Romans 8:28 says,
“All things work together for the good of those who love the Lord and are called according to His purpose.”
I’ll be honest. I wasn’t a fan of that verse for most of my life. But truth? It doesn’t ask for your permission to be true. In sixty years of walking through storms, shadows, and mountaintop moments, I’ve learned: if you believe God is who He says He is, then you’ve got to trust His word—even when your life feels like a complete mess. Even in the worst of it… there’s a blessing tucked in the chaos.
I come from hard beginnings. An abusive home taught me pain, but it also birthed creativity. My safe place was the pages I filled with ideas and art no one understood—not until I was grown. I spent parts of my childhood with my grandmother in a house with an outhouse out back, learning what it meant to survive, adapt, and find beauty in broken places.
Art was my heartbeat—but nobody heard it.
So I joined the Marines. Not for glory, not for adventure, but for family. For brotherhood. To prove to the world—and to myself—that I wasn’t weak. And I learned quickly: I was anything but.
I honed skills I didn’t realize I had—like marksmanship that started with a Red Ryder BB gun, shooting dragonflies off clotheslines for fun. Back then, in rural America, guns were tools and toys. Every hero we knew carried one. They weren’t blamed for brokenness—they were symbols of protection, sport, and culture.
The world’s changed. People fear what they don’t understand. They label what they haven’t lived. But me? I’ve lived enough to know where I stand.
And that’s what this podcast is about. It’s about standing. In faith. In music. In truth. In the fire and the feedback. Welcome to Blusician.
you know All things are not good. That’s a truth I’ve come to own deeply this week, especially in light of Romans 8:28. The verse doesn’t promise comfort or ease. It promises alignment. Not all things are good, but they work together for good—for those who love God, are called according to His purpose, and live within His will. It’s not absolute, automatic, or guaranteed. It’s conditional. Purpose-driven. Surrender-sealed.
Being alone a lot as a kid gave me the gift of time—time to study, reflect, and understand who God is. I grasped faith early, deeply enough that my grandmother looked at me and said, “You’re going to be a preacher.” Back then, in the African American community, that title held weight—it meant respect, status, leadership. Today, that same mantle is heavy with skepticism. Charlatans, predators, and profiteers have turned pulpits into platforms for exploitation. Truthfully, even as a boy, I didn’t see myself in the “preacher” mold. I still don’t.
Instead, I chose a different baptism—I enlisted in the Marines at seventeen, with my mother’s permission. In many ways, I grew up in the Corps. I embraced the standards, outperformed expectations, and carried myself with pride and discipline. Those choices earned me meritorious promotions every time I was eligible. I left my MOS as an E-4 and graduated top of my class from Marine Security Guard School.
My first posting: Brasília, Brazil. I learned Portuguese, became legal, and—like any young Marine with newfound freedom—embraced the role of a lothario. One close call, a near kidnapping, pivoted my life toward the Intelligence Community. Another layer added to my journey. Another twist I thought might disqualify me from any future calling to ministry.
Then came London—i made sergeant, my final year in the Marines. We lived in a mansion in the West End, immersed in the electric pulse of the ‘80s music scene. It was everything I’d imagined when I enlisted. Lifelong friendships. Unforgettable experiences. I was planning to leave the service, take up college part-time, and start work as a state police officer in Arizona. That plan unraveled when family needed me more. I stayed home, missed key appointments—and then remembered an offer I’d received back in Brazil. I decided to chase it down, just to see if it was real.
It was.
Music was always playing in the background, like wallpaper in my childhood. R&B, soul, Motown, blues—they belonged to the older folks. I couldn’t connect with it then, couldn’t understand why my mother’s generation would light up at the crackle of a needle on vinyl. I thought B.B. King was cool, sure—but I didn’t feel what they felt.
Still, something in me wanted to learn. I chased the guitar like it was freedom. I’d buy one, then a book. A cassette. A VHS tape. Then CDs. Eventually DVDs. Each time, thinking this was the moment I’d finally get good. But life doesn’t run in a straight line. I’d pick it up, then put it down, sell it, and later buy another—like trying to catch a dream that kept slipping just out of reach.
When I got married, something shifted. I started to hear the genius in Stevie Ray Vaughan’s riffs, the fire in Buddy Guy’s fingers. That sparked a hunger—not just for music, but for understanding the soul behind it.
But life kept spinning. I became a father. A minister. A gun rights advocate. I took a few live lessons from real instructors. Got close. But never stayed long enough to get good.
It wasn’t until Covid hit—when the whole world slowed down and grief found its way into my home—that music finally moved from the margins to the center. My wife got sick. Everything changed again. And the guitar became something deeper than sound. It became a lifeline.
Four years into this caregiving journey, I see the light at the end of a very long tunnel.
My new normal: a wife who is handicapped and bedridden, adult children who are weary but holding on. We’ve survived COVID, emergency rooms, threats of fatality, financial anxiety, spiritual anguish, inept aides, grief, anger, failed therapy, and a rotating cast of characters whose visits were often more disruptive than helpful.
But today, I think I’m going to be okay.
Because today… I am a musician.
I’ve worn many hats—law enforcement, firearm advocacy, politics—but none equipped me for the storm of emotions I’ve navigated: frustration, anxiety, depression, guilt.
as we continue and i share some mess in this message I’m to tell you how i am coming out of this darkness. if i can. you can.
As I end this episode today we’re reminded that blues isn’t just sound—it’s soul. Every story shared, every scripture reflected, and every truth laid bare is part of a movement that turns pain into purpose and isolation into connection.
Nobodys life is perfect.
the Word of God is a living thing.
• Share this episode with someone who’s navigating their own valley—music and story can be the balm they didn’t know they needed.
• Follow the journey @TheBlusician on Instagram, YouTube, and Facebook—where soul meets strategy, and grace meets grit.
• Drop your thoughts in the comments or DMs. What resonated? What’s stirring in your own story?
• And if this message moved you, consider supporting the next chapter—whether it’s through sharing, streaming, or being part of the crowdfunding movement for the debut CD.
Final words:
“thank you for being here. You’re not just listening—you’re part of the story.”
