As far back as I can remember, there was always a God-fearing, Bible-professing black woman in my midst. A woman who prayed for provision when resources were scarce, touched your forehead to declare healing over your body, bowed down in submissive repentance before her Maker and saw potential in others that no one else seemed to see. A black woman who believed so strongly in God that her faith shamed you out of your own disbelief.
Many of the women in my life were single mothers. Some had lost their husbands to illness or had never been married. But there were many who had chased their men out of the house for being abusers, drunks, cheaters or “good for nothings.” No matter who was or wasn’t lying beside them at night, God’s footprints were firmly rooted in the foundation of their homes.
