This Easter morning, I dropped Michelle and her mom off at Mass, then headed to church. Like most Easters in my life, I didn’t really want to go.
The days of knowing what I’d wear on Easter Sunday are long gone. No more trips to Turn Style the day before—no more watching Mom, Terri, Gail, and Tammy spend hours in the girls’ section while I got ten rushed minutes to grab a shirt and tie.
I realized today: somehow Dad never went shopping with us. But he always had what he needed—a new suit, a fresh shirt, and that signature spring hat. Quietly sharp, like he always was.
I’ve worn Easter suits in powder blue and avocado green—loud by today’s standards, but back then? That was sharp.
This morning, while trying to figure out what to wear, I saw Easter lilies in my mind. So I put on white and yellow. I couldn’t remember when you’re supposed to start wearing white—but I know you’re supposed to stop after Labor Day.
Funny how traditions live in us. Dormant until something wakes them.
After the drop-off, I headed East.
To the East, my brother, to the East! – X-Clan
I parked. Sat for a moment. Collected my thoughts. Checked the list of things I wanted to bring to my gods. And reminded myself—thank them for my unconquerable soul.
As I got out the car, I realized this might be the first time I’d worn a hat to my church. But the older I get, the more I become my father. It’s late April, but there was still a chill in the air—cooler by the lake, like always. Dad would’ve had on one of his spring straw hats, sharp and season-ready. Me? I had on a scully. These days, a hat’s not about style. It’s about staying warm.
The beauty of my church is that the doors are always open.
There’s no printed program. No agenda. The service begins the moment your feet hit the ground.
Today’s sermon was untitled—until I heard the word:
Lighthouse.
Of course.
Just yesterday, in a gathering of young Black men I was blessed to be part of, we ended by talking about being a lighthouse. A beacon. A steady presence that shines even when no one’s watching. That alignment? That wasn’t coincidence. That was confirmation.
I cued up my soundtrack—still deep in the Parliament-Funkadelic rabbit hole: The Electric Spanking of War Babies. Funk, like faith, has its own theology. And as Dr. Daniel Black says, the choir and the preacher are often at odds. But today, I let the rhythm order my steps.
My three words for the day: integrity, accountability, empathy.
Again, the universe at work—lining things up in ways I couldn’t ignore.
Just a day before, in a tough but necessary conversation, a friend pointed out a few places where I’d fallen short. The words weren’t said harshly, but they landed hard because they were true.
And the very next day, those same words—unspoken in that conversation—showed up in the circle of young Black men we gathered with. Young brothers on the verge of manhood, navigating who they’re becoming.
The overlap wasn’t coincidence. It was confirmation.
Words that should be sewn into the soul of every human being.
I’ve seen those same words twisted in my own life, scarred with prefixes like lack and no. In the mirror. In the silence after mistakes. On the lips of people I’ve let down.
Sometimes, running is atonement.
Sometimes, it’s punishment.
Sometimes, it’s both.
But the path is the path. Trust the process. Listen.
Today, that path was different. Construction blocked the familiar route, so I had to shift course. I wasn’t always sure I was going the right way. At one point, I thought I’d hit a dead end. At another, I had to run down a short flight of stairs. It threw off my rhythm—but maybe that was the point. Maybe I needed the disruption. Maybe I was being tested—not just to find a new way forward, but to keep going when the path stopped looking familiar.
Because the lighthouse isn’t just a metaphor.
It’s a mandate.
To be the light.
To shine when you’re tired.
To guide even when you’re uncertain.
To stand still in storms so others can find their way.
Today, two truths became clear:
The ritual inside the church stays the same.
But outside?
That’s where the gods meet you.
That’s where the sermon starts.
That’s where the lighthouse shines.
And sometimes,
we’re running to the light.
And sometimes,
we’re running from it.
