A Mycation

A Problem Tonight

What Are You Running To?

What Are You Running From?

David, Why Did You Need the Cave?

David, why did you need the cave? Was it not enough to have slain the giant, To have played the harp that calmed the king, To have run from Saul through the wilderness, And still kept your heart from hardening?

But God knew what David didn't— That crowns are not given to the untested, That thrones are not held by the unbroken, That the man who leads must first be divested.

So into the cave you went, David. Not as punishment—as preparation. Not as exile—as excavation. Not as abandonment—as formation.

In the cave, you wrote your psalms. In the cave, you found your voice. In the cave, you learned that praise Is not the product of perfect choice— But the discipline of a desperate soul Who chooses worship over noise.

And so, broken man—hear this: Your cave is not your grave. Your cave is your classroom. Your cave is your calling. Your cave is where God remakes What the world has been mauling.

In the dark, you wrestle what light won't reveal, You face what you fear, and begin to heal. What tried to destroy you becomes your start— God does His deepest work in the heart.

So David… don't despise the cave, It may be the place where your soul would save. Where broken men learn how to stand again, Not just as warriors—but as whole men.

So if you're in a cave… hear what I say: You're not abandoned—you're being remade. The pain you've been hiding, the tears you won't show, May be the very place your strength will grow.

Because the same God who found David there Still meets broken men in caves of despair. And whispers softly, through all the ache: "You didn't come here to die… You came here to wake."

Black and Unemployed

Black and unemployed— Not broken, not destroyed. Just standing at the crossroads Where the system's noise has toyed.

You sent the résumé, You wore the tie, the pressed array, You spoke the language of their world And still they turned away.

But hear me, brother, hear me, sister— Your worth is not a W-2. Your value isn't in their ledger, Your calling isn't in their queue.

For Joseph was unemployed in a pit, And Moses unemployed in the desert. Daniel unemployed in a lion's den— But God had not forgotten.

The same God who opened prison doors And turned the pit into a palace, Is still working in your waiting, Still filling up your chalice.

Black and unemployed— But not unseen, not unheard. God is still your employer, And His promise is His word.

Black Suicide

They said you were strong enough to carry it— But no one asked if you wanted to. They said your kind doesn't break like that— But the data says that isn't true.

You were 15, you were 22, You were someone's daughter, someone's son. You were carrying what the world called strength Until the weight became a gun.

And the church said pray, And the family said hush, And the system said wait, And the stigma said rush— Rush back to normal, Rush back to fine, Rush back to strong Before they see the sign.

But I see you. I see the 3 a.m. silence. I see the smile that hides the violence Of a mind that won't stop running From a pain that keeps on coming.

You are not weak for wanting out. You are exhausted from being strong. And the God who sees your midnight Has been there all along.

So if you're standing at that edge— Hear this before you go: You are not your worst night. You are not your lowest low. You are the dream your ancestors prayed Would one day rise and grow.

Call 988. Tell someone. Stay. The world is not done with you today.

Tap Out / Chokehold

They had him in a chokehold— Knee on neck, weight on soul, And the world watched on a phone screen As a man was made less than whole.

He said, "I can't breathe." He said it eleven times. And the crowd stood by and filmed it While the system ran its crimes.

Tap out. Tap out. But the mat was made of concrete. Tap out. Tap out. But the referee was the street.

And somewhere in the distance A mother felt it first— The way a mother always knows Before the news can burst.

But hear me now, hear me clearly: The chokehold is not the final word. For every knee that pressed him down, A resurrection has occurred.

The same breath they tried to take Is the breath that fills our lungs today. We breathe because he couldn't— And we will not look away.

Tap out? No. We tap in. We tap into the legacy Of every soul who refused to let injustice win.

Mary and the Negro Mother at the Cross

Mary stood beneath the cross while the evening sky grew dim, watching nails hold Heaven's hope through broken flesh and limb. The wind moved slowly through the hill, the crowd stood loud and near, yet no one felt the deeper wound inside a mother's tear.

Joy and pain, sunshine and rain— that rhythm has always remained. For every mother who births a dream must also know its pain.

Mary held Him as a child once, pressed kisses to His head, sang soft songs beside His crib and warmed His tiny bed. Happy— when angels filled the sky with light, when shepherds gathered near. Happy— when Heaven whispered through the night, "This child will change the year."

But now— Sad— as soldiers gamble for His clothes, as darkness fills the air. Sad— as every breath He struggles for becomes a mother's prayer.

Joy and pain, sunshine and rain— echo through the strain. And somewhere down through centuries another mother feels the same.

For across the streets of history where broken halos fall, the Negro Mother lifts her eyes and hears the Savior's call. She too has watched her children walk through danger in the night, has whispered prayers at doorways for their safety in the fight.

Mary stood on Calvary's hill— the Negro Mother stands still there. Standing in every courthouse hall, standing in every prayer. Standing in hospital waiting rooms, standing in midnight cries. Standing where the world forgets how quickly a young dream dies.

Yet both mothers share one knowing that sorrow cannot hide— That love is stronger than the nails that pierce a mother's pride.

Joy and pain, sunshine and rain— still echo through the refrain. For the cross was not the ending, though it carried bitter loss. Three days later hope arose from the shadow of the cross.

And every mother who has wept beneath a heavy sky still carries resurrection faith no grave can deny.

So when the Negro Mother prays through midnight's darkest rain, She whispers what Mary learned through unbearable pain: "My child may suffer in this world, yet Heaven knows his name. And God can raise tomorrow from today's sorrow and shame."

Joy and pain, sunshine and rain— that rhythm still remains. For the mothers who have carried us will never weep in vain.

What Do You Hear?

What do you hear when the room goes quiet? When the noise of the day has finally died? What do you hear in the space between heartbeats When there's nowhere left to run and hide?

Do you hear the voice of accusation— The one that lists your every fall? Do you hear the sound of condemnation Or the still small voice that calls?

Elijah heard it on the mountain, After wind and fire and earthquake's roar. Not in the spectacle of power— But in the gentle, quiet, holy more.

What do you hear when your cross gets heavy? When the road gets long and the night grows cold? Do you hear the sound of your own surrender Or the ancient promise being retold?

Listen. Listen deeper. Beneath the fear, beneath the shame. There is a voice that has been calling Your truest, most sacred name.

"You are mine," it says. "I formed you. I knew you before the world began. And the cross you carry is not your ending— It is part of my eternal plan."

So what do you hear when the room goes quiet? Let it be this—and only this: The sound of a God who never left you, Whispering through the dark abyss.

Displaced in a Foreign Land

You didn't choose to be here— In this city, in this season, In this chapter that feels foreign With no map and no clear reason.

Like Israel in Babylon, You hung your harp upon the tree. How do you sing the Lord's song In a land that doesn't know you're free?

But Jeremiah said to build— To plant, to marry, to seek peace. Not because the exile's easy But because displacement doesn't mean release.

Your gifts still work in foreign soil. Your calling doesn't need a zip code. The same God who sent you into exile Is the same God who knows the road.

So bloom where you've been planted, Even if the ground feels wrong. For God is building something in you That will outlast where you don't belong.

And when the season turns— And it will turn— You will look back on this foreign land And see what you were sent to learn.

You've Ridden This Bus For Free Before

You've ridden this bus for free before— Coasted on grace, slept through the toll. Let someone else pay the price of your passage While you sat back and played your role.

But the driver knows your name. And the fare has come due. And the question isn't whether you can pay— It's whether you're willing to.

Because grace is not a free ride forever. Grace is a call to get up and grow. Grace is the hand that steadied your stumble And said, "Now you know what I know."

So step up to the front of the bus. Pay your fare with your full surrender. Let the cross be the cost of your crossing And let God be your only defender.

You've ridden this bus for free before— But today is the day you drive. Today is the day you stop being a passenger And learn what it means to arrive.

GPS Signals

When the signal drops and the screen goes blank And the voice that guided you goes still— Don't panic. Don't turn around. God is recalculating still.

He knows the detour before you take it. He mapped the road before you were born. And every reroute, every dead end, Is a signal—not a storm.

You've been driving in circles, Thinking you've lost your way. But God's GPS doesn't lose signal— You just stopped listening today.

So pull over. Be still. Let the coordinates recalibrate. The destination hasn't changed— You just needed to wait.

And when the voice comes back— And it always comes back— Follow it. Even if the road looks wrong. Even if the route seems long. Even if you've never been this way before.

Because the God who set your destination Is the God who knows every door. And He will get you there— Not by the fastest route, But by the route that makes you more.

When Our Conversation Was Gone

During that Summer, you were having a time Nothing seemed to go right… or to rhyme Things were happening You were very ill But, You kept holding on Till you felt that cold, cold chill.

Then, You gave instruction To take care of your offspring You gave a reflection Of your sweet Life's goings and comings.

Thank You for being here For a little while Mama, You brought pure joy And pushed your family To reconcile.

Then, Hearing the sound of Life's sleek saxophone That was when our Conversation was Gone.

We got together, in front of God Made some great kids And formed big business And won many house bids. We moved around a lot And pursued sweet Success Our kids went to schools of the Elite and the Best.

We had it All Till it came crashing down 'Cause We forgot the Foundation And shed the tears of a Clown.

Hearing that "It's over" from Life's sleek saxophone That was when our Conversation was Gone.

He finally had that fight Of Jacob and God He wouldn't let go Because of the stony road that he trod.

Like with Jacob, Exposing his "wounds", God sent a "Nurse" Purchasing his freedom with a Holy purse. Breathe, Let Go, Go Slow Jacob preached on the fine print Of the "price" of a cut-off toe.

On that Sunday morn' Romey called, "Why do you wash everybody's feet? You took care of my rent when I was unemployed. You brought groceries — our family was so overjoyed."

Responding to Romey, "In all my days of struggle and strife, God, many times, has saved my Life. So, Romey, I wash other's feet, as my Life is fine — I do it because God washes mine."

Then, a call came in, Jacki uttered, "Romey's gone". Hearing the melody of Life's sad saxophone In that very moment Our Conversation Was Gone.

Santiago: The Sea Still Calls

The sea still calls, though your hands are worn, Your body bent, your clothes all torn. But faith still hums beneath your skin— You lose the world, yet fight to win.

Eighty-four suns, no fish, no praise, Still out you row through silver haze. For hope's no stranger in your chest— You cast your line and leave the rest.

You talk to the fish, you talk to the sea, You talk to the soul that refuses to flee. It's not the marlin you came to find— It's the piece of God inside your mind.

The line runs deep, your palms they bleed, But pain's the price of sacred need. Each pull, each drag, each trembling chord— A prayer unspoken, to the Lord.

The sharks may feast, the crowd may jest, But you have wrestled with your best. For though they see a broken man, You touched the face of God's own plan.

Now drift, old sailor, drift and dream, Of lions walking through your stream. The sea still calls, and though you sleep— Your faith still swims in waters deep.