Category: food

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Pull Out What Didn’t Make It.

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“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1 (KJV)

This morning, I decided it was time to reset my garden.

Life had gotten in the way, and honestly, so had disappointment.

Some things I planted never became what I imagined. The squash bed became the scene of what I jokingly call the vine borer massacre. The kale and collards eventually lost their battle with the beetles. There are potato bags I am almost afraid to open because I don’t know whether there is a harvest underneath all that dirt—or evidence of an experiment gone terribly wrong.

But before I call the season a failure, I need to tell the whole story.

We harvested greens five times.

There are three gallon-sized bags of tomato sauce in my freezer, made from tomatoes that grew right here in this garden.

There was one little green pepper.

There were about ten green beans—not exactly enough to open a produce stand.

There were carrots.

And basil, radishes and beets we would never eat, but were pretty and make novice gardeners feel like experts.

And there were more social-media-worthy pictures than I can count.

There was laughter. There was anticipation. There were lessons I didn’t know I was planting. There were mornings when I walked outside just to see what had changed. There were days when checking on something growing gave my mind somewhere peaceful to go when life was doing entirely too much.

Not everything the garden produced could be put on a plate.

Some of the harvest fed me differently.

Funny how quickly disappointment can make us forget the harvest.

We can become so focused on what died, what got eaten, what never produced, and what didn’t turn out the way we planned that we overlook all the evidence that something did grow.

So no, this garden was not a total failure.

Neither was this season.

And neither am I.

I don’t have to throw away the whole garden just because everything in it didn’t make it.

I can pull out what is finished.

I can clean up what was damaged.

I can keep what still has life.

I can remember what already fed me.

I can refresh depleted soil.

And I can plant again.

There’s even one Brussels sprout plant that’s been hanging around since last November.

She never produced one identifiable Brussels sprout.

By the original expectation, I could call her a failure.

Except we discovered that her leaves were delicious mixed with our greens.

She didn’t produce what I expected.

She still fed us.

And maybe that’s a word for more than my garden.

There are seasons in life that don’t produce everything we expected either. Goals don’t get reached. Plans get interrupted. Things we carefully planted get attacked by circumstances we never saw coming. Energy gets spent dealing with things we never intended to carry.

It’s easy to stare at what didn’t happen until disappointment convinces us that nothing happened.

But that’s not always the truth.

Sometimes there are three bags of sauce sitting in the freezer while we’re mourning the squash.

Sometimes we are so busy counting the ten green beans that we forget the greens fed us five times.

Sometimes what we planted never becomes what we expected, but like my stubborn old Brussels sprout plant, it finds another way to feed us.

And sometimes the harvest isn’t something we can count at all.

Sometimes it is peace.

Sometimes it is laughter.

Sometimes it is a lesson.

Sometimes it is simply having somewhere to put our hands while God settles our hearts.

So today, I’m taking a lesson from my garden.

A disappointing harvest does not mean the soil has lost its purpose.

And an unmet expectation does not erase a harvest that has already happened.

Some things need to be pulled.

Some things deserve another season.

Some things may never become what I originally expected, yet still have value.

And some empty places are simply waiting for new seed.

So I’m not dragging everything that disappointed me into the next season.

I’m cleaning the bed.

I’m keeping what still has life.

I’m remembering what already fed me.

I’m refreshing the soil.

And, by the grace of God, I’m planting again.

And Then I Went Outside…

A few hours after writing those words, I finally made it to the garden.

I had gotten distracted. Life was still doing what life does. Both of my boys needed rides to work, and somewhere in there I stopped to get breakfast. The great potato excavation would have to wait.

But when I finally went outside, the garden had another lesson waiting for me.

There were tomatoes.

Lots of tiny ones. A couple of the last larger ones. Two more green ones still hanging on the vine that I decided to leave there and give a little more time.

And Pip—my little pepper plant that had managed to produce just one tiny green baby—had quietly ripened that baby all the way to red.

I had gone outside thinking about what needed to be cleaned up.

Meanwhile, the garden was still producing.

There I stood with a bowl of tomatoes and one little red pepper from plants I had already mentally begun wrapping up for the season.

And tonight, I’m making spaghetti.

These tomatoes won’t make it into another gallon freezer bag. They’ll be chopped up and added to the jarred sauce we’re eating tonight.

And suddenly there was another lesson.

Some harvest isn’t meant to be stored for later. Some of it shows up just in time for what you need today.

Maybe that’s why we have to be careful about declaring a season over simply because it didn’t produce the way we expected.

There may still be something growing that we haven’t noticed.

There may still be something ripening while we’re looking at what died.

There may still be provision hanging on a vine we were preparing to pull.

And sometimes God doesn’t give us enough to stock the freezer.

Sometimes He gives us enough for tonight’s spaghetti.

That’s still provision.

That’s still harvest.

That’s still something worth thanking Him for.

So perhaps today’s garden reset isn’t only about pulling out what didn’t make it.

Maybe it’s also about slowing down long enough to recognize what did.

What survived.

What fed me differently.

What is still growing.

And what showed up right on time.

Prayer

Lord, forgive me for the times disappointment has made me forget the harvest.

Thank You for every place where something grew, every provision I almost overlooked, every unexpected thing that still managed to feed me, and even the harvests I couldn’t put on a plate.

Thank You for what I was able to preserve for another season.

And thank You for what You provide simply because I need it today.

Give me wisdom to recognize what has finished its season and courage to release it.

Show me what still has life, even when it doesn’t look the way I expected.

Keep me from pulling up something You are still allowing to grow just because I decided its season should be over.

Restore the places in me that have been depleted. Refresh the soil of my heart. And prepare me for whatever You want to plant next.

Help me remember that a disappointing harvest is not the end of the garden.

There is still good soil here.

There may even be something still ripening on the vine.

And with You, there is always reason to look again before I call the season finished.

Amen.

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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On The Altar To Be Altered

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This morning, I called my older sister.

She couldn’t answer, but she texted me back and said she was at a prayer meeting at her church.

Perfect timing, I thought. Because I had some things on my heart. Some people I love. Some situations I can’t control. So I texted her back and asked her to “throw us on the alter.”

She didn’t notice anything unusual about my message. But I did.

I had meant to type “altar”.

I started to correct myself, but I stopped and looked at the word again.

ALTER.

Then the word I intended:

ALTAR.

One little letter separates them. And suddenly, I wasn’t so sure my typo was completely wrong.

Because isn’t that what we do when life becomes bigger than our own ability to handle it? We take it to the ALTAR because we need God to ALTER something.

We bring our children to the altar because there are decisions we can’t make for them.

We bring our marriages because there are places love alone hasn’t been able to fix.

We bring our finances because sometimes the numbers simply don’t make sense.

We bring our jobs, our dreams, our grief, our fears, our disappointments, our bodies, our families and those situations that have kept us awake far too many nights.

We bring all of it. And we say, “God, I need You to alter this.”

But here’s where surrender gets a little uncomfortable. We usually arrive at the altar with a pretty good idea of “what” we’d like God to alter.

Alter them, Lord.

Alter that situation.

Alter these circumstances.

Alter this bank account while You’re at it.

And sometimes He does.

Sometimes God alters the circumstances. Sometimes He alters the timing. Sometimes He alters the direction.

Sometimes He alters a relationship, opens a door, closes another one, moves somebody, restores something, removes something or makes a way we couldn’t see coming.

But sometimes… most times…God alters us.

He alters our perspective. Our priorities. Our expectations. Our attitudes. Our willingness to wait. Our need to control the outcome.

And perhaps that’s why the altar matters so much. The altar isn’t simply the place where I lay something down and tell God what to do with it.

It’s the place where I surrender it enough to let Him decide what needs altering.

Romans 12:1 tells us to present ourselves to God as a living sacrifice.

Not just our problems. Ourselves.

So this morning, I’m taking my accidental little prayer seriously. I’m putting my “me and mine and all of thine: on the alter.

Yes, I know how to spell it. 😂

I’m putting us on the ALTAR and trusting God to ALTER whatever He knows needs to change.

My family. My circumstances. My plans. My heart.

Me.

Because maybe there really is only one letter between the place where we surrender and the change we’ve been praying for.

If you want God to ALTER it, be willing to put it on the ALTAR.

——-

Father, today I place myself and everyone connected to me on Your altar. I give You the things I understand and the things I don’t. The situations I can change and the ones completely beyond my reach. Alter what needs to be altered. Change circumstances where it is Your will, open doors that should open and close those that should close. But Lord, if the change needs to begin in me, give me the courage not to climb back off the altar. Change my heart, my thinking, my direction and my desires until they line up with Yours. I surrender the outcome to You. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Love, Chelle
Defy Gravity Without Wings ❤️

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Pocket Visions and Cleaning Supplies

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This morning, I woke up and couldn’t find my glasses.

Now, for those of us who have reached a certain age and prescription strength, this is not a minor inconvenience. This is a full-scale emergency.

I looked on the nightstand.
I looked under the bed.
I looked in the bathroom.
I looked in places where glasses have never been a day in their lives.

Nothing.

So I sent a message to the Gillison Girls group chat:

*”Uggh. I must have been sleepwalking again. Can’t find my glasses anywhere. And no, they are not on my face.”*

My Aunt Katy, immediately responded:
*”Did you find them? True essay—walking by faith, not by sight.”*

Everybody laughed.

Then my older sister Melody came in for the finish:
*”Or when you’re walking around with your vision in your pocket.”*

Because, yes. That’s exactly where the glasses were.

In my pants pocket.

The same pants I had apparently laid out during some mysterious middle-of-the-night adventure.

To make matters stranger, the shoes were positioned. The clothes were arranged. From all available evidence, Sleepwalking Chelle was preparing to go somewhere.

I just have no idea where.

The whole thing was funny until I realized there was a sermon hiding in the middle of the jokes.

How many times have we told God we couldn’t see?
Couldn’t see the answer.
Couldn’t see the next step.
Couldn’t see how things were going to work out.
Couldn’t see the purpose.
Couldn’t see the miracle.

And all the while, we’ve been carrying the very vision we thought we lost. Maybe not the whole picture. Maybe not every detail.

But enough. Enough light for the next step. Enough wisdom for today’s decision. Enough faith for today’s burden. Enough grace for today’s journey.

Sometimes we’re searching the whole house for something God has already placed in our pocket.

We ask Him for vision when He’s already given us purpose.We ask Him for direction when He’s already shown us the next step. We ask Him for confirmation when He’s already spoken.

The glasses weren’t lost.I just didn’t know where to look. Maybe that’s true of some of the things we’re praying about too.

And then there’s the part I can’t stop laughing about. Apparently, in the middle of the night, I was getting ready to go somewhere.The clothes say so. The shoes say so. The glasses in the pocket say so.

I may not remember the journey, but there was evidence of preparation.

That’ll preach.

Because sometimes God is preparing us for places we can’t yet see.

We don’t know where we’re going. We don’t understand what’s happening. We can’t remember how we got here.

But there are signs everywhere that He is getting us ready. Ready for healing. Ready for ministry. Ready for change. Ready for a blessing. Ready for the next chapter.

So if you can’t see clearly today, don’t panic. Check your pockets.

You may be carrying more vision than you think.

Oh and before I forget,  after I found my glasses in my pocket I found a duster cover in the pajama shirt I was wearing.

Wherever I was planning to go, I was apparently determined to see it clearly and dust it first.

With Love And Laughter
Chelle

defygravitywithoutwings.com

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The Potatoes I Didn’t Believe In

Posted in cancer, faith, food, God, health, inspiration, love, relationships, selfhelp, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , Leave a comment


I almost gave up on them.

Not because they died, but because they didn’t seem to be doing anything.

Day after day I walked past those grow bags, peeking into the soil, looking for evidence that my effort had mattered. I watered. I waited. I worried. Then I worried some more. Nothing. At least nothing I could see.

I remember standing over those bags convinced I had failed them. The gardening experts had plenty to say. Use seed potatoes. Use certified potatoes. Use organic potatoes. Use the right potatoes. Meanwhile, I was standing in the grocery store buying potatoes the same way I’ve bought them all my life—to cook, to eat, to turn into fried potatoes on a Saturday morning. I didn’t know their pedigree. I didn’t know their variety. I didn’t know whether they had the proper credentials for success.

I just planted what I had.

Then one morning, after weeks of wondering, I looked a little harder and found a tiny green shoot. Just one. Not a harvest. Not a miracle. Just enough evidence to keep me from giving up.

Soon there was another shoot. Then another. Before long, the bags were overflowing with green vines spilling over the edges. The plants that once seemed dead now looked determined to take over the backyard. My husband and I laughed about it because I honestly don’t know what kind of potatoes I planted. I never paid attention to potato varieties. I bought them because they were on sale, brought them home, cooked them, and ate them. Yet there they were, growing anyway.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized this wasn’t really about potatoes.

We pray for miracles, but we often expect God to use certified methods. We look for the right people, the right circumstances, the right timing, the right credentials, and the right opportunities. Yet over and over again, God chooses ordinary things. A shepherd’s staff. A boy’s lunch. A widow’s oil. A handful of grocery-store potatoes.

The lesson wasn’t really about gardening. The lesson was about trust.

Sometimes God is growing something long before we see it. Sometimes what looks dormant is simply developing underground. Sometimes the miracle isn’t cancelled; it’s just hidden beneath the surface.

But the funny thing about potato gardening is that the story doesn’t end with all that beautiful green growth.

In fact, after the vines have stretched, the leaves have multiplied, and you’ve finally convinced yourself you’ve succeeded, the plants begin to die back.

The leaves yellow. The stems droop. The lush green growth that once made you so proud starts to fade. If you don’t know better, you’ll think you’ve lost everything. After all that waiting, all that watering, all that hoping, it can feel like the story is ending in disappointment.

But experienced gardeners know something different.

Of which I am not—at least not yet.

I’m still the woman who planted grocery-store potatoes without knowing what kind they were. I’m still the gardener who stood over those bags convinced I had failed. Yet even I am beginning to learn that the dying back isn’t the end of the story. It’s the signal that the harvest is near.

The plant is not giving up. It is finishing its assignment.

All season long, the energy that showed up above ground has been quietly producing something beneath the soil. When the visible growth begins to decline, it often means the hidden work is complete. The harvest was forming long before anyone could see it.

It reminds me of Galatians 6:9:

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”

The funny thing is that the harvest often begins forming long before we can see it. God is working beneath the surface while we are still looking for evidence above ground.

Isn’t that true in life sometimes?

We celebrate the seasons of visible growth. The opportunities, the promotions, the breakthroughs, the answered prayers we can point to and photograph. Yet there are other seasons when something appears to be fading, changing, or coming to an end. A role shifts. A season closes. A body grows tired. A prayer is answered differently than we expected.

What if every ending isn’t a failure?

What if some things have simply completed their work and are making room for a harvest we cannot yet see?

Sometimes what looks like dying is actually ripening.

Maybe that’s why I love these potato bags so much. They have been preaching a sermon all spring. First they taught me that dead and dormant are not the same thing. Soon they will teach me that decline and defeat are not the same thing either.

I planted what I had.

God grew what He wanted.

And somewhere beneath those leaves, where I cannot yet see, a harvest is forming.

Maybe that’s true in more places than my garden.

Love,
Chelle

defygravitywithoutwings.com


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$5 in My Pocket… Lemons at My Door

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I didn’t need a miracle with flashing lights. I didn’t need a breakthrough big enough for everybody else to recognize. Honestly, I just needed my mind to slow down. Because lately, it’s been doing that thing—running numbers, replaying conversations, trying to solve tomorrow before today even finishes. Not because anything is completely falling apart, but because enough has shifted that my spirit knows to pay attention. And if I’m honest, I was thinking a little too much.

So I tried to interrupt myself. Not with prayer this time. Not with a deep scripture study. Just something simple. I had seen a sermon about decluttering—move five things in five minutes. Nothing deep. Nothing dramatic. Just… move something. So I did. One thing, then another. By the time I got to the fifth thing, I reached into the pocket of a dress I hadn’t worn in at least a year—and there it was. Five dollars.

Now let’s be clear. Five dollars is not going to change anybody’s financial situation, but it changed my moment. Because it made me smile. And in a season where your mind is trying to run ahead of you, sometimes a smile is the interruption you didn’t know you needed. I didn’t think much more about it. I just tucked the moment away and kept moving.

On the way to church, I started going through my wallet. Receipts everywhere. Old ones, faded ones, the kind you keep just in case but never actually need. So I started sorting through them, one by one, making sure there wasn’t anything important I needed to hold on to. And that’s when I saw it—another five dollars. Then another. And then another. Three crisp five-dollar bills sitting where receipts should have been.

Now wait, because this is where my spirit leaned in—not my logic, my spirit. Because four five-dollar bills is still just twenty dollars, and twenty dollars, in the grand scheme of real-life responsibilities, is not fixing anything major. But something in me knew this wasn’t about fixing. This was about finding. God wasn’t solving my situation in that moment; He was steadying my heart in it. He was saying, without saying a word, “You don’t have to carry this the way you are carrying it.” And I sat there in that car, holding those little bills like they were something bigger than money, because they were. They were peace. All magnified by the number 5 being the number of grace denoting God’s unmerited favor

Church was good. I smiled through it—not because everything was handled, but because I felt handled. And when I got home, I thought the moment was over.

I got home, and there it was—a simple bag at my door. Inside were lemons. Not one or two, but five bags—bright, yellow, beautiful lemons. Thirty of them. I stood there looking at them like, “Okay Lord… now this feels personal.” Because you’ve heard the saying, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade,” but this didn’t feel like life. Life gives lemons with pressure. Life gives lemons and expects you to figure it out. This felt like God.

And while I was trying to figure out what to do with so many lemons, I started giving them away. Nobody knew I had them. Nobody asked for them. I just… started gifting. If you showed up at the door, you left with some. LOL.  And somewhere in that simple act, it settled in my spirit that maybe everything God places in your hands isn’t meant to stay there. Some things show up not just as provision, but as permission—to bless, to share, to lighten someone else’s day without needing a reason or an announcement.

Because He didn’t wait until I had everything figured out. He met me while I was trying not to spiral, while I was moving five small things, while I was clearing out what I didn’t need, while I was doing the little bit I could control. He didn’t flood me with answers. He didn’t overwhelm me with provision. He didn’t drop a solution big enough to remove every question. He just… found me.

He found me in a dress pocket I forgot about, in a wallet I almost ignored, in a moment where I chose not to overthink. And then He made me laugh, because who sends somebody thirty lemons unless they are trying to say something?

“Your Father knows what you need before you ask Him.” — Matthew 6:8

So no, it wasn’t about twenty dollars, and it wasn’t about lemons. It was about being reminded that I am not navigating this season by myself. That even when my thoughts start running ahead of me, God is already present where I’m trying to get to. And sometimes, He doesn’t calm your life all at once. He just leaves little confirmations along the way so your soul can rest while you walk it out.

So if your mind has been busy lately, if you’ve been trying not to worry but still feeling it creep in, if you’re doing the best you can with what’s in front of you—pay attention to the small things, the found things, the unexpected things, the things that make you smile before you can explain them. Because God doesn’t always show up loud. Sometimes, He shows up in fives.

Gently reminded that God meets you in the middle, not just at the outcome.

Love,
Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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BUT GOD SAID NO

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Early this morning, before the day had a chance to get loud, my phone lit up with a simple question:


“Can I get 10 minutes of your time?”

After more than 40 years apart, God had already reconnected us… and this morning, He gave us the time to remember why.

But God doesn’t measure time the way we do. Ten minutes turned into an hour and a half. Tears. Laughter. Testimony. We weren’t catching up. We were bearing witness.

She told me about losing her husband. How the grief felt like it might finish what life had already taken.

Then she said it… “But God said no.”

She told me about her  rare illness. The kind where doctors speak carefully, and silence says more than words.
And again “But God said no.”

Every story she told had a place where it could have ended. Every chapter carried the weight of finality. But it didn’t end there. Because God kept interrupting what should have been the last line.

And somewhere in the middle of her testimony, I felt my own rise up quietly. Moments I don’t always name. Situations that could have taken me out in ways nobody else would have understood.

And if I’m honest… Some of those moments didn’t look like mercy at first. But I’m still here.

So even there, I say it: But God said no.

No to the thing that tried to take me out.
No to grief settling in as permanent.
No to despair having the final word.
No.

Psalm 118:17
“I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord.”

That’s what this morning was. Declaring. Not polished. Not practiced. Just two women, after decades apart, brought back together by grace… reminding each other that what should have taken us out didn’t get permission.

Sometimes the most powerful testimony is also the simplest. “It should have ended me…but God said no.”

And if you’re reading this from the middle of something that feels like an ending, hold on.
The same God who interrupted ours is still writing yours.

Love, Chelle ( And Lisa)
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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The Place My Name Found Me

Posted in cancer, faith, food, God, health, inspiration, love, relationships, selfhelp, workTagged , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

I went forward like everyone else.

Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just… carried.

I was visiting the early service at my son’s church,  when the  Pastor called us to come sign our names on the wooden cross that had been standing since last week’s Easter service. A simple act. A physical way to mark what God had already done.

But nothing about it felt simple.

Tears started before I ever stepped out.

I watched the seniors go first
Slow steps
Steady hands
Lives the world sometimes overlooks
But heaven still calls by name

I saw the former addict sign
Not as who they were
But as who God kept

I saw those once incarcerated
Writing their names like chains had finally agreed to let go

A blind man signed
A woman limping signed
And my own deaf son… signed

Lord… that alone almost took me out

Each name wasn’t just written
It was declared
Healing
Freedom
Promise
Still in progress, but already claimed

The children came excited
Unafraid of space running out
Because children always believe there’s room

And when space did get tight
The Pastor lifted the cross higher
So those who couldn’t bend could still reach

Even at the feet… there was still room

That part preached all by itself

But what stayed with me…
What lingered…
Was where my hand landed

A rough place
Scratched
Uneven
The kind of spot that, if you rubbed it the wrong way, could leave a splinter

And I paused

Because it felt like my life

Not smooth
Not polished
Not presentation-ready

But still part of the cross

And right there, in that imperfect place
I wrote my name

Careful
Intentional
Fully aware

That Jesus didn’t die for smooth stories

He died for splinters too

For the places that still catch
Still sting
Still remind you that healing isn’t always pretty

And yet…

That rough place held my name just fine

Didn’t reject me
Didn’t shift me to a better spot

It received me
As-is

And I heard it clear as day in my spirit

“You don’t need a polished place to belong here.”

So I signed

Not because I have it all together

But because the cross already made room for every part of me that doesn’t

“By His wounds we are healed.” — Isaiah 53:5

Signing your name in places that don’t feel smooth yet
Trusting God with the parts of your story that still feel rough
Believing that even here… you belong

**Love, Chelle**
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Pig Foot Mary: The Woman Who Pushed Her Future Down the Street

Posted in Black History Month, faith, food, God, inspiration, money, relationships, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , Leave a comment


Before food trucks.  Before catering contracts.
Before pop-up kitchens. There was a formerly enslaved Black woman  pushing a baby carriage filled with pickled pig’s feet.

Her name was Lillian Harris Dean. History remembers her as Pig Foot Mary. And what some would have called scraps, she called strategy.

Born in Mississippi around 1870. She migrated north during the Great Migration era. She was reported a woman of large stature (striking fear in even some men).

THE BABY CARRIAGE BEGINNING

After emancipation, economic opportunity for Black women was painfully narrow. Formal loans were not available. Property ownership was rare. Protection under the law was inconsistent at best.

So Mary did what resilient women have always done. She looked at what she had.
She cooked pig’s feet — inexpensive cuts that working people could afford — and loaded them into a baby carriage. That’s  right no baby, just a baby carriage purchased with two of the five dollars she arrived with and a tin pot she brought with her.

Then she walked the streets of Washington, D.C., selling directly to laborers, porters, and government workers who had migrated from the South but desperate for a taste of home cooking lacking in the industrial north.

No storefront. No investors. No safety net.
Just legs, grit, and a carriage. That carriage gave her mobility. Mobility gave her customers. Customers gave her capital.
Capital gave her options. Consistency built reputation. Reputation built revenue.

From those early street sales, though unable to read, she negotiated contracts with suppliers, opened restaurants, operated boarding houses, acquired property, and became one of the wealthiest Black women in New York City  during her time. She later married a prominent black lawyer she had hired to keep her financial empire safe.

Later in life, she faced legal troubles that interrupted her business, a common vulnerability for Black entrepreneurs in that era. When her power and influence started to invade beyond the black community and into  white upper Manhattan,  a racist court system convicted her of running a disorderly house.    After her release from prison, she retired to California.

She did not inherit influence. She built it.
She did not wait for approval. She moved.

Pig Foot Mary represents a pattern we see over and over in Black history:
Innovation born from restriction.
Mobility created from limitation.
Enterprise rising from overlooked ingredients.

She took something humble and made it sustaining.

“She considers a field and buys it; out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.” — Proverbs 31:16

Mary did not own fields at first. She owned a route. But the principle is the same.
Use what you have. Work what you have.
Move what you have.

CARRY THIS WITH YOU
You may be waiting for a storefront when all you have is a carriage. Push anyway.

You may be waiting for funding when all you have is a recipe. Cook anyway.

You may be waiting for someone to validate the vision. Walk anyway.

BREADCRUMB

Sometimes the business plan is wrapped in something people underestimate. And sometimes the thing you’re pushing… is actually pushing you into destiny.

We see you, Lillian Harris Dean for turning a baby carriage into a business model. We see you for feeding working hands and building wealth from what others discarded.

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

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The Hymn Before the Headline

Posted in Black History Month, cancer, christmas, faith, food, God, inspiration, love, selfhelp, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , Leave a comment

Before it was debated,
Before it was dissected on timelines and talk shows, it was a hymn.

Originally titled
Lift Every Voice and Sing (The Negro National Hymn)

Hymn.

Not rebellion.  Not replacement.


Hymn.

Written in 1900 by James Weldon Johnson, and set to music by his brother John Rosamond Johnson, it was first sung by Black schoolchildren who were barely a generation removed from bondage.

And still they sang.

Psalm 98 says, “Sing unto the Lord a new song.”

Our ancestors did.

They sang through Jim Crow.
They sang through separate water fountains.
They sang when hoses knocked bodies down and dogs were turned loose.
They sang when grief had no courtroom relief.

This hymn was not written to divide a nation.
It was written to steady a people.

When it shows up on a Super Bowl stage,
that is not intrusion.
That is history breathing.

A hymn is not about replacing anything.
It is about remembering.

Black History Month is not about exclusion.
It is about acknowledgment.

And acknowledgment is not an attack.
It is truth standing upright.

So when we lift every voice,
we are not asking permission.

We are honoring inheritance.

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us.
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us.

Some songs survive because they are catchy.
This one survived because it carried us.

To the children who first sang it.
To the elders who kept it in the pews.
To every voice that trembled but did not stop

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

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LEWIS LATIMER: HE MADE THE LIGHT

Posted in Black History Month, faith, food, God, health, inspiration, love, money, relationships, selfhelpTagged , , , , , Leave a comment

Black history is not only about who struck the match.
It is also about who made sure the light did not go out.
Lewis Howard Latimer understood that.
Born in 1848 to parents who had escaped enslavement, he taught himself to read, draw, and engineer in a world that did not expect brilliance from him—and was not structured to reward it.
History remembers the spark.
Latimer worked on the endurance.
In 1884, he joined the Edison Electric Light Company as a draftsman.
He was not hired to be the face of innovation.
He was brought in to make the work hold.
While others are credited with inventing the light bulb, Lewis Latimer improved it.
He developed a carbon filament that made electric light durable, affordable, and practical—light that could last in ordinary homes, not just demonstrations.
Without his work, the light would have remained fragile.
Exclusive.
Unreliable.
And the light was not his only contribution.
Latimer also:
– drafted critical technical drawings for early telephone technology
– designed an evaporative air-conditioning system
– improved safety and sanitation systems for railroad cars
– trained others, documented processes, and quietly strengthened industries that carried other people’s names
Important work.
Essential work.
Weight-bearing work.


Lewis Latimer lived long enough to see the world changed by the light he helped sustain.
He died in 1928—not wealthy, not widely celebrated—but respected by those who understood the work.
His legacy lived on in homes lit safely, cities made brighter, systems made usable.
If you have ever been the one who made something work instead of making it visible—
If you have refined what others rushed through—
If you have strengthened what others started—
If you have stayed faithful long after the applause moved on—
This story stands with you.
“Let your light so shine before others…” — Matthew 5:16


Lewis Latimer did not create the first light.
He made sure it endured.
Some people are called to begin things.
Others are called to make them last.
This, too, is history.
This, too, is weight-bearing work.


Lewis Latimer stands with you.
God sees the work that makes light reliable — not just remarkable.


We see you, Lewis.
We honor the way you made the light last.


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