For we have not a high priest which can not be touched with the feeling of our infirmities…
— Hebrews 4:15 KJV
The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
— Psalm 34:18 NIV
I always joke that I’d never make a good politician because I tell everything about myself—there’d be no dirt left to dig up… unless you checked under the carpet. I’ve always believed wearing my heart on my sleeve comes from having a testimony I can’t keep quiet. God has been too good to me. So yes, I live like an open book… or so I thought.
My ministry has often been wrapped in neat and tidy encouragement:
• Be joyful in troubled times.
• Trust God no matter what.
• He will restore everything.
Beautiful words. True words. But they were missing one major detail: my honesty about the moments that weren’t neat. Maybe it was pride. Maybe fear. Maybe I didn’t want to hear myself say the things I still hadn’t fully dealt with.
But then came three people—a trio God hand‑picked to “out” me.
One was fighting to hold onto faith when medicine said “no way.”
One wondered how God could ever love her after the mistakes she’d made.
One had lost her home under the weight of medical and legal battles.
And each of them assumed their fear, hurt, or shame made them “less faithful.”
That’s when God nudged me—actually, shoved me—to pull out what I kept hidden under my own rug. The thing I didn’t think qualified as a testimony. The thing I didn’t want to admit even to myself. And when I finally said it, each of them responded the same way:
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You hid that well.”
“I needed that… I’m normal.”
My secret?
“Me too.”
For nearly 14 years, my son battled severe illness — sudden deafness, countless surgeries, relentless pain, and thrice‑weekly dialysis. Many of you know those parts. What I never shared was the day I got mad at God.
After years of waiting, a perfect donor match was found. We went into preparation mode: cleaning the house for infection control, saving every dime, canceling vacations, even turning down a huge career opportunity. We tip‑toed around loved ones because we wanted to surprise everyone after the transplant.
Then, one morning during devotion, God whispered something odd:
“Forget the Back‑Up Plan.”
I didn’t know what it meant. I assumed it was about finances or job security. Anything except what came next.
Just days before hospital check‑in, a nurse called—cold, flat‑voiced, emotionless.
“No go.”
No explanation.
No compassion.
Just… no.
The ground shifted under me. How was I supposed to tell my son, who was finally hopeful again? I was furious. Was God playing with me like a cat with a string?
I slipped away from everyone. My spirit knew God had a plan, but my heart and my head were wrestling in opposite corners.
Angry, I reminded God of everything we had endured—the nights I stood by the door listening for his breathing, the extreme pain, the surgeries, the exhaustion, the faithfulness. And if my faith wasn’t enough, surely someone out of all the people who prayed for us had at least one mustard seed to spare!
All I heard back was:
“Forget the Back‑Up Plan.”
Later, we learned the donor had developed a condition that would’ve caused the kidney to fail quickly. If my son had received it, we would have ended up in a bigger storm.
God wasn’t teasing us—He was protecting us.
Just like Jeremiah 29 reminds us, His plans include a future, a hope, and a good end… even when the journey makes absolutely no sense.
And then, in God’s timing—not mine—my son received the kidney he needed.
That was seven years ago, and today, he is living proof that long journeys still have victorious endings.
I will be honest: I still jump a little when the phone rings at night. Healing from trauma doesn’t come on schedule. Writing this took years because every now and then, the tears still fall.
But I share this so you know:
Whatever you’re going through — you are normal.
Faith does not erase fear.
Belief does not cancel tears.
Even rejoicing takes reminders (Phil. 4:4 says it *twice*, so clearly God knows us well).
God is not distant. He feels your pain. He welcomes your honesty.
He will not strike you down for asking questions.
Just remember:
It is faith that moves mountains, not the absence of emotion.
Cry if you must.
Hurt if you must.
Question if you must.
But whatever you do…
Keep pushing. God isn’t finished.
With love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com 