I’m the first to admit.
Sometimes I am guilty of consorting with notions of defeat, but I always circle back.
Remembering the event that will always be seared into my mind for the rest of my life.
The car accident that brought me front and center with the divine, never fails to provide the necessary contrast to dust myself off and continue on.
Seconds before impact – as the lights from the oncoming car illuminated me with an eerie glow, I knew that I was going to die; that day on that dark Baltimore street.
But I emerged unscathed.
As I reflect back on that day, I realize the lesson that was being conveyed to me.
A second degree burn on my left hand.
Temporary loss of motion and swelling in my right hand.
A chest contusion.
And swelling on the left side of my face where the airbag hit and knocked me unconscious while the car filled with smoke and caught fire.
I went back to work a couple days after the accident – and I bore witness to how many people didn’t even bother to ask how I was.
The lack of concern was simple – I was merely a butt in a seat, not a human being worthy of a modicum of respect and this truth stayed with me, even though I pushed it to the recesses of my mind.
It was at that point that I realized that I wasn’t using my hands for what God had intended – I remember my Father telling me that I was spared for something bigger than just getting by.
He pointedly asked me:
I brushed my Father’s question off as frivolous – telling myself that his faith in me was exaggerated, but in retrospect those delusions of scaling the ladder of my Fortune 100 corporate parent blinded me.
I had to learn that…
My hands were compromised because I neglected to use them for a purpose.
I had a chest contusion because my heart was in the wrong place – I gave it to an entity and people who did not have the capacity or wherewithal to love me back.
My face was swollen because my haughtiness convinced me to avert my gaze from the search for God’s face.
I was given a mandate to do something of consequence and instead of choosing obedience – I chose cowardice.
Accordingly, I had to be broken and brought to my knees so that I could realize the power of humility.
I did the only thing broken people can do, I looked up and started walking the winding paths in search of God’s face, asking myself…
Why didn’t I give up?
Where did these reservoirs of perseverance that I drank freely of come from?
Why did I survive?
I heard the echoes of my Ancestors beckoning and I strained to listen – with the spark being ignited by a discussion with my Grandmother (who was 91 at the time of my epiphany).
Her dismissal of fear and disregard for the prospect of failure always served to fill me with awe, so I resolved to figure out what made made this woman tick.
My declaration that I was going to trace my family tree was met with a cacophony of laughter from many quarters, but over the course of nearly 4 years.
Using the skill sets from my journalism background to trace several segments of the maternal and paternal sides of my family going back over 2 centuries – I’ve born witness to a history that speaks to a resolve and a dedication to family that is indelibly seared into the confines of my DNA.
And I was inspired to write about what I found and what this search taught me.
Whenever a roadblock in my research manifested itself and I resolved that the work was done.
Like clockwork, I would encounter a cousin that received the same mandate that I had to answer the call of our Ancestors – like me, they too needed to find out the “why”.
As matching DNA kits and oral histories began to align, I felt the rejuvenation of my faith guiding my steps on one of the greatest journeys of my life.
The search for who I was led to the waters of purpose and its ongoing redemption.
I’m accused of bringing my family together and it is a mantle that I cannot claim.
Because but it was them…
Who put me back together through the love that they enveloped me with.
Trouble don’t last always, but grace does.
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