Attending an African-American Church for the First Time
I had the best time
I was homeless in Minneapolis for almost three years. It was the lowest point in my life and a soul-crushing experience. There were two things that kept me going.
I’m by nature a stubborn son of a bitch. I was going to get through it despite it all. And a woman in South Carolina I had never met decided to care about me.
We had started talking a few days before I had to leave where I was staying. That morning before, I left to see if I could find some help. After packing what I could into an overnight bag and a backpack, I checked my laptop one last time.
She was waiting for me. I told her what happened and said I had to go. We talked again the next morning while I was sitting in my truck in the shelter parking area.
We continued to talk and get to know each other. Two years later she flew up to see me.
At this point I was in love. There was no question that I was going to marry Olivia and live in South Carolina. We started making plans.
I had grown up in the Southern Baptist Church. My Maternal Grandfather was a plumber and an Ordained Minister. After my mom died I quit going to church.
