A Journey to Dallas: A Turning Point

🛣️ A Journey to Dallas: A Turning Point

The apartment we moved into wasn’t much—just a modest two-bedroom tucked behind a gas station and a liquor store. But it was ours. I remember standing in the living room, the carpet worn and the walls stained with years of someone else’s life, and whispering a prayer: “Lord, let this be a place of peace, not another battlefield.” My kids were asleep in the car, their small bodies curled up like commas in a sentence I hadn’t finished writing. I carried them inside one by one, laying them gently on the mattress we’d dragged in earlier that day. No sheets yet. No curtains. Just the raw bones of a new beginning.

Dallas had changed since I left. Or maybe I had. The streets felt colder, the air heavier. I saw familiar faces, but they looked through me like I was a ghost. Some people I used to run with were still chasing the same high, stuck in the same loop. Others had disappeared—either locked up, buried, or lost in the fog of addiction and regret. I didn’t want to be one of them. I couldn’t afford to be.

I started working odd jobs—landscaping, janitorial shifts, anything that paid cash and kept me moving. I’d come home sore, my hands blistered, my back aching, but I’d still find the strength to cook dinner, help with homework, and pray over my children before bed. I was determined to show them a different kind of man. Not perfect. Not polished. But present. Faithful. Redeemed.

There were nights I sat on the porch with a cup of coffee and stared out at the city lights, wondering if I’d made a mistake. The weight of responsibility pressed against my chest like a stone. I missed the simplicity of childhood, the innocence of believing that love alone could fix everything. But I also knew that pain had taught me things comfort never could. I’d learned how to survive. How to forgive. How to rebuild from ashes.

One Sunday morning, I took the kids to a small storefront church on the south side. The pews were cracked, the sound system barely worked, but the Spirit was thick in that place. The pastor preached about the prodigal son, and I felt every word like it was written for me. “Sometimes,” he said, “you’ve got to come home to yourself before you can come home to God.” I wept. Not because I was weak, but because I was finally soft enough to receive grace.

That day marked a turning point. I began writing again—journaling first, then crafting chapters of my story. I wanted to document the journey, not just for myself, but for anyone who’d ever felt lost in the dark. I wrote about the streets, the struggle, the heartbreak. But I also wrote about hope. About how God had never stopped chasing me, even when I was running in the opposite direction.

I started sharing pieces of my testimony online. Facebook posts. Spoken-word videos. Devotionals recorded on my phone in the quiet hours before dawn. People began reaching out—some from Dallas, some from back home in Minden. They told me my words made them feel seen. Heard. Loved. That’s when I realized my pain had a purpose. My scars weren’t just reminders of what I’d survived—they were roadmaps for others trying to find their way.

Dallas became more than a city. It became a crucible. A place where I was refined, not destroyed. I saw my children begin to thrive—smiling more, sleeping better, asking questions about God and life and dreams. I taught them how to cook, how to pray, how to stand up for themselves. I told them stories about their ancestors—about Webb Gamble and Charity Burtion, about Ceaser Grant Greer Sr., about the legacy of strength and resilience that ran through their veins.

There were setbacks, of course. Times when money ran low, when loneliness crept in, when old temptations whispered my name. But I stayed grounded. I leaned into faith, into family, into purpose. I reminded myself daily that I was not the sum of my mistakes, but the fruit of my redemption.

Now, when I drive through Dallas, I see more than just buildings and boulevards. I see memories etched into every corner. The park where I first taught my son to ride a bike. The diner where I wrote my first chapter. The church where I found my way back to God. Each place holds a piece of me—a reminder that even in the darkest seasons, light is never far away.

I don’t know what the future holds. But I know who holds me. Which is my God,and that’s more than enough. Until the next lettter. Goodbye and Good night love. Yes Jesus loves me