On Sundays, I keep church in my home. Because to me, family is not just about blood—it’s about spirit. If my cousin Paul Evans and I were in church together, I’d call him Brother just the same. That’s how I see it. I may not know everyone’s favorite color, but I know who they are in spirit. I know of them. And that knowing is enough.

There’s this veil—thin as breath—that separates what is mine and what is theirs out here in these unincorporated lands. A veil between spirit and flesh. Between ownership and disrespect. I’ve been crossed too many times by people who think they know where boundaries lie. People who look like family but don’t behave like it. People who remind me of my own brother and sister—but bring not peace, only trespass.

And then there are people like my cousin Paul.

The last time I saw Paul’s spirit inside his body, I didn’t even recognize him at first. Sitting across from him in a restaurant, I kept asking myself why he seemed so familiar. And then it hit me—he was family. And the moment he recognized me too, something shifted. He stood up for me that day, corrected a man who was harassing me, just by being who he was. His presence stopped the harm. His spirit, as Christ-like as I’ve seen, stood tall beside me.

Because just like I can feel the presence of my father, or the spirit of my cousins Wendy and Janeen—who always carried a Kirton light with me—I can feel Christ. Not just as a memory. But living. Still walking with us. The Spirit doesn’t need death to be present. Love travels in Spirit. Blessings do too. And when I send love to my family and friends, it arrives. I know it. Just like when love is returned to me, it shines back out into the world.

That’s how I know Christ is still.

I didn’t learn to be Christ-like by reading only. I learned it by doing. I learned it by choosing not to become what’s been done to me. And I’ve been harassed, assaulted, or disrespected in one way or another for 43 years. But I’m still standing. Because Christ helps me stand.