I Celebrate You

Before I was born, you told me that you fervently prayed for a son. One night you called out to God and stated: “Lord, if you give me a son, I will give him back to you.” I think about that prayer often. In times of difficulty or seasons of prosperity, I have never felt the presence of God leave me. He’s always been very near to me, convicting and comforting me simultaneously as if to remind me of the deal that you made with Him. He is constantly poking me on my shoulder and saying: “You are mine, Sheridan, you are mine.” That prayer seems to have latched itself to my heart in a way that created an insatiable desire to know God, to really know Him, to trust Him, despite of where I was in life. Despite of what people around me thought, despite of how unworthy I felt at times. This longing never ceased in me, and everything in my life became clouded with this Davidic sentiment that even in my lowest moments, I can still venture forward and be a man who intends on seeking after God’s own heart. I remember you being my first reader. You were my first real fan, my first real encourager of any gift I discovered within myself, unwrapped and shown to you with this excited glimmer in my eyes. I remember the day I discovered that I loved writing. It wasn’t something that I was excited about, I privately begged for different passions or gifts that would somehow help me become more popular at school. This wasn’t one of them. But it was something that I just did, and couldn’t stop doing. It was a part of me, and I needed to get it out and express it somehow. You were a voracious reader, a more than willing candidate that wanted to devour anything that her son had to offer. I needed to exhale words and fast, out of the fear that if I didn’t, I would implode in a supernova of curios and creative energy.

This led to a new pile of papers that were stacked on your nightstand every night waiting for you when you got home. Sometimes they were poems written to you about something I’d noticed outside during my day. Sometimes it was a short story that encompassed a complex character navigating his fantasy world. Sometimes it was a series of short stories, or a comic book narrative like “Little Bernell,” a collection of imagined stories about the adventures and mishaps of my young grandfather. I needed someone to share my universes with. I needed someone to read my stories and smirk at my dialogue and eat up this content that was overflowing inside of me. Most of the time I didn’t need to see you read them, I just needed to put them there so that you would have them. I just needed to be seen, and you saw me. I just needed to be known, and you lifted me up and held me up in the light like a fascinating artifact. I’ve been weird most of my life mom, and you know that. I am sensitive and fickle, passionate but reserved, hopeful but sometimes pessimistic. In all of this, you have loved me, and continued to. You have only asked that I be obedient to what God has for me, and to trust Him, regardless of whether or not I felt like it.

You sat with me during my weeping, you laughed with me during my teasing, and you asked to see my dreams and then allowed me to show them to you. Thank you for being an example of a person who no longer allows fear to hold them captive. Thank you for your wisdom, your boldness and your swift insight to anyone who is willing to listen to the word of encouragement God has placed on your heart for them. Thank you for loving me, in the times I have lost all love for myself. Thank you for loving my dad, and being a wife that not only encourages, but empowers. You are seen mom. You are not just beautiful, you are beauty, you transcend the very essence of any limits of attraction, and present yourself to the world around you with power. You are not Sidney’s wife, or Auntie’s sister, or Sheridan’s mom. No, you are so much more. You are Debbie, little Debbie, who God has so deeply loved for so long. Thank you for your compelling ministry mom, and thank you for being my reader. Thank you for seeing me. I’ll continue to leave parts of myself on your nightstand. Happy Birthday.