Part 1. A Name to Keep Me Safe
Whenever I called my Uncle Michael, for a while I’d hear Long Train Runnin’ by The Doobie Brothers on the other end of the line. That song became the one that reminded me of him, representing everything he was to me—protective, steady, and constant. The line “Without love, where would I be now?” resonates with me every time I think of him, because his love and presence in my life were always something that kept me safe, even from miles away.
Uncle Michael was my Dad’s older brother—someone everyone loved, someone who had a reputation. He wasn’t a Pentecostal guy himself, but his childhood best friend Sam had become the pastor of the local Pentecostal church in Normangee, Texas. Michael’s influence wasn’t confined to bloodlines, though. He married into a family with strong ties to the church, and many of his friends, nieces, and nephews were part of that world. Even though he didn’t live in town anymore, everyone knew him. He was this rock-solid, dependable figure, and no matter where he went, his name had a ripple effect.
Growing up in a tiny Texas town where the church and school were the heartbeat of life, I was surrounded by that community—one that loved my uncle. Even people who hadn’t seen him in years would ask about him when I’d walk through the doors of that old church. “How’s Michael?” they’d always ask. It was as if his presence lived there, in the words spoken, in the love that flowed from the church pews. That love and protection became something bigger than just him. His name kept me safe.
When I was 15, life wasn’t stable. My mom and my stepdad’s relationship was turbulent. We lived out in the country, moving from place to place, no car, no phone, no way to reach out if something went wrong. And something did. Two of my stepdad’s sketchy, drunk, drugged-out friends showed up one day. They cornered my Mom and I in the bathroom. They were much older, and they said things I didn’t know how to respond to. Calling me beautiful and making inappropriate advances. I was just an awkward, prepubescent looking scared 15-year-old kid. The situation felt dangerous, unsettling, and I didn’t know what to do.
But then, my mom stepped in. I’ll never forget her words, spoken calmly but with a strength that changed everything in that moment. She said, “Would you like to tell Michael Nixon that? This is his niece… Kerry Nixon’s daughter!”
I’ve never seen grown men’s faces shift so quickly, as if their souls had left their bodies for a moment. Their eyes got wide with fear, like they had just been caught in something they couldn’t escape. “Michael Nixon? The Nixon Boys?” They ran out of that room so fast, out the door, into their car, and down that dirt road like they were in a race. I’ve never seen fear like that. I don’t know if it was the power of his name or what they knew about him, but I was safe.
Without him, without his love, without the reputation that came with it, where would I have been? What might I have gone through in that moment? What would have happened if his name hadn’t been that shield?
Without love, where would I be now?
That question echoes every time I think about him—Michael Nixon, who kept me safe with his love, his reputation, and the fact that he was just, well, him. Even when he wasn’t around, his love ran like a long train, steady and unyielding. The love I felt from him wasn’t just from his actions but from the very idea of him—his name, his reputation, the people he had touched. And I was one of those people.
Now, when I hear that song, I don’t just think of the cool, dependable guy I knew. I think of the legacy of love he left behind. I think of how his presence, even when he wasn’t physically there, always kept me safe. And I wonder, what would my life have looked like without that kind of love? Without the protection and care he made sure I had?
Without him, where would I be now?
Part 2. Wisdom in the Storm
When I think about the Pentecostal Church in Normangee, Texas, it feels like something out of a story—a community so tight-knit that it seemed almost magical. Brother Sam Manning wasn’t just a pastor—he was the heart of the church, and his wisdom and love permeated everything he did. But it wasn’t just him. The entire church, the community, was like a family always looking out for me. The women of the church many were schoolteachers—many had gone to high school with my mom—and I always felt like I was part of something bigger than myself. Everyone there seemed to be related in one way or another, and that created a sense of connection that made it feel like home.
I was just a kid, trying to figure out where I fit. Punk Rock Indie Chick (whatever that is) was my identity, my way of expressing my frustration with the world. I wore my jeans and makeup to church, feeling like an outsider in a place where the dress code and customs didn’t quite match who I was. But Brother Sam, despite the differences, never made me feel like I didn’t belong. I was always treated like family, and his sermons weren’t just words—they were the foundation of some of my teenage years. His messages spoke directly to my heart, reminding me of faith, love, and the light in the darkness—lessons that still stick with me today.
During those formative years of learning what love really meant. Brother Sam’s teachings weren’t just about words—they were about action. And what amazed me most was the way the women of the church—his sisters, his family—showed that love in everything they did. When my mom was with my stepdad, and we had nothing, it was these women who showed up. They didn’t just preach love; they lived it. They made sure we had food, presents for Christmas, and, most importantly, a reminder that God loved us. They didn’t ask—they just showed up. They were there to pray, to offer encouragement, to remind me to look for light, even in the darkest moments.
I can still see their faces, their warmth, their unwavering faith. They didn’t just make sure I had what I needed physically—they made sure I knew I was loved, no matter what. They showed up, day after day, letting their godly light shine without hesitation. Their faith wasn’t just something they talked about—it was something they lived. And for that, I’m eternally grateful.
Without love where would I be now?
Without that Pentecostal Church, without Brother Sam’s wisdom, I know I would’ve been lost. I’m not sure I even saw it at the time. Their love didn’t come with conditions. It wasn’t about fitting in; it was about being accepted as you were, about knowing that no matter what, you weren’t alone. Brother Sam’s sermons were part of the foundation for my faith, and his wisdom shaped the way I approached life. And the women of the church—they embodied love in the purest way. Their actions, their constant support, showed me that love is a light, one that never fades, no matter how dark things may seem.
It’s not just that their love kept me safe in some of those pivotal moments. Their love became a core part of who I am. The many messages of Brother Sam. The steadiness of Michael’s presence, even from miles away, taught me that I could always be grounded, no matter how turbulent life got.
When the pandemic hit, it was as if the world suddenly tilted off its axis. Fear gripped everyone around me, and it felt like the ground beneath us was constantly shifting. I, too, found myself questioning everything—my future, my safety, the stability of it all. The isolation, the uncertainty, and the overwhelming sense of dread felt like a storm I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to weather. But it wasn’t just the pandemic itself that shook me—it was losing my Uncle Michael. His passing in August of 2020, during the height of the chaos, felt almost surreal. He wasn’t just my uncle; he was my Dad’s big brother, his best friend, the man who had been a constant in his life since childhood. Watching my Dad fall apart at the funeral, seeing him lose the one person who had always been his rock, was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to witness. His heartache was gut wrenching, and I couldn’t help but feel helpless as I watched him lose his stability. The pandemic, with its isolation and fear, only magnified that loss. It felt like we were living in an era where stability, love, and connection were disappearing, and the pain of losing Michael made everything feel even more fragile.
But then, Brother Sam’s teachings came rushing back to me, as if they were meant for this exact moment. He had always spoken of staying strong in faith, of trusting that even in the darkest times, God’s light would show us the way. He’d warned us about tough times, but somehow it always felt like he knew this kind of chaos was coming. It wasn’t just a feeling—it was the way he talked about resilience, about holding on to God’s love when everything seemed to be falling apart. His words, almost like prophecy, stayed with me through the uncertainty, and in those moments of fear, I found myself clinging to his wisdom as though it had been prepared for this very storm.
Part 3. The Weight of Love and Loss
Brother Sam’s wisdom and Uncle Michael’s light became a guiding compass through life’s storms. The love they gave me, steady and unshakeable, continues to be a source of strength when I face challenges. Whenever I find myself questioning my path, their teachings are quiet whispers I rely on. I hold on to their lessons—about resilience, about embracing faith even when it feels distant, and about the kind of love that doesn’t falter in adversity. They taught me to protect others, to nurture relationships, and to love without hesitation. Without them, I truly can’t say where I’d be now.
As if losing Uncle Michael wasn’t enough, life’s weight came crashing down even harder. Just near two months after we laid him to rest, we lost my cousin Alisha, Michael’s only child. Alisha was someone who carried Michael’s strength and love with her every day, and to see her taken so soon was a painful reminder of how fragile life can be. The air felt constantly heavy as I tried to process one loss only to be hit with another, even more unexpected. To say the grief was suffocating would be an understatement. We had no time to breathe, no space to process. Just one loss after another, each one feeling like a blow that knocked the wind out of me.
But even in those darkest moments, it was some of my memories of Michael and Brother Sam that I clung to. They had always been pillars of strength, and now, with both of them gone, it felt like the ground beneath me was crumbling. Watching my Dad in his grief, seeing my dad’s heartache made me question how we’re supposed to keep going when the people who loved us most are no longer here.
12 months later, my dad’s time came. The pandemic had already taken so much, and now I was losing the last of my anchors. Losing my Dad felt like the final blow. He was the one who had carried me through the hardest parts of my life, and now, I was left to face this cruel world without him. His heartache from losing Michael and Alisha, his struggles with everything changing around him, a cure that only made him sick—his body just couldn’t bear the weight of it all. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever been through, and it’s a pain I’ll carry with me forever.
I lay broken, bruised and destroyed metaphorically for quite some time but eventually the lessons Michael, Alisha (get up, dress up, show up!), and my Dad had instilled in me, well I guess they kept me going. Their love and wisdom never left me, even when they did. Their guidance, the way they lived with strength and love, and the way they endured even when life threw them hard punches—it all became part of my foundation. They taught me to keep going even when it feels impossible, to keep looking for the light even when all you see is darkness. And through their wisdom… though it took time, I found the strength to carry on
