There once was a King whose father died in a village that was a three-day’s walk away. The King visited the local Shaman, seeking counsel, and asked what he should take to the funeral to honor his father. The Shaman advised the King to take a shovel. The King argued, “Shouldn’t I take my father’s favorite cloth.” The Shaman stayed committed to his advice and told the King to take a shovel. The King pressed his point, arguing yet again, “Shouldn’t I take my father’s favorite bowl.” Despite the King’s station, the Shaman refused to be swayed away from his advice and told the King a third time to take a shovel.

The King, stubborn in his power and authority, gathered the bowl and cloth and took off for his father’s village. He and his entourage had journeyed a day and a half before coming upon a wide, deep hole that stretched forest line to forest line. The brush on both sides of the hole was too dense to penetrate.

Annoyed in his defeat, the King and his entourage were forced to turn around, return to his village, and grab a shovel.

This section – GOING TO – is composed of the holes that have pocked my road to Morehouse. To be sure, I have sometimes obeyed that wise counsel that whispers around me. I have carried this proverbial shovel and overcome some of the obstacles that lay waiting for me, too far in the future for me to divine. I have resigned myself to take advantage of every experience and opportunity that Mother Motherhouse provides me, because the way to her gates “ain’t been no crystal stair.”