My Testimony

On the final day of Black History Month, NPR did me a solid—they gave me a Marvin Sapp Tiny Desk concert. As a Beyoncé-coded church girl, this did my soul much good. Gospel music is one of my greatest teachers. It calls me in, sets me straight, and lifts me high—and I was in deep need of all three.

We live in a moment where everything feels unstable, where each day chips away at the faith you once had in things you thought were inevitable. Even in this country, where uncertainty has always been the path for Black Americans, I’ve found myself especially befuddled these last forty days.

Then, in walks Marvin Sapp, belting out, "This is not the time for giving up." A line I’ve had to tell myself every single day lately. The weight sitting on top of us has me questioning everything—my work, my joy, even whether building love bridges is worth it when hate seems so poised to win. These are terrible questions for someone who has always been guided by love. I am a Libra rising; Venus is my planet; love is my ministry. And yet, lately, it has almost felt frivolous to dream of what love can build—for me, us, and our collective future.

Then Marvin walks back into the room, and the choir takes off.

"He has his hands on you. He said he’d see you through."

Last week was particularly trying for me to believe that better days are ahead as I also face a crossroads in my professional life. I found myself crying out to my ancestors as I lay across the bed in tears and depleted of the how of it all. I called out to my mother and my grandparents and asked them for guidance and assurance. Will I be ok?

I have found that my ancestors like to talk to me through music.

After the Tiny Desk ended, I felt pulled to keep listening to Marvin’s words. So, I played the song he wrote after losing his wife in 2011—a song I know well. I was deep in my own grief then, mourning my mother and grandmother, and his voice, the earnestness of his pain, felt familiar. In those early days, survival seemed impossible, and yet, somehow, I was surviving—just as he declares in the song. Even hearing the first note brought me to big, crocodile tears for years.

This time, the words hit differently.

Sitting on the floor with my eyes closed, singing along, I began to envision my family beside me, their hands resting on my shoulders. An overwhelming sense of safety washed over me. As the music continued, more of my ancestors filled my mind, and suddenly, the song wasn’t just about what I had overcome. It was about what we had built together. What our collective had made possible.

I continue to do the things that once felt impossible, to live out dreams I didn’t even know to dream. Through me, my ancestors live. I become their testimony. Sitting at their feet again, they reminded me: there is a bigger story than the one I’ve been telling myself—one generations in the making, one that will take generations more to unfold.

I am part of a multi-generational testimony.

My family’s story in this country could be written as one of calamity. But here I am, a living embodiment of their love, their prayers, their belief in a better future for us. I was their plan. You were someone’s plan—for your lineage, for this planet. We don’t always get to see the story play out, but we must still write it as if we know we will win.

So yes—my love matters. My work matters. My joy matters. Not just to me, but to them.

By the end of the song, I could hear a chorus of my loved ones singing in unison:

"In spite of the storm and rain (heartache and pain)
I'm still alive declaring I made it through
I (WE) didn’t lose."

We didn’t lose. We aren’t losing. We won’t lose.

"And because I made it, you gon’ make it too. I wish you’d tell ‘em that." —Marvin Sapp.