Category: christmas

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When The Living Room Is Empty

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Faith With Hospital Wristbands, Holiday Chaos, and Learning to Rest Without Guilt

Normally, this is my season.
From Thanksgiving to Christmas, my house is supposed to look like
Mrs. Claus and Oprah teamed up and ignored every fire code.
For almost 21 years, I’ve carried on what my grandma started —
“You get a gift. You get a coat. You get a toy.”
Everybody gets something.
No background check. No budget meeting. Just love.


We weren’t rich growing up — not even a little —
but my grandma taught me that giving is sacrifice
with beautiful returns and terrible timing.
She made generosity feel like oxygen:
you don’t hoard it, you breathe it out.
But the last two years?
Chaos said, “Oh, you like traditions? Cute.”


Last year, I nearly exited the planet
thanks to an emergency gallbladder infection —
which, for the record, did not come with a warning email.
This year — almost to the day —
my husband decided to add a cardiac episode
to the holiday calendar.
Nothing says Merry Christmas like hospital wristbands
and vending-machine dinners.


So instead of my living room being stacked with toys and coats
to the point of requiring alternate routes and safety briefings,
it stayed… walkable.
No piles.
No rerouting.
No “don’t trip, that’s for the kids” warnings.


And I hated how much that hurt.


Because when chaos is my idea, I thrive.
I can organize mess.
I can schedule generosity.
I can turn madness into ministry.


But this chaos?
This one flipped the table and said,
“You’re going to sit down now.”


The guilt tried to convince me I’d lost my purpose.
That I’d failed Mrs. Claus school.
That someone else stepping up meant I’d been replaced.


But Jesus doesn’t measure faithfulness in square footage or stack height.
And He doesn’t shame people whose bodies clock out before their hearts do.


“God loves a cheerful giver.” — 2 Corinthians 9:7


And some seasons, cheer looks like wrapping gifts.
Some seasons, it looks like sacrifice.


And some seasons — the loud, scary, unplanned ones —
it looks like surviving, laughing anyway,
and whispering thank You from a hospital chair.


An empty living room doesn’t mean an empty calling.
It just means love changed outfits this year.
Someone else stepping up isn’t proof I’ve been replaced —
it’s proof the lesson worked.
And maybe this season,
the most generous thing I can give
is rest without guilt
and faith with hospital wristbands.


Pocket Peace:
Jesus, meet me in the chaos —
the ER lights, the interrupted plans, the traditions on pause.
Remind me that purpose doesn’t disappear when life goes sideways —
it adapts, it waits, it trusts You
to keep the giving going
even when my hands are shaking
and my living room is suspiciously clean.
Amen.

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Fourteen Ounces

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My kitchen cabinet is full of mugs.
Tall ones.
Short ones.
Skinny ones and fat ones.
Plain white. Red ones (my fav).

Loud sayings. Funny ones. Spiritual ones that make visitors pause mid-sip.


Some are glass. Some ceramic. Some insulated steel meant to keep things hot long past my capacity to remember when I made its contents.


Every day—sometimes several times a day—I reach in and choose one. Not based on worth, but on need. Coffee when I need courage. Cocoa when I need comfort. Tea when I need calm.


Over the years, some of them have lost their tops.
Okay… I lost their tops.
And without those lids, the heat doesn’t last as long. But here’s what I noticed one quiet morning while waiting for the kettle to whistle:
Almost every single one of them holds fourteen ounces.
Despite the differences.
Despite the wear.
Despite the missing pieces.
Same capacity.
No mug holds more because it’s taller.
No mug holds less because it’s chipped.
No mug is disqualified because it doesn’t match the rest.
They were all made to receive.


And I wondered when the Church forgot that.
Somewhere along the way, we started ranking the mugs.
Preferring certain shapes.
Deciding which ones looked “right” on the shelf.
We forgot that Jesus never measured vessels by appearance.
He poured Himself out freely—into fishermen, skeptics, women with reputations, men with questions, people missing lids.


“But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.”
— 2 Corinthians 4:7


That’s muddy ministry.
Muddy ministry is faith that doesn’t stay clean.
It’s Jesus kneeling in the dirt.
Touching the untouchable.
Lingering with grief.
Showing up before fixing anything.
Muddy ministry doesn’t inspect the vessel.
It just pours.
It understands that people—like mugs—come in different shapes, carry different scars, and hold warmth differently, yet bear the same image of God and the same capacity for grace.


Religion becomes abusive when it starts inspecting mugs instead of filling them.
When it withholds the pour because the vessel doesn’t look familiar.
When it mistakes uniformity for holiness.
But Jesus?
Jesus keeps pouring.
Fourteen ounces of mercy.
Fourteen ounces of patience.
Fourteen ounces of love.
Enough for each of us.


And the mugs without lids?
They know to drink while it’s hot.
They don’t waste the moment.
Maybe that’s the real lesson.
Not to become a “better mug.”
Not to match the cabinet.
Just to stay open…
and let Him pour.


And maybe that’s why this truth found me so suddenly.
Because once upon a time, fourteen ounces wasn’t just a measurement in my kitchen.
It was my grandson, Emmanuel Langston Gillison.
Barely more than fourteen ounces at birth, his life gathered hundreds into prayer—family, friends, strangers—hoping for a miracle.
We prayed boldly.
We hoped desperately.
We trusted God with everything we had.
And when the miracle didn’t come the way we longed for, Emmanuel’s life still poured out.
His brief presence became muddy ministry in its purest form—
a ministry of grief, honesty, and learning to trust God when faith doesn’t get what it hoped for.


Fourteen ounces was enough.
Enough to draw people together.
Enough to change us.
Enough to teach us that capacity is not measured by size or by how long something lasts.
Some vessels are filled fully…
even if they are held only briefly.

Dedication
In loving memory of my grandson,
Emmanuel Langston Gillison—
Fourteen ounces of life,
and a lifetime of grace.                                  Some children grow old in years.
Some grow old in impact.

Loving you always Nama Chelle

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The Bottom Half Is Resting In Grace

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Finding God in unfinished rooms, half-lit trees, and early-morning grace

I told myself I wasn’t writing today.
But grace has a way of interrupting plans.

For three mornings in a row, I noticed the time: 5:55 a.m.
Not because I was looking for it.
Not because I set an alarm.
I just happened to glance up — again and again — and there it was.

Triple grace.

It found me in a cluttered living room that still smelled wrong.
In a Christmas tree where the lights didn’t reach the bottom.
In a body asking for gentler care that I had time  to give it.

Nothing about the moment was polished.
Nothing was finished.
And yet, grace showed up anyway.

Grace for what I couldn’t fix.
Grace for what was still uneven.
Grace for the parts of my life that are bright in places and dim in others.

So I will add extra  ornaments where the light falls  short and call it enough.
Because sometimes the bottom half isn’t broken —
it’s just resting in grace.

And maybe that’s what grace does best.
It doesn’t announce itself.
It waits to be noticed.

“Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence,
so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.”
— Hebrews 4:16

So I took my own advice.
I rested my bottom half in the grace of a recliner, wrapped my hands around a cup of fragrant peppermint tea, and closed my eyes long enough to ignore the uneven lights.
I didn’t fix anything else.
I didn’t prove anything.
I just rested.

Sometimes grace doesn’t ask us to finish the job.
Sometimes it invites us to sit down in the middle of it.

Love Chelle

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DEAR GOD… THESE BULBS AIN’T BULBING

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SCRIPTURE
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” — John 1:5


There is nothing quite like a Christmas tree to expose the truth about your spiritual maturity. All year long you can love people, show grace, pray faithfully, encourage the saints… but let one strand of lights refuse to light, and suddenly you’re two seconds from throwing the whole tree — and half of your Christianity — out the window.

I stood there staring at a section of lights that worked perfectly last year. This morning? Dead. Dim. Uncooperative. Just like some seasons in my life.

I kept tugging, twisting, tapping, and praying under my breath — the kind of “Jesus help me before I say something” prayer. Because I could feel the frustration rising, not just from the tree, but from everything I’ve been carrying these past few days.

And right in the middle of the chaos, God whispered:

“All light isn’t broken… Some of it just needs to be reconnected.”

It stopped me. Because that’s exactly how I’ve been feeling: 
Tired in spots. 
Dim in places. 
Still trying to shine, but not nearly as bright as I used to.

Sometimes we’re not broken — we’re just overwhelmed. 
Sometimes we’re not out of faith — we’re out of energy. 
Sometimes the problem isn’t the whole strand — it’s just one little place that needs a reset.

And here’s the good news: 
God knows how to find the bulb that’s not bulbing. 
And He knows how to restore the light.

Even when we don’t have the patience. 
Even when we want to throw everything back in the box until next Christmas. 
Even when we’re standing there with tears, peppermint tea, and attitude.

Purpose doesn’t disappear because one section went dark. 
Your life is still lit. 
Your calling is still glowing. 
Your hope is still wired into Him.

And if I need to add a new string of lights on top? God isn’t offended. Sometimes grace looks like “make it easier for yourself, daughter.”

-Love Chelle

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Dear God- Keep  Digging

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Luke 13:6–9 (NIV)
Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree growing in his vineyard, and he went to look for fruit on it but did not find any.
So he said to the man who took care of the vineyard, ‘For three years now I’ve been coming to look for fruit on this fig tree and haven’t found any. Cut it down! Why should it use up the soil?’
“‘Sir,’ the man replied, ‘leave it alone for one more year, and I’ll dig around it and fertilize it.
If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down.’”
Reflection
Some days, I feel exactly like that fig tree—standing in the middle of life, trying my best, but still wondering if I’m producing anything at all. Not the perfect, fruitful tree everyone expects… just the one hoping nobody notices how bare the branches feel.

And honestly? There are moments I feel inadequate in almost every role I hold:
– As a wife, loving deeply but sometimes running on fumes
– As a mother, praying between grown-child crises, hoping I’m guiding well
– As an employee, juggling tasks with a superhero cape that keeps slipping
– As a minister, pouring out even when my cup feels half-empty
– As a singer, trying to bless God while my voice sometimes protests
– As a writer, full of stories but occasionally stuck between heart and keyboard

And in the middle of all that, I slip into development mode: fix myself, improve myself, upgrade myself—as if I’m a project on a deadline.

But Jesus tells a different story.

In the parable, the owner looks at the tree and says, “Cut it down.” But the Gardener—who knows how roots really work—steps between judgment and mercy and says:
“Give her time. Give her grace. Let Me work with her.”

He doesn’t ask the tree to try harder. He doesn’t shame it. Instead He says:
“Let Me dig around her.”
“Let Me nourish her.”
“Let Me tend to the parts nobody sees.”

While I’m busy trying to perfect myself, Jesus reminds me:
“Growth is My job. Staying connected is yours.”

He is not rushing me. He is not disappointed in me. He is not walking away from me.

He is kneeling in the soil of my life saying:
“Give her another year. I know what she needs. Let Me grow her in My timing.”

And that truth sets my soul at rest.
Prayer
Dear Lord,
Thank You for being the Gardener who refuses to give up on me. Forgive me for the times I rush myself, judge myself, or declare myself fruitless. Teach me to rest in You, to stay rooted in You, and to trust Your timing over my own. Dig around me, nourish me, and grow me in the way only You can. And when I feel inadequate, remind me that Your grace is still at work beneath the surface.

With love,
Chelle

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Dear God – When Caregiving Hurts and Heals

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DEAR GOD… WHEN CAREGIVING HURTS, HEALS, AND LEANS HEAVY ON MY SHOULDERS

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9

Today, I told myself I would wait until the temperature climbed to at least forty degrees before heading out to decorate my sister’s room at the nursing home for Christmas. I’m bringing her a case of pudding and picking up the dirty laundry — the usual “big sister doing what needs to be done” routine.

But before I even put my coat on, a familiar companion showed up… guilt.

Not guilt because I don’t want to help — I do, with all my heart.
But guilt because sometimes… Lord, I am just tired.

Tired from my own responsibilities.
Tired from my job, my husband’s appointments, my grandchildren, my writing, my own body acting up on me.
Tired from being pulled in ten different directions while trying to stay whole myself.

And there’s a special kind of guilt that comes with caregiving when you are exhausted.
A guilt that whispers, “You should be doing more.”
A guilt that berates you for needing a break.
A guilt that makes you feel like resting means failing.

Especially when the person you’re caring for is your younger sister.
Only 48.
Bed bound.
Multiple strokes.
Speech limited.
Taken down by a condition we didn’t even know existed until it barged into our family like a thief in the night.

Sometimes I walk into her room and see her lying there, and my heart squeezes because I remember who she used to be — strong, funny, quick-witted, full of that younger-sister attitude that kept me on my toes.
And then another wave hits:
How dare I complain about being tired when she would give anything to switch places with me for one day?

But Lord… that is not the truth You want me to carry.

Because even with her limitations, she and I still do what sisters do:
trash talk, laugh, joke, roll our eyes, and make the nurses wonder what on earth is going on in Room Whatever-It-Is-This-Week.
She’s still her, and I’m still me, and our sisterhood refuses to die.

And yet, the guilt still shows up when I catch myself sighing too hard, or wishing for one quiet weekend, or resenting the cold weather because caregiving is already heavy enough.

But today, Father, You whispered something to my heart:

“Guilt is not your assignment. Grace is.”

Caregiving is not a competition of strength.
It is not a performance for heaven.
It is not a test You are grading me on.

It is love lived out loud.
It is compassion with skin on it.
It is the ministry nobody sees but You.

Decorating her room today…
It’s not just Christmas décor.
It’s dignity.
It’s joy.
It’s a reminder that she is still here and still loved.
And it is a reminder that I am still allowed to be human.

So Lord, when the guilt rises because life is heavy,
when responsibilities pile up faster than I can carry them,
when I feel torn between caring for her and caring for myself,
remind me:

You never asked me to do this perfectly.
You only asked me to do it with love.
And love, even tired love, is still holy.

With Love,
Chelle

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ME TOO HONESTY

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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

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Bloom Baby Bloom A Christmas Cactus Sermon I Didn’t Ask For

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So listen… this morning I’m minding my business, sipping my coffee, scrolling Facebook, and everyone and their Grandma is posting pictures of these big, full, show-off Christmas cactuses blooming like they’re auditioning for The Voice.


And then there’s mine.
Sitting in my living room.
Looking like it’s thinking about blooming, but hasn’t quite made a decision.
One tiny blush of color like, “Don’t rush me, sis. I’m processing.”


I’m looking at this plant like, “Ma’am… it is almost Christmas. I need you to get it together. Shine for the people.”


So I start Googling tips. Because I refuse to be the only one with a cactus that looks like it has low iron. And baby… what I found? A whole WORD. A sermon. A Bible study. A TED Talk.


Apparently, if you want a Christmas cactus to bloom, you have to do something called “darkening to bloom.”


Yes. You literally put that plant in the dark 12–16 hours a day like it’s grounded.
Then! You’re supposed to pluck off the long, lazy leaves (but don’t you dare use scissors).
Keep it a little colder.
Restrict its comfort.
Limit its light.
Disrupt its cozy routine.
And after all that?
…It blooms.
It blooms brighter because of the dark.
Not the light.
Not the pampering.
Not the perfect conditions.
THE DARK.


And I said, “Well God… if You wanted to speak to me directly, you didn’t have to drag my plant into this.”
Because sometimes life puts us into a “darkening to bloom” season.
Not because we’re failing.
Not because we did anything wrong.
Not because God forgot us.
But because the bloom requires it.


Sometimes He limits our distractions.
Sometimes He cuts off excess.
Sometimes He cools the room so we stop running and finally rest.
Sometimes He hides us away long enough to develop something deep, strong, and beautiful.


And just like that cactus, you won’t even notice the change happening…until a day, somebody walks past you and says: “Oh wow… look at you shining.”
And you’ll realize the dark didn’t break you —
It prepared you.
It strengthened you.
It sharpened you.
It positioned you.
It pushed your bloom right to the edge of the breakthrough.
So if you’re in a season that feels cold, quiet, hidden, or clipped…
Baby, don’t panic.
You’re not dying.
You’re developing.
And when the time comes?
Listen…
You’re gonna bloom so hard folks will swear you’re a Christmas cactus on the front page of Facebook.
Amen and amen.

With Love Chelle

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I know there are bigger things to worry about in this world,  but every year since my grandma died, I have been her version of the Christmas Mother. With all that has been going on and recuperating, I had to scale way back this year. I feel like a lost puppy without being in the thick of it.What was irritating me most is having an assembled tree without a single ornament on it.  I had decided that this year, the theme would be prayer, but I never got the ornaments made I intended.  So I am looking at this unadorned evergreen and hearing the message loud and clear……..perpetual unpretentious prayer from the heart is the best Christmas gift.So as I order up some store bought ornaments to go with the one handmade one I’m attempting to finish by then, I will pray for family and friends with the lifting of each one. Send me your prayer requests so that I can put yours in place.

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Entertained By Angels

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My God, My God.

After my very good doctor’s appt today, my husband & I went to a restaurant a bit out of our way, but I insisted because I wanted to see my fav waitress, Theresa Ann Hatch . Long story short, a couple from Columbus, Ohio were also drawn to detour and find Satterwhites. After they left, Theresa tells us that the gentleman said God told him to pay for our meal. When I ran out to find them in the parking lot he says she wasn’t supposed to tell me but since I was there……..he read all the mail in my heart from all the letters I have ever written to God. Had me crying in the parking lot. Talked my hearts desires and my need for rest and that God doesn’t expect a minster like me to try to rescue the whole world but do my part. He also said I need to get in my head how much God loves me and not just in a generic sense.

He never gave me a chance to say a word, so everything he said was 100% from God. They held on to me, and it brought a peace that I can not describe. Oddly my eyes were still dilated from my retina appt so I couldn’t get a grasp of what they looked like, just that they had a glow about them that wasn’t hurting my eyes like the sun does when your eyes are dilated. I don’t know if God will allow me to see them again in this life as they were just passing through, but My God, My God, I believe I entertained angels.