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.
The Climb 