Come, Be with Us!

In October 1986, a simple twist of fate left my mother stranded in Indianapolis. That November, seeking a spiritual home, she and a friend opened a phone book. The first name they saw was "A Prince of Peace, COGIC." Taking it as a sign, they called for a ride to the next service—the first stitch in the tapestry of our lives. Years passed, and my brothers and I would regularly visit Indianapolis, following our mom to the pews of that same church. Then, in 1994, a court order moved us there permanently. I was fifteen, standing on the threshold of manhood, unaware that my destiny was already waiting in the sanctuary. For years, we were just two children in the same congregation. To me, GerMichael was simply "one of the boys"—a familiar face in the pews of my grandfather’s ministry. I didn't know then that this boy would one day hold the key to my heart. One Sunday, the world felt different. As I sat in the sanctuary, the doors opened and in comes Ricketa. As the Pastor’s granddaughter, she moved with a natural grace, but to me, she was floating. A glorious sunrise emanated directly from her. Though I had known her for a while, that was the day the scales fell from my eyes. I was sixteen; she was thirteen. While he was experiencing that epiphany, I was discovering something equally profound: safety. As we navigated our teenage years, I began to see him differently. I was drawn to the stillness in his presence—authentically, unapologetically free to be me. We became best friends, speaking a private language of laughter. In the quiet moments of service, we passed folded notes that grew into four plus page letters. I’d find any excuse to be near her—standing beside her in the choir, holding her hand as we danced, or sitting close on the church van. I loved her with a purity that transcended everything else. As we grew closer, the world took notice. We were seen as "too much alike," and voices suggested he wasn’t the "manly man" I needed. I loved him just the same, unable to see how their definitions of masculinity applied to our soul-connection. In 1997, the winds changed. Seeking a new path for her teenagers, my mother decided to leave Prince of Peace. By January 1998, we were moving back to Michigan. In 1999, my senior year, I mailed Ricketa a photo. On the back, I wrote: “You will forever be my heart.” Then, silence fell for twenty-three years. Life took us on separate paths. At 16, I found myself pregnant, moving into a future worlds away from the choir loft. Fast forward through twenty-three years, three marriages & three divorces. I reached a place of radical acceptance: the life I had been told I wanted wasn't what I wanted at all. The summer of 2020 brought digital breadcrumbs—likes on my Facebook page from a name I had never forgotten. On September 7th, I sent her a belated birthday message. That spark reignited a dormant fire. Facebook messages turned into hours-long calls. My best friend was back. As Ricketa shared the news of her divorce, we entertained the impossible: a second chance. But fear whispered. Having never been in a relationship with a woman, I wondered, "Can I be the man she deserves?" Paralyzed, I went silent for two weeks. It took a heart-to-heart with my brother, D’Andre, to remind me to just be open. I called her that night and laid my heart bare. I hadn’t judged his silence; I knew his energy. When he finally called, I embraced him. The "too much alike" that people once criticized was now our greatest strength. In October 2020, while my family was celebrating in Ohio, Ricketa was only three hours away in Indiana. When she drove down, the excitement was electric. The moment we saw each other, the twenty-three-year winter ended. We’ve been inseparable ever since. No longer governed by what we "should" be, we are building a legacy rooted in freedom. From teenage letters to a lifetime of love, our story proves that what is meant for you will always find its way back home. GerMichael & Ricketa