Going a little ahead, he fell on his face, praying, “My Father, if there is any way, get me out of this. But please, not what I want. You, what do you want?” Matthew 26:39 Being the mom of a little black boy is in equal parts joyous and terrifying. Holding my son in my arms I cried both tears of joy because he was here and safe and terrified because I knew that as a little black boy in America I couldn't always keep him that way. That is the dichotomy of being Black in America. Equal parts joy and pain. Finding the balance of existing and surviving. Holding ones breathe every time your loved one is out of your sight and hoping they will make it home safe. Often, I wonder, "Lord can you take this cup from me?" Feeling the weight of holding your world together without being able to control the factors that seek to destroy it. Seek to destroy my husband who is big and tall. My son when is smart and growing like a weed. My daughter who is sassy and independent. All because