Ain’t That A VHIT
By Von C. Howard
When I think about what truly shaped me, I don’t start with accomplishments or milestones. I start with covering. I start with my grandmothers, my aunts, my godmother, my mother, and the many women who loved me as if I were their own. They carried more than responsibility, they carried me. And whether I realized it at the time or not, their strength was rooted in faith and reinforced by the Black church.
Historically, the Black church has never been just a place we went on Sundays. It was born out of necessity. During slavery, it was refuge and resistance. During Reconstruction and Jim Crow, it became a place where dignity was protected and community was organized when no one else showed up for us. During the Civil Rights Movement, it was the heartbeat of change. And through all of that, Black women were always there, teaching, organizing, feeding, fundraising, praying, and holding things together. Faith wasn’t theoretical. It was how we survived.
Black women carried that faith into every corner of life. They raised families in systems designed to break them. They taught lessons without textbooks and modeled strength without applause. In the church, they taught Scripture and self-worth at the same time. They showed us how to serve, how to persevere, and how to keep going even when the future felt uncertain. Their endurance wasn’t loud, but it was powerful, and it lasted.
I grew up at New Mount Olive Baptist Church, and long before I understood sermons or Scripture, I understood safety. Church has always served, and continues to serve, as my spiritual filling station. It’s where my faith gets refilled. But it has also always been my safe haven. I was known there, and I am still known, watched over, corrected when needed, encouraged often, and protected always. The women of the church filled gaps quietly and consistently, and they still do, making sure I’m seen, supported, and covered.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized how much of who I am comes from what I was taught back then. I learned that faith can hold questions. That strength doesn’t have to be hard. That discipline rooted in love builds character. I learned that when outcomes are uncertain, showing up consistently becomes its own kind of courage. Those lessons came from women who showed up week after week, sometimes tired, sometimes worn, but always faithful, believing that what they poured into us would matter.
This reflection isn’t just my story. It’s a shared one. Many of us can trace our foundation back to women who prayed over us, fed us, checked us, and covered us, often through the church. We remember places that felt safe when the world didn’t. Those memories aren’t just nostalgia; they’re reminders of what works.
Today, we face new pressures, political division, economic strain, spiritual exhaustion, but the wisdom we need isn’t new. Appreciation alone isn’t enough. We have to honor and protect Black women and the Black church by supporting their well-being and investing in their future. If the next generation is going to carry the mantle forward, they need to experience what carried us: a faith that endures and a community that covers.
I’m standing because they endured. And if we’re honest with ourselves, many of us are standing for the very same reason.