When Worship Became the Road Home
“I will sing of the Lord’s great love forever; with my mouth I will make your faithfulness known through all generations.” — Psalm 89:1 (NIV)
Some people remember their lives through photographs.
Others remember them through places.
I’ve discovered that I remember mine through music.
Every meaningful season of my life seems to have had a soundtrack. Sometimes I don’t recognize it while I’m living it. Years later, one familiar melody will begin to play, and suddenly I’m no longer standing where I am. I’m transported back to another season, another version of myself, another chapter that God was quietly writing.
That happened recently while I was making dinner.
An Israel Houghton song drifted through the speakers, and without warning, I wasn’t standing in my Texas kitchen anymore.
I was looking out the window of a bus.
Before the Miles Between Us
Before Greyhound and Peter Pan buses carried me north to visit the man who would become my husband, buses had already become part of my story.
Growing up in Brooklyn, New York, public transportation wasn’t an inconvenience.
It was simply life.
For most of my childhood, my parents didn’t drive. My father eventually purchased a car when I was around ten years old, primarily for work, but buses and trains remained our everyday transportation. Freedom wasn’t measured by a driver’s license. It was measured by knowing your route, paying attention to your surroundings, and trusting that you could get where you needed to go.
Some of my earliest memories of travel came through the Fresh Air Fund.
Every summer, children from New York City gathered at Port Authority before boarding buses with adult chaperones to meet host families throughout New Jersey and neighboring communities. We weren’t little children traveling across the state by ourselves. We traveled together, cared for by adults every step of the way until our host families welcomed us.
That’s how I came to know the Curlis family.
For years they became my “country family,” opening not only their home but their hearts to me. One summer my mother volunteered as one of the parent chaperones, riding with us so she could finally meet the family who had become such an important part of my childhood.
Those trips taught me something I wouldn’t fully appreciate until much later.
Sometimes love is waiting at the end of a journey you’ve never been afraid to take.
As I grew older, traveling alone became second nature.
When it came time to visit Penn State as a prospective student, I bought a Greyhound ticket and made the ten-hour trip by myself.
I stayed in the dormitories.
Walked across campus.
Browsed the university bookstore before wandering through the little shops in downtown State College.
I even remember stopping at McDonald’s and laughing because somehow a Big Mac tasted different in Pennsylvania than it did back home in New York.
Those are the kinds of details memory keeps.
Looking back now, I realize those trips weren’t simply transportation.
They were teaching me confidence.
Long before buses carried me toward my husband, they carried me toward independence.
Curating a Soundtrack
Travel was never quiet.
It always had music.
Long before playlists and streaming services, I carefully built my own soundtrack.
First came homemade cassette tapes, recorded one song at a time from the radio.
Then came my portable CD player.
Eventually came shelves filled with albums that reflected every corner of my curiosity.
If you grew up in the ’80s and ’90s, you probably remember Columbia House, Sony Music Club, and BMG Music Club.
Ten CDs for a penny.
For a music lover, it felt like Christmas.
I happily spent my allowance building a music library, fulfilling the membership commitments because every new album felt like adding another chapter to my life.
My allowance rarely disappeared on passing trends.
I spent it on books.
Music.
Blank notebooks waiting to be filled.
Collectibles that told stories.
Long before I owned a computer, I filled notebooks with poems, observations, dreams, lists, and ideas. I wasn’t trying to become a writer.
I simply loved collecting things that fed my imagination.
Looking back, I realize I wasn’t collecting things at all.
I was collecting companions.
Books that challenged me.
Music that comforted me.
Blank pages that patiently waited for my thoughts.
Together, they quietly became witnesses to my becoming.
A Shelf Without Borders
Looking back, I realize I never fit neatly inside anyone else’s expectations.
I was the Black girl reading slave narratives, Malcolm X, African American history, and Civil Rights literature while passionately discussing where our people had been and where we could go.
At the very same time…
Prince lived comfortably beside Queen.
Motown shared shelf space with Aerosmith.
The Temptations coexisted with The Beach Boys.
I loved ragtime, jazz, Broadway cast recordings, Disney soundtracks, and yes…
I was a proud Blockhead.
New Kids on the Block absolutely belonged in my collection.
Toni Braxton’s Secrets became one of the defining albums of my late teens.
Prince’s Diamonds and Pearls stayed in regular rotation, and when Emancipation was released during my senior year of high school, those three CDs felt like an event all by themselves.
I especially loved Motown box sets.
They weren’t simply collections of songs.
They were history lessons.
Every artist carried a story.
Every album preserved a legacy.
Without realizing it, I wasn’t just collecting music.
I was collecting storytellers.
The only genre I never truly embraced was country music.
Ironically, the older I’ve become, the more I’ve come to appreciate how deeply many country traditions are rooted in the blues.
Even so…
It’s still not the first thing you’ll hear coming through my speakers.
Tuesdays
Tuesday was release day.
I loved Tuesdays.
Walking into the neighborhood record store to see what had just arrived felt like opening a present.
That’s where I bought my very first Prince album with money I had earned and saved myself.
It wasn’t just another CD.
It was mine.
Of course, like many teenagers growing up in the late ’80s and ’90s, I also knew the neighborhood discount stores where albums mysteriously appeared for a dollar.
Were some of them bootlegs?
Probably.
It was the ’80s.
It was the ’90s.
That’s just how life was.
Every album eventually found its place on my shelves.
Not because I wanted to own everything.
Because every album represented a season.
The Soundtrack Changed
Years later, Greyhound and Peter Pan buses carried me north to Albany.
Later, they carried me to Connecticut after Oji accepted a coaching position with the United Football League.
The buses hadn’t changed.
I had.
The destination wasn’t simply another city anymore.
Someone I loved was waiting at the other end.
And somewhere along the way…
The soundtrack changed.
Prince still had a place.
Motown always would.
Broadway never left.
But worship music slowly became the soundtrack of a different season.
Israel Houghton.
New Breed.
Albums that didn’t simply entertain me.
They formed me.
After Oji and I married, the Williams family gave us Israel Houghton’s Jesus at the Center.
At the time it felt like a thoughtful wedding gift.
Years later, I realized it had become something more.
A declaration.
Not simply of what we believed.
But of how we wanted to build our marriage.
Not long afterward, doctors told us that if we hoped to have children together, surgery would likely become part of our journey.
Fear has a way of filling empty spaces.
I decided not to leave any.
Instead, I intentionally filled my mind with worship.
Israel Houghton.
New Breed.
Donald Lawrence.
Album after album.
Song after song.
I wanted my mind wrapped in faith.
Looking back now, I realize those playlists became prayers I couldn’t always find words to pray myself.
The Song Still Plays
Every now and then, one of those songs unexpectedly finds me.
Usually while I’m doing something wonderfully ordinary.
Making dinner.
Driving home.
Folding laundry.
And suddenly…
I’m back on a bus.
Looking through a window.
Watching the scenery change.
Traveling toward a future I couldn’t yet imagine.
The miles between New York and Albany have long since disappeared.
The buses have been replaced by Texas highways.
The young woman sitting by that window couldn’t possibly have imagined the life waiting for her.
But God already knew.
And somehow…
He gave me a soundtrack that would one day remind me He had been traveling with me all along.
🎬 Director’s Reflection
One of the unexpected gifts of writing memoir is discovering where parts of yourself came from.
As I reflected on the books, the music, the notebooks, and those long bus rides, I realized I didn’t become that way by accident.
My father was a collector.
Books.
Videotapes.
Music.
Ideas.
Without realizing it, I became one too.
Books.
Albums.
Blank notebooks.
Stories.
Today, I smile because I see that same curiosity blooming in my daughter, Ella Grace.
People often underestimate her because autism doesn’t always look the way they expect it to. They notice the words she doesn’t always speak before they notice everything she understands.
I have the privilege of seeing what others might miss.
I watch her type on her tablet.
I read the words she chooses.
The sentences she builds.
The things that make her brain smile.
Language does not escape my daughter.
She is profoundly intelligent.
Sometimes, as I watch her explore the world, I catch a glimpse of a younger version of myself.
The tools are different.
She has a tablet.
I had books, cassette tapes, CDs, videotapes, and blank notebooks.
The curiosity is exactly the same.
Maybe that’s what legacy really looks like.
My father collected knowledge.
I collected stories.
Now my daughter is collecting the world in her own beautiful way.
And somewhere between those generations…
God quietly made a writer.
Continue the Journey
Found in the Margins is an ongoing memoir series chronicling the ordinary moments, quiet faith, and unseen stories that shaped my life. If this is your first visit, I invite you to begin at the beginning and journey with me one chapter at a time.
📖 Read the complete series on Memoirs of a Black Girl:
https://memoirsofablackgirl.com
📝 Or subscribe on Substack to receive each new chapter in your inbox:
https://lelajfagan.substack.com
Next in the Series
Found in the Margins – Act Two, Part 13
Hubby Coach
Sometimes the greatest coach in your life isn’t standing on a football field. Sometimes he’s sitting in the passenger seat, teaching you that the road you’ve been avoiding was never about driving—it was about believing you could.
© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
