The Crown Atop a King’s Mind

The king with a crown atop his mind walks amongst us
Spiritline beyond that of blood, though inherited.
Crown atop his mind, though unseen
It’s presence luminous and loud
It’s jewel of a value beyond purchase
His kingship unseen and obvious
His presence commands exaltation,
Even when one has no intention of exalting him
His every utterance wrapped in the cumulative wisdom and experience of eternity
Chosen words, as he is chosen
His sight made clearer with insight
Wisdom inherent, before knowledge
Discomfort and inadequacy arises in those who dress up as kings in his presence
Who wear crowns atop their heads
Crowns earned or stolen, eagerly defended
In the knowledge that their’s can fall from their person and be picked up and worn by another
And his, innate
Unable to be stolen or earned away
He is one of very few
Royalty, regardless of vanity
In all kingdoms
Behold His Crown.

God Mind

To be one,
But to fall away.
As dead skin
Into oblivion.
To forget your origin
And praise that which you have fallen from as
To see others fallen,
Who send their worship in the same direction.
Some of whom shine and flourish from within,
As though connected to this essence.
Like flashes of lost brilliance,
Still attainable.
To forget,
And yet know
Deep down below acknowledgment
That there is something between us all.
A lost connection,
A sole consciousness.
Many from one
You and I.

Epiphany Defunct

I call it the genius gene. Attributed to my father’s blood line, I daringly apply it to myself and all of my offspring. Perhaps of some distant descent, a pinpointed moment in human kind’s evolutionary history. I can imagine that special moment, that flash of brilliance that traveled for hundreds of thousands of years, which led to my father, to me, to my child. I watched my son in awe. His pupils were dilated, jaw slightly dropped in a frozen state of epiphany. The type of expression only visible when some unforeseen knowledge has penetrated one’s soul. A wisdom that changes you forever. I imagined that genius gene unraveling inside of this boy like a type of intellectual puberty, changing him forever. He was 4 years old, barely able to contain himself in any circumstance, bursting with pointless energy. A constant state of noise and meaningless movement. And yet, there he sat. Still. Quiet. An expression of wise maturity, unusual for such a young, inexperienced being. One might expect the expression plastered upon a man lost during mid-life, finally being struck with meaning all at once by the universal creator. And there it was, on my boy. I watched with pride. It begins. The room was quiet and still as time is (to one who is truly objective). He hadn’t moved beyond what each slow breath did to his young frame. He hadn’t blinked. I leaned in, afraid of disturbing his epiphany, but too excited to contain myself. This moment carried the weight of eternity. How wondrous it was to imagine that weight on this fragile, still-growing mind. What a work of art. I whispered in childlike anticipation.
“Josiah … what are you thinking about?”
He whispered back without glancing over at me, still frozen in his state.


Why Black People Have Bad Credit (Part 2)

Blackness is synonymous with poverty. Too extreme? Let’s not be fooled by the images of celebrities we see on television. That coon of a man is likely as poor as you and I. Also, let’s make sure to differentiate richness from wealth. That rich man, for example, was given money by a wealthy man. The rich man’s money is likely owed back to the wealthy man eventually and is even more likely already spent on the items that lead you to believe he isn’t impoverished in the first place (jewelry, car, home, etc). He represents an extremely small exception of black experience, however it is made to seem more common to you through his repeated coverage and portrayal in the media. The statistical truth of black boy/girl to successful athlete (for instance) is closer to the range of 1 in 3030, slightly more unlikely then being struck by lightning before the age of 80. Us normal folk are far from that representation of “black person” used in the media. Lastly, to a wealthy man (such as the one paying the coon), the rich man is foolish and poor. Not only do his riches pail in comparison to the wealthy man’s, but he has no financial literacy. His money comes and goes, whereas the wealthy man’s grows. Perhaps only to the black impoverished does the blacks=poverty statement sound offensive or incorrect. From another culture’s perspective, the synergy between poverty and black experience is a well-known stereotype, an expectation assumed until proven otherwise.

Historically, blacks were brought into capitalistic society as slaves. We were not considered whole human beings. This experience disallowed most economic and financial growth for blacks in the Americas. Legal segregation wasn’t lifted until as late as the 1950’s in America, allowing blacks to attend the same schools, restaurants and restrooms as the rest of the population. The isolation and racial segregation that came hand in hand with the black experience in this time created a financial disconnect as well. An inability to access the same resources and information as those using said resources and knowledge to achieve in the current economy. (mind you, the history of the black experience and the countless other ways blacks were set on bad footing is an even longer essay within itself. I will leave the responsibility of acquiring that knowledge to you, for now) That cultural segregation, although legally lifted, remains in the psyche of our society today. The footing in which blacks started as a race in western society is in many ways similar to our footing now.

Earlier I mentioned working in a much more upscale environment than the one I was raised in. There was an outrageous contrast between the world I lived in and the one I visited on a regular basis. The people spoke about different things. They had different worries and assumptions about life. I found myself greatly appreciating things that the people around me in this new world took for granted. They didn’t see the blessings in their community in the same way as I did. The safety, the treatment and service by store owners, landlords and government, the cleanliness, the lack of infestation, the well groomed parks, the simple sight of it. I eventually decided that my family deserved this quality of life as much as anyone else. I knew that when it was time to uproot and plant my flag elsewhere, I would be moving here. Now, I am quite aware of racial discrimination. I have experienced my share of obvious mistreatment on the basis of one’s presupposition at the sight of me, but I was not fully mentally prepared for the sheer difficulty and the amount of energy it would take to be accepted into the community. Perhaps I felt (and this is considering how pessimistic my opinions can be) that we as a species were a few steps further than we actually were. Nearly every single home I attempted to apply to shut me out. I started wearing my suit and tie, carrying work attire on my days off, simply to show my best side when viewing a potential home or filling out an application. I would show up fully equipped in business-wear, bag with reputable company logo, ID, paystubs, work letters, references, rental history, proof of no NSF fees, first and last in draft form, co-signers that made triple my income… one by one, every application would come back declined. Regardless of my previous upbringing and what I was accustomed to, I had grown to a point financially in my life where these places were well within my means. I was not reaching for the stars. So, why couldn’t I live here? I could understand people having legit reasons for a few different scenarios, but I could not conceive why I was being declined for every single place that I applied to. Sometimes I would get a call within an hour of leaving the residence informing me of the unfortunate news. Other times I would be told over the phone of a home’s availability only to be told that it was not available in person. I would be asked why I was looking for a home “here”. I asked the first few landlords to provide me with a reason for my declined application, elaborating that it would be beneficial for me to know what I was doing wrong so as not to make the same mistakes on future applications.They adamantly refused to explain. Let’s not jump to any conclusions. What I will say is that I had NevR experienced this amount of difficulty renting a home, nor had I ever met so much unexplained opposition. I began to think after some time that this place was not for me. This lifestyle, this quality of being, to live in a community of doctors, bankers, lawyers and all of the like. I was to settle, to accept my predestined fate.

Truthfully, the idea of the hood being full of minorities and the hills not being as multi-ethnic is not simply an idea or opinion. It is fact. Statistically sound. Our neighbors are not bankers, doctors and lawyers. Our parents didn’t make over $30 000 annually. We did not have generations of guidance to foster our lives financially. Those of us who make up the bulk of black experience in western society are not in very close proximity to this other world, where financial literacy is an unavoidable second language. This geographical segregation of race comes from the cultural segregation mentioned earlier. When blacks are historically unable to access the same resources as those (more) native to western land, the entire race in general is forced into a different social class altogether. Today, with that sort of blatant segregation illegal we are separated by something not so far off; classism. Remember what I said earlier, about black experience being synonymous with poverty? There may be specific reasons why it was unsuitable for me to live in each and every one of those residences applied for, but it can not be ignored that the community itself does not house many of my kind. Could it be that the sight of us assumes a specific social status to certain minds? Or is it simply coincidence that so few of us made it in? Perhaps it’s just our credit scores, and who is to blame for that other than ourselves, right?

…rather than end on that sarcastic note, I will conclude by saying that my wife and I did eventually find a landowner who took us seriously. We gave him all the documentation that his peers rejected and he saw no reason whatsoever to send us away. My 5 year old son has had an RESP open for some time now, alongside his very own SAV account with card and pin. He meticulously searches for and saves loose change to roll and deposit at the bank. He sits with financial planners every now and then who speak to him (in his language) about his money and his options. All of the children in our home will learn the language of finance from this young an age. I am personally growing my own portfolio and edge closer to maintaining a perfect credit score no longer tarnished from years passed. Remember, Credit Rules Everything Around Me. This is not a lost art, just muffled knowledge. Everyone has access to it. Granted, for us, we need to reach a little farther…


Why Black People Have Bad Credit (Part 1)

Today, I am held in high regards by many privileged people. We speak on stocks, credit lines, interest rates, the economy and the housing market comfortably and amicably. We casually implement high-value investments and million dollar transactions, all the while expressing our shared distrust in Toronto’s weather. I wear a suit and tie. I am intelligent, charismatic and strongly articulate. In some cases, (definitely only in some cases) I’m certain I’m even escaping the subconscious assumptions that come with my skin colour. They have gotten to know me over time. They have grown comfortable, and more importantly, have come to understand me in terms of my intelligence and capability. In this, we share a genuine interaction. I maintain the gift of objective empathy in all of our interactions. However, there is an error in our connection. It shows itself sometimes when they ask too personal a question and I realize that in order to maintain their trust and comfort I can not be entirely open with them. I am not the rare, privileged black man some of them have grown to assume I am. Instead, I am in many ways the exact stereotype that they do not empathize with. I don’t have many of the things they have. No I am not from around here, nor do I live in the area (yet). I take public transit to my home an hour away, to a not so well-off neighborhood. My advice and knowledge on investments, stocks and financial portfolios come from skillful implementation, not from personal experience. Yes, I have an understanding of the housing market, but no, I am not in pursuit of a mortgage. My non-threatening demeanor hides my history, my smile masks my struggle. And yes, I do have bad credit. Today, I wield a knowledge in finance adequate enough to wipe this stain clean from my social insurance number. I can not foresee this being part of my identity moving into my 30’s. Regardless, the man these privileged folk interact with is not cut from the same cloth as them. Although everything about our interaction says otherwise, I am a Hip-Hop loving, teenage-single-mother having, hood-grown, dealer and shooter affiliated black man… with bad credit. Some may be asking themselves why this is the case. If I have the capability to maneuver through this system beneficially to my own self-interests, then why fulfill the stereotype? Here’s your answer; my intelligence is (like many of you) innate, but my familiarity with the concept and importance of investments and financing is new to me. It has been recently discovered. In other words, I was raised innocently in socioeconomic circumstances that did not foster this knowledge. To be more frank, the general black experience does not incorporate financial literacy. And thus, we are all fated to follow similar paths, formed by the classism, racism, and culture segregation set in place long before the first breaths of our generation. By the time I woke up, it was too late for me, as it likely will be for many of you. I wonder to myself, if I am able to triumph today with these truths realized only recently, imagine being fluent in the language of credit a decade ago. What if I was taught as a child? Where would I be now?

Let’s rewind a little bit. I used a problematic term earlier that is guaranteed to result in some push back and debate. Today, we have exited the era of unified black pride, praising our similarities and sameness, and are now transcending into what some call the new black. This “new black” incorporates the idea that blackness can not be defined or categorized. Today, blacks hail from all walks of life, with various identities. Children of the financial achievers from my father’s generation are now young adults, providing a new black outlook. The black experience is arguably undefinable today, right? When I say black experience, I am not defining the overall experience of every black man and woman, nor am I boxing the potential of black people as a whole. I am simply stating that generally (keeping in mind the minimal exceptions that we praise and who’s fortune we largely exaggerate) we as black people share many of the same experiences and social handicaps in this western world. As of now, there are obvious similarities from one black person to another when analyzing the situations we are born in to and the circumstances of our lives. This means that regardless of your potential, your personality, what you identify with and how little you may relate to other black people, you share many of the same experiences. Mind you, this experience is slowly evolving, and eventually it will not be the general, over-arching norm. But for now, most of us do not have bankers and business owners for parents. Where I grew up, most of my peer’s parents were first generation Canadians who traveled here for a better life. My grandfather once told me that the first thing he saw upon setting foot in this country was a man working on a car, and so, he spent the majority of his life here as a mechanic. There was no help, no oversight, or experienced financial planner to show him the best moves to make in this Canadian economy. Like many others, my grandfather hit the ground running and started building a life for himself as quickly as he could, relying only on what knowledge of this new world he could happen upon. He tells me in retrospect he wishes he knew then what he knows now in terms of the wide array of opportunities that were available to him as a young man. Unfortunately, this is an awareness only maintained by those that have already been here for generations. By the time he became aware of many things, much time was lost. This is the circumstance I was born into. By the time I began to understand the severity of a credit score I was already behind. I remember the first time I needed someone to co-sign a loan for me so I could go to university. I quickly learned that not my father, nor my mother, not an aunt, uncle or grandparent was in a stable enough financial situation to help. My family took good care of me. It was not their fault just as much as it was not mine. I am proud of the person I have become and I owe much of it to them. However, they were not going to be the ones to teach me about GIC investments, stocks and savings bonds. Many of the people who surrounded me did not know what RSP and RESP stood for, or how they worked. I, like many, was set up in poverty and a lack of financial awareness. I was taught to work to live and to save what I could, not to have my money grow on its own.

To some, it may seem surprising that there would be people who do not have an understanding of simple banking. I considered myself a well-versed individual and an avid knowledge seeker. There are many things, however, that can only be taught from experience. And my experiences (the black experience) did not incorporate these things. I recently received a job position with a financial institution. I was not hired for my knowledge in banking, but rather, my proven potential. In this, I had a giant learning curve to account for. I was being placed face to face with people’s financial portfolios and accounts, and for the first time in my life I realized there was more to this world than CHQ and SAV. I saw rows and rows of different types of savings accounts. Some used for different reasons than others, moneys dispersed and categorized into various types of savings and investments for very specific reasons. Tax breaks, interest rates, growth aggression, joint and sole-proprietorship. But let’s avoid falling into a crash course on financial literacy. Simply put, there were things people were doing with their money that resulted in guaranteed growth from month to month or year to year. There were tax loopholes to be taken advantage of that guaranteed greater earnings and returns. There was a knowledge of debits and credits, playing a fine balance with their available funds, paying one thing with another, earning something from nothing. And these things were legal! Legal and available to anyone! Forgive my ignorance, but this was an epiphany for me. For me, yes. But common knowledge to all else in this world. Preteens walked in with their parents already comfortable and rather unimpressed with their plethora of accounts. They were being grown into this paradigm. A head start in my eyes, but an assumed expectation through there’s. So why is it this public knowledge was only introduced to me in my adult life? Why didn’t my family and friends bank in this way? Was it that no one decided it necessary to educate me on financial literacy? Or is it more likely my peers and loved ones were also unaware…


Click here for Part 2…

To Vince,

Thank you.


In retrospect, I would like to acknowledge that I understand one’s mental and spiritual state is sculpted by much more than from just one person’s influence, and perhaps there are others who deserve an equal serving of my gratitude. I, myself, could NevR give credit to a sole aspect of my life for defining the majority of who I am today. Nevertheless, reflections of your presence overwhelm my acknowledgment more than that of any other in regards to Leah. You and my father share a commonality in that you are both men who’s potential outweighs your accomplishments. Innate, profound wisdom and self-actualization that, for the most part, goes unseen by many in mere quick flashes of public brilliance, nothing standing the test of time. Well granted, nothing is inaccurate. And one can hardly say that your brilliance as a man has been wasted due to a lack of published work or world renown, because the beauty of who you are lives on beyond your life and courses through the lives of your children. This is the case with your precious first child. Her existence, to me, is nothing short of a reminder of our Creator. Every weakness, every strength, thought process and personality trait so tailor fitted to my being that I can not feel less than sheer appreciation for a life in her presence. I promise you, my honour and reverence for her meets every necessity and satisfies any reservation that a father might have in regards to giving away something as deeply cherished as one of his daughters. Leah is what I would want my daughter to grow to be, and in this, I grow a supreme appreciation for your influence in her life. My friendship with her is inherent and without effort due to your interests, beliefs, sense of humour and personality traits imparted unto her through countless documentaries, books and passionate sermons, a darkness in your perspective, an objective, detached truth to your thought process, a reverence for your Creator and an extreme ideology, unapologetic and dismissive to that which is commonly upheld. May I dare to say, even her love for me, her instant comfort in my presence, her effortless understanding of my character, is due to her being fathered by a soul so similar to myself. The stars have aligned for me so perfectly in regards to my wife. I am not worthy of such a gift, however I can NevR be without it in the knowledge of its existence. Thus, I should wish to formally thank you and hope that those words do any justice to my limitless gratitude. May you continue beyond all we can see in this world knowing that the husband of your first born understands her immeasurable worth and will spend his forever attempting to deserve the honour of her presence and love.




     I leaned back deeper into the comfort of my seat in an attempt to escape the discomfort of my surroundings. My wife sat on my left, staring quietly out the window deep in thought. I looked as well. Images of extreme poverty and contentment came and went in short bursts on the other side of the glass. People smiling, sitting, engaging in conversation, some waving at the bus as it barreled by, on a backdrop of forestry and dirt, half rubbled homes made of stone resembling something abandoned. Some had no roof. No one seemed concerned. They were mostly still in the moments they came into view. Any activity they were engaged in made sure to mind the unavoidable sun and penetrating heat. Sitting was activity enough here. I thought to myself how beautiful these images were, like being exposed to thousands of works of art, shuffling through landscapes and reality, each second another portrait. The beauty of their simplicity and the sorrow of their content had a profound impact on me. I wanted to be with them. They seemed greater than me, closer to God, their connection to truth undisturbed by the ills of my civilization; wifi signals and monitors, malls, paved roads and self-entitlement. They were closer to pain and struggle, to work and reward. The colours of their drapes or the cleanliness of their shoes were far down the list of priorities for the day. Food and shelter were still only barely attainable. We were on our way to a resort in Samana. Even in that moment of connection to these people, just several feet away, my existence in the bus greatly contrasted theirs. I had a blanket draped over my legs to combat the air conditioning. Drinks were being served. The man to my right hadn’t glanced out his window once. He wore khaki shorts and a skin tight vest, both the size for a man without self esteem issues. The female seated next to him matched his aura. She complained about needing to use the bathroom, hopelessly trying to convince her traveling partner to have a word with the bus driver. Maybe she was expecting a hero of her boyfriend, demanding the bus stop now, in the middle of hunger and poverty in order to ask one of the nice people outside to use their facilities. I was certain she expected a toilet and working hydro. Regardless, the Spanish-speaking driver would NevR have let this happen, even if anyone did care to ask on her behalf. Another Dominican man stood next to the driver, watching over the antics of his passengers. It was his job to rouse them. “You can not have one drink on this bus”. He struggled through the English pronunciation. “You must have two drinks”. The punchline. The man to my right responded with no words, hooting and whistling. He raised his green, glass beer bottle, allowing  cold and appetizing drips to run down the surface while the drink foamed over. I glanced back out the window at something inspiring and knew I was going to walk through a village like this one with my wife at the first opportunity we were given on this trip. I was on my way to a resort with unlimited food and alcohol, maids and servants making every effort to make me feel as though I had not left home. I knew then, barely scratching the surface of our trip, that me and the man to my right were going on two completely different vacations. We were going to leave with contrasting ideas about our visit. Our separate paradigms and outlooks would NevR allow us to be in the same place, even when side by side. Both visiting Samana; I was seeking a new land and experience, he was seeking luxury and paradise, and we were both going to find what we were looking for here. Just then my wife escaped her trance and sat forward, turning her head in my direction. A gentle smile and calm expression masked her deepest thoughts. “Anywhere I go, as long as I’m with you, I’m home”. I think she was referring to my epiphany.


Your Health and Corporate Profit

‎There was a panic a couple months back (a “scandal” as some papers put it) regarding the sanctity of Subway’s bread. The constant media coverage led many to boycott the sandwich company in boisterous confidence. Many of you reading this today may have already done away with Subway since the “scandal” in order to continue maintaining your healthy diet, making sure that you are only putting good things into your body. Power to you. I just thought it necessary to add a few tidbits of information to the conversation, especially for those who receive all of their information from outside sources. I find that people love to think they know something, without actually studying or rationalizing anything personally. The drug that has been discovered in Subway’s bread is called azodicarbonamide (don’t ask me to pronounce it, lest I forego my intellectual prowess). Let’s, for now, forget the fact that we can find the ingredient in yoga mats and rubber soles. As interesting and attractive as that is to those supplying you the news (WOW factor, I guess), this information is not really that relevant to the conversation of what it means for your health. Let’s get to the facts of the matter. Azodicarbonamide is used as a bleaching agent and dough conditioner allowing them to produce bread faster and cheaper. It also adds to the bread’s shelf life (doesn’t expire as quickly). It is not natural. It has been linked to respiratory issues, asthma and allergies. That’s really it for the most part. Now, I did not raise an eyebrow to this news. Instead, my reaction was that of instant and complete acceptance. It isn’t that I already knew of this ingredient and of its potential detriment to our human bodies. The particulars of azodicarbonamide were news to me upon hearing as well. However, the shock and panic of this news was immediately lost to me, given the truths of the capitalistic society we live in. Is it really that surprising that one of the biggest fast food chains in the western world might invest in practices that contribute more to their profits than to your health? As far as supply and demand is concerned, I would say these types of practices are to be expected. And further, the ingredient itself has been approved for use in our food by federal regulatory agencies providing it is used in particular predesignated amounts. They weren’t sneaking around or breaking any laws. As far as the laws of the land are concerned, no injustice has actually been committed. The truth is, Subway does not owe anything to us. The way the food industry is set up as a whole is not for the betterment of your health. Any expectation of such should be immediately cast aside. The agencies in place to regulate food and health for consumers are only confirming these sorts of ingredients aren’t being used in lethal amounts, not whether these are unhealthy amounts (or healthy at all). Whether we are speaking about Burger King (which you may have more readily accepted this news from), Subway, or your local grocery store, the majority of the food made available to us comes from people who aren’t concerned with extending our life expectancy. Most of the harmful chemicals and ingredients placed in the fruits, vegetables, bread, prepackaged snacks, meats and drinks that we consume are added with conscious intent in order to manipulate their colour, extend their shelf life, make fluffier or whatever other reason that coincides with lower manufacturing costs and more sales. Unfortunately, no one is taking any responsibility for your health. Don’t think for a moment that Subway feels as though they have wronged the public and are fixing a mistake. They were simply engaging in the same practices as all other food suppliers in our society (and likely still are in other ways we are currently unaware of). They just happen to be the ones caught with their hands dirty at the moment. If you truly are concerned about the things you put into your body, I suggest you don’t scoff at the idea of eating Subway sandwiches only to cross the street and buy WonderBread from the grocery store. There are hundreds of products relating to bread, croutons, and packaged stuffing that use azodicarbonamide for the same reasons Subway has been using it. Mind you, I don’t mean to sound as though I am pardoning the company on account of doing no more wrong than any other corporation. Rather, consider this an admonishment of the food industry as a whole. Being health conscious in today’s society means being extremely skeptical and meticulous about what you eat, using more unconventional methods to find your food and (most importantly) studying. Consider the recent food-scare scandal as a mere distraction from what is truly important. We are all responsible for our own individual health. It is not enough to simply commit to the companies who boast a health conscious marketing plan, or to choose the brand that has the most natural, beautiful, green pasture on their box. Approach the most available food with the most caution. We won’t go as far as to scream “population control” today, but at minimum, the companies we are allowing the responsibility of providing us with our sustenance are not concerned with our health and are not here for any other mutual benefit than to have you willingly purchase their goods. My belly is full from McDonald’s and they obeyed the regulatory minimum amount of sawdust allowed in my burger. My can of CocaCola is exhilarating my taste buds and they have kept the amount of sugar within that can just short of an immediately lethal amount. I want my bread to last two weeks before expiring so they have loaded my current loaf with azodicarbonamide and miraculously fulfilled my wish. Win/Win, right?


-This was NevR supposed to happen.



We spent a large amount of our relationship holding back.
Muffling emotion,
Denying our connection,
Thinking through,
In reserved embrace.
The truth is I fell in love with you instantly.
Before having the tangible truths to explain myself to anyone.
Love and relentless passion lay behind my calm surface.
We moved forward in a way regardless of our indescribable connection.
We questioned together.
Doubted together.
Shared every thought. Analyzed.
And discovered nothing but reaffirmation of our feelings.
Each word you contributed to our conversations made me honour you more and more.
Our time together until now has given me real words to describe our connection.
And so, when I promise to you, vow to you, it is coming not only from passion and unconditional love but from a place of unwavering confidence.
Leah, I will honour and cherish you unconditionally. In sickness and in health. Through struggle and rejoice.
I already do.
I have for you an endless supply of love, friendship and forgiveness. Until we are called back.
In God’s knowledge.
And before the eyes of the world.
I am yours.



‎My Dearest Stephan,
To me, marriage means that I am choosing to construct a family with God and you. Thank You Father God for doing me the honour of designing Stephan specifically for me and for bringing us together. Thank you Stephan for the honour of choosing me to be your helpmate in this life. By the grace of God I promise to be the best wife and mother that I can be for the glory of God and for the benefit of our family. Stephan, I pledge my entire being to blessing and supporting you in this life. I pledge my heart and mind to your mental, spiritual, and emotional growth, as well as my gifts to making your day to day existence all the more fulfilling and enjoyable.

I fell in love with you during our first text message conversation and with every conversation after that. It is as though my entire life was one big preparation for you. To this day I visit every nook and cranny of your psyche and realize I have been there before. I found my home in the Godly fibers that line your intellect, and it is my desire to spend my life nurturing them so that you may constantly be an ever brightening reflection of God’s image.

You are the best confidant, mirror and friend I could ever hope to wish for. Thank you for always putting me first. Thank you for lovingly showing me truths about myself in such a way that I love you even more. To every extent you are my reflection. To this day I am awestruck at your existence. I will forever stand convicted that you were designed for me. There are not enough words to express the honour I have of being your wife.