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(Inspired by Rev. Dr. King’s 1963 sermon, “A Knock at Midnight”) Last week, I thought about what I would tell my children about this moment in history. This week, I’m thinking about the Church In this moment in history. Because what the Church chooses to be right now will quietly teach our children who God is—and who God is not. Dr. King warned that the Church is not meant to be the master of the state, or the servant of the state, but the CONSCIENCE of the state. That matter

Lately, I find myself wondering what we tell our children about this moment in history. How do we explain the fear, the anger, the confusion—without handing them despair? How do we tell the truth without robbing them of hope? My faith tells me that God is not absent, even when justice feels delayed and truth feels fragile. Scripture reminds us that there have always been seasons when people asked, “How long, O Lord?”—and God did not rebuke the question. I don’t have tidy answ

What a difference five years makes. Kenya’s teenage years were so hard. In 2021, that small smile felt like a victory—proof she was finally stepping out of a very dark place. And now… look at her. So much growth. So much confidence. So much joy and perspective. There were seasons I felt completely powerless watching my child suffer. But I also had a front-row seat to a quiet, unfolding miracle. Prayer carried us when I could not. I will never stop believing in the power of pr

This week, joy found me quietly. I’ve written a lot this year about feeling heavy. But I’m realizing now—this heaviness isn’t despair. It’s transition. I am standing between who I’ve been and who I’m becoming. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is ending. Everything is realigning. And that realization alone has brought joy. As my children grow into adulthood—even Kenya at nineteen—I find myself remembering me. Who I was. Who I’ve been becoming all along. The wisdom that was formed dur

Peace has a sound to it. A softness. A settling. A holy hush that slips in when the world is loud but your spirit chooses a different song. This week, that song has a name: Avery. My granddaughter walks through life with a light I can’t always explain. Almost eight years on this earth, with challenges that would make grown women crumble, and still she smiles wide, loves freely, and trusts boldly… as if the world is more kind than cruel. As if people are more good than broken.

These past weeks have felt heavy. So much chaos… so much lawlessness… so much that makes a mother’s heart ache for her children and this world they’re growing up in. And yet, this is Advent. A season that began in a time just like ours— political turmoil, injustice, and leaders who cared more about power than people. Into that world, God chose to come close. So this year, my waiting is simple: I’m waiting for Light that cuts through confusion. I’m waiting for Peace that stead

Loving grown children is different than loving babies. Babies cling. Young adults drift— sometimes into wisdom, sometimes into foolishness, sometimes straight into walls you saw coming a mile away. Some days motherhood feels like heartbreak in slow motion. You can’t fix it. You can’t control it. You can only love them, pray for them, and watch decisions unfold like storms you begged God to calm. And this week… that’s where I’ve been. Phone calls that twist my stomach. Decisio

Today I sit with a heavy but discerning spirit. For 43 days, our neighbors stood in food pantry lines because SNAP was shut down. Workers labored without pay. Parents braced for healthcare costs to soar when tax credits expire at year’s end. And in the middle of all that pain, the Emperor cried out, “I don’t want to hear about affordability.” But even now, God is exposing false power. Like the story of The Emperor’s New Clothes, this leader strutted through the nation wrapped

Kings feast while poor starve. But God hears the widow’s cry— Justice wakes like dawn. Kings still feast while the poor grow hungry. But the Lord hears the cry of the widow, the weary mother, and the child whose plate is empty. Justice does not sleep. It rises like the morning sun— slow, sure, and unstoppable. Lord, have mercy on this nation. And remember those who have nothing left but hope. #ReflectionsOfAPrayingMother #JusticeWillRise #GodSees

America stands at a crossroads where power has replaced principle and self-interest has silenced compassion. We are watching the slow unmaking of democracy—where truth is dismissed as partisan, justice is weaponized, and hunger becomes a bargaining chip. When leaders strip food from the poor and dignity from those who dissent, they do more than violate policy—they violate the covenant that binds us as a people. “Woe to those who enact unjust decrees, and to those who issue op

(Luke 23:28 – “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for Me; weep for yourselves and for your children.) As Jesus carried His cross, He turned to the women of Jerusalem and said, “Weep not for Me, but for yourselves and for your children.” This week, watching our nation coontinue to unravel—its laws ignored, the People’s House defaced, the poor and working families left uncertain while the powerful prosper—I felt those words rise again. This lament is written as a prayer for Am

Reflections of a Praying Mother/Wife/Educator (Inspired by Proverbs 4 & Conversations with Alicia Clark ) I was there when you almost quit— hands trembling over what was lost, heart whispering, “maybe not this time.” But I, Tenacity, held your face and said, “Look again.” I am not loud. I move in small breaths— between contractions and broken dreams, between the third miscarriage and the cry that finally came. When Asia was born, I was the unseen midwife catching both her and

Today, I miss my mother. Not her memory— but her presence, the way her presence comforted me without saying a word. As I nurture, I long to be nurtured. As I cheer others on, I wish someone would see me, clap for me, say, “You’re doing good, baby. You’re doing just fine.” When I’m tired, who takes care of me? Who says, “You’ve done enough. Rest.” Who looks at me and sees how hard I am trying, how much I am carrying, how deeply I still need to be mothered? I am grateful—so gra

My 4th born, Imani Noelle — Daddy’s girl, dancer, scholar, choreographer, Pilates certified, lifelong Eagles fan () and now a graduate student. Today she begins Drexel University’s MA in Dance/Movement Therapy and Counseling program. This is who she has always been: teaching dance since she was just 9 or 10, choreographing for school shows, pouring her love and learning into NHCA preschoolers during her undergraduate co-op, being recognized by Drexel for that work, and even t

I am a mother, Black as the soil that bore my ancestors, descendant of slaves who sang freedom into the night. I am a wife, to a man carried across the sea as an infant, a Korean son grafted into this land. Together we raised five children, teaching them to honor every face, every story, every soul made in the image of God. But what world waits for them? A world where guns sing louder than hymns, where fear is preached as faith, and hatred wears a cross around its neck. Where