Faith Becomes a Teenager
Thirteen years ago this past Friday, my life as I knew it officially ended.
February 11, 2009 was my final day as a writer/copy editor for the Houston Chronicle, one of many casualties in the seemingly endless bloodletting that was in its apex of newspaper cuts across the nation. A role I had dreamed of since fifth grade was gone just three years into what I had hoped would be decades.
At 37 years, 10 months and two days, my life felt as if the final chapter had been written. There was no happy ending to be found driving down Allen Parkway, tears streaming down my face as the empty feeling of “what’s next?” fought to take control of the wheel just a mile or so from my apartment.
I had sheer dread of falling asleep. Writing was everything to me. My byline defined who I was. No matter what, Brandon C. Williams, Sportswriter, Houston Chronicle was my Uber Alles. To have that stripped away from me felt like a cruel joke, so much so that part of me thought that this was just a bad dream and that I’d wake up the next day getting ready to either cover college basketball or grind on the desk until 1:00am with my fellow copy editors.
If the world had ended on February 11, 2009, I would have been OK with it.
The Twilight Zone feel of sitting in my faithful 1998 Ford Explorer, the one that had carried me throughout the state over numerous games, long late night solo singalongs (thankfully, the inadvertent dialing of my Blackberry that resulted in a friend’s phone message hearing me sing Sara Bareilles’ hit “Love Song” no longer exists) and countless drive throughs was overwhelming. I didn’t want to get out. To have done so meant it was indeed final and that I had to begin coping with a post-Chronicle world. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I was capable of that.
Once I (finally) stepped out, a piece of me died. To this day, I’m still not sure how huge that piece was.
Unknown to me then was that my journalism death brought life, for in one of my darkest moments, the foundation of the faith I currently have was unearthed.
Thirteen years and two days later, I’m here. I’ve never really asked God why He chose me for the journey I have traveled when others I worked with were able to rebound and find “better” roles.* Over time, I gradually let go of the ledge and trusted I’d be fine wherever I landed, be it head over heels in love out in Oregon or covering the Houston Texans for CBSSports.com or being my mother’s advocate or yearly stops at the Southland Conference Basketball Tournament or being wherever/whenever for my two younger nephews or singing in a church choir or being the Editor of The Post Newpaper. Wherever I landed, I learned to accept it.
(*OK, I did ask. Once. His response was clear: “Because you were the strongest one.”)
Fewer and further between, the wondering of “what might have been…” makes a cameo appearance. When once that subject might have invoked a deep, dark trip into depression, faith now nudges me as a reminder to not worry about it. So I won’t.
Instead, I’ll just end this by shocking those close to me by saying Happy Valentine’s Day. If you’re fortunate to be a part of it, enjoy.
(I said that? Really? Aw….)
