Faith Ain’t Fragile, But I Am
On Fear, Fatherhood, and Still Believing Anyway
Faith Ain’t Fragile, But I Am: On Fear, Fatherhood, and Still Believing Anyway
Let me tell you something I didn’t expect about fatherhood.
It doesn’t matter how many theology degrees you hold, how many panels you’ve spoken on, or how many rooms you’ve been invited into because you’re “wise beyond your years”—when your son gets sick, every credential goes out the window.
You’re not Rev.
Dr.
Sir.
You’re not the guy who just wrote a 3,000-word essay on divine sovereignty and communal grief.
You’re not a pastor of a growing congregation, engaged believers in the South side of Oroville, California.
You’re just a dad, fumbling through panicked prayers,
wiping sweat off a toddler’s head at 3 a.m., whispering things like, “I love you son, you gon be’ aight,
just stay with me, boy.”
And honestly? I wasn’t ready for how exposed that moment would make me feel.
I really wasn’t!!!
The Myth of Control (and Other Lies I Believed)
You see, I had fallen for a familiar lie: that if I did everything right—if I prayed hard, planned well, stayed faithful—my son would be safe.
Like faith was a kind of insurance policy against the pain this world can bring. And because I’m a Black father? Multiply that fear by a thousand.
Because it's not just the sickness.
It's what if they misdiagnose him because they don’t take Black pain seriously?
It’s what if he grows up and someone mistakes his hoodie for a weapon?
It’s what if the world sees him as a problem before it ever recognizes his promise?
Its the frequent seeing him as older and in that sense holding him to higher standard than giving him the benefit of grace that is provided to children.
You know what’s wild? I teach people about the sovereignty of God, about grace that holds even when our grip fails. But when it came to my son, I realized I’d been living with a Plan B faith. The kind that only works when I still feel in control.
Thats sad
embarrassing
unbecoming to some
but a stirring reality to a few of us!
Real Faith Starts Where the Script Ends
When my boy got sick, my first instinct wasn’t to trust. It was to fix. To calculate. To freak out quietly. And when none of that worked, I spiraled.
As I raced to the parking lot where he was being attended to by medical personnel; his mother played in my mind - I could not imagine her face as she had to see him and hold him while he was convulsing. His little delicate body had overheated and its natural response was one that will be embedded in her mind for some time.
The very thought of it had me using every ounce of energy in my electric car to weave through traffic - likely at unsafe speeds, with a plan to at least see him, if I got lit up by the cops. I would jump near him - say his name - so he could hear my voice before the police arrested me.
all of these scenes and more were playing out in my mind.
That’s when I had to reckon with the uncomfortable truth: faith doesn’t guarantee peace of mind, but it does demand a decision. Will I live what I say I believe?
It wasn’t an Instagrammable moment. It wasn’t polished or poetic. It was me, standing in the hospital bathroom, face in my hands, trying to pray but mostly just crying. It was raw. Human. And holy in a way the sanctuary sometimes isn’t.
And God, in that tender way only God knows how, met me in the mess.
Not with answers. But with presence.
Not with a sudden miracle. But with the reminder: “He was mine before he was yours.”
That line still undoes me.
Raising Black Sons in a Fearful Country (While Still Believing in Love)
You ever walk into a store and watch your kid skip down the aisle and then—like a flash—imagine a future news headline?
Yeah. That.
It’s not paranoia. It’s patterned grief. It’s American history woven into Black parenting.
It’s why I over-prepare.
Rico and Xavier Morton
Why I plan to teach him to speak clearly and look adults in the eye.
Why I tell him “I love you” three extra times before bed.
And yet—and yet—I know I can’t parent him from a place of fear alone. Because fear makes you controlling. Fear makes you reactive. Fear makes you forget that our children are not ours to keep—they’re ours to steward.
That’s what faith demands: not the absence of fear, but the refusal to let fear do the driving.
When Theology Meets the Thermometer
This is where the theology gets real. You want to know what I believe? That God is good. That grace is real. That love is stronger than death. But also? That I’m still learning to trust that when it’s my child on the line.
I’m not embarrassed to say it.
I’m human. Black. A father. A work in progress.
And I think we need more room in our conversations—especially the ones happening on Substack, in pulpits, on podcasts—to admit that believing doesn’t always feel bold. Sometimes it feels shaky. Sometimes it feels like saying “God, I trust you,” with your teeth clenched and your chest tight.
But that’s still faith.
That’s still holy.
That still counts.
A Prayer for Anxious Fathers
God of Abraham, Isaac, and every Black boy trying to breathe in this heavy world—
I come to You not as a perfect parent, but as a present one.
I come with fear tucked behind my back like folded laundry I don’t know what to do with.
I come with trembling hands that still hold tightly to my child’s future.
Lord, I confess—I’m scared.
Not just of what may happen to my son, but of what might happen to me if I lose sight of who You are.
Some days I carry so much concern it feels like it’s dragging my hope by the collar.
But You are the God who lifts burdens, not just hands.
Remind me that my child is Yours before they are mine.
That I don’t have to be omniscient to be faithful.
That I don’t have to control everything to cover them in love.
That being present is enough—and being prayerful is powerful.
Help me not to parent from panic, but from peace.
Not from trauma, but from trust.
Not from legacy fear, but from kingdom hope.
Make me the mountain they can run to—not because I’m unshakable, but because I’m rooted in You.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,
Amen.
Faith Reflection Guide: From Fearful to Faithful Fathering
“I lift up my eyes to the hills—
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.”
—Psalm 121:1–2
This parenting thing? It’ll humble even the most credentialed. But faith is not about never being afraid—it’s about knowing where to look when you are.
🌄 Look to the Hills, Then Be the Mountain
When the psalmist looked up, he wasn’t escaping reality. He was remembering Source. As fathers—especially Black fathers—we are often expected to be the mountain. Steady. Unshakable. But we don’t become that without looking to God first.
You don’t become a mountain by muscling through—you become a mountain by standing on the Rock.
📖 Scriptures to Anchor Anxious Fathers
Psalm 46:1 – “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.”
Isaiah 41:10 – “So do not fear, for I am with you... I will strengthen you and help you.”
Proverbs 3:5–6 – “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.”
Matthew 6:34 – “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.”
👣 Practical Steps for Faithful Fathering
1. Replace Control with Consistency
You can’t bubble-wrap the world. But you can show up daily. Presence builds peace.
2. Pray Out Loud
Let your child hear you talk to God. Model that faith isn’t abstract—it’s active.
3. Give Yourself Grace While You Grow
You’re going to miss things. You’ll get some of it wrong. But you’re still growing—and that’s enough.
4. Build a Village
Don’t parent in isolation. Let trusted family, friends, elders, and community help carry the load.
5. Root Your Family in Scripture Together
Memorize verses. Sing them. Say them in the car. Build a rhythm that anchors them beyond your presence.
6. Practice the Pause
When fear creeps in, take a breath. Say aloud: “God is here. I am not alone. My child is not alone.”
Final Thought
You weren’t asked to be perfect.
You were called to be present.
And presence—anchored in faith—is more powerful than fear.
We lift our eyes not because the world is light—but because our God is. And when we look up, we find the strength to stand tall—not just for our kids, but with them.
Thank you for reading.
If this blessed you, feel free to share it with another parent or fellow traveler in faith. Let’s keep lifting each other up—eyes to the hills, feet grounded like mountains, hearts full of hope.
So good. I cried and laughed. I love you.
Appreciate the vulnerability and honesty. Good read.