Before the Uniform

 

Lately, I’ve been looking at old videos of my father, reading newspaper articles, and tracing dates that once felt insignificant. Funny how a date can sit quietly on a page for years until one day it decides to speak.

I never met my grandparents, John Franklin Thomas and Loretta Hilda Thomas. Looking at their photographs now hurts in a way I did not expect. Perhaps it is because they no longer look like someone’s grandparents to me. They look young. They look like people who should have had more time.

My grandfather died in May of 1968. Ten months later, my grandmother died in October of 1969.

Every time I say “ten months,” I think about childbirth.

The amount of time it takes to bring a child into the world is the same amount of time that passed between my grandfather leaving this one and my grandmother following behind him.

Ten months.

When I learned that, I stopped looking at my father’s football career the same way.

Most people begin his story when he was drafted by the Dallas Cowboys in 1970. They begin with the uniform. The statistics. The contract disputes. The headlines. The silence.

But what if the story begins before that?

What if the story begins with a young man whose childhood had already been interrupted by responsibility?

My parents became parents while they were still children themselves. My oldest sibling was born in 1964. Another followed in 1966. My father was attending West Texas State while my mother was at Bishop College in Dallas raising toddlers. Neither one of them knew exactly what they were doing.

How could they?

People like to say young parents “grow up fast,” but I don’t think that’s entirely true. I think they figure things out while life keeps moving. There is trial and error. There are mistakes. There are victories no one applauds because survival itself becomes the accomplishment.

Then my grandparents died.

When people tell my father’s story, they often talk about what he lost or gained in football.

I find myself thinking about what was lost at home.

When my grandparents died, my father lost his parents.

His brothers and sisters lost their parents too.

The family lost its foundation.

The weight became heavier.

And yet, almost immediately afterward, the world met Duane Thomas the football player.

What fascinates me is how little room there seems to be in sports history for a person’s actual life.

Fans remember touchdowns.

Newspapers remember controversy.

Commentators remember contracts.

Yet very few stop to consider what existed before a man’s feet ever touched the field.

My father once told me that people did not care what was happening in your personal life. They cared about your performance.

The older I get, the more I understand what he meant.

A young man can be grieving.

He can be helping support a family.

He can be helping his wife through college.

He can be worrying about younger siblings.

He can be carrying the pressures of racism in a changing America.

He can be trying to learn how to be a husband and a father.

Yet when Sunday arrives, none of that matters.

The crowd wants production.

The newspaper wants a story.

The organization wants results.

Everything else is expected to wait.

Stress, however, is not polite.

It does not wait to be invited.

It does not knock.

It barges in unannounced and makes itself comfortable.

Reading old articles now, I find myself wondering how often people mistook the symptoms for the story.

How often did they see frustration but not pressure?

How often did they see silence but not the reason for it?

How often did they see an athlete and miss the human being entirely?

My father used to tell me that famous people were people first.

I remember him introducing me to athletes and reminding me not to become starstruck.

“They’re people.”

Such a simple lesson.

Yet it may have been one of the greatest gifts he ever gave me.

Because I knew him as a person first.

Not as number 33.

Not as a headline.

Not as a controversy.

Not as a legend.

As a person.

As the man who loved words.

The man who painted.

The man who cooked meals so beautiful they felt like works of art.

The man who once looked at me and said, “I don’t know how to be a dad. I’m still figuring this stuff out.”

Maybe that is why this journey has made me emotional.

I am not discovering who my father was.

I already knew him.

I am discovering the weight he was carrying while he was being himself: Before the uniform. 

Your love still has no shelf life

 Today is Father’s Day, and it would have been my father’s birthday.

The sun is bright outside, but inside I feel a little overcast. The house is quiet, and part of me wishes my phone would ring and I could hear my father’s voice on the other end.

Father’s Day has a way of touching places that ordinary days don’t. Even when we’ve made peace with a loss, there are certain dates that remind us of the shape of that love and the space that person occupied in our lives.

A while before he passed, my father and I had a conversation about love. I told him I would never get married again. No courthouse. No name change. Never. He laughed. I told him, “Love is voluntary. I don’t need a license to love. When I help a homeless person, I volunteer. Love is a choice.”

He listened and then shared some wisdom only a father can give.

“One day, you may want to share your life with someone. Just remember, you won’t like them every day—but love is still a choice.”

Today, I wish I could call him and tell him something.

I’d tell him I’m no longer saying never.

I’d tell him that life has a way of softening convictions we once thought were permanent.

I’d tell him that after loss, disappointment, grief, and healing, I’ve discovered something beautiful: the desire to love never left me.

Death teaches us many things. One of them is that love doesn’t end when a person’s earthly life does.

I remember telling my father, “Your love has no shelf life.”

He would light up every time I said it.

Now I know it to be true.

My father is no longer physically present, but the lessons, the influence, the laughter, the memories, and the ways he shaped me continue to live within me. In that sense, he remains very near.

“His spirit never leaves me. He’s closer to me now than before.”

I know today may be difficult for many people. For some, this is the first Father’s Day without the man who was their hero. For others, it may be the second, tenth, or twentieth.

Whatever the number, the love remains.

The celebration simply changes.

My father was one of the most complex men I’ve ever known. Fierce on the football field, a celebrated running back, strong, determined, and unforgettable. But to me, he was so much more than any accomplishment.

He was Dad.

And while I am still renovating the space his absence created, I am grateful. Grateful for every lesson. Every conversation. Every laugh. Every correction. Every sacrifice. Every moment of love.

Today, I celebrate him.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

Your love still has no shelf life.

My Prayer:

Heavenly Father, thank You for my father. Thank You for every lesson, every memory, every sacrifice, every laugh, and every moment of love. Thank You that what he gave me remains. I pray to feel Your peace and Your presence, every step forward. 

Amen. 🙏🏽❤️

What My Heart Needed

 

By: Dr. J. Bliss

I once mistook survival for strength.

I stood watch over my own heart
like a faithful guard dog,
pacing the fence line,
ears alert,
eyes fixed on every possibility of hurt.

I called it wisdom.

Perhaps part of it was.

Pain had taught me
that love could leave bruises no one sees,
that disappointment could echo for years,
that giving your heart away
was not something to do carelessly.

So I made a promise to myself.

No.

No more hoping.
No more dreaming.
No more building futures in my mind
that life might never deliver.

I convinced myself
that I needed less.

Less vulnerability.
Less longing.
Less love.

And for a while,
I believed it.

Then God placed a mirror before me,
and it looked like a man
I never intended to love.

I did not fall into love.

I argued with it.

Questioned it.
Examined it.
Resisted it.

I told my heart to sit down and be quiet.

It refused.

Because every time I looked at him,
something gentle rose up in me.

I wanted him safe.

I wanted him rested.

I wanted him healthy.

I wanted him to know
that someone was thinking about him
when he drove another mile down another highway.

I wanted to care for him
in ways I could not explain.

The strangest part was not loving him.

The strangest part
was discovering how much love
still lived inside me.

I thought that part of me
had gone to sleep.

But there it was,
stretching awake.

And suddenly I found myself imagining
ordinary things.

Morning light.

Coffee.

His face beside mine.

The simple gift of reaching out
and touching someone you trust.

Not because I needed rescuing,
but because peace had finally arrived.

That is what surprised me most.

The peace.

Not excitement.
Not obsession.

Peace.

The kind that settles softly
and says,
“You don’t have to defend yourself here.”

The kind that reminds a weary soul
that tenderness is not weakness.

And somewhere along the way,
I realized this story was never only about him.

It was about me.

About the woman who thought
she had to protect herself from love.

About the woman who believed
that closing the door
was safer than opening it.

About the woman who forgot
that hearts were made
not only to give love,
but to receive it.

I learned that trust is earned.

I still believe that.

But I also learned
that once trust arrives,
love asks another question:

Will you let yourself receive
what you’ve spent years denying you need?

That was the harder lesson.

Not loving.

Receiving.

Not giving.

Believing I was worthy of being given to.

And now when I look back,
I see God’s hand everywhere.

Not pushing.

Not forcing.

Teaching.

Patiently showing me
that I was never too much.

My heart was never the problem.

Its depth was never the problem.

Its tenderness was never the problem.

It simply needed a safe place
to come alive again.

So if you ask me
what my heart needed,
the answer is simpler than I expected.

My heart needed permission.

Permission to love.

Permission to hope.

Permission to rest.

Permission to stop standing guard
over every doorway.

Permission to trust that God
could protect me better
than fear ever could.

And in learning to love another,
I discovered something beautiful:

My heart had been waiting
all along
for me to come home to it.