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Bishop Mariann Edgar BuddeShe Brought Mercy Into a Room Built for Power

Some women do not raise their voices.
They raise the standard.

She was born in Summit, New Jersey, in 1959, and grew up in the Flanders section of Mount Olive Township, carrying both small-town roots and a wider view of the world.


After her parents’ divorce, she spent time living with her father in Colorado before returning to New Jersey and graduating from West Morris Mount Olive High School, a path that suggests early lessons in change, resilience, and finding your footing more than once.


Before she became known as an Episcopal bishop, she was shaped by an evangelical Christian upbringing, a background that helps explain the clear moral language and steady conviction people would one day hear from her in public life.

Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde became the first woman elected bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington in 2011 after serving 18 years as rector of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Minneapolis.

In January 2025, during a prayer service at Washington National Cathedral attended by President Donald Trump, she spoke directly about mercy for immigrants, LGBTQ people, and others living in fear. What made the moment powerful was not volume. It was clarity. She stood in a sacred place, looked power in the face, and made room for compassion anyway.

That kind of courage belongs in Women’s History Month.

Not only the courage of women who marched with signs or shattered ceilings with applause behind them, but also the courage of women who held their ground in rooms built to intimidate. Women who spoke with steadiness when spectacle would have been easier. Women who understood that conviction does not have to be cruel to be strong.

Mariann Edgar Budde reminded the country that mercy is not frail. Mercy is not timid. Mercy is not a soft substitute for truth. Real mercy has a backbone. It knows exactly what it is doing. It steps into hard places and refuses to surrender its humanity.

She did not need rage to make history.
She did not need performance to make her point.
She did not need to wound anyone to be unforgettable.

She stood there as a woman, a leader, and a witness. Calm, clear, and unwilling to let fear have the final word.

That is how some women leave footprints.
Not by shouting over the room.
But by changing the temperature in it.

Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves,
for the rights of all who are destitute.”
Proverbs 31:8

May we remember Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde not simply as the woman who unsettled a president, but as a woman who stood before power and still chose mercy. In a world that too often mistakes cruelty for strength, that witness matters.

We see you.

Steps From Our Sisters
Honoring the Women Who Marched Before Us

Curated by
Michelle Gillison-Robinson
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com
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Hedy Lamarr – The Beauty Who Invented The Future

(November 9, 1914 – January 19, 2000)

Sometimes the world notices the wrong thing first.

Hedy Lamarr was known throughout Hollywood as one of the most beautiful actresses of the 1940s. Her face appeared on movie posters and magazine covers, and audiences admired her elegance and glamour.

But behind the fame lived a restless and brilliant mind.

During World War II, Lamarr watched the rise of Nazi power in Europe and wanted to help the Allied cause. Working with composer George Antheil, she developed a communication system designed to guide torpedoes without enemy interference.

Their invention used a method called frequency hopping, where radio signals constantly changed channels so they could not be jammed.

At the time, the military dismissed the idea.

Years later, however, the technology behind Lamarr’s invention became the foundation for modern wireless communication. Today the same principle supports Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, and GPS systems used around the world.

There is a verse in Proverbs that reminds us, “The Lord gives wisdom; from His mouth come knowledge and understanding.”

Hedy Lamarr reminds us that wisdom often lives quietly beneath the labels the world places on us.

Sometimes the person everyone admires for one gift is carrying another gift powerful enough to shape the future.

The world may decide who you are before it knows your whole story.

Hedy Lamarr was celebrated for beauty, but her mind helped build technology that connects billions of people today.

Sometimes the gifts God gives us are not immediately recognized. But that does not make them any less powerful.

We see you, Hedy. All of you.

Steps From Our Sisters

Honoring the Women Who Marched Before Us

Curated by

Michelle Gillison-Robinson

DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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The Woman Who Helped Crack the Enemy’s Code  – Joan Clarke


(June 24, 1917 – September 4, 1996)

Sometimes the fate of nations depends on someone solving a puzzle.

During World War II, the British government gathered mathematicians, linguists, and puzzle solvers at a secret intelligence center called Bletchley Park. Their mission was to break the encrypted messages sent by Nazi Germany through the Enigma machine.

Among those brilliant minds was Joan Clarke.

Clarke had a remarkable talent for mathematics and logical reasoning. Despite her skill, she was initially placed in a clerical role because few people believed women belonged among the leading cryptanalysts.

But her brilliance soon became impossible to ignore.

Working alongside other codebreakers, including Alan Turing, Clarke helped decipher German military communications. The intelligence gathered from those messages allowed Allied forces to anticipate enemy movements and strategies.

Historians believe the success of the Bletchley Park team shortened World War II by several years and saved millions of lives.

There is a verse in Ecclesiastes that says, “Wisdom is better than weapons of war.”

Joan Clarke proved that truth in the quietest way possible.

Sometimes the mind that changes history
is sitting silently at a desk, pencil in hand.

Bread Crumbs

Not every hero stands on a battlefield.

Some sit in quiet rooms, solving problems others cannot see.

Joan Clarke reminds us that intelligence, patience, and perseverance can protect lives just as surely as strength or weapons.

Sometimes the wisdom God places in one mind
can help guide the safety of millions.

Steps From Our Sisters
Honoring the Women Who Marched Before Us

Curated by
Michelle Gillison-Robinson
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com




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Bessie Coleman – The Woman Who Refused to Stay Grounded

(January 26, 1892 – April 30, 1926)

Sometimes the sky becomes the only place left to prove you belong.

Bessie Coleman grew up in Texas at a time when both race and gender limited opportunity. When she dreamed of becoming a pilot, every flight school in the United States refused to teach her.

She was Black.
She was a woman.

So Bessie Coleman did something extraordinary.

She learned French and traveled to France, where she earned her pilot’s license in 1921, becoming the first African American and Native American woman in the world to hold an international pilot’s license.

When she returned to the United States, crowds came to watch her fly. Coleman became a famous stunt pilot, performing breathtaking aerial tricks that left audiences amazed.

But she used her platform for something deeper.

She refused to perform at air shows that did not allow Black audiences to attend. To her, flight was not just entertainment.

It was dignity.

There is a verse in Isaiah that says, “They will soar on wings like eagles.”

Bessie Coleman lived that promise with courage and determination.

Sometimes the first person to break a barrier
must build the runway herself.


Breadcrumb
The world may close doors in front of you.

Bessie Coleman did not accept the doors that were closed.

She crossed an ocean instead.

Sometimes God places a dream in your heart that cannot grow where you started.

And sometimes the path forward begins
with the courage to leave the ground.

Steps From Our Sisters
Honoring the Women Who Marched Before Us

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Grace O’Malley – Pirate Queen

(c.1530 – 1603)
Sometimes history remembers kings. But occasionally the sea belongs to a queen.
Grace O’Malley, known in Ireland as Gráinne Mhaol, was born into a powerful maritime clan along Ireland’s western coast. From a young age she refused the expectations placed upon women of her time.
She learned the sea instead. Grace commanded ships, led sailors, and controlled trade routes along the rugged Irish coastline. Her fleets became legendary, and her name was spoken with both admiration and caution.
When English forces threatened her family and territory, Grace O’Malley did something almost unheard of. She sailed to England and met Queen Elizabeth I face to face.
The two women spoke as equals, negotiating the freedom of O’Malley’s son and the restoration of her lands.
There is a verse in Psalm 93 that says, “The Lord reigns… the seas have lifted up their voice.”
Grace O’Malley’s life seemed to echo that image—strong, fearless, and unafraid of powerful waters.
Sometimes courage does not wait for permission.
Sometimes it sets sail.
Strength often begins with refusing the limits others place on you.
Grace O’Malley was expected to live quietly. Instead she commanded ships and negotiated with queens.
Her story reminds us that leadership can emerge from the most unexpected places.
Sometimes the waves that try to block your path are the very waters meant to carry you forward.
Steps From Our Sisters
Honoring the Women Who Marched Before Us

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Maya Angelou: When a Voice Becomes Courage

She carried many lives before the world called her a poet.
Maya Angelou was born in St. Louis, April 4, 1928 as Marguerite Annie Johnson.   The name Maya was derived from her brother Bailey who just could not pronounce her name and would call her “My Sister” . It morphed into Maya which stuck. Angelou came from her first husband,  Enistasios Angelos, a Greek sailor. She adapted the surname slightly to Angelou when she began performing as a dancer and singer so it would sound more lyrical on stage.

She was  raised in the segregated South where dignity was often denied but never fully destroyed. Her childhood held both silence and survival, experiences that would later shape the voice the world came to know.
She refused to stay one thing. Angelou worked as a streetcar conductor, dancer, singer, journalist, and organizer long before the world recognized her literary voice. Her life moved through many stages, but each experience added depth to the perspective she would later bring to her writing.
Her voice extended beyond stages and books. During the Civil Rights Movement she worked alongside Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X, helping organize, write, and advocate for justice. In 1964, after years living and working in Africa, Angelou returned to the United States at the invitation of Malcolm X to help him build a new civil rights organization focused on global Black unity.
Before that work could fully take shape, Malcolm X was assassinated.
The loss shook her deeply, but Angelou continued writing, speaking, and advocating for dignity and equality. Only a few years later the movement suffered another devastating loss when Dr. King was assassinated on April 4, Angelou’s own birthday.
Still she wrote.
In 1969, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings gave voice to stories the world rarely allowed Black women to tell out loud. Stories of trauma, identity, and the quiet power of rising again. Her words did not whisper. They lifted.
As she once wrote: “Still I rise.” Three simple words that carried generations.
But the voice the world came to love was not always easy for her to use.
As a young girl Maya Angelou endured a violent assault. When she spoke the truth about what had happened, the man responsible was later killed. In her young mind she believed her words had caused it.
So she stopped speaking.
For years she lived in silence, afraid that her voice carried too much power. It was a teacher, Mrs. Bertha Flowers, who slowly led her back to language through books, poetry, and the music of words.
The voice that would one day move a nation had to be reclaimed first.
In 1993 she stood at the inauguration of President Bill Clinton and read On the Pulse of Morning, becoming only the second poet in American history to deliver a poem at a presidential inauguration.
But her greatest legacy was simpler.
She gave language to survival.
Her life echoes a truth older than any poem:
“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair.” — 2 Corinthians 4:8

I once saw Maya Angelou in concert. In a packed 1000 plus  seat  theater she sang “God Sent a Rainbow” without a microphone. The room fell completely silent as her voice carried to every corner. It felt as if the walls themselves were listening.
In that moment I understood something about courage. Voices like Maya Angelou’s do more than speak. They remind us that we are not meant to stay silent either. Somewhere in our own lives there is a truth waiting to be spoken, a kindness waiting to be offered, a step waiting to be taken.
And that is how Bread Crumbs are made.
Poet. Witness. Voice for generations.
We see you, Maya Angelou — for giving language to survival and wings to truth.
Bread Crumbs — from those still marching forward.
Steps From Our Sisters. Still here.
What step might be waiting for you?

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My Rib Struggles To Breathe

March 1, 2026

God of dirt under fingernails, of headlines and heartbeats, of babies born into chaos
and mamas who don’t sleep.
Lord hear our prayer
Sit with us in sackcloth and ash.

Hear the Latina scream for her familia.
Hear the Black mama beat her chest
from the weight of knees and crushed souls
Hear the confused person of no color
whisper, “Am I next?”

See my father’s shadow.
The brown father working double shifts
with documents that feel like paper shields.
The Black father teaching his son
how to survive a traffic stop.
The father from somewhere else
trying to sound less foreign
so his children sound more safe.

The one who has never been taught how to weep, but learns that privileged skin
offers no protection.

Watch how they swallow fear so their families can eat.
Watch how they stand tall while history presses down.
Do not turn Your face from the trembling.

Is Abraham’s argument still valid?
Is there still one worth saving?
If there are fifty…
If there are forty…
If there are ten…
Will mercy outrun destruction?

Because we be something else.
We invent vaccines and vendettas.
We cure disease and cultivate grudges.
We build greenhouses and graveyards
in the same generation.

We scream “save the babies” while demanding their mothers bleed in parking lots outside buildings bearing neon  crosses and snakes on stakes.

And if that little bundle of hope
takes breath….. we ration mercy.
We starve truth. We feed them fear.
We hand them a system and call it destiny.

Forgive us for mistaking loud for strong,
revenge for justice,
power for wisdom,
money for mattering.

Slow the hands hovering over buttons.
Cool the tongues that set nations on fire.
Remind the mighty that bleeding does not discriminate.

When leaders puff up,
deflate egos with a firm hand.
When citizens rage-scroll at 3:33 a.m.,
tuck them back into cradles of mercy.

Teach us that being right is not the same thing as being righteous.

And teach us this, Lord –
That Holy is set apart, not divided asunder.

Set apart does not mean split down the middle.
It does not mean camps or corners
or color-coded salvation.

Holy is not red. Holy is not blue. Holy is not loud.

Holy is careful. Holy is weighty.
Holy is handled like heirloom glass passed from trembling hands.

Do not let us carve You up to fit our arguments.
Do not let us drape Your name over fear and call it faith.

If we must be set apart, let it be in compassion.
If we must be different, let it be in mercy.
Separate us from cruelty.
Separate us from arrogance.
Separate us from the need to win
at the cost of one another.

But do not divide us beyond repair.
Remind us that what is sacred is never meant to be torn.

Lord Hear Our Prayer

For the refugee in the cold,
the soldier on watch,
the child learning history from a textbook that left something out —
Cover them.

Guard democracy like a fragile seedling in late frost.
Guard dignity like Grandma’s good china.
Guard hope like a porch light left on for whoever comes home late.

When we start thinking the sky is falling,
Whisper,
“Dead and dormant are not the same thing.”

Let wars stall. Let hatred get tired. Let truth outlive the loud.

And if we must walk through fire, let it burn off what is false and leave what is faithful.

While presidents posture and pundits perform
Let ordinary people sleep.
Let Nama rest. Let grandchildren dream of gardens instead of sirens.

My bladed pen is hot. It does not drip ink.
It draws blood from silence. It refuses anesthesia. I tire  of gentle prayers that never name the wound.

If my words burn, let them cauterize.
If they cut, let them carve truth
from marble lies.

Out of all the people in this great big world,
please hear me. Please know my voice.
Hear me when I pray.
For I will not whisper  when my rib struggles to breathe.

Amen.  Ameen. Aṣẹ̀ Olódùmarè. Selah. Shanti. Alafia. Tathāstu. Ubuntu

from Poems My Mama Would Have Wrote ( If She Had Been Allowed”
Althea’s Daughter: Michelle Gillison-Robinson

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You Are Black History

Black history does not live only in textbooks, timelines, or framed portraits. It lives in you.


It lives in the prayers your grandmother whispered that no one recorded. It lives in the courage it took for your parents and grandparents to keep going when quitting would have been easier.

It lives in the way you show up to work, to church, to community, to family — even when the reward is unclear.


Black history is not only something that happened. It is something that is still happening.


It is made every time you choose dignity over bitterness. Every time you carry joy in a system that profits from your exhaustion. Every time you tell the truth — even quietly. Every time you endure, love, build, teach, heal, or believe anyway.


Some names were written down. Many were not.
Some stories were celebrated. Many were survived.
But history is not only what is remembered — it is what continues.


You stand on the shoulders of those who were victorious without reward. Those who served faithfully without applause. Those who planted seeds they would never live to see bloom.


Their courage flows through you.


And we have always known how to leave something behind.


Breadcrumbs on the ground when the path was uncertain. Hushpuppies tossed not as waste, but as wisdom — a way to distract danger long enough to keep moving. Cornrows braided tight to the scalp, not only as beauty or tradition, but as memory — paths etched into hair, holding maps to water, to safety, to freedom.


What could not be written down was carried. What could not be spoken aloud was encoded. What could not be protected by law was protected by love, community, and God.


This was not myth. This was method.
A people learning how to survive systems designed to erase them — by remembering anyway.


If you are still leaving breadcrumbs for those coming behind you… still marking the way quietly… still choosing faith, dignity, and care when no one is watching…
You are doing what has always been done.


You are part of a holy lineage of guidance and endurance. A living echo of the God who makes a way where none seems visible and leads His people forward, step by step.


“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”
— Galatians 6:9
“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.”
— Psalm 119:105


If you are still standing, still hoping, still loving, still reaching for God and for one another — you are Black history in motion.
Not just because of where you came from, but because of how you choose to live.


We see you. We honor you. You matter.
Love, Chelle

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Hattie McDaniel, First In  A Segregated Room


In 1940, Hattie McDaniel became the first African American to win an Academy Award. She won Best Supporting Actress for her role as Mammy in Gone with the Wind (1939). She was also the first African American ever nominated for an Oscar. History shifted that night.


And yet, at the ceremony held at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, she was required to sit at a small segregated table against the wall, apart from her white castmates. Victory. With boundaries.


When the film premiered in Atlanta in 1939, Georgia’s Jim Crow laws barred Black cast members from attending. It is widely reported that her co-star Clark Gable objected strongly and threatened not to appear in protest. Accounts say Hattie encouraged him to attend, understanding the political climate and the fragile footing of her position in Hollywood. Public outrage from powerful allies could make headlines. But she would still have to live and work inside the system afterward. Strategy is not surrender.


MORE THAN MAMMY
Hattie McDaniel was born in Kansas to parents who had been enslaved.

She was among the first Black women to sing on American radio in the 1920s, a successful blues performer before Hollywood and recorded 16 blues sides between 1926 and 1929. She appeared in over 300 films, though many roles went uncredited. Her best known other major films are Alice AdamsIn This Our LifeSince You Went Away, and Song of the South.

She became one of the highest-paid Black entertainers of her era and later starred in the radio show Beulah, becoming one of the first Black women to headline a nationally broadcast radio program.

In 1952, she became one of the first Black women to star in a television series when Beulah moved to television.

She holds two stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame — one for motion pictures and one for radio.


All of this was before Rosa Parks. Before Martin Luther King Jr. became a national figure. Before the Civil Rights Act.

Jim Crow was law. Black actors were largely confined to domestic or servile roles. Many within the Black community criticized those portrayals for reinforcing stereotypes.

Hattie’s response was pragmatic and pointed: “I’d rather play a maid than be one.”

Being first does not mean being free. McDaniel died of breast cancer on October 26, 1952, at age 59 in Woodland Hills, California. Her final wish to be buried in the Hollywood Cemetery was denied due to its segregation policy at the time.  Decades later, a memorial plaque was placed in her honor.

In  2006, she was honored with a US postage stamp, and in 2010, she was inducted into the Colorado Women’s Hall of Fame.

In 2006, the Academy replaced her long-missing Oscar, confiscated by IRS debt, with a replica, formally acknowledging her historic win.  The original was to have been displayed at Howard University but went missing in the 1970s

Notably, no other Black woman would win an Oscar for 50 years after Hattie. Not until Whoopie Goldberg won for Best Supporting Actress in Ghost.

Galatians 6:9

“Let us not grow weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.”


CARRY THIS WITH YOU
Sometimes the door that opens to you is imperfect. Sometimes the room is segregated.
Sometimes you are allowed in — but only to the edge.

Hattie McDaniel walked in anyway. Not because the system was fair. But because excellence inside limitation still moves history forward.


BREADCRUMB
What opportunity are you resisting because the conditions are not ideal? Being the first often means carrying contradictions so others can inherit clarity.


SALUTE
We see you, Hattie McDaniel — for becoming the first when the room was not ready, and for claiming victory in a nation that tried to seat you in the shadows.

Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us.
Victorious without reward. Still here.