Faith, Golf, and Silent Conversations
This reflection is written by David, a full-time staff member at Little Lights, about his experience mentoring Hakeem, a Little Lights student.
One of my core memories with Hakeem starts on a warm winter day. It was our first time on the golf course together. After a few extra “practice swings” on the first tee, he makes contact, and it’s PURE. The ball sails in the air, then tumbles towards the green. Hakeem immediately starts sprinting toward his ball, laughing with pride. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast on a golf course!
He is feeling the feeling that keeps golfers coming back for more. At one point, he holes a chip from 10-15 feet away and sprints in a circle around the green in celebration, like a soccer player who has just scored a goal in a highly contested match.
I wasn’t running side by side with him down the first hole or taking the victory lap after his long chip-in, but I was equally, if not more, excited by his natural ability. He has enough athleticism and competitive will to enjoy his first time on the course better than most.
This summer, we had two consistent activities: playing nine holes at Langston Golf Course and attending youth group at a local church. These two communities have been extremely welcoming to us. Over the past year, we have had 20 outings and had a good relationship building on years of shared experiences at Little Lights programs. And yet, despite all this time together, conversation doesn’t always come easy. He’s not the only one at fault. For me—and most guys I know—playing and watching sports is often the simplest way to connect. Answering a question like “How have you been?” can feel much more demanding.
Last year, Hakeem moved away from the community where he grew up, the only home he had ever known. His family moved farther from the school he and his younger brother attended, and with that change came new responsibilities. Despite all the transitions, he remained committed to our programs and has grown tremendously. He recognizes this growth, too—something he has shared with quiet confidence.
As we drive to church, today is no different. I am getting frustrated, thinking,
“If we spend all this time together, why is it so hard just to talk?”
“What are we even doing? Am I wasting my time?”
These voices in my head are not from God. I am not giving grace, and now I am getting quiet out of frustration. I try to see around corners, but this time, I don’t know what to do next. The silence is heavy. He has to feel it, too. When we get out of the car, I feel like it’s awkward, so I tell him, “I’m not mad or anything; I just wish we could talk more when we hang out.”
We arrive at church later than usual and instinctively look toward the back row, our usual spot. I’ve always felt more comfortable there, and lately, Hakeem has taken the lead in finding a seat in the back, so I know he does, too. Today, the back row is full. Every other row has scattered seats open, so we settle into an empty spot near the front.
The worship is good today—probably always is—but we’re not always as present. Sitting up front, with fewer distractions, makes everything feel more real. My emotions catch up to me, and before I know it, I feel the weight of my own frustration from the drive over—disappointed in myself for how easily I let it get to me.
“Why am I forcing things? He’s just a kid. We have a great time together.”
“Why can’t I just let God do the work?”
“Why do I think I’m in control?”
“I can’t do this alone, but I am not [alone].”
A song or two goes by, and the worship leader starts to pray. The next song starts, and just as I think I’ve pulled myself together, I notice that Hakeem has become emotional too. His arms are lifted, palms open. He’s worshiping—fully, undeniably.
Did we talk about what happened? No chance.
Where do we go from here? I’m not sure, but I think that’s okay.
My relationship with Hakeem has been teaching me that faith isn’t about solving every problem. It’s about showing up and trusting that God is in the details, bridging the gaps we can’t.
