— INSPIRATION-CENTERED LEADERSHIP · WORKSHOP I —
The Generation
That Saw
Too Much
A prophetic workshop for those sharpened by darkness, called to lead by light.
"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him."
— Romans 8:28
THE PRESENTATION
Eight Slides. One Prophetic Declaration.
ABOUT THIS WORKSHOP
Workshop I —
Generational Trauma & Rising
This prophetic workshop names what your generation saw — the violence, the grief, the broken homes, the incarceration, the poverty — and declares that what you saw did not destroy you. It sharpened you.
Drawing from the lives of Joseph, Moses, Esther, and David — and the sermonic poetry of Maurice L. Calhoun — this workshop calls every wounded leader to recognize that their trauma is not their destiny. It is their testimony.
"What we saw became our sermon. What we survived became our song."BOOK THIS WORKSHOP →
FULL ICL WORKSHOP SERIES
I
The Generation That Saw Too MuchTHIS WORKSHOP
Generational Trauma & Rising
II
Mama, Why Do You Weep?
Resurrection & Hope
III
Bearing Your Cross Alone
Identity & Purpose
IV
The Pregnant PAIN Of A Man
Fatherhood & Legacy
V
Strung Out On Hope
Faith & Perseverance
VI
Leadership That Begins Inside The Wound
Authenticity & Resilience
VII
Why Joy Comes In The Morning
Joy & Renewal
— SERMONIC POETRY ARCHIVE —
Workshop I · Source Poems
The sermonic poems that undergird The Generation That Saw Too Much — each one a prophetic witness to what this generation has seen, survived, and is called to become.
POEM I
The Generation That Saw Too Much
Maurice L. Calhoun
You are the ones, who've seen too much,
Yet still you can rise, still can touch.
Not blinded by darkness, but sharpened by light,
You can see with His eyes, and walk by His sight.
We treasure our friendships, by who takes a 'Like'
We bought those sneakers, to be 'like Mike'.
We bought and sold, those 'things' that had a good 'look'
Then, we realized, that we got 'took'.
Posterity raised, without a 'Holy Book'
So their 'Guide', was scribbled on Facebook.
Remember when, Apple gave us an IPad
It spawned a generation of gadgets
That made our kids' Sad.
Hey, Samsung, I got an S22, then a S23
But, the man at the 'sto' told me, its really 'free'.
My friends said 'This is no jive,
You gotta get a new phone.'
Mama got me, a brand new S25.
Upgrade after upgrade, and sadder and sadder
Stopping this cycle, making us madder and madder.
Kids being more distracted
'Likes' and 'Friends', all around
This sad situation is spirit-retracted
Our loved ones can't hear, His 'heavenly' sound.
'Daddy, what will we do, with all of this Stuff,
Now that America, has turned mean and rough?'
Oh, those gadgets and 'stuff', weren't really 'free'
Remember Hemingway's 'The Old Man and the Sea'?
The old man's resilience, and his spirit was tough
He worked til day 84 to get that 'fish', the days were rough.
His body was broken, his face was blue
He 'fought the Good Fight', his word was true.
So let this be, the generation that shows,
Where healing flows and ever mercy grows.
You've seen the worst — but now you must be,
The proof that God, can still set hearts Free.
POEM II
The Blessing and the PAIN of Broken Halos
Maurice L. Calhoun
They told me halos come whole,
perfect circles, polished gold,
saints don't stumble, slip, or stall —
they shine untouched, unbent, never fall.
But life put truth right in my face,
said, Look again — inspect that Grace.
That glow had cracks, that shine had seams,
that gold was chipped by shattered dreams.
Still hear this truth I've come to know:
a broken halo still can glow,
just not for show, not just for sight,
it shines because it's been through night.
We packed baggage we swore we'd leave,
carried weights we didn't need,
dragged our past through every gate,
called it Faith but checked it late.
We rode the wrong bus, hearts sincere,
right intent but lost out here,
trusted signs we didn't read,
missed our stop but meant to lead.
The GPS kept saying 'turn,'
recalculate, twist, and learn,
that's when halos met the strain —
that's when gold first tasted pain.
The pain of halos split and bent
is doing right yet feeling spent,
flat tires on a righteous road,
running fumes while pulling loads.
Oil low but still we mow,
engine knocking, still we go,
smiling wide while limping slow,
bleeding faith we never show.
Jacob blessed but touched that day,
chosen, yes — but walked that way,
every step a sacred ache,
every stride a costly break.
Broken halos hurt because
you can't pretend or paint it up,
no borrowed shine, no holy mask,
no hiding wounds beneath your task.
But here's the blessing — hear me clear —
there's treasure in the fracture here,
a broken halo does not float,
it rests where weight and calling go.
It sits on shoulders, heavy, true,
teaches what the cracks can do,
slows your walk but clears your sight,
dims the flash but deepens light.
Now people trust the glow you give,
because it looks like how they live,
your testimony doesn't scream —
it hums with hurt and hope between.
You stop asking, 'Why is me?'
Start asking, 'Who does this scar free?'
Broken crayons still can draw,
beauty born from broken laws.
Broken halos still can guide,
light back roads and detours wide,
paths where polished halos won't,
places perfect people don't.
Pain and purpose share one room,
joy and rain both help you bloom,
sunshine, storms — same address,
faith baptized in tenderness.
When halos break, the truth gets shown:
they weren't meant to crown the throne,
they had to crack, be split apart,
so light could leak from human hearts.
So if your glow is chipped and torn,
faith bent thin, yet not withdrawn,
don't curse the break or fear the fall —
bless the crack that saved it all.
For only halos bruised and scarred
can light the way through roads gone dark,
for those still lost but pressing on,
believing light is not yet gone.
POEM III
When the Doorbell Rang in Houston
Maurice L. Calhoun
It was midnight heat, a heavy sky,
Cicadas hummed while the streets rolled by.
I sat with silence, sipping my doubt,
Then the doorbell rang — sharp, sudden, loud.
Houston air carried stories untold,
Of hurricanes past and dreams bought and sold.
Neighbors whispered, storms come and go,
But this ring was different — deep in its tone.
Was it a stranger with news to bring?
Or an angel disguised, with broken wings?
Was it trouble knocking, debt come due?
Or hope dressed plain, with something new?
I froze in the hallway, hand near the lock,
Time held its breath, the night seemed to stop.
Sometimes the knock is a test of the soul —
Do you open the door, or guard what you hold?
When the doorbell rang in Houston that night,
It wasn't just sound — it was choice, it was life.
And whether I opened, or turned away,
The echo still lingers in me today.
POEM IV
Did Our Hearts Stop… or Do We Have a Concussion?
A Sermonic Poem
Maurice L. Calhoun
Did our hearts stop…
or do we have a concussion?
Did mercy fall silent
while cruelty found discussion?
Did compassion collapse
on the side of the road,
while a child bore a weight
no young soul should hold?
At a bus stop corner
where backpacks meet dawn,
two tempers rose quickly —
then everything was gone.
Phones came out.
The circle grew tight.
Screens glowed brighter
than conscience that night.
Oh sometimes it makes me tremble…
tremble deep in my soul —
how a watching crowd gathers
while kindness loses control.
A young girl stood there
with tomorrow in sight,
a heart full of dreams
and a future still bright.
But anger rose quickly,
and fists filled the air,
while mercy stood silent
and nobody dared.
And Heaven leaned low
as the moment turned to conquest —
and a crown was prepared
for young, beautiful Jada West.
Did our hearts stop…
or did we lose direction?
Or are we simply walking
with a moral reflection?
Because somewhere I remember
a preacher's refrain,
marching through sorrow,
through struggle and PAIN.
Hey there, take a bow
PAIN means "Pay Attention Inside Now".
A voice like thunder
declaring to somebody —
Jesse Jackson screamed, 'I am somebody.
Though trials may try me,
Though systems deny me,
Though crowds overlook me,
My God still defines me.'
If every child learned
that sacred decree,
perhaps fewer crowds
would stand silently.
If every young girl
heard truth from her Mother —
you need not compete
to diminish another.
For Iyanla once whispered
with wisdom and grace:
When a woman forgets
her divine resting place,
she searches for value
in someone else's reflection,
mistaking applause
for Holy affection.
But daughters of promise,
hear Heaven's decree —
your worth is not argued
in rivalry.
Your crown is not crafted
from someone's defeat;
true Queens never rise
by pulling down feet.
And I remember another voice
steady and strong —
a woman who told us
we all belong.
Michelle O. wrote plainly
for all to Become:
'No one can make you feel small
when you know where you're from.'
She spoke of Becoming —
not loud, but aware,
that dignity grows
when courage is there.
She told every daughter
and every young son:
your story's still rising —
it's not yet done.
But somewhere between
the lesson and the street,
we boarded the Wrong bus
and took the Wrong seat.
Running on fumes
of empathy and grace,
scrolling through sorrow
with a glowing face.
Broken halos
rolling through the night,
while Heaven keeps asking,
'Who will stand for right?'
Did our hearts stop?
Or are we disoriented still?
Walking through life
without moral will?
Because Leadership whispers
in every direction —
wake up, my people,
you've suffered a deadly infection.
But healing begins
with a truth we remember —
stronger than anger,
brighter than ember.
Teach every child
with courage and love:
'I am somebody —
designed from above.'
Teach every daughter
her crown cannot fall,
for God placed a kingdom
inside her soul's call.
Teach every son
to guard life and breath,
for dignity's duty
is stronger than death.
Then maybe the next time
a crowd gathers near,
someone will step forward
instead of just fear.
A voice will rise
where silence once stood —
'I am somebody…
and you are somebody…
So today we choose
to do what is Good.'
POEM V — RESEARCH & REFLECTION
Black Suicide: The Crisis We Cannot Ignore
Research & Data — Workshop I Companion
"From 1.9 to 4.9 per 100,000 —
young Black females aged 15–24.
The generation that saw too much — and was given too little."
RISING RISK
Suicide rates among young Black females (ages 15–24) rose from 1.9 to 4.9 per 100,000 in recent years — a 158% increase. While historically lower than other groups, the trajectory is now among the steepest of any demographic.
YOUTH DISPARITIES
In 2023, Black high school students were 8% more likely than students nationwide to report attempting suicide. The classroom is not a sanctuary from this crisis — it is often where it lives.
MENTAL HEALTH ACCESS
Structural racism, stigma, and deep mistrust of traditional mental health systems reduce access to care. Prayer with no presence and faith with no reach leaves a generation drowning just outside the preach.
REGIONAL PATTERNS
In the Western U.S., rates for Black women aged 25–34 reached nearly 5 per 100,000. Geography shapes survival — and some zip codes are more dangerous than others.
Sources: CDC Mortality Reports, Office of Minority Health, Behavioral Health News, Urban Health Today
POEM VI
Quitta, Have You Had Enough?
A Sermonic Poem
Maurice L. Calhoun
Quitta…
have you had enough
of carrying what was never yours to hold?
Of bleeding in silence
while the world grows cold?
Have you had enough
of being the strong one,
the one who holds it together
when everything's come undone?
Oh sometimes it makes me tremble…
tremble in my soul —
how a woman can give everything
and still feel less than whole.
Quitta…
have you had enough
of waiting on 'I do'?
When only twenty-nine percent
made it come true?
Nearly half still waiting,
still hoping love stays —
while time keeps ticking
through silent delays.
One hundred six sisters
for every hundred men —
trying to find covenant
in a world of 'if' and 'when'.
So you love with a guard,
or don't love at all —
build walls so high
even God gotta call.
Quitta…
have you had enough
of working and still in lack?
Seven-point-seven unemployed —
still fighting to get back.
While the nation sits lower
at four-point-four —
you knocking on doors
that don't open no more.
Fourteen weeks searching,
still stuck in the wait —
qualified, capable…
but locked out the gate.
Yet you still show up,
still carry the load —
building whole lives
on a cracked-up road.
Quitta…
have you had enough
of loving what's killing you slow?
Because your daughters are watching —
learning love from your pain,
thinking chaos is normal,
thinking hurt is the gain.
From one-point-nine
to nearly five —
young queens deciding
if they should survive.
Eight percent higher
they whisper, 'I'm done…'
while we preach endurance
but don't help them run.
But PAIN ain't your prison —
it's your portal to rise.
The wound is the doorway.
The scar is the prize.
So I ask you again —
Quitta, have you had enough?
Enough to rise?
Enough to live?
Enough to become
what God always meant to give?
POEM VII — RESEARCH & DATA
Black and Unemployed: The Numbers Behind the Narrative
Research & Data — Workshop I Companion
"7.7% — nearly double the national average of 4.4%.
Qualified. Capable. Locked out the gate."
| DEMOGRAPHIC GROUP | UNEMPLOYMENT RATE |
|---|---|
| Black Women | 7.7% |
| Black Men | 7.6% |
| Latinas | 5.0% |
| National Average | 4.4% |
| White Women | 3.4% |
FEDERAL WORKFORCE REDUCTIONS
Since early 2025, approximately 327,000 federal jobs have been eliminated. Black women — who made up 12% of federal workers vs. 7% of the overall workforce — bore a disproportionate share of these losses.
DEI PROGRAM CUTS
The dismantling of workplace Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion initiatives throughout 2025–2026 has been cited by analysts as a factor in reduced hiring and retention of Black female professionals.
LONG-TERM UNEMPLOYMENT
Unemployed Black women are facing longer job searches, with average spells lasting roughly 14.5 weeks — nearly a full quarter of a year of knocking on doors that don't open.
LABOR FORCE PARTICIPATION
Despite high unemployment, Black women remain highly active in the workforce with a participation rate of approximately 63.7–63.8%. The problem is not effort. The problem is access.
Sources: Bureau of Labor Statistics, National Women's Law Center, Joint Center for Political and Economic Studies, The 19th News (February 2026)
POETRY ARCHIVE INDEX
IThe Generation That Saw Too MuchIIThe Blessing and the PAIN of Broken HalosIIIWhen the Doorbell Rang in HoustonIVDid Our Hearts Stop… or Do We Have a Concussion?VBlack Suicide: The Crisis We Cannot IgnoreVIQuitta, Have You Had Enough?VIIBlack and Unemployed: The Numbers Behind the Narrative