to escape, but going about it in the wrong way. When this all began I was too young to articulate my pain. I knew I hurt, but my mind was not developed enough to process why. Running became an avenue that I thought freed me from having to deal with it. Ultimately, the reasons for my running kept me bound to the very thing I was trying to get as far away as possible from.

Before I moved to Durham, NC. I said, “Man, don’t let this become another situation like all the other’s. Don’t move there to get away, rather address the issue, and hopefully move on.” I turned running into a positive action for the freedom I had always sought to gain. I finally accepted there were things that happened in my life that caused heartbreak, distrust, fear, apprehension, pain, guilt, shame, and a plthora of other negative influences which ensalved me mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I also realized because they started happening at a very early age, I had no power to change them then; but I do now.

So like Forrest at the end of his run, I finally recognized that in order to move forward, I had to put the past behind. And then let it go completely when it comes to being enslaved by it. A friend once asked me this riddle, “Why is the rearview mirror in a car, smaller than the windshield? Because it is more important to see where you’re going than it is to see where you came from.”

Thank God, I finally realize the reasons behind my running and have found purpose from my past. I am still running just not away from anything anymore. The act of running for me today gives me closure and helps me to leave my past where it is. I no longer have to carry that weight any longer. Phew! That is truly a blessing!

I’ve always been inquisitive. But when I was a child my curiosity teetered on the verge of being destructive. My wanting to examine how things worked or were put together; often meant I would first have to disassemble a matter before I could figure out what made that thing an operating entity. Or I would have to venture into uncharted territories (against strict warnings not to) in order to see what was there to be discovered. And this inquisitiveness caused my guardians to discipline me. In their eyes the yearning I had to know what made life “tick” was disobedience to their commands.

I remember like it just happened days ago, a time when my grandmother made me break a branch off a small tree to “whip” me with. What I am remembering most about the “whooping” is that while she lashed my buttocks, and shear pain streaked through my body; she was yelling at me “You better not cry!” Of course, during the first few beatings I would scream and cry like she was killing me! As time went on I realized two very important things about crying: 1. The more I cried, the longer and more furious the beatings would get. 2. When I didn’t cry, the beatings would be longer and more furious! So in defiance I became this impenetrable object that felt no pain. Thus I had no reason to cry. And so to me; crying became a physical sign of weakness that I would never give another human being the opportunity to see displayed from me.

As sordid as this may sound, those early beatings prepared me for what was to come later. They taught me valuable lessons on how to stand when my whole body wanted to crumble. I learned how to brace for the impact of hellish blows that were intended to break me. How to contort my mind to ignore the pain and keep forging onward. My heart became a fortress of solitude where I hid the emotions of shame, fear, and sadness within it’s walls. I learned to smile while undergoing the most severe beatings. Sometime’s I would even be overcome with hysterical laughter! It was like there was nothing anyone could do to break through my walls, and I felt invincible! Impervious to any harm. Undaunted by their attacks that I knew were seriously meant to disenchant me from doing anything contrary to what they wanted me to do.

The zeal I had to explore and discover changed in dynamics. Where I once sought modestly to figure out the how’s and why’s just because I “wanted” to know. Turned into obssession and compulsion wherein I “had” to know. Inquisitiveness became a monster that required more than just “curiosity”. To satisfy it I had to put all the pieces together with precision and decisiveness. Instead of dismantling, I had to build from scratch. And what was built was to have only one set of blueprints that I alone was matser of.

In defense of parties that did their best to raise me “right” not every single episode of my life was pain and misery. However, the wall I built around my life allowed them limited access. Those that truly loved and cared for me knew what I dared to share was surface innuendo. They knew I was only telling them what I wanted them to know, not what was really going on, or the whole of what I was going through. Most times there was so much “stuff” coursing through my mind that I wouldn’t have been able to put into words what they needed to hear anyways. It became easier to smile and say “I’m alright”, than to explain how much pain and discord I felt at any given time.

Thinking about this now, I always thought it took too much effort to cry. Because I didn’t want to feel that depth of sadness, or joy, crying seemed unreal. Like it was just something weak people did to make others feel inferior through sympathetic emotion. I didn’t cry, and damn sure didn’t want anyone crying for me. For me; crying was always associated with the lowest form of vulnerability. And no one could be allowed to see this in me.

Only a supernatural event could take place that would open my heart. No amount of human ability could transform my emotional imprisonment into freedom. The fortress that kept me “safe” had to be dismantled. I didn’t want to let anyone in but, I wanted to get out. I had to allow someone to see my pain, fear, and sadness. I had to allow someone to see me cry. Brick by brick. Where I saw weakness, I have found empowerment. Where there was protection, I’ve had to embrace vulnerability. I’ve come to recognize that crying encompasses more than grief.

The tears that fall from my eyes today are more than the pain I always worked so hard to hide. Being released from the burden of sorrowful tears has not been easy. But, through them I have been emancipated. Also, if I am to remain free I have to work even harder to shed more of them.

I saw one elderly woman assisting another (at least half her age) get into the tight confines of the backseat in the car they were riding. They were struggling. The eldest woman could barely move let alone stand from the wheelchair she sat on. The other woman was physically frail but strong enough to do the task. I could tell this was their routine and they were comfortable with one another. But it was hot. There were cars behind theirs with impatient eyes blaring through sun touched windshields. They were clearly struggling. Plus did I mention, the temperature was blazing hot!

I stood at a safe distance as not to scare them or cause alarm and asked, “Can I help you?” The younger of the two immediately said “No.” Neither looked up from the task. I could hear defiance in the younger womans voice. But it didn’t come off as if she wasn’t needing a hand. I figured it was more of a trust issue. We were in the “hood” and I completely understand their being “standoff-ish”. They probably grew up in this neighborhood, and over the years have seen or had to deal with their share of change. Good and bad. The shootings, robberies, fights and escalating crime has probably painted a negative picture of the neighborhood they can remember was once a “nice” place to live. I felt for them. I have only seen what it looks like now, homeless people laying in doorways and beside buildings, human defecation on the sidewalk, the pungent smell of urine in the air.

A car horn sounded and snapped me back to the here and now. It was the vehicle directly behind theirs. I stared intently at the driver and he threw his hands up in an apologetic, but “hurry up” kind of gesture. I asked the women again thinking maybe they didn’t here me (knowing full well by her response they both did), “Ma’am, may I help you?” The eldest stopped trying to bend her body that I’m sure in younger years would have slid in the car with no problem. But now lacked the dexterity to accomplish the feat without someone helping to bend bones that refused to cooperate anymore. She looked at me and smiled with that cool grandma smile they can give that just tells the world, “everything’s gonna be alright!” This caused the younger to stop and look as well. She wasn’t smiling at all. In fact, her look was telling me “MIND YOUR BUSINESS!” She had the hard look of one that has had enough of everything, but has to keep going because people depend on her. As they both stood there, and neither had answered my question; the eldest released the death grip she had on the car doors jamb. Her hand was tiny, the skin drawn tight, and spiny. She reached over and patted the younger womans forearm then knodded slightly. The youngest now looking down at the pavement said “C’mon.” She then quickly gathered the eldest womans pocketbook which had hung over her shoulder, slung it over her neck as she adjusted her own pocketbook away from my arms reach as well.

I then took hold of the eldest womans arm and waist, she in turn grabbed my arm and said “Thank You, Jesus! You have a good heart son.” I smiled. As I manuevered her into the back seat she was talking to God about being old and praising Him for blessing her to be here. She thanked Him for her family and for the help of the younger woman I realized from her words is her daughter. Then she thanked Him for me coming along and asked told Him to “keep me”. I noticed her eyes were closed tightly and she trusted my every move, just like she had her daughters. After she was sitting in the seat, I fastened the seatbelt around her and she hugged my neck and said, “Don’t let the world change your heart. You hear me? You’ve come to far to go back now.”

Our world has changed so much. The hearts of compassion have been hardened by crime, insensitivity, struggles and economic woes. Violence, disease, and terror envelope our daily consciousness. However there are still good people, with good hearts in this world. It may seem rare when we run into them. It may even seem strange or unbelievable, but they are around.

I am honored to be seen as one.

I never believed the lie, “I’m not good enough”. Not even while at my worst points along this journey. Not even when I had no true direction or understanding of who I am. For a while, despite how things looked on the outside. And I was speeding down a path of destruction, I never believed I was “that” bad of a person.

Albeit, there were a lot of negative forces at play that were trying to persuade me otherwise. My actions for quite sometimes were negatively contrary to what I felt inside.

I always had to be “the best” at whatever I set out to do. During my early school days my honor roll grades reflected how important it was for me to perform at the highest level. Playing basketball either in school or on the playground required that I play “above the rim” and let my full talent show. While selling narcotics, I had to be the best on the block. When using, I had to be the best ever did it (If that’s even possible!?). For example; for a few years I lived in a tent in the woods. Even though I was at a low place in my life, my optimism that “this too shall pass” was not diminished. So I painstakingly set out to make my time there as comfortable as possible while not letting the circumstance dictate how positive I felt about myself. My area was clean. I found loose gravel left behind by a road working crew and spread it decoratively around my tent. There was a flower bed. I hammock strung between 2 trees next to a nicely designed rock fire pit. I had a generator that powered outdoor and indoor lighting, a tv, dvd player, small refridgerator, and microwave!

Inside the tent I had a fully furnished master bedroom, guest bed, living room (with a couch and recliner!) , and a little lounge area where I kept a small library of books. My clothes and shoes were clean. Thus, my appearance did not give away that I lived in the woods behind a hospice facility. I never felt or believed living in the woods would be where I would stay for the rest of my life. Nor was it “me”. Yes, it was how I lived. Yes, there were issues that led me there. But I never believed or allowed myself to believe that the woods is where I was going to stay.

I heard an interview with Dr. Martin Luther King one time and he said this;

“If it falls your lot to be a street sweeper, sweep streets like Michelangelo painted pictures; sweep streets like Beethoven composed music; sweep streets like Shakespeare wrote poetry. Sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will have to pause and say: 'Here lived a great street sweeper who swept his job well.'“

Coming from the adversities I’ve faced over my journey this meant a lot to me. It doesn’t condone doing things half-heartedly. Or settling for second best. It doesn’t say “this is the bed of misery “YOU’VE” made so waddle in it”. It doesn’t say “YOU’RE worthless, and will never amount to anything”. I admit, there were times when everything seemed like the end of my road was near. Times when I would cry because I couldn’t see my worth. Yet, there was NEVER a time when I did not believe in myself or that things would not get better. NEVER.

Sometimes the road gets rough, and the hills are hard to climb. Sometimes there are torrential rains that try and flood our pathway, high winds that try and blow us off course. But we are all given an innate ability to navigate through trials and tribulations that come to hinder or defeat our purpose as productive members in the world.

Sometimes it will seem that all we have to rely on is ourself. Sometimes the lie can appear as truth. But I believe inside of every living being is the light of God (whether one sees it or not. It’s just my belief.) and this light can not be extinguished. This light is meant to empower us against negativity while leading us toward our rightful place as positive, meaningful, and prosperous human beings.

“… In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains”

(From the song “The Boxer” performed by Simon and Garfunkel. Sony Records,1968)

“Help me Lord”

I can’t explain how I’m still here or even why. I’m sorry if some will read this and ask the same questions. Not because they empathize with me, but because they’ve lost loved ones to the streets; and now they can put their blame on me.

Believe me. I didn’t wake up one morning and ask for any of this. I have fought in heavyweight bouts, yet I’ve only stepped into the ring as a youth using boxing as an avenue to keep my anger in check. The courts forced to me leave home and family because of the choices I made. As a result of the fights that ensued from those choices. Only God knows the pain I feel when faced by the casualties of those fights. Entire families dessimated. Knowing that pain involves more than what happened to me. I see the faces of ghost that appear in my dreams reminding me of the damage I caused.

I feel so tired, like I am barely hanging on most days. Hanging on to what? Sometimes I really don’t know. But I can feel something there.

The fighter still remains….

If you don’t believe the words I speak, my body, mind, and emotions bare the scars from the cost’s of hard fought contest, and the burden it has given me to carry. I have been in the rings once stood in by previous fighters. I hear them telling me to “Jab! Throw punches! Let them fist go!” because the ring isn’t meant to protect me from opposition. It’s where I was supposed to be knocked out, like they were. Somehow, I made it out. A little more worn. A little more bruised. A little more defeated. And then I realize, so many didn’t. I look in the mirror and expect to see someone that resembles a man filled with hope and promise. But the reflection only shows a man with age and those scars and wrinkles that have stolen my youth. In the past I went into each match like nothing else mattered. Win or lose, I wasn’t backing down. The scars were badges of honor that proved this fact.

The fighter still remains….

Sometimes I’m being punched so hard that everything in my sight seems to be breaking apart. The anguish gets so intense that I am brought to my knees. I can hear the referee counting “ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR…” But there is something inside of me that refuses to give up. And on my knees is the only place I can find solace, along with the strength to stand back up. There’s a fire that’s burning inside my being. I don’t always understand it. Most days I really don’t like it! I wish it would just burn out. However, there is something inside of me that will not let anything distinguish the flames. No one can tell me what this fire is for. Boxing coaches call it “heart”. My adversaries call it “fear”. I guess it is something I have to figure out for myself. I know by it burning I’m made aware that if I can make it for one more second, eventually I will be back on my feet.

I am always reminded that I can not change my past by living in the past. However, If I could, I would go to the families that have lost loved ones to the streets fights. Those whose loved ones are in those same godforsaken rings I’m familiar with, and I would tell them, “I apologize for my part in the systemic demise of families. And the communities those families call home.” That “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone”. I would show them that there are reasons to forgive. Even after the harshest wrongs. I know that if they could see my face, they would see the scars I wear. And the cross I have to bear. I understand even then they may still be unforgiving. I accept this is something I can not change. But it is something I have to fight for, still.

The fighter still remains….

When the fighting is fierce I hear my past screaming “YOU CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!” as the punches fly. It screams at me with so much hate and disgust “YOU WILL LOSE AGAIN! YOU CAN’T DEFEAT ME!” Sometimes I even think to just “Go down. Stop fighting.” But the fighter in me screams back “I CAN TAKE IT! I WILL NEVER GIVE UP!”

Wow! I realize there will be no knockout. The fighting for me will never end. Those that won’t forgive me will have to deal with their heart. Not me. All I can do to show how apologetic I am; and always will be, is to keep fighting. Only now, with them in spirit, through prayer.

I may be down at times but I have to get back up and stand on my feet again. That’s what real fighters do. That’s how I am created. A fighter is defined as “a person, animal, or group that engages in physical combat, struggles against opposition, or demonstrates determination in the face of adversity”. In the song “You haven’t seen the last of me” by Cher a verse says;

“There will be no fade out
This is not the end
I'm down now
But I'll be standing tall again
Times are hard but
I was built tough
I'm gonna show you all what I'm made of”

Fighting is not about proving anything to anyone. It’s not about the glitz of being recognized by the world. It is a profound commitment to self-mastery, extreme discipline, and the courage to face one's deepest fears. In the ring the boxer has coaches that help them. They advise him on what to do in order to come out victorious. I have learned that I can’t fight him by myself. I have a family of coaches that advise me on what I need to do to stay in the fight. But most importantly, I have God. He gives me every tool I need to be victorious. He will even fight some battles for me!

We are ALL fighters in some form or another…… In the words of one famous boxer, “FLOAT LIKE A BUTTERFLY, STING LIKE A BEE! RUMBLE YOUNG MAN (OR WOMAN) RUMBLE!” Muhammed Ali

I was a drug dealer.

Now I’m not.

When I tell people “I’m under reconstruction”, the most unemotional response I could ever hear is for them to say “we all are”. When I say this about myself, I’m not talking about having lost a job and searching for another one. Not talking about being divorced and finding love again. I’m not talking about cursing like a sailor and now talking like I have an education.

Listen, I was involved in a “lifestyle” that gave me a life far more exciting, dangerous, thrilling, competative, unadulterated, permiscous, and prosperous than anything I’ve ever experienced.

I could do whatever I wanted at any time I chose to. There were no boundaries in my life. If I wanted to go to Daytona Beach, all I had to do was go. If I wanted to go buy something, I had the money to buy it. When I spoke a word; and no matter whether it was shouted or whispered, people reacted. I could have any woman I wanted. No matter how beautiful, no matter her status, no matter her standards. All I had to say was “come with me”. And they came. Sex was always a part of what they felt I wanted, and what they felt would get them what I could give. Sex was mandatory and performed without inhibitions. They liked that I had the jewelry, the house and car, and clothing that made me look like a superstar. They were inawed by the mystery I exhibited. I would tell them only what I felt they needed to know. And though this drove them crazy with anger most times, it drew them closer and made them want to cling to me. As if the next time I walked through the door, they would never see me again. Only to find out later that I had found someone else to be with. I could see the sparkle in their eyes when they saw the way other women looked at them while they were with me. A sparkle that said “he’s mine”. I loved that.

The notoriety and prestige of being known on the “streets” was more addictive than any dollar amount. To pull up anywhere and see the eye’s of “customers” light up. The smiles they would have even if fake, said “man, I’m so glad you’re here!” The relationships I formed with the people the world classifies as “less desirable”. When I say “the streets loved me”, I mean that. There was nothing fake about it. No matter which side of town I went, no matter how my rivals didn’t want me around, I was always shown love. I was on the run for over a year and a half. Somebody on the streets knew where I was (no matter how secretive I tried to be). Yet, when the feds would be around, I would be told where. When my picture was shown, nobody had seen that person before. And I would be alerted before I even touched the pavement “they showing your picture!”

Please understand, I’m not naive! I am far from being a fool! Do not patronize me with silly innuendo or cliche’! A certain element of treachery comes with the territory. I have experienced it. And hell yes, there were some that geuninely wanted me gone! There were those that didn’t like me personally, but loved my hustle. Those that “fought against the grain” and had to be convinced that to be with me was far better physically and financially, than to be against me. There were the “jackboys” that plotted. The police that searched. The “flim flams” and “booster’s”. It’s all part of the lifestyle and I was good at living the life. To show how good I was, I started selling drugs when I was 15 years old. I caught my first drug case when I was 36.

I could be anyone I wanted to be, on any given day. I used to wear disguises. Ride bicycles, motorcycles, hide in bushes, trees. Whatever it took to sell my product. One day I wrecked a “baser’s” (addict) car I had rented with a couple of “rocks” (crack cocaine). I had just met my “plug” (distributor) and had 3 ounces of cocaine on me. A UPS delivery truck rearended me at a stop light. I was trapped inside the car when the fire department and police arrived. When they freed me from the car I hobbled around until I found a way to escape. I ran behind a store, hopped a fence and came out on an adjoining street right when the city bus pulled to the curb! I got on the bus but all I had was cash, no coins. So I asked if anyone had change, I gave a passenger 100.00 for his shirt and for him to pay the 1.25 bus fare! I then rode the bus right pass the accident! I could see the bystanders pointing in the direction I ran. The police mobilizing to find me! I got away with only minor bruises. Damn, I was good at what I did.

I sold drugs in “trap houses” and on street corners. In front of convenience stores and at gas stations. Every house I visited became mine for however long I chose to stay. Sometimes customers would be lined up waiting to purchase my product like they were standing in line to be given a million dollars. Like the product I sold, was what kept them alive.

And I soaked it all up like a sponge. All of it.

Now, I don’t get the attention.

Nobody knows me.

Every penny I get comes the hardest way imaginable.

I’m concerned sometimes that I won’t have enough.

I look at women and they look at me as if I am the ungliest individual on this planet.

There is no excitement in my life. I go to the corner store and wish I were going to meet the plug.

The only thrills I get are when I watch a movie on tv.

Every single day, I want to return to the life I knew so well. Every single day, I wake up and ask God, “who am I?”, “what am I doing here?”, “where do I go from here?”.

Every single day, I wonder “what’s left for me?” I wonder if “I’ll spend the rest of my days alone?”

Every single day, I wonder if someone will come into my life and love me like the streets loved me?

Every single day, I wonder if I’ll make it (whatever making it entails).

Every single day, I wish I were selling drugs.

When I say “I’m undergoing reconstruction” my entire freaking existence is being overhauled. This ain’t no quick and easy fix either. It ain’t just about one thing. MY WHOLE LIFE IS BEING RECONSTRUCTED!

Don’t get me wrong. I know those that assure me that “we are all under construction”, mean well. I know they are gently saying “you’re not the only one”. I know when they say “trust God”, or “trust the process” they are encouraging me to endure. They are doing their best to console me. “Thank you.” And I know there are people undergoing a far worse rebuilding process.

But I’m not everyone else. My life is mine alone.

The mistakes I made only affect me and the victims.

The hours when I would usually be surrounded by many, I am alone.

When I want the company of a woman, I am alone.

When the 3am pains of life are coursing through my body and mind, there is no one physically here to say “I love you. It’s going to be alright.”

And I sometimes wonder, “where is God?”

I know the answer………… I know that all the destruction I did was to myself, but sometimes being under reconstruction just hurts so damned bad.

For a more detailed report about what’s going on we go to White House correspondent R. U. Serious. “Seriously, what are you seeing?”

“Well, Joke. Right now, there’s a lot of movement inside and out of the White House. Security has been put on high alert as reports have been coming in about the dead coming back to life! That’s right! THE DEAD ARE COMING BACK TO LIFE! And it’s happening all over the world! Canada, France, Germany, Italy and Japan are just a few of the nations reporting this strange phenomena. Spokesmen here are calling it “an END OF DAYS EVENT” while people on the streets are calling it “Salvation”! Here’s an interview I had with someone called a “zombie” just before this broadcast….

“Ma’am, what is happening to you?!”

”Well, the picture on the right is before I was saved! As you can see I was messed up bad! My teeth were rotting, which made my breath stink a lot! My eyes were sunk in my head! My hair was all over the place! Yeah, I was lookin’ rough!”

“But look at you now. What happened?!”

“Well, I was runnin’ round like a chicken with it’s head cut off! I wasn’t living good, you know. Cussin’, cheatin’ on my husband, doin’ drugs, and I got tired of livin’ like that. So I said this prayer, “Lord, I’m a sinner. I know You didn’t create me to live like this. Please, help me.” And just like that! My life changed! The picture on the left shows that! I was cleaned up, my husband forgave me, I stopped doin’ drugs, brushed my teeth, and even fixed up my hair! I was dead, and now I live! HALLELUJAH!”

“There you have it folks! The dead are coming back to life in record numbers! All over the world! This is R. U. Serious reporting. Back to you Joke!”

“Thank you for that report Serious. Amazing isn’t it?! How one’s life is changed by a power that many consider isn’t real! Well as they say, “the proof is in the pudding”! This phenomena has been taking place all over the world for centuries now, and is still going strong. So how can it not be real!?! And yes, I am not joking! For Carlos’ Substack, this is N. O. Joke reporting! Be blessed!”

2 Corinthians 5:1 “For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands.”

Let’s be honest. Who is willing to accept that this fleshly body is merely a shell housing a soul? And that this soul will one day leave the body, and go to another place in the vastness of time and space? As an “unofficial” caregiver, I have experienced other’s with debilitating “illnesses” facing mortalities passage of earthly time. On the streets I have witnessed other’s “untimely” mortal end. As a loved one, I have been there when the “natural” process ran it’s course. No matter which way death arrived, there was a finality that is unmistakeable. Yet, there are often so many questions that go unanswered.

For those of us that choose to be with someone going through this transition, for the most part, all we can do is watch. Like a scientist staring into a microscope we “look” for signs. But all we can really see is the superficial determinations, not the internal manifestations. In actuality, from the birth of a child those of us that are actively part of that childs growth, are also actively part of their transition. And we do not EVER think that one day that child will die. We do not EVER think that inside that childs body is a soul that is waiting patiently to be set free. So, we watch, intently.

As if tending to a child of ones own or a family member is hard enough. Choosing to go through the experience with a stranger is just as hard. There is no choice offered to parents or caregivers. There’s just a certain duty that must be performed. This is how it was for me as a caregiver. However, being “there” is more than an obligation to act. No matter how it’s looked at being part of someone else’s transition always rebounds to ones own longevity, and this makes it personal. If our transition weren’t important we wouldn’t be so concerned with preparing for when we’re gone. It wouldn’t matter what we leave behind.

So in the moral fiber of accepting to be with someone that is one day going to die lies the compassion to bear that someones weight. The duty becomes personal and this brings about a totally different responsibilty.

As things have transpired in my life today I am witnessing one who’s transition is slow, deliberate and unabated. I watch and what has become apparent is that I find myself trying to figure out what’s not being spoken. I want to know what’s going on inside his mind. I wonder if mortality has become something real to him, or if it remains superficial? Something fleeting? I can see the physical stress his body is enduring. But I can’t see the mental stress his soul is encountering. What’s going through his mind at any given moment? I really want to know what can I do to alleviate the pressure of knowing the end is nearer than he desires it to be? But I also know sometimes there are no words that can express what it’s like to be in this kind of transition, because sometimes I can’t explain what’s going on inside of me either.

One thing I am realizing, is that no matter how I try, this weight can only be bore by the one carrying it. Yes, I can encourage, I can uplift. I can even help with achieving physical actions. Evenso, I can’t stop the process or the thoughts from taking place. I can’t bear that weight simply because it is not mine to bear.

A terminal diagnosis means “an advanced, incurable illness that is expected to result in death, typically within a few weeks to months”. Medically the only thing that varies is the type of illness (severity) and the timing (rate of progression). The moment I was diagnosed, a slew of thoughts rushed through my mind. Not of dying. But what will living be like now. The attention I give to that diagnosis is centered on what is left for me to do. Not if there is enough time for me to do it. So, I sit with someone else now and wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. I wonder if in the quiet of his room is the question he’s asking is “for more time”.

We are all built differently. We handle life situations, and “see” things differently. What is easy for me, can be overwhelming for someone else. To put myself in someone elses shoes, some have said is insane and asking to be punished! Especially when that someone is going through trials. Let’s face it, who really wants to go through someone elses mess!? Yet, I find myself thinking if I could give this person anything, it wouldn’t be more time. I would give strength to endure with dignity the time that is left.

I wouldn’t allow thinking about dying to consume my every moment. For me, in some odd way it wasn’t a part of life anyone should be overly concerned about. Not that anyone should obsess over it. It is a part of our existence. Plus having witnessed death from the array of perspectives I have, dying is one of those mysterious facts we can’t do anything about. We can eat the right foods, do the physical excercises, drive and be as safe as possible to try and prolong life. But the truth still remains that after all that, we will still expire. And after all that, it can still happen at any time. Healthy and safe or not.

As I witness this persons decline from the cancer that is ravaging his body I am thinking I should have paid a little more attention to what it means to die. Maybe then I could better understand what it’s like for others by being able help them understand the transition better as well. Not like a counsellor, but as a friend. One thing I realize about the process for those of us with terminal illnesses, is that the sooner we accept what’s happening; the easier it becomes for us to go through it. The sooner we face this giant, the smaller it becomes. I’ve been diagnosed terminal twice; In 2013 and again in 2023. The progression of the initial diagnosis evolved, thus has rendered medical treatment ineffective. I still take prescribed medicines. I still visit my primary care phycisian on schedule. Also I see anyone he refers me to that will help me sustain life for one more day. Needlesstosay, the disease is still present, the diagnosis is still the same.

In the end, I have accepted my fate. I am physically, mentally, emotionally and most imporantly; spiritually prepared. Some days I fight a little harder holding onto my sanity. Some days I cry just because I need to relieve the sadness. Some days I don’t want to get out of bed or talk to anyone. Or think about dying. Some days I really want to smack my doctor in the mouth for ever telling me about my condition in the first place (love you Doc!). Be that as it may, I eventually succumb to the stark reality that this physical presence is deterriorating. I just don’t want to suffer like I’ve seen some people with my illness do. Neither like I’ve seen people die from violence on the streets. Just the same, whatever it comes down to I am ready! And the one thing I can surely do is pray that he (like all the other human beings on this planet) is ready also.

The thing that helps me the most is knowing I AM NOT IN CONTROL. No matter how I’ve tried in the past to dictate control. Everyday I am reminded that I am not, and never will be. I told someone this one day and they said I was “not taking responsibility for what was going on”. I told them this “When I was first diagnosed terminal I stopped taking my meds. In my mind, I deduced “what’s the point?” And I would let this take it’s course. Eventually it grew worse and I was hospitalized. As bad as it got, I still didn’t die. That was me trying to have some control over the situation. That was me taking responsibility. But I didn’t really become responsible until I started taking my meds daily, until I owned up to the fact that all I can ever do is what the doctors tell me to do. And despite their diagnosis, I am still here. 13 years later. And this is not by my own will.”

(Authors note: Writing this I purposely refrained from talking about my relationship with God. I understand that everyone that read my posts do not have the same belief as I do. I am not trying to make anyone believe as I do. It would be great if WE ALL had the same belief. But we don’t. What I desire to emphasize is that the best thing any of us can do is be present, in anyway we can for someone else going through this transition of life. That’s all we can really do.)

When I was in my late teens, beginning to “feel myself” through my foray as a narcotics seller; a “family” member I would talk to from time to time told me this; “Family is the most important piece in life. With it you’ll always have someone on your team. Without it, you have nothing or no one at all.” Funny, that a few years after this discourse his daughter (my first cousin) would set me up to be robbed (and shot in the head during the attempt). The closest person to me during those years was my step-grandfather. Our relationship developed for several years over daily breakfast meals and conversation. Also, just before I started selling narcotics, I worked for him as part of his masonry business.

I had mixed feelings about what family was supposed to represent in my life. For me, family became this diverse almagamation of people I barely recognized or knew anything about. Not that my family associations have all been bad. For the most part, they did what was neccessary (as a “step-family”) to make me feel loved and accepted. There were family reunions, weekend cookouts and birthday parties. Also, for a time, my biological family and I stayed in contact with each other the best we could. But disassociation from them actually began when my dad took me from my biological mother as an infant. However, things I experienced at an early age at the hands of certain people I considered family; forced me to disconnect even further from this association on levels in which being a “family” requires to thrive.

Writing this, I can remember the only friends I had during that time. They became my “family”. The 3 of us seldom hung out together. I was either with one or the other for whatever amount of time; daily. But we knew each other well enough for me to consider them as “brothers”. One was “white”. He was a musician (guitar and keyboard), I was a drummer. We formed a band with a boy he knew whom played the bass. We were named “RobBonWickham” (catchy isn’t it!?). For the most part we would smoke a lot of marijuana while practicing various songs. We played a couple of neighborhood talent shows, even a party once. (During this 1-2 year span, my time with the other friend was very limited). Another thing I remember about our friendship is that his mom was a free spirited woman. He could have girls stay overnight with him, in his bed, alone! ALL NIGHT! He didn’t have to sneak them in the bedroom window after hours. He didn’t have to ask permission for them to stay over. His mother loved EVERYBODY! And used to always tell me how much she really loved ME! She would cook my favorite dish “macaroni and cheese casserole” (with buttered bread crumbs and extra cheese)! She would always ask how was “I doing”. The emphasis being on ME! Like MY life meant something to her. She knew of my mothers alcoholism. My friend disclosed to me that he had told her (he even asked me before telling her, if it was ok that he did this!). But, she never asked me anything about her other than the usual “I hope your mom is doing well?”. Her focus was always about me and how I was handling my own life. I liked that about her. His family association and my own had nothing in common. His mom and dad were married, living in the same home. Cared about him. They ate dinner together at the dining room table (for Christ’ sakes!). Neither parent drank alcohol. Neither parent hit him. My dad was a “rolling stone”. Physically and verbally abusive. Mom an alcoholic. There was no dining room and we never sat at the kitchen table together to do anything let alone eat.

My other friend was “black”. Now, as I look back at our relationship it has become apparent that the reason why he and I “gelled” is because we had very similar “family” and interest. His mom and dad were alcoholics. He had a sister but they seemed to hate each other so they seldom interacted other than to fight. Even though his parents were married, living in the same home and took care of him. His dad was verbally abusive to him. Like me, he was a loner. We met in “juvie” (Juvenile detention). I will never forget him or how we met. I was serving a sentence for aggravated arson with intent to maim and disfigure. During a fight I accidentally set a boy on fire. My friend was serving a sentence for night burglary (now considered home invasion). He was small framed for his age and this made him a target for bullies in juvie. The day we met I fought a group of those bullies to protect him. The only time I ever talked to his parents happened one day while they visited him at juvie. He introduced me because they wanted to know who had protected their son. They thanked me, but it wasn’t with a whole lot of gratitude as much as I felt they were silently telling me to stay away from him. Needless to say, we became friends anyways and this friendship lasted for more than 10 years. Off and on.

Both friends were the first people I sold narcotics to. For a few years; one became my closest ally. He was by my side as I forged my way on the streets. Before I brought my first car, I would drive his to purchase narcotics. Most of the time he would be too drunk to drive. Or I could navigate a map better so finding “drop points” was easier if I drove rather than having to tell him directions. Besides, I was weary of him driving with a car full of “product”, trying to smoke, drink, and follow my directions. On The other hand the other came to me one day and said “I’m not going to do drugs anymore” and he never did. After awhile we stopped associating with each other all together. I never set foot in his house again. We would talk in passing. Eventually that stopped as well. It would be 11-12 years before he and I saw each other again.

One day he found my profile on Myspace and messaged me. After a couple of weeks he invited to his home. By then he had moved to another county, married, and had a little boy. He told me to bring some marijuana (mentioning he had not touched any narcotic since that day when he told me he wouldn’t). His home was a huge 4 bedroom, 2 car garage behemoth sitting in the middle of 5 acres. He and his wife farmed the land growing various vegetables and raising a flock of chickens. On that occassion we sat in his “studio”, where he had remodeled a one side of the garage into an elaborate recording room. He was a “part-time” musical commercial advertising creator for a local broadcast network (something like that). He would make “jingles” for local businesses commercials. I told him about my little girl, the 3 bedroom home on 2.5 acres, 2 cars and truck I owned. That I was semi- working for my grandfather with his masonry business. But my main “business” was selling narcotics. We hung out almost all night, bringing back fond memories of our early years. We even listened to recordings he had held onto of our music on cassette tapes. It was fun, but for some reason I could sense we both knew this was it. This was saying “goodbye” for good. I never saw him again and we never contacted each other after that.

The other friend and I relationship eventually slowly faded away as I grew selling narcotics. It became an issue for me to keep hanging with him because his alcohol and narcotic consumption interfered with business. I found myself “giving” him more than he was “buying”. And his drunken episodes happened frequently wherein my duties (began long ago as his “protector”) became more than I was willing to do anymore. There were new people I was associated with that warned me that his behavior would get me in trouble with “stuff (I) didn’t need to be a part of” at that stage in my life.

The odd thing is, as my narcotics business grew I remembered what I was told long ago (“Family is the most important piece in life. With it you’ll always have someone on your team. Without it, you have nothing or no one at all.”), so I allowed step-family members I hadn’t really hung with to filter back into my life. I taught them about selling narcotics. I even “fronted” many of them their first “package” to sell. In the beginning they were the only ones I trusted to know anything about what I was doing. One cousin I deemed the “closest” became my “business partner”. I took her with me everywhere. Until she setup the robbery. Before that, I would meet with them late evenings at another cousins house where we would package narcotics for sale. Exchange payments on “fronts” that needed to be satisfied. We would discuss any issues about rivals, territories, growth, and anything that concerned the enterprise of selling the product.

After the robbery, I developed what I called “Batcaves”. These were 3 different places in different parts of the city. I lived on the southside so I wanted these “Batcaves” to be as far away from my personal life as possible. One was on the upper westside in the area known as Ginter Park. Another on the eastside in the Whitcomb Court area. The last on the northside in an area called Hermitage Road. The robbery had brought unwanted police attention to me. So my full intention was to the best of my ability not to be known or seen (as much as possible) by them or ANYONE from that day forward. Thus, one place is where I would package and keep product. One was where I would go to relax (there I would have small parties for the crew known around the city as the “southside boys” until a shooting by rival west enders claimed the life of a cousin in the parking lot). One is where I would take care of business (by phone), and “hide” the money I made. This all fell in line with how I grew up as a loner and felt comfortable.

See, growing up I was an only child. Being alone didn’t bother me, so as a child I realized the benefits of this when it came to the control it offered me in associating with others. For instance, to keep me company, my mother brought me plenty of toys. These toys gave me power! If I didn’t want someone to play with my toys I just took them inside the house! If a toy got broken, someone got banned from playing with any EVER again! Thus, the older I got, the more isolated I became. Until the 2 friends, my deealings with people were limited to my step-families involvement. Frankly, thinking about this now, if I had a choice, I really don’t believe I would have been involved with my step-family either. I only wanted my mother to be happy. So even though I rarely wanted to go to family functions, just to see her smile, I’d participate.

Even before the robbery I would always feel like I had to watch everybody’s movement. Especially when it came to people being around my mother. Not that anyone was trying to hurt her. If she became inebriated, I would either take her home or lay her in a bedroom of whoever’ house we were at (then stand guard over the room until she would awaken). I never actually felt comfortable around “people”. I don’t know why except it may have been the way my dad treated me. Thinking about it now, one day when I was a child about 8 or 9, I “stole” change I’d been saving from my allowance (and coins my dad would sometimes give me whenever he’d appear). He beat me bad the day he found out and labled me a “thief”. Until right now I never thought about how could I be a thief when what I “stole” was mine in the first place?! I don’t think he ever felt comfortable around me after that incident. It seems like he was intimidated by me. Or afraid of me. Thats just how it was. But being alone and guarded played out mostly around family.

After the robbery, I internally disassociated myself from any strong familial bonds. I had grown tired of these people hurting me and the best way to keep this from ever happening again was to keep everyone at arms length. I could control things better this way. Family in part became non-existent. I would proclaim a bond, I would do anything within my power to assure my loyalty, however, inside I knew this bond was broken and could not be fixed. I didn’t want it to. Another adage my sage grandpa would say “no one can do anymore to you than you allow them to” so this became the motto I lived by. If I don’t allow it, it can’t happen. Even though the narcotics I sold put me in constant contact with family and customers, I learned how to control this contact so that it fit my lifestyle. In my mind, I was always present without being seen. I preferred to “move” alone. Like the wind blowing, you feel it but don’t know where it comes from or where it’s going.

My feelings about family and it’s importance in my life came to a disasterous head when at the age of 36 I was facing 90 years in prison. My mother had exhausted herself and any funds trying to acquire legal help for me, so I reached out to “family” for help. Some of these people were one’s I paid house and car notes for, brought food for, helped them when I was able to while selling narcotics and had plenty of money. Some I would sit with when they were going through trials and tribulations. Some I would protect from “bullies” in the streets. But all were supposed to be family. Yet, when I needed them most, they had a “family meeting” about my situation and their response was “we didn’t get you into this. You did this by yourself. Now you have to get yourself out of it.” What hurt the most is how my mother took their response. Every time we talked after that decision she would cry and apologize for them as a collective. Like it was her fault they didn’t want to help. I was in a state of disbelief. Angry. Even amazed. I finally forced myself to agree with them because it wasn’t their fault I did what I did. But I never spoke to either of them again until my mother passed 30 years or so later. And then they had the audacity to blame her passing on me saying “it was because of me the reason why she drank herself to death”. They said I intimidated her into making me the executor of her estate, and blamed me for taking her off life support (this came even after the doctors said her organs would never be able to sustain life on their own. And that she had been turned down for a transplant due to the deterrioration of those vital organs). After this, family meant absolutely nothing to me, until……

March 7, 2025. I met the gentleman (in the first picture on this post) and this woman. I also met 2 other people that day that would reshape and reframe the picture I had of what family looks like. None of them knew anything about ME other than I was just released from prison and that God had touched my life. They didn’t know about my past endeavors as a narcotics dealer, the various prison sentences for crimes I was convicted of ranging from attempted murder (later reduced aggravated assault with a firearm) to theft. They didn’t know I had been convicted as a habitual violent offender. They “knew” absolutely nothing about the person I was. On that day, at the moment we first set eyes on one another, all they saw was a man wanting desperately to change. The only thing they “knew” about me was the crime I served time for prior to meeting them, also that (from an ealier phone conversation) if I went back to the place I called “home” I knew I would continue slowly killing myself mentally, spiritually, emotionally and physically. What they first helped me see was hope.

Upon meeting all they wanted to do was hug me and welcome me…… “home”, then they wanted to hear me say what I wanted to do with my life. They were less concerned about my past mistakes and more about my future achievements. They had not the least bit of concern for how low I had steeped in this world. And what gripped my heart the most is that as I cried. They cried with me, but not from the sadness of my past circumstances. I could feel in my being, we cried from the joy of ME being set free. The next thing they did was give me the number of someone else that they felt would be instrumental in me establishing freedom and remaining “free”. This person is Drew Doll. His very first suggestion was to become part of a “Faith Team”. I told him I wasn’t a “people person” and explained why. I know he heard me, but still recommended this as a beneficial part of my transition from a life of uncertainty and emotionally imposed incarceration, to the unadulterated acceptance of love. He explained the role of a faith team is to build a community of love and fellowship. To have people that are willing to walk with me through this leg of my journey. In my mind, I said, “I don’t need this. I do not want it.” So I declined to participate.

For the next few months, Drew continously suggested the faith team, and I kept saying “not right now”. All the while my mind kept refusing to entertain letting anyone into my life. Meanwhile my heart had changed and the proposition of giving this faith team a chance begged to be paid attention to.

On or around the 9th of September 2025, the man in the picture above called me to set a date for me to meet the members of the faith team assigned to me. I finally agreed to meet them. When I walked into the room, I was nervous. It felt like everything I had ever done in my past was worn on my face and visible to these “strangers”. Honestly, I wanted to turn around and leave. But my heart was screaming for me to stay.

Listen, it has taken me 3 days to compose this. The date is April 26, 2026. The faith team and every person involved in my life today has washed away any notion I’ve conceived about the “role” of being part of a “FAMILY”. These people have loved on me when I found it hard to love myself. They have stood by me when I needed a shoulder to lean on. They have hugged me when I needed comfort, been brave for me when I was afraid, called me just to say “hello”. We have a group chat that if not all, at least one or two of the majority message just to see what’s going on in my life. They even came to visit me while I was in the hospital after having the first ever surgical procedure performed on my body! What has formed between us ALL has become more than merely teamwork. I am proud to say they are my family!

They have shared moments of the time they are blessed to live with ME and don’t expect anything in return other than for ME to succeed and be happy. I said a lot to say this, “I love every single one of my FAITH FAMILY”! (which encompasses more people than are mentioned). Through our experiences as a whole, they have helped me to trust people again. They have given me a renewed view of what family represents. I am extremely grateful to God for giving me this opportunity.

P.S.; I tried to reach out to everyone in the pictures, if you didn’t respond to consent and feel some type of way about it, well, I’m sorry. That’s all I have to say about that!

Lucius B. Night Sr. married Earnestine Blackstone when he was 20 and she was 13. The marriage had been arranged after the Thompsons gave Lucius 130 acres of farmland. For generations the Thompsons gave this portion of land to “deserving” members of their slave community. Once a slave reached a certain age of accountability, and had no record of disputes or disruptions with their duties, Franklin Thompson would “give” them the allotment of land. This would ensure that the Thompsons would still profit from the farmlands yield, while allowing the enslaved a certain freedom to prosper as well. For any Negroe during this time, to even be considered as a “land owner” came with a huge amount of prestige and respect from other Negroe families, and to most of the white community as well. But it also had it’s drawbacks in the eyes of whites that felt it was more than Negroe slaves deserved.

The Night family was small and couldn’t possibly maintain such a large parcel of land. On the other hand, the Blackstones were large in number and the females were considered as “fertile” producing on average 3 males to every 1 female. Lucius had no authority in the choosing of who would be his wife. In fact, because they were slaves, the Thompsons had more say than the Negroe families involved. Well, after marriage, they had 10 children over the course of 12 years. 7 boys. 3 girls. The last boy born (instead of the first) was given Lucius name. Why the last boy instead of the first is only to Lucius and Earnestines reasoning. Truthfully, only God knows why they saw it neccessary for the last boy born to carry on the namesake. In hindsight, this choice would prove appropriate, being 8 years after Lucius Brayden Night Jr. was born; the most unthinkable incident imaginable claimed the lives of the entire Night family; save Night Jr.

It happened Sunday (recognized in Fort Mitchell as the “first day of the week”), November 17, 1871, a Sunday as any other in Fort Mitchell. There was the usual bartering and trading that went on amongst the residents. Church had let out and towns folk were about taking care of last minute affairs preparing for “harvest time”. That time of year when all cash crops were being reaped and livestock readied to go to market or the slaughter house. Lucius Sr. had given up the laborious toil of field work to his eldest sons Wallace 19, Braxton 17, Elias 16, Frederick 15 (yes, he was named after Negroe freed slave turned abolitionist Frederick Douglass), and William 13. While Night Jr. helped at the general store along with his sisters Nicole 18, Marsha 14, and Millie Ann 9. Night Jr. was also a very good herdsman for his age. At 8 years old he could shoot a Henry “sixteen shot” .44 rifle, and a Smith n’ Wesson .38 long barrle pistol just as good as any grown man. Because of his dexterity he could saddle and ride the Spotted Appaloosa given him by Lucius since the age of 5. Because of this; Nights role in the family was set way before he reached the proverbial “age of accontability” at 12.

It was fall and the air was crisp. This particular day for the people of Fort Mitchell was nothing indifferent or unusual. Unbeknowest to anyone was the dark and sinister stirrings being brewed (like a bad batch of Tennessee whiskey) in the hearts and minds of a few hateful whites that looked down on any progress Negroes in those parts claimed. This became apparent when Earnest Newsome Jr. (eldest of the Newsome clan) and Roy “Bash” Thompson (3rd son to Franklin and Irene) rode into town stopping at the general store. They were to put in an order for feed that was soon to arrive at the depot from Tennessee. Earnest went inside the store while Bash went across the street to the “Tanner” to inquire about having a broken stirrup mended. Once inside the store Earnest asked Night where was his daddy, to which Night responded politely “He down to the Church fixin’ the roof leaks.” Earnest being annoid with this response spat “Damn Negroe doin’ too much! Can’t be in two places at once!” Young Night seeing his agitation tried to appease the hot headed teen two times his age. “I’m is sorry Mistah Newsome! My pa ben’ real busy fixin’ what needs attention to at the Church, but I can sure help ya’ whatever’n ya’ needs!” Night was a darn sharp boy. Helpful. Proud. Newsome took it as Negroe arrogance which lit a flame to the hatred already burning inside his heart. A fire he couldn’t contain any longer. Neither did he want to anymore.

“Y’all dumbass niggers! Given we’s all let you do what you do. But now! Now you wants us to wait around while you pussyfoot good daylight away! Y’all need to be taught another lesson on who’s who and what’s what!” The words he spoke made perfectly good sense to Earnest. But to Night they sounded hateful and despising. Inside; his little heart sparked a barely burning fire as well. And it weren’t toward any Negroes. Night had seen the white mans fury unleashed on Negroes and Indians in Fort Mitchell on other occassions. He thought he knew what white men were capable of doing when angry. He had no idea how bad things would get. He just stared at Earnest. “Now you lissen to me nigger boy! Get yo’ ass down to that Church thar’ n’ tell yo’ pa I said drop whateva’ it is he doin’ n’ come tend to his store bisness afore he don’ have a store to run!!” Earnest stared wild eyed at Night who was afraid to move. “Go on boy, git’!” with that Night as if shot from a cannon, took off running fast as his 8 year old legs could possibly carry him to get his pa on the other end of town. The boy was so fearful of what might happen he didn’t think to don the Appaloosa hitched out front of the store. He ran the 2 furlongs (480 yards) to the Church where he found Lucius hammering away on a portion of wickedly angeled roof. Lucius saw Night coming and wondered what could be the cause that’d make the boy abandon his most prestigious post at the store. He knew whatever it was, it had to be of dire importance for Night to come fetch him.

To be continued….

The “Good Book” says, “and this is the condemnation, that light has come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.”

To say that “a man is given to assuming whichever environment he was privy to” is oft times such a vast understatement it falters on blame. According to the Holy Bible all human beings living in a “fallen” world whether accepted or no, recieve a dire consequence for being born. Somewhere along histories timeline a grave “sin” was committed agaisnt the Creator of the universe and for this “sin” a judgement of death was passed down to humankind. Sadly, this “sin” took place before any of us were born yet, every being on this planet, generation after generation, will die regardless to who we are, where we’re from, or what we do; good or bad. In other word’s we are all born “sinners”. There wasn’t any such thing as forgiveness nor repentance in his heart. But Night was not only born a sinner, indeed he was continuing to stack each sin one upon another, as he was also born a shootist.

(Stories of the “Wild West” lead most listeners to believe the agenda of a shootist was to seek out and kill anyone that threatened their reputation. Or laid claim to being the “best” not merely fastest, “gun” in the lands. Contrary to popular belief most “true” shootist (the name “Gunslinger” in the 20th century long after the beginnings of Wild West antics. It came as novels and cinematic productions sought to make the role of a shootist appear more dramatic), didn’t want to kill in the first place. For the overwhelming majority, killing another human being was a most dreadful act which left deep emotional and mental scars. True shootist knew what it was to “slap iron” and most times it was because they were protecting land or family.)

Back to the story……

See, his daddy Lucius Brayden Night Sr. was for all intent and purpose an upstanding member of the community. He forged his mark as a Baptist Pastor and propietor of the towns General Store in a small county named Lunenburg, in Virginia. Approximately 95 miles from the North Carolina stateline. 590 miles east of Tennessee. Formerly enslaved Negroes migrated there and established themselves in the region after the Civil War. While “legal”slavery had “ended” in Chase City by 1865, many continued to “work” on plantations and farms, though they were “legally” no longer considered “Chattel” (property) of the area white plantation owners. Fort Mitchell was the community. This name stuck after Southern troops took and held by force, a train depot located in the communities center. The depot was a main artery for supplies coming in from Richmond, Va as well as Tennessee. According to town history, it was at Fort Mitchell that one of the Southern troops biggest victories took place against Northern Union troops.

Even though Negroes became “majority” inhabitants of Fort Mitchell after the war, the fact was all they had accumulated as “formerly enslaved people” was consistent with how they were viewed as slaves. This is to say, no matter what a Negroe thought about their stature as former slaves, the white former slave owners continued to rule and own the land of Fort Mitchell. The principle former slave owning family was Franklin and Irene Thompson. To keep the families of now freed slaves from leaving their land unattended; they gave parcels of land to the families of their former slaves decendants. Over the years from these parcels Negroes expanded the communities of Fort Mitchell and Chase City. They setup and maintained businesses that thrived out of the degredation of slavery. All the while, “white” supremacy was often enforced by 3 controlling families (owners of former slaves). The Thompson’s, Earnest and Magdalene Newsome, and William (Bill) and Sara Baucome. At times, to exact their control over the growth and financial status of the Negroe population these families would form “mobs” to frequently raid and disrupt Negroe progress (as it were). These raids caused tremendous damage (not only to material structures. But also the Negroe mental integrity) without severe physical harm to the Negroe population. The general idea being “if the workforce can’t produce or remain willfully in subjection to “ownership” their would be no profits”. Thus, the evil of man was always a clear and present factor among the Negroes. Especially those of prominence.

To Be Continued…

Bart Hargiss, better known throughtout the lands he frequently roamed as “One Bullet”, stood within arms reach of life or death. It was so close he could feel his spirit tugging to finally be free; one way or another. For the first time in his 26 years of living the cold fear of going to the hereafter cuddled his pounding heart. Over the course of 10 years or so, Bart had killed men from all walks of life. Some for what he exclaimed were “dirty, low-down, snakeoil dealin’ cheats”, others just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. To him they were walking barefoot in a tub of filled with rattlesnakes. For One Bullet, killing a man was no big chore (By the way; he didn’t acquire the nickname because he was that great a shot. Oh, no. A man by the name of Cody Wilkins gave it to him when they fought against Apache “savages” up Arkansas way before One Bullet became a “self proclaimed” shootist. As Cody Wilkins story went, Bart unloaded his six shooter 5 times at a charging Apache warrior. On the sixth shot just before the warrior would be close enough to drive a spear through Barts skull, that last bullet finally hit the intended target tearing a hole the size of Montana in the warriors chest!) You see, Bart Hargiss wasn’t truly considered a “Shootist” at all by most standards. For lack of a better word (if ever there was just one to justify him with), ole’ One Bullet was in fact a stumbling, pussyfooted, coward of the highest calling. And now his misdeeds faced him at the end of a real shootist pig iron.

The two stood at the edge of a now barren runoff just a rocks throw from the bustling town loggers had established known as Big Creek, North Carolina (also known as Cataloochee Township). If it weren’t for Bart’s malodorous flagalence one could smell the advertising aroma of potatoe cakes and beef steaks being cooked at the local hotel and saloon. Instead the air was filled with the stench of fright bursting from his rearend uncontrollably. That’s how many a scared man dealt with the horror of staring down death, and knowing he would not live to tell another tale about escaping it’s grasp. He stared intently at the shootist wanting to plead for his life but knowing it would not make a hill of beans out of dust. Yet, he tried anyways.

“Wha’cha bisness wit’ an ole cattlepoke mista’?!” He was trying to buy a few more minutes of time he knew for certain he was out of. For the life of him he couldn’t stop the images of the 7 men he gunned down from racing through his head. Even though he acutely remembered each cold blooded murder; for some reason deaths pang of agony wasn’t the grimace on each face. They were smiling . Almost hysterical laughter can best describe what he see’s. He knows he’s going to die without a chance for an appeal because he didn’t give either of the 7 a chance either. “Mista’, you just gonna’ stand thar n’ say nothin’!?! Ah fella’ don’ deserve to know the why’s and wherfores afor’ his killin’?!!” The shootist quiet resolve settled over Bart like a snowy blanket of ice causing him to piss himself. Without replying a single word the shootist fired a single .38 calibur slug hitting Bart directly in the center of his forehead. The 3” opening allowed the faint evenings sunset to peak through unabated by flesh, hair or brain matter. The thunderous clap from the revolver echoed across the mesa into the town where several pedestrians heard it but dismissed it as desert fodder, or a hunters rifle killing dinner for the night. However, desert fodder best summed up the life of Bart “One Bullet” Hargiss. Western fodder. Meaningless. The shootists work was done. He looked at ole One Bullet lying there on the hard ground then mounted his Spotted Appaloosa, and rode off in the opposite direction from the town. There was nothing else for him to do there. His task was complete.

The truth behind the shooting was that Bart Hargiss was in fact a low-lifed, scum sucking, yellow bellied, degenerate son-of-a-bitch that no longer deserved to live anymore. His killer knew every filthy detail of Barts life as a “killer”. Even though he didn’t want to know, he couldn’t be help or change this awful piece of who he was. Knowing the worthless shit of other peoples living is his curse. Some might call it a “divine blessing”. But he sure as hell didn’t ask God or Satan for the gift. It just became part of who he is……. Night.

To be continued