Build the man.
Change the
legacy.

What did God have to remove before He could rebuild me?

Some things were not taken from me as punishment. They were removed because they could not survive where God was rebuilding me to stand.

I do not think it is only about what God took away from me. What carries the most weight is where He delivered me from—and what He protected me from.

When I lost my truck, the conviction was already there. I had become arrogant. I made that truck an idol and praised it more than I acknowledged or praised God.

Being on the other side of that loss helped me recognize what had been happening inside me. It also woke me up to the capitalist, consumer-driven society we live in—one where material possessions and the praise of our peers are often valued over morality.

Or maybe I was using money and materials to fill a void.

This may sound like a summary, but the deeper question is:

What are you willing to sell your soul for?

I mean that figuratively. What are you willing to lose or sacrifice just to indulge in what this world offers—to reap the benefits of a world that was never built with us in mind?

I think it is a shame how easily we blame the elite of this world while refusing to turn away from the first education they gave us. We do not always study how systematic the loss was designed to be.

But that is the culture many of us grew up in. That is what gets glorified in today’s music and media—marketed to us by people who look like us and come from where we come from.

The other side of this, for me, is the burden of accountability.

How many brothers, sisters, children, and members of the next generation did I lead astray while moving through my own phase of consumerism?

My eyes were open to the catastrophe of life in America, and I still became an active contributor to the trap.

The next layer to unpack is grief.

One of my deepest thorns is knowing that I have a beautiful baby girl—smart as ever, with the whole world ahead of her and her father fully behind her.

But there was a time when I was a man driven by lust.

Lust is not only about women. By definition, it is an intense desire for something. It can take the form of sex, money, power, or anything else we allow to rule us.

Sometimes healing and acceptance begin when you are finally honest about what a thing truly is.

There is grief in knowing I helped kill the spirit of the next person when I objectified a woman’s body—when I reduced her to what I wanted sexually instead of humanizing her.

That brought another conviction.

I was raised by a single mother of seven. I watched her raise two women who had the belief and drive to make it to college and come out successful.

A woman is more than a body.

The energy and spirit a woman carries are powerful. Men may be called to lead the household, but a woman can set the tone that helps a man carry that responsibility out.

I come from 33rd and Farrow in Wyandotte County—the second house from the corner. Granny’s house. God bless the dead.

I carry the grief of feeling like I left my people behind.

Some of us died. Others became trapped in the cycle of playing the chain game. A generation of lost souls learned how to survive without ever being shown how to live.

God blessed me to avoid part of that reality.

But I want to send a kite through the wind and explain that I did not simply leave for the suburbs.

My mother moved us to 12th and Euclid. Section 8 housing, to be exact. Before that, it was 12th and Woodland, until there was a death in the apartment. We lived in Wayne Minor, across from Parker Square. At that time, it was not safe outside.

When I eventually moved to Missouri, God placed tangible resources around me.

CBE felt like it was right down the street when it was at its peak. The Gregg Center was about the same distance. Now that I am older and have met more people throughout Missouri, I realize the whole city used to come through there—KC Teen Night, Night Hoops, whatever was happening. It was alive. They need to bring that back.

Moving to Missouri showed me that I did not have to keep living through my father wound. I did not have to repeat the patterns I had been taught about what a man was supposed to be or symbolize.

I could step outside of cultural programming and develop a healthy mind of my own.

God gave me vision. He gave me an opportunity to find my way.

I am sorry, my friend.

I wish I could have come back sooner.

Someone who watched me grow up in Kansas once told me:

“I remember one day you were on the block, and the next day you were gone.”

This was inspired by you, brother.

God gave me the desire not to live my life on the internet or for the approval of other people.

That season of isolation was lonely. It would not allow me to become too attached to possessions, friendships, relationships, or any one place.

I believe I moved to a different school almost every year. That instability later bled into my adult life.

Still, I appreciate every person I shared an experience with:

The inner city. Missouri. Independence. Baytown. South Kansas City. Grandview. Wyandotte County. Shawnee Mission. Overland Park. Quindaro. The higher numbers. The lower numbers.

The reach is far, and I hold every experience close to my heart.

I just wish we had more time.

To those I hurt in my pursuit of love, please forgive me.

To those I left behind in my pursuit of brotherhood, I am sorry.

In this pursuit of ownership, I am coming back to double back and grab my people.

How could you treat me like I am not down for my people?

Like I do not truly embody the spirit of the culture we are all trying to find our way through?

I heard Nipsey say that the blind cannot lead the blind—you have to follow the one with vision.

At some point, I hope we look back and ask ourselves:

If we keep buying into and applying the same rules the generation before us left behind, how far can we really go?

We are living in a new era.

I told God those old rules were my best. He threw them back at me and said, No.

I came out of my flesh. I took time to confess my truth, and I paid my debt.

You may be able to see that I am a wreck. But this is me, and I am blessed.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

I used to hate that saying because I watched people use it so loosely. But the truth is, to whom much is given, much is required—and God blessed me with a lot.

I can admit that, after a while, I started stockpiling what God gave me and using it only for my own good. That was treacherous.

It reminds me of the biblical story of the talents. A master entrusted different amounts to his servants, then returned to see what they had done with what they received.

I used to understand that story too shallowly.

God had given me many talents, and I buried mine. At times, it felt as if He took what I refused to use and placed it in another man’s hands.

But I have now been given the clarity to understand that being good fruit means becoming fruitful.

I cannot keep asking God for more if I cannot be trusted with what I already have.

I do not need to please everybody. I need the courage to walk away from gluttony, recognize that I have more than I need, and become a servant to others.

What God multiplies through me was never meant to stop with me.

Blessed be God that I am on the other side of being trapped inside the identity of a victim and the mindset of lack.

I remember the burden of watching my mother struggle to pay bills while I sat there playing basketball video games.

I remember the first and the fifteenth feeling almost like religious holidays because that was when the food stamps came. Noodles in the microwave. People telling you that what you were trying to do was something they had only seen in movies.

And while you are getting it accomplished, you hear that somebody you knew was put in a casket.

Then you enter a society trying to convince you that a bust-down Rolex is more valuable than a plain one.

I hope my people understand what I mean.

Now I carry the hope of inspiring the next mind.

What we normalize shapes our collective consciousness.

We casually call a woman a female dog as if we do not all have mothers. We call one another names that were handed to us as weapons, even though every one of us was given a name of our own.

And you have not dealt with grief until you have dealt with it sober.

You will not feel everything until you get sober. I am a living testament.

Maybe this is what it feels like to break generational curses.

Maybe this is what it means to follow Jesus—to constantly deny the flesh, walk through the fire, rise from the grave, and be made new in His image.

It is a lifestyle.

I am done for the day.

It is time for me to get to work.

All I can be is me.