My Faith Journey- I Am Still His Daughter

I have experienced a profound amount of grief in my life, and I am considering channeling those experiences into a novella that captures my journey. I believe the title "My Faith Journey" perfectly encapsulates the essence of what I want to convey. This novella will delve into the beginning of my faith journey as I navigated the rough terrain of pain and loss. Through the darkest moments, it was the steadfast love of my God that guided me through to the other side. This story is not just about the struggles I've faced but about the transformative power of faith that carried me through the trials and ultimately led me to healing and peace.

My Faith

Two defining elements mark my faith journey. First, my family's steadfast faith and unwavering devotion to God is the foundation upon which my faith is built. Yet, it is the love and loss of my older brothers that have carved the deepest valleys and highest peaks in my spiritual landscape. 

I hope as you read through my journey of joy and sorrow, belief and doubt, and loss and love that you see just how wonderful God is. Most importantly, I hope that you are able to recognize that He can display those same wondrous works in your life. 

My whole life encompassed the church. My mother, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and even cousins were all pillars within the church. From as early as I can remember, God and the church have always been a part of our lives. My whole family devoted their lives to serving and doing the works of the Lord. 

The foundation of our lives was firmly rooted in Joshua 24:15, "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord." This verse was not just a guiding principle but a living testament to our family's commitment. It was more than just words; it was a lifestyle that we embraced with every fiber of our being.

My fondest memories are intricately woven within the fabric of Christianity, church, and family. I remember the smell of Blue Magic hair grease and the distinct scent of burnt hair filling the air early on Sunday mornings. My mother would stand at the stove, meticulously pressing and curling my hair with hot curlers; this was a ritual that was as much a part of our Sunday preparation as the clothes we wore. I can still see my mother and her hands deftly maneuvering the hot curlers. Her movements were always precise and adept.

In the background, the powerful voices of gospel greats like James Cleveland and Shirley Caesar resonated throughout our house. These soulful melodies filled every corner of our home with divine inspiration and devotion. These songs were more than just music; they were anthems of our faith, and they set the tone for the day ahead as we readied ourselves to go to the house of the Lord. With a serene smile on her lips, my mother would not only hum along to the music, but she would also include Hallelujahs and affirmations of devotions to the Lord. 

Every now and then between verses, she would exclaim, “Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Lord, for your love, righteousness, and mercy.” 

During these times, our kitchen was a symphony of aromas; the blend of singed hair and the mouthwatering scent of breakfast cooking on the next stove eye characterized my Sunday mornings. The warmth of the kitchen, the comforting smells, and the sound of gospel music created a cocoon of security and love and was our prelude to our devotion. 

Dressed in our finest Sunday attire, we would venture out from the comfort and security of our home into the vast, crisp morning air with the echoes of our favorite gospel songs still reverberating in our minds.

 The church was more than a destination; it was a safe haven. A place where our community and families gathered to celebrate and venerate the Lord. The familiar faces, the shared prayers, the pronounced power of the preacher’s words, and the collective spirit of worship were the threads that started my faithful journey with the Lord. 

My favorite Sundays were when my mother would speak. To me, my mother’s sermons were a force of nature; a powerful symphony that resonated with the soul and stirred the Holy Spirit. She would fill that modest store-front church with an energy that was both electric and profound. At home she was a small, demure woman. But, when she sauntered into the pulpit, I could literally see the Holy Spirit encase her, and she became a towering figure with a voice that could command mountains. Her eyes, shining bright with passion, would sweep over the congregation. And, when she opened her mouth, a hush would fall over the congregation. It was in these moments, she was not my mother, but she belonged to the Lord. The power of the Holy Ghost was demonstrated through her. 

Her words would rise and fall like waves crashing on a shore; each phrase and sentence building upon the last as they gained momentum and intensity. Her every word and phrase were a thread in a tapestry of faith and conviction. 

She would often bellow, “Can these dead bones live?” A powerful, evocative question from Ezekiel 37:1-14, which is known as the “Vision of the Valley of Dry Bones.” When she would ask that question, her voice would ring through the rafters and send a stirring in the souls of the congregation as they responded in unison, “Oh, yes, Lord.”

This was far more than just a response.  It was a collective affirmation, and a declaration of a shared faith and purpose. This seamless exchange between my mother and the congregation created a rhythm of its own, and the presence of the Holy Spirit was actually palpable. 

When she was allowing the Lord to use her, my mother was more than just a woman; she was a conduit of divine inspiration, and a vessel through which the Holy Spirit spoke. She held the power to heal, to inspire, and to uplift. This was true of not just my mother, but of every person that entered the pulpit and allowed the Lord to use them. God’s servants were embodying Matthew 28:16: “Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

Unbeknownst to me, it was during these times that my faithful journey with the Lord was being shaped. 

As a result of my family’s history with the church, I knew the Lord loved us because not only my mother but my entire family devoted their lives to serving the Lord. Our faith was woven into the fabric of our existence.

However, my perception of the Lord was profoundly challenged when tragedy struck in 1986. My grandfather and an uncle were killed in a car crash. I was around ten years old, and my entire family was devastated and grief-stricken with the sudden loss of our patriarch. In my childlike faith, I believed that the Lord had the power to raise my grandfather from the dead, just as He had done with Lazarus. I clung to this hope with all my might. But, my cousin, Quincy’s, words were crippling as he stated, “Tasha, that happens in the Bible. That’s not real.” 

I was devastated and went into the bathroom and prayed to my Father because I was taught to believe in the Word, and Matthew 7:7 stated, "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.”

Although God did not raise my grandfather from the dead, he gave me immense peace and solace. That night, my grandfather visited me in my dreams. It was so real and vivid that I even smelled his signature scent, which was a blend of coffee and tobacco. He told me that he loved me and hugged me tightly. You see, this is significant. My grandparents were one generation from slavery and had to navigate life during Jim Crow, which was a very hostile period for Blacks. Although we knew they loved us, physical hugs or verbal affirmations of affection were not a part of our family’s daily interactions.

My dream was more than comforting; it was transformative and was the first testament of my personal relationship with the Lord. The love and comfort I received in that dream deepened my faith and solidified my belief in God’s unwavering love for me. This revelation would become a cornerstone of my spiritual journey, providing strength and clarity in countless unforeseen challenges.

My Brothers

I come from a large, loving family. I am the baby girl of four; I have three older brothers. In the above picture, my brother Lee Vern is wearing the cap and was sixteen at the time of the photo; Mark, who was fifteen in the above picture, is wearing red; and Anthony is the one in blue and was thirteen.

The word “love” is too infinitesimal and trivial to truly capture the affinity and passion that we feel for one another. They are my brothers, fathers, friends, and confidants. In my eyes, they are the strongest, the bravest, the most wonderful, the most intelligent, and the most handsome men in the world. I have always adored, needed, and loved them.

My eldest brother was Lee Vern, whom we affectionately called Vern. Because of the sixteen year age gap, he was more like a father figure or uncle. I do not remember living with him growing up. In my earliest memories, he was already out of the house and living with his family. We saw Vern as the patriarch of our family. He seamlessly took care of his ex-wife, four adult children, three adult grand-children, his mother, and his siblings. Although he was histrionic and sanctimonious, I hung on to and believed in his every word. 

My brothers were as different as day and night, each one a unique constellation in the vast sky of our family. Mark, the middle brother, was (still is) a whirlwind of charisma and energy. With a magnetic personality that drew people in like moths to a flame, he was always surrounded by a crowd of friends and admirers. 

His motto is, “I gotta get me some new haters because all my old haters want to be my friends.” His life is a series of grand adventures and wild escapades, and he continues to be the epicenter of every party. Whereas, Vern could be a bit judgmental, Mark is wild and non-judgmental; he is a free spirit who embraces life with both arms wide open.

Much like our eldest brother Vern, Mark had left the family home by the time my earliest memories began to form. Yet, his presence was felt in every corner of my life. Mark was (and still is) the brother I turned to when I needed extra money or help planning a celebration. His generosity, love, and devotion to his siblings knew no bounds.

The baby brother, Anthony, was the only brother that I lived with. Although he was thirteen years older than me, I called him my baby brother as well because he was his mother’s baby, and she treated him as such. Anthony’s presence is woven into the very fabric of my childhood. Every cherished memory from those early years has Anthony’s loving presence embedded in it. He adored me and doted on me until the day he passed away.

I had always wanted to be a teacher. When I was still in elementary school, a nearby school was shut-down. Anthony and his friends snuck into the abandoned building, cleaned out the classrooms, and brought me a treasure trove of educational materials. He brought me desks, textbooks, workbooks, globes, and maps; everything I needed to create my very own classroom. 

Anthony even built me an outdoor classroom; it was a small structure, which was complete with a roof and flooring. Sometimes, he would come outside, phone in hand, chatting with his girlfriends, and let me teach him. He would sit at one of the desks, pretending to be a student, humorously engaging with my lessons while still managing to flirt over the phone. His presence and encouragement made my dream world feel real and even helped to propel me into truly becoming a teacher. 

Even into adulthood, Anthony and his family remained a constant presence in mine and my family’s lives. Anthony was always there for me; he remained my steady rock amidst the ever-changing tides of life.

We were the four horsemen. Our love was supreme, unconditional, dysfunctional, and obdurate. Their existence was the air that I breathed. 

My Faith Was Tested, and I Failed

In 2013, Anthony was diagnosed with lung cancer. My mother, aunts, uncles, cousins, and church family went into warrior mode. We became prayer warriors as we prayed, fasted, and labored before the Lord for his healing. 

I had no doubt that my Father would heal my brother. After all, our entire family had dedicated their lives to serving Him, and my mother’s relentless prayers for Anthony's recovery were a testament to our faith.

We stood firmly on the promises of God's Word. We believed wholeheartedly and stood on scriptures like:

• Matthew 7:7-"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you."

• Mark 11:24-"Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours."

• Proverbs 15:29-"God heareth the prayer of the righteous."

• Matthew 21:22-"If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer."

These verses and others like them were the bedrock of our faith; they were a beacon of hope that sustained us through the darkest days. We believed with all our hearts that God would not let us endure such pain and suffering. We knew that he would reward us with a miracle.

Unfortunately, my brother lost his battle with cancer in November 2014. To say that we were grief-stricken is an understatement. Although my mother’s faith appeared to not waver, mine was obliterated.  

The loss of Anthony was a blow that struck at the very core of my belief and faith. The certainty I once had in God’s promises was replaced by a void of doubt, heartbreak, grief, and immense anger. It felt as if the ground beneath me had crumbled, and my entire essence was in freefall. My mother’s steadfast faith was a pillar I could no longer cling to, as my own faith seemed to slip through my fingers like sand.

I stopped going to church, and I began to openly and vehemently curse God. 

I remember when my mother’s oldest brother tried to comfort me as he stated, “Tasha, God loves you, and He will comfort you.” 

My blood boiled over, and I yelled, “I don’t have a God; stop talking about God.” His eyes widened in disbelief. His response emboldened me, and I continued, “No God of mine would allow his most devoted followers to suffer. Shut-up about God!”

I proclaimed my doubts to anyone who would listen, seeking to share my pain and disbelief. 

This hurt my mother deeply, and in my anger, I wanted to hurt her. I blamed her for introducing me to the promises and love of God, and I held her responsible for God not healing my brother.

But, even in my grief and darkest moments, I felt His presence, and it infuriated me. Night after night, I threw tantrums. I would go into my bathroom, lock the door, and just scream into the void that He didn’t love us, and that He wasn’t real. 

My heart was a storm of anger and pain, and I lashed out at Him many, many nights. For six long years, I acted out in defiance. 

One cold December evening in 2019, a voice as clear as day spoke to me, "Tasha, that is enough."

I knew it was my Father. I knew it was time to stop behaving like a petulant child. Most importantly, I realized as He helped me climb out of the pit of despair that my Father was with me during the darkest hours. He had never forsaken or abandoned me. Even in my moments of deepest despair, I could feel Him wrapping me in His loving arms and gently rocking me and soothing me.

During those six years, my anger had been a barrier, but it could never truly sever the connection I had with Him. His presence was a constant and an unyielding anchor in the turbulent sea of my emotions. As much as I tried to push Him away, He remained steadfast and unwavering.

But, I am going to share an epiphany. I never stopped believing because nightly for six long years, I would yell and demonstrate my grief to Him. If I didn’t believe that God was real, I would not have directed my visceral towards Him. Like a hurt child in need of comfort, I lashed out at my Father waiting and hoping he would come and save me. And, he did just that. 

In that moment of clarity, I understood that my tantrums and curses were cries of a wounded soul seeking solace. My Father, in His infinite patience, had waited for me to exhaust my anger, to reach the point where I could hear His voice again. His love had been a quiet, persistent force, always there, even when I refused to acknowledge it.

As I let go of my anger, I felt a weight lift from my heart. The pain of losing Anthony would never completely fade, but I no longer carried it alone. I allowed myself to feel His presence fully and to accept His comfort and love. 

And so, Jehovah-Rapha, the Lord who heals, began to mend the shattered fragments of my mind and soul. His loving, gentle touch was profound and reached into the deepest recesses of my pain and brought forth a balm that only He could provide. In those moments, I began to understand the true essence of Jehovah-Shalom, the God of peace. It wasn't just a name; it was a living, breathing presence that enveloped me while calming the storms within.

That evening in December marked the beginning of my return back home to my Father and my Faith. I started to rebuild my relationship with God, piece by piece, with the understanding that His love had never wavered. In my darkest times, He had been my silent guardian, holding me close, waiting for me to see the light once more.

I Was Tested Once More

Just two years after I had begun to heal and my faith restored, it was tested once more. In March 2022, my brother Lee Vern unexpectedly passed away due to complications from diabetes.

We hadn’t heard from Vern in a couple of days. When Mark and I went to Vern’s house, we found him deceased. The shock of it rippled through our family and was a heartbreaking echo of the past. When we went to tell our momma, she exclaimed, “Oh, Lord, not again. But, I am going to serve you anyhow.” Unlike in 2014, I shared her same sentiment. Instead of running away from the Lord, I yielded to Him and fell into his arms for comfort, peace, grace, and healing. 

I knew that I couldn’t do it on my own. I needed Him to get through this. My maturity allowed me to understand what Isaiah 55:8 truly meant by “For My thoughts are not your thoughts, Nor are your ways My ways.” Although I could not pretend to comprehend the reasons behind our suffering, I knew that I could put my trust in God, and that is exactly what I did. 

In the days that followed, I often found myself on my knees. I cried out to the Lord for the strength to navigate this new wave of grief. I knew I couldn’t do it on my own. The Lord’s presence became a sanctuary for my wounded heart. His peace, like a soothing balm, eased the raw pain of loss. I found solace in the scriptures, in the familiar rhythms of prayer, and in the quiet moments of reflection where I could feel His presence most keenly. 

As I stood at Vern's funeral, I felt a profound sense of peace. I knew that could only come from God. The pain of losing him was still there, a deep ache that would take time to heal, but there was also a quiet assurance. I knew that the Lord was with me; He was there guiding and loving me through my grief. His love and grace were the anchor that held me steady in this terrible storm.

In yielding to the Lord, I found a strength I hadn’t known before. It was a strength born of faith, of trust, and of the peace that can only come from yielding to the Lord. I know that no matter what comes or goes, He is my Savior. 

My Faith Journey Continues

As Mark and I traverse this earthly journey without Vern and Anthony, we frequently remind ourselves that while the two of us remain here, the other two walk with the Lord. This belief brings us solace, and we find comfort in this statement and with each other.

But, my true comfort is not a shared journey; it is found within my personal faith journey. I know that my faith journey is far from over, but I know that with the Lord’s guidance, I can face whatever lay ahead. I have learned to trust in Him fully, to lean on His understanding, and to find comfort in His presence. Because I know firsthand that in the end, it is this trust that will carry me through the darkest times; it is this trust that illuminates my path towards healing and peace.

Oh, how I know the true power of peace demonstrated by Jehovah-Shalom. When I need it, His sends the power of peace to flow over me like a river, steady and unyielding, washing away the remnants of anger and sorrow. The tranquility of Jehovah-Shalom is not a fleeting sensation, but it is a deep, abiding calm that settles into my very bones. It is in this divine peace that I find the strength to continue in my faith journey.

In the quiet moments when I feel lonely and sad over my loss, my Father appears, and he whispers assurances and gently nudges me forward. I know that my journey of faith will continue to be tested, but I know that I am not alone. Most importantly, I am aware of the power of running towards Him in my darkest hours. For, when I embrace Jehovah-Rapha's healing touch and Jehovah-Shalom's encompassing peace, I find the answers, the grace, and the love that I need to continue on.  Surrendering to His sovereignty is the only way that my mind, body, and soul can survive.

For John 14:6 proclaims that our Lord is “the way, and the truth, and the life.”

My journey through my darkest valley was illuminated by the understanding that God's ways are beyond my comprehension. It wasn’t an easy lesson, but it was a necessary one. The Lord's wisdom and plans are far greater than what I can see or understand. Trusting Him meant surrendering my need for answers and finding peace in His sovereignty.

With every breath, I am reminded of just how merciful His love and guidance are. My faith journey has not been a gentle, placid stroll through serene landscapes; instead, it has been a rugged, unpredictable path, which was fraught with trials and steeped in tribulations. Yet, it is precisely in these rocky terrains that have witnessed the true power of our Lord. 

As a result, I will continue to proclaim that “For me and my house, we will serve the Lord”-Joshua 24:15.