Grief is a strange and powerful thing. It does not always come with tears. Sometimes it comes with silence. Sometimes it comes with exhaustion. Sometimes it comes with the feeling that you just want to shut down and do nothing. Sometimes it comes with little sleep and little eating. That is where I have found myself in the days following the passing of Rev. Jesse Jackson. His death has taken a real toll on me. I have grieved to the point of withdrawal, to the point where the energy to move, to speak, or even to think clearly felt like too much. I have done about 20 interviews, but I really wanted to be still and talk to people who really knew him. 💔
When a giant falls, the ground shakes for all of us.
The Jackson family is to be applauded for the extraordinary grace they showed during his homecoming services. They stood patiently, hour after hour, beside his casket as people came forward to hug them, to cry, to tell stories, and to say thank you. That could not have been easy. Yet they never rushed anyone. They understood that the man lying before us did not belong only to them. He belonged to a collective “us.” 🙏
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They Came from Near and Far…
Chicago showed its best side. From the police department to the crowds that stretched block after block, there was order, dignity, and respect. People waited for their turn. No one pushed. No one complained. They just kept coming. Parking was wherever you could find it, and traffic jams were horrific. It was as if the entire city knew this was not an ordinary farewell. This was history taking a final bow. This was history moving into the future. Reverend James Meek and Charles Jenkins rose to the occasion as Jackson taught the young ministers to do. Leadership is situational; rise to it. They learned well, as they both ran their churches, and he lived to see them retire.
And the people who came… they came from everywhere. They came from other cities, other countries. There was a European delegation, an African delegation, and a Colombian delegation. Even some of those he rescued and saved their lives came, but didn’t get a chance to speak at the funeral.
They came from all walks of life — the nobodies, the somebodies, the forgotten, the rich, the famous, the media, the presidents, the entertainers, the choirs, the businessmen, the politicians, the neighbors, the poor, the celebrities, the pastors, the students. They stood in the same line. They waited the same way. Because in that moment, titles did not matter. Status did not matter. What mattered was that each of them had a story.
Everybody had a Jesse story.
“I remember when Jesse helped me…”
“I remember when Jesse marched…”
“I remember when Jesse called…”
“I was with Jesse when he did…”
“I remember when Jesse made a phone call.”
“I remember when Jesse got me out of jail.”
“I remember when Jesse helped me with my election.”
“I remember when Jesse spoke at my school, my church.”
“ I remember when Jesse came to my mother’s funeral.”
Over and over, the stories came. Different people, different backgrounds, different years, but the same theme. Somewhere along the way, this monumental man had touched their life. Somewhere along the way, he had stood up for them, spoken for them, marched for them, prayed for them, or opened a door that would have stayed closed without him.
That is why the grief is so heavy. 🕊️
We are not just mourning a man. We are mourning a force. A fighter who went toe to toe with racism when it was dangerous to do so. A voice that refused to be quiet when silence would have been easier. A man who believed that ordinary people deserved dignity, and then spent his life demanding it. A man who stood up to America’s racism face-to-face and corrected social ills.
Grief like this does not pass quickly. It lingers. It slows you down. It makes you sit still and remember. There will be books written, documentaries, magazines stories to claim who he was and what he did.
But maybe that is what grief is supposed to do.
Maybe grief is the price we pay for having lived in the time of someone who mattered. Maybe it is proof that a life had weight, that it left fingerprints on our hearts that cannot be erased.
Rev. Jesse Jackson left those fingerprints on a whole city, a whole country, and on me.
And that is why the loss feels so deep.
“You Are Your Mother’s Luxury”. . .
In December of 2022, my mother, Mildred Bowden, passed away. The days surrounding her funeral moved in a blur — the service, the repass, the embraces, the stories, the quiet strength people tried to offer. And then, as it always happens, everyone went home. The house became still. The silence after loss is unlike any other silence. It is heavy, final, and unfamiliar. 💔
Not long after, Jesse called me and said, “Come see me. I want to talk.“At that moment, I did not realize how much I needed that call.
Some dear friends helped carry me through one of the hardest moments of my life — Rev. Carlton Pearson, Rev. Marvin Hunter, Rev. Jeanette Wilson, Dr. Brian Brazier, and Melody Spann Cooper. My dear family, Charles Mazique and Lisa Mazique. They had their auntie stories along with my mother’s stories. We remembered Christmas dinners, picnics, spankings, and the talks that provided valuable lessons.
When Jesse asked if Carlton was still in town, I told him yes. Jesse said, “Go get him and come on by.” Carlton went with me, and together we saw Jesse one night. Looking back, I realize I had the best ministers anyone could have at the lowest moment of my life. 🙏
It was just the three of us, sitting together, talking about loss, about grieving, about what it means to keep living after someone you love is gone. We cried. We laughed. We remembered. Jesse spoke with the wisdom of someone who had lived through pain and kept moving forward. He told me, “You have to learn to live without your mother. You did everything for her, and she did everything for you. Now you have to cross over. You have to move from remembrance to living. Know who she is. Know what she meant to you. Take it forward. She will never leave you. She is in you.”
He talked about his own mother and grandmother. Carlton talked about his mother. We spoke about faith, about calling, about the strange way life keeps moving, whether we are ready or not. We talked about Jesse’s Parkinson’s disease and how he was managing it. We talked about our friendship, ministry, and the bond that only comes through years of shared struggle and purpose. We talked about Carlton’s ministry and the mishaps along the way. We talked into the wee small hours of the morning. 🕊️
That night, my minister was at his finest — not on a stage, not before a crowd, but in a quiet room, giving comfort, giving counsel, reminding me that life is fluid and that we live in God’s hand.
When Carlton and I finally left, it was. very late. The night was still and dark and quiet. I drove through Chicago in the calm of the night, the city lights glowing, the streets almost empty. Carlton was preparing to return to Tulsa, and I thanked him for being such a great friend. I did not know then that one day he would be the one calling me to be with him as he said goodbye to the world. I did not know Jesse would have only a few more years. But I knew that night mattered. I will never forget that conversation. My ministers were dealing with me — teaching me about grieving, about living, about the hard and necessary work of moving forward without the person you love most.
Jesse told me something that stays with me even now: “You are your mother’s luxury. Continue living to make her proud.” He said he wanted his mother, Helen, and his grandmother to be proud of him.
Mission accomplished. We are Jesse’s luxury. We are the people who benefited directly from his life, his actions, and his activity.
And now, when I hear his words in my spirit, I keep moving forward.
Keep working. Don’t stop.
Live in a way that honors the ones who made you. 🙏🕊️💙
