I learned early how to be loved.

Sing.

That was the formula.

I was okay at sports. Decent at school. But when I sang, people’s faces changed.

They leaned in.

They smiled.

They remembered my name.

My gift made room for me. Proverbs 18:16

At the University of Western Ontario (one of the biggest in Canada), I competed for Homecoming King. I had come from Zimbabwe into one of the largest university residences in North America — surrounded by athletes, confident people, beautiful people, smart people.

So I did what I knew worked.

I sang “A Whole New World” by Peabo Bryson and Regina Belle.

And it worked.

I won. Everything…

There’s a picture somewhere of me as Homecoming King — crowned, smiling, celebrated, seen.

And that moment reinforced in me something enticing...

But also dangerous.

Something I had learned years before

Your voice makes things happen.

This is how you get loved.

Be impressive.
Be talented.
Be useful.
Be excellent.
Be memorable.

Get through the door.

Then maybe you’ll belong.

But here’s the problem.

The thing that makes room for you can become the thing you think makes you lovable.

For me, it was music.

For someone else, it might be beauty.
Intelligence.
Humor.
Money.
Spirituality.
Strength.
Success.
Being needed.
Being low-maintenance.
Being the one who “doesn’t care.”

We all find a way to answer the same question:

What must I do to be loved?

But a newborn child never asks that.

He does not perform for his father.

He does not prove his worth.

He does not sing on key.

He simply exists.

And the father’s love is already turned toward him.

That is the truth I keep forgetting.

God did not start loving me when I found my gift.

He loved me before I found the room.

Before the stage.
Before the applause.
Before the crown.
Before anyone knew my name.

My gift made room for me.

But it did not make me loved.

I already was.

And so are you.

See you next Friday.