Standing at the pulpit during my installation as the Senior Pastor of Capitol City Seventh-day Adventist Church was a moment of overwhelming joy and deep gratitude. It was a culmination of years of prayer, dedication, and the unyielding hand of God. As I looked out into the congregation, I felt the immense excitement of embarking on this new chapter—leading this incredible community that I’ve come to love, building on the foundation that has been laid, and moving forward in faith toward the vision God has given us.
But as I stood there, amidst the joy and the smiles, there was an undeniable sense of heaviness in my heart. Two of the most significant men in my life—my father, Pastor Joseph Bulgin, and my father-in-law, Bishop J. Delano Ellis, II—were not there to witness this long-awaited moment. It was a bittersweet experience, marked by a juxtaposition of celebration and sorrow.
My father, who spent years in ministry himself, was my mentor and spiritual guide. He taught me the essence of service, sacrifice, and faithfulness to God’s calling. His words of wisdom shaped my understanding of what it means to be a pastor and a leader. My father-in-law, Bishop Ellis, was a giant in the faith, a man whose legacy of leadership and spiritual insight shaped the course of many lives, including mine. Both of these men, whose shoulders I now stand on, are gone.
In moments like this—moments of personal achievement or transition—the grief of losing loved ones resurfaces in profound ways. It’s an odd mix of joy and pain, of triumph and loss. I couldn’t help but think about how proud they would’ve been to witness the moment I’ve dreamed of for so long. I wanted to hear their voices—my father's gentle but firm encouragement, my father-in-law’s wisdom and strength. I wanted them in the room, to celebrate this achievement, this gift, this sacred trust I’ve been given.
Grief is strange like that. It doesn’t just show up when we lose someone; it stays with us, lingering in the background, and sometimes it surprises us during life’s happiest moments. It’s not that I was ungrateful for the present; in fact, it was quite the opposite. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. But the absence of those I valued most hit hard at that moment, and it reminded me of the depth of their impact on my life.
Experiencing new things without the ones we’ve loved and lost creates a void that can never quite be filled. As I navigated the emotions of that day, I realized that this was not just a moment to grieve their absence, but also to honor their legacy. They are a part of every sermon I preach, every decision I make, every prayer I pray. Their influence lives on through me and the ministry God has called me to lead.
There was a deep sense of peace that settled in as I reflected on this. Even though they were not physically present, I felt their spirits close by. I could hear their voices in my heart, reminding me of the path I’ve been called to walk. It’s a path they helped to pave, and for that, I will always be grateful.
This new season at Capitol City is filled with anticipation—exciting plans, new initiatives, and a community ready to embrace what God has in store. Yet, in this season of joy, I hold onto the lessons I’ve learned from my father and father-in-law. Their wisdom, guidance, and love have equipped me to lead, and though they aren’t here to witness this chapter, I know their legacy carries on in everything I do.
Grief and joy can coexist, and in this beautiful, sacred tension, we find that life is richer and more meaningful. I stand at the threshold of this new chapter with both excitement and a tinge of sadness, but most of all, with a heart full of gratitude for those who have shaped me into the man and pastor I am today. May their legacy continue to shine through the work we do here at Capitol City.
To Dad and Bishop, thank you for everything. This moment is as much yours as it is mine.
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