Category: faith

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Somewhere Between The Car And The Kitchen

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Disappointment doesn’t usually knock loudly.
It just keeps adding weight.


Brick by brick, we pack the backpack:
• unmet expectations
• things we thought God would do by now
• roles we keep carrying because “someone has to”
• stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what’s possible

And if I’m honest, this is the same part of me that tries to carry all the groceries in one trip.
Because clearly, asking for help would be admitting weakness…
and making two trips would be a personal failure.


So there I am — keys dangling, bags cutting off circulation, dignity questionable — determined to prove I’ve got this.
I call it independence. Heaven calls it unnecessary.


And somewhere between the car and the kitchen, I’m reminded that even Jesus sent the disciples out two by two.


Inevitably, something falls.
Or worse… something gets left in the trunk.And a couple of days later, there’s a smell. A mysterious, soul-searching smell that forces a reckoning.


Nothing humbles you faster than realizing the real burden wasn’t the bags —
it was the banana you refused to admit you dropped.


That’s how unexamined burdens work too.
What we refuse to set down eventually announces itself.
Some of the limits we feel aren’t placed by God — they’re placed by our own expectations of how we think  He should move.


We overpack faith with control.
We leave no room for surprise.
No room for grace.
No room for God to have His way — because the backpack is already full.


Jesus never asked us to be strong and burdened.
He asked us to come — and let Him carry what we were never meant to hold.


“Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you.” — Psalm 55:22


Maybe today isn’t about pushing harder.
Maybe it’s about making two trips.
Or — heaven forbid — asking for help.


Drop the bricks.
Check the trunk.
Walk  lighter.

Love, Chelle

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Crumbs Of Grace, My 2nd New Year.

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When I think of the most important birthdays, I don’t start with cake or candles.
I start with life.


I think of the 37th birthday when  I helped deliver my grandson, Jayon — my eldest son’s first child. On that day, I didn’t just celebrate another year of my own life; I welcomed new life, new hopes, and new dreams into the world. In a way, our birthdays became twins. His arrival was proof that God was still creating, still trusting the future to fragile hands. And year after year, Jayon has never disappointed — not because he’s perfect, but because he has lived into the promise of that moment.


I think of my 50th birthday — the day I was scheduled to start chemotherapy for breast cancer. Fear tried to claim that day, but my husband gave me a birthday slumber party instead with the ladies in my crew.. Laughter showed up before dread could unpack its bags. It felt like God whispering through cupcakes and pajamas: Fight. Fight. You are not done.


On my 55th birthday, the fear shifted again. Instead of waiting anxiously for scan results, I stood on a stage wearing a crown and a “Drive 55” shirt — a playful, holy reminder to pace myself and keep going. Sometimes courage looks regal. Sometimes it looks ridiculous. Both can preach.


But my favorite birthdays are always the next one.


Whether they arrive loud and celebratory or quiet and reflective like today, they carry the same invitation. I call January 5th my second New Year — a moment to pause, look back at all that happened since last year, the good and the not-so-good. To thank God for the joys He brought us into, and for the things He delivered us out of.


“This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” — Psalm 118:24


Not the perfect day.
Not the painless day.
Just this one.


And today includes crumbs.
Crumbs from a Kentucky Butter Cake I made with more butter than I’m fairly certain a woman of my age should publicly admit to.

But here’s the truth: butter makes things richer. Grace does too. And neither one asks permission before doing its work.


“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning.” — Lamentations 3:22–23

Even on birthdays.
Especially on birthdays.


These years aren’t measured by candles alone. They’re marked by crumbs of grace — small evidences left behind that say I was fed, I was held, I was carried through

.
And if that’s what this year leaves behind — crumbs, butter, joy, survival, and gratitude — then it has been a very good year indeed.


Love, Chelle

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Popcorn Isn’t Dinner

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I own a microwave. Nothing earth shattering in that announcement.


It lives near my fancy cooktop and mostly functions as a glorified popcorn popper and an occasional emergency coffee reheater. It’s efficient, dependable, and excellent at handling immediate needs.


But it has never fed my soul.


I grew up in a time when food took time. Things were simmered, stewed, braised, and watched. You didn’t just make dinner—you tended it.


I still carry evidence of that kind of cooking: little cuts on my fingers from dull knives, small burns from forgetting pot holders, and an instinct to hover near the stove because something important is happening here.


That’s the kind of faith formation I recognize.
Microwave food is fast. Slow cooking is faithful.


The microwave satisfies a craving. The slow pot answers a hunger.


Scripture reminds us that faith was never meant to be instant. “Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (James 1:4, NIV). Perseverance doesn’t microwave. It simmers. It stays. It waits for the work to be done.


We live in a world that loves microwave spirituality: – quick verses – instant breakthroughs – tidy testimonies – three easy steps and a closing prayer.


And listen—I’m not mad at the microwave. Sometimes popcorn is necessary.
But popcorn isn’t dinner.


Faith that matures—faith that holds when life burns, cuts, and bruises—comes from staying near the stove. From paying attention. From trusting the heat even when it’s uncomfortable.


Slow-cooked faith smells different. It fills the house. It draws people in before it’s finished.
And yes, it might leave a mark or two.
But those marks aren’t failures. They’re proof you stayed long enough for God to finish His work.


So if your faith feels like it’s taking longer than expected… If you’re still simmering when you wanted to be served… If you’ve got a few burns and nicks to show for the journey…
Take heart.
You’re not being microwaved.
You’re being made.

Love,Chelle

Prayer
Father, thank You for not rushing what You are forming in me. Help me stay near the heat without growing bitter, impatient, or afraid. Teach me to trust the slow work of Your hands, even when I want instant results. And when I’m tempted to settle for spiritual snacks, remind me that You are preparing something that truly satisfies.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.

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A Meeting Place

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This may not sound like me.


I’m usually the one who finds the humor, the metaphor, the small spark of light tucked inside the ordinary. I believe in joy — deeply. I still do.

But today, joy feels quieter, and sorrow feels closer to the surface .
The world feels fractured.
Nation against nation.
Neighbor against neighbor.
Families strained.
Friendships reduced to likes, views, and fleeting affirmations.


And somewhere in the middle of all this noise, what seems to be slipping away is our sense of community — the kind where people are known, not curated. Where connection doesn’t require a platform or performance.


Yesterday, as I mourned world events ,  all of this along with a side of opinions still wrapped with faith, I was told I was hiding behind God and the Bible.


That stayed with me.


Not because it shook my faith, but because it revealed something deeper about the times we’re living in — a world so uncomfortable with lament that even sacred language is suspect when it refuses to harden into arguments or slogans.


But my faith has never been a hiding place.
It has always been a meeting place — where grief and hope are allowed to sit together without rushing one another out of the room.


Today, I find myself weeping.
Not because faith has failed, but because love is still very much alive.
“Jesus wept.” — John 11:35
He stood in the presence of grief and loss and did not rush to fix it, explain it, or weaponize it. He allowed tears to speak where words fell short. If tears were worthy of Him, they are not beneath us.
Scripture doesn’t ask us to bypass sorrow — it calls us to enter it together.
“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” — Romans 12:15


This isn’t a departure from who I am.
It’s a refusal to pretend.
I still believe in hope. I still believe in resurrection. I still believe God has not lost the plot. But I also believe sorrow has a place in the story — not as an ending, but as an honest chapter.


So today, I show up softer. Quieter. More tender. Trusting that God can hold my tears just as faithfully as He holds my hope.


And believing that even here — especially here — grace is present.
Love Chelle

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Clown Shoes On Holy Ground

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I was born on a Sunday.
The old poem says, “Sunday’s child is full of grace.” I believe that’s true — but grace doesn’t arrive in a vacuum.

I was a Sunday child who learned early about loss.
About poverty that makes you grow up faster than your age.
About grief that shows up uninvited and stays too long.
About loneliness that teaches you how to be self-sufficient
and insecurities that whisper you’d better be useful if you want to be loved.

So I learned to protect myself.

I learned how to make people laugh and have them sing along.
How to lighten rooms before they noticed the weight I was carrying.
How to read emotions faster than words.
How to bring joy without asking for much in return.

What I didn’t know then was that God was watching all of it —
not with disappointment,
but with intention.

Scripture says:
“But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise;
God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.”
— 1 Corinthians 1:27

From that place of self-protection, something holy was being formed.

My ministry didn’t begin in confidence.
It began in clown shoes —
joy worn on holy ground,
humor used as armor,
Melodies offered as a bridge when I didn’t yet have language for my own pain.

For a long time, I thought joy meant I hadn’t been hurt enough.
That if I laughed, my grief must not be legitimate.
That holiness required heaviness.

But holy ground taught me otherwise.

Holy ground can handle pride that cracks, not joy.
God was never offended by my antics.
He was present in it.

Somewhere along the way, God redeemed my survival skills.
What I once used to protect myself,
He began using to comfort others.

I didn’t stop carrying sacred things —
I just learned how to carry them without pretending they weren’t holy.

I still wear the clown shoes.
Not because I don’t know sorrow,
but because I do.

Joy is not denial.
Joy is defiance.
Joy is faith that has survived the night
and still shows up in the morning.

So if you see me smiling, laughing, singing,  softening the room —know this:

I am standing on holy ground.
I am carrying sacred things.
And God has always been in the business
of using what the world dismisses
to do His most meaningful work.

Clown shoes and all.

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The Third Pie

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I wasn’t trying to be deep.
I was just trying to bake.

One sweet potato pie for my husband.
One for my brother-in-law who has been begging for one like it’s his spiritual gift.
I followed the recipe to the letter. Measured. Mixed. Poured.

And somehow… there was a full third pie.

Not a baker’s bite.
Not a “let me scrape the bowl and see what happens.”
A whole, mind-your-business, respectable third pie.

What makes this even better is this:
I hadn’t made a sweet potato pie in almost a year.

Not because I didn’t want to.
Not because I forgot how.
But because life was lifing — loudly — at almost every holiday when joy normally shows up wrapped in foil and tradition. Some seasons don’t leave room for extra, only endurance.

So when I finally baked again, I wasn’t expecting anything special.
Just two pies.
Just getting back to myself.

And still — there was extra.

I didn’t stretch the recipe.
I didn’t short the pies.
I didn’t hustle or improvise.

I simply did what was in front of me.

Later that day, the third pie didn’t wait for a plan.
Two of my teenage grandsons devoured it like it was made just for them — laughing, grabbing seconds, completely unaware they were standing in the quiet, perfect timing of God’s provision.

And that’s when it settled in.

Sometimes, provision doesn’t shout.
Sometimes grace shows up finished.
Sometimes, abundance waits patiently for us to notice.

I planned for two.
Grace planned for three.

“The Lord will open for you His good storehouse, the heavens, to bless all the work of your hands.”
— Deuteronomy 28:12

And this morning, with coffee in hand and crumbs on the counter, I’m reminded:
Even after long pauses, God’s timing is still generous.

Love, Chelle

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Faith With Cream

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If you know me well, you know this:
there is a Do Not Disturb sign on my whole being before my first cup of coffee.


Not because I’m mean — because I’m unfinished. Conversations are risky. Decisions are suspect. Eye contact is optional and not encouraged.

Coffee is not a luxury in my house.
It’s a transition ritual — the bridge between sleep and sanity.

I’ve tried drinking it black.
I respect the people who do.
But I am not one of them.

I also refuse to pay six dollars for a cup of bean water served with foam, a wooden stir stick, and a side of financial regret.

So I do what most of us do in real life:
I work with what I have.

A splash of cream. Sometimes thickened milk.
Sometimes eggnog (non-alcoholic, of course).
Always grace.

And somewhere between the mug and the quiet, God meets me.

Faith works the same way.

There’s a version of spirituality that insists you drink life black —
no softness, no comfort, no pause.
Just endure. Prove you’re strong. Push through.

There’s another version that says peace only comes if you buy it, chase it, or overspend your way into it.

But Scripture gives us a wiser prayer — not for excess, not for deprivation,
but for enough:

“Give me neither poverty nor riches;
feed me with the food that I need.”
— Proverbs 30:8 (NRSV)

That is provision without punishment.
Sufficiency without suffering.

Faith with cream doesn’t erase the bitterness —
it makes it bearable.
It doesn’t deny reality —
it softens it enough to receive joy.

God has always provided daily bread —
not to test us, but to sustain us.

So this morning, if you’re like me —
still warming up, still waiting for the cream you forgot at the store to arrive —
know this:

God is not offended by your need for gentleness.
He honors prayers for enough.

Drink the coffee.
Delay the noise.
Let faith be tender today.

Faith with cream still counts.

Love, Chelle

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A Season Of Miracles Of Rest (Even When We Can’t Sleep Yet)

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Every new year arrives carrying declarations.
More. Faster. Bigger. Better.

But this year, something different is echoing through pulpits and prayers alike:
a quiet but radical declaration—
this is a season of miracles of rest.

Ironically, many of us are hearing that message while lying awake at night…
thinking about rest.
Planning rest.
Wondering why rest feels like another assignment we’re failing.
(Ask me how I know.)

Still, Scripture reminds us that some of God’s most powerful work happens when we stop striving—even when stopping doesn’t come easily.

“Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28

Rest is not a reward for finishing.
It is often the starting place—even if our bodies haven’t caught up with the invitation yet.

Renew Me
Renewal isn’t about becoming someone new.
It’s about being refreshed into who God already designed us to be.

Sometimes renewal looks holy and quiet.
Other times it looks like admitting,
“I’m exhausted… and still awake.”

God is not offended by that honesty.

“He restores my soul.”
— Psalm 23:3

Revive Me
To revive is to bring life back to what looks dormant.
Not dead—just tired.
Just worn thin by years of pushing through.

If you’ve ever felt like your spirit hit the snooze button even while your faith stayed intact, you’re not alone.

“Will You not revive us again, that Your people may rejoice in You?”
— Psalm 85:6

Restore Me
Restoration is holy repair.
It is God returning what was lost, broken, or depleted—not always in the same form, but with deeper wisdom attached.

Including the ability to rest without guilt.

“I will restore to you the years the locust has eaten.”
— Joel 2:25

Room to Breathe
Not rushing into the next assignment.
Not proving the miracle worked.
But giving yourself permission to exhale—even if sleep comes later.

Sometimes faith looks like lying still and trusting God is working while we’re learning how to rest again.

“In returning and rest you shall be saved;
in quietness and trust shall be your strength.”
— Isaiah 30:15

God, as this year begins, renew us where we are weary—even when we can’t quiet our minds yet.
Revive what has grown tired within us.
Restore what life has worn down.
And teach us how to rest without guilt, trusting that You are still moving, even while we lie awake learning how to breathe again.
Amen.

Love Chelle

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Eviction Notices ( Without the Panic)

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As I pack up the end of one year to experience the wonders of the next, I was reminded of how many times I was evicted. Not in the natural sense but by God.


I’ve learned that God’s eviction notices don’t come with flashing lights or raised voices.
They don’t sound like “You’re fired.”
They don’t arrive with chaos or fear.
They feel like stability that no longer fits.


I call it an eviction notice when God begins to unsecure me in a place He never intended to be my final address. Provision is present. The lights are on. The ground is steady. And yet—peace quietly taps me on the shoulder and whispers, “This isn’t home.”


For people like me—faithful to a fault, a true “Stable Mabel”—dependable, steady, the one who shows up no matter what—God doesn’t shove.
He anchors.
He makes sure the floor doesn’t drop out.
He removes the threat of free-fall.
He rearranges just enough, so survival is no longer the distraction.
And that’s when it gets confusing.
Because when panic leaves, clarity arrives.
And clarity is harder to ignore.
An eviction notice from God doesn’t say leave now.
It gently says, don’t give this place your last.
It shows up as: – security without satisfaction
– provision without peace
– competence without calling
It feels like gratitude… mixed with restlessness.
I used to think eviction meant loss.
But I’m learning it often means permission.
Permission to stop confusing loyalty with assignment.
Permission to admit that faithfulness has a future—and it doesn’t always look like staying.


Scripture gives me a different picture of how God moves His children:
“Like an eagle that stirs up its nest
and hovers over its young,
that spreads its wings to catch them
and carries them aloft…”
(Deuteronomy 32:11)


When I think of God’s eviction notices now, I don’t picture being thrown out.
I picture a nest that has grown too comfortable—warm feathers, familiar edges.
God stirs the nest not to harm, but to wake.
There is a push, yes—but there is also hovering.
There is a letting go, but never abandonment.
Before the feathers can be too ruffled,
before fear turns into free fall,
the same wings that nudged are the wings that catch.
That’s what this season feels like.
Not panic.
Not loss.
But the unsettling grace of being lifted by a God who refuses to let me stay small—and refuses to let me crash while I learn.
Here is the grounding truth I’m holding close:
God is not asking me to burn down my life.
He is inviting me to build the next one alongside it—until it’s strong enough to stand.
No rushing.
No scorched earth.
No fear-driven decisions.
Just a quiet understanding that a holding pen is not a home—and that noticing the gate is unlocked is already movement.
If this is an eviction notice, it isn’t cruel.
It’s merciful.
Because God doesn’t evict His children into the cold.
He prepares the next place before He asks us to pack.
And peace—real peace—always goes with us.
— Love. Chelle

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Watch Night Reflection: Auld Lang Syne in a Colder World

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“Auld Lang Syne” (yes… I had to look up how to spell it) is often sung on nights like this, though many of us don’t quite know what we’re saying. The phrase comes from old Scots and simply means “times long past” or “old long since.”


It’s really a question—Should old acquaintance be forgot?


Tonight, we know the answer is no.
Some traditions look different now.
Watch Night doesn’t stretch to midnight anymore.
Candles burn a little shorter.
Doors close earlier than they used to—not because faith has failed, but because the world has grown colder, louder, and less safe.
And yet… here we are.


We gather not to mourn what’s changed, but to remember what still matters.


“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is Your faithfulness.”
— Lamentations 3:22–23 (NIV)


“Auld Lang Syne” isn’t about nostalgia—it’s about honoring the bonds that carried us through. It invites us to pause, look back, and say: We made it. Together.
So tonight, before we step into a new year, let us do a few holy things:
• Give thanks for the days behind us—both joyful and hard
• Release what no longer serves our spirit
• Recommit to the people God placed in our care
• Check on family, even the ones who don’t answer right away
• And if you really love me… bake the baker  a pineapple upside-down cake, because my birthday is in a few days (amen and thank you in advance)


Because in a world that feels colder, connection is resistance.
Community is courage.
And faith—quiet, steady faith—still keeps watch.
So even if we leave before midnight,
even if the song fades early,
we carry the meaning with us:


Old times remembered.
New mercies ahead.
God still with us.
Amen.

Loving you right into our next adventure,  Chelle


Michelle Gillison-Robinson

defygravitywithoutwings.com