The Climb

Tag: love

  • When I Think of Her

    When I think of her, I see light — not the kind that fades when the sun sets, but the kind that stays … glowing steady in the corners of my heart.
    My mother was an awesome woman. Her voice could calm storms. Her prayers could lift a soul. Her love could fill a room and make you forget the pain outside the door.

    Now that she’s gone, the world feels quieter. Mornings feel a little emptier without her voice or her laughter. But her presence still lingers — in the way I cook, in the way I care for my family, in the way I keep pushing even when life tries to hold me down.

    When I think of her, I remember strength — not the loud kind, but the quiet kind that never wavered. She carried herself with grace even when life gave her reasons to fall apart. She worked hard, prayed harder, and always made a way out of no way. She was the definition of grace under pressure — and that’s the part of her I carry every single day.

    That’s what The Climb is about. It’s about picking up what she left behind — her faith, her fire, her love — and carrying it forward. It’s about turning grief into fuel. She taught me that when life knocks you down, you get back up. You don’t stay broken. You rise.

    Even now, as I walk through my own storms, I feel her pushing me up that hill. Her strength flows through me like a pulse I can’t see but can always feel. Her faith reminds me that the climb doesn’t end until you reach the top — and then you keep climbing for the ones who can’t.

    I miss her every day. Some moments I still break, but I rise because that’s what she taught me to do. Every step I take, every dream I chase, every word I write — it’s all for her. Because her story didn’t end when she passed. It lives through me, through my family, through The Climb.

    When I think of her … I don’t just remember. I continue her climb.

    —

    ✨ Dedication
    For my mother — the light that still guides my steps up The Climb.

  • Two Goodbyes, One Climb

    By Tommy Ramsey

    Grief has a way of showing us who we are — and who we were loved by. On the day we gathered at Calvary Revival Church, in Norfolk Virginia, I didn’t walk into a funeral. I walked into a homecoming.

    The sanctuary was full — packed with family, friends, church members, and even the children my mother once cared for as a nanny, now grown but still carrying the love she gave them. Every hug, every tear, every shared memory reminded me of just how far her love reached.

    I was deeply honored when my brother, Nelson asked me to deliver the tribute. That moment — standing at the pulpit, speaking her name, telling her story — was more than a duty. It was a gift. I spoke from my soul about the woman who taught us everything that truly matters: how to love, how to fight, how to endure, and how to believe.

    Bishop Courtney McBeth eulogy lifted the room with power. As Pastor Janeen McBath’s message reminded us that death is not the end — it’s a homecoming to God. And we didn’t mourn that day. We celebrated. We celebrated my mother’s laughter, her sacrifices, her prayers, and her faith. We celebrated the love that shaped generations and generations to come. When I walked out of that sanctuary, I carried more than sadness — I carried pride and purpose.

    But grief has a way of testing you just when you think you’ve found peace.

    As my wife and I waited to go to the airport to board our plane back to Hollywood, I felt a small piece of my heart starting to heal. And then the text message flashed across my phone — and the weight came crashing down again.

    My cousin, Benjamin Franklin Bell, had passed away.

    My cousin Ben lived a good, strong, meaningful life. But even with a full life behind him, his passing hit me hard — because Ben wasn’t just family. He was a teacher. He was a protector. He was a compass in my younger years, when the streets could have swallowed me whole. It was Ben who taught me how to stand tall in the streets. It was Ben who showed me how to honor the code of a men. If it weren’t for him, I might have been lost in the chaos known as the streets of Oakland. His lessons shaped me, and I carry them still.

    Learning of his death while still grieving my mother felt like a storm crashing into another storm. Yet, even in that pain, I felt their presence with me. My mother’s love was still holding me up. Ben’s Street wisdom was still guiding my steps.

    And that’s when I realized something deeper about this journey — this climb. It’s not just about reaching goals or surviving setbacks. It’s about legacy. It’s about the love that carries you when your strength fails. It’s about the lessons that become part of your DNA. It’s about the people who leave this world but never leave you.

    I carry my mother’s faith in every decision I make. I carry Ben’s code in every step I take. And even though the climb feels steeper now — even though the weight of two goodbyes is heavy — I will not stop.

    Because their legacy is my climb. And with every breath, every prayer, and every tear, I climb for them.

    Dedication

    For my mother — who taught me how to love. For my cousin Ben — who taught me how to stand.

    Every step I take is because of you.