Category: health

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When Joy Spins In A Wheelchair

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

I was already having one of those days. Maybe it was the stress of a long day at work spilling past quitting time and being made late getting to where I needed to be. Maybe it was the heaviness that has become familiar with my sister Cheryl’s illness.

But tonight, the nursing home had transformed one of its rooms into a prom. There were balloons, music, decorations, smiles, and volunteers who had worked hard to make it special.

Cheryl looked beautiful. She wore a bright red dress, fire engine lipstick and a crown. She smiled at her reflection . For a short while, she was the fashionable diva sister from her youth.

Her son and her former physical therapist proudly escorted her as her two handsome prom dates, while our older sister, Melody, and I happily served as her royal court attendants.

She enjoyed herself.

And yet, if I’m honest, part of me couldn’t stop seeing what wasn’t supposed to be.

It was still a nursing home. She was still in pain. She was still in a wheelchair.

Some losses don’t disappear just because someone hangs streamers on the wall.

Then the music changed.Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” began filling the room.

Across the room sat another resident—a woman a little older than Cheryl. She was dressed in a sparkly black gown with a fluffy tutu peeking beneath it and ballerina slippers on her feet.

When the music started, she didn’t apologize for her wheelchair. She lifted her hands toward the ceiling. She spun. She laughed.

She did wheelies across that nursing home floor as though she were dancing on the biggest stage in the world.

As I sang along with Whitney’s words, she rolled her wheelchair right over to me, reached out with a smile, and invited me to dance with her.

For a moment, she wasn’t asking me to ignore her wheelchair. She was inviting me to look beyond it. I couldn’t stop watching her.

Then something surprised me. I wasn’t feeling pity. I was feeling jealousy.

Not because she could walk. She couldn’t. Not because she wasn’t hurting. I’m sure she was.

 I was jealous because she possessed something I had misplaced:

Joy.

She reminded me that joy isn’t the absence of pain. Joy is refusing to let pain have the final word.

That woman never stood up. But somehow she rose above the room.

I wonder how many of us are waiting to dance until everything is healed. We’re waiting until the diagnosis changes. Until the relationship is restored. Until the finances improve. Until life looks the way we imagined.

But what if joy was never meant to wait for perfect circumstances? What if worship can happen in a wheelchair? What if celebration can exist in a nursing home?

What if God is inviting us to dance while we’re still waiting for the miracle?

That evening , I went to encourage my sister. Instead, God introduced me to a ballerina in a wheelchair who quietly preached a sermon I’ll never forget.

Maybe today you feel confined by something you didn’t choose. A diagnosis. A disappointment. A loss. A season that doesn’t look anything like you prayed it would.

If that’s you, don’t wait for life to become perfect before you lift your hands. Some of the most beautiful dances happen in places where no one expected joy to live.

“You have turned my mourning into dancing…” — Psalm 30:11

Healing isn’t always the first miracle. Sometimes joy is.

 Love, Chelle

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The Fragrance of Basil

Posted in cancer, faith, God, health, law, love, relationships, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

My hands smelled like basil this morning.

I don’t particularly enjoy eating basil by itself. In fact, I’ll probably never snack on a handful of basil leaves. But every time I walk through my little garden, I find myself rubbing a leaf between my fingers.

Hours later, the fragrance is still there.

It made me think about a dream I had years ago. In the dream, I was ushering at a funeral. I spent the service helping everyone else find their seats, passing tissues, comforting grieving families, and doing what ushers do. By the time I finally approached the casket to pay my own respects, something impossible happened.

The deceased sat up.

Looking directly at me, they smiled and said,
“It was your perfume that made me rise.”
I woke up before they explained what they meant, but I never forgot the dream.

Years later, I found myself saying something to another minister that surprised even me.
“I can smell your anointing.”

Now…before rumors started another church meeting, let me explain. 😄 I wasn’t saying the man needed a shower. In fact, the congregation looked at me like I had just announced, “Pastor, you stink.” It took a minute to convince everyone I wasn’t talking about body odor at all.

I wasn’t talking about cologne. I wasn’t talking about lotion.I was trying to describe something words struggle to explain.

There are people whose lives have spent so much time in the presence of God that you sense His peace before they ever open their mouths. Their words aren’t louder. Their personalities aren’t bigger. Yet somehow, they leave behind hope, peace, and life wherever they go.

The Apostle Paul wrote that we are “the aroma of Christ.”

Not because we wear the right fragrance. But because we’ve been close enough to Him that His presence lingers on us.

This morning, while rubbing a basil leaf between my fingers, I realized that basil never has to announce itself or introduce itself. It simply becomes what God created it to be, and everyone who brushes against it leaves carrying its fragrance.

We spend so much time announcing ourselves.
“I’m a minister.”
“I’m an elder.”
“I’m a worship leader.”
“I’m a Christian.”
“Blah, blah, blah” And so on.

There’s nothing wrong with those titles. They describe our calling and our service. But titles were never meant to substitute for transformation.

Basil never says a word. It doesn’t have to convince you it’s basil. It doesn’t wear a name tag. It doesn’t introduce itself before releasing its fragrance.

It simply becomes what God created it to be, and everyone who brushes against it knows they have encountered something different.

Maybe our greatest witness isn’t what we announce about ourselves… Maybe it’s the fragrance people carry away after they’ve encountered us.

Maybe our words comfort. Maybe our patience calms. Maybe our generosity feeds. Maybe our forgiveness heals. Maybe our presence reminds someone that God has not forgotten them.

Long after we’ve left the room…

…the fragrance remains.

This morning, I walked back into my house with basil on my hands. My prayer is that I walk into every room carrying Christ in my spirit.

So today I’m asking myself a different question.

Not…

“What perfume am I wearing?”

But…

“What fragrance am I leaving behind?”

Because if a simple basil plant can leave its scent on my hands with just the slightest touch…

How much more should a life touched by Christ leave behind His love, His peace, and His hope?

May those who brush against our lives leave carrying the fragrance of Christ.

Love, Chelle

“For we are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing.”
— 2 Corinthians 2:15

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What Does God Forget?

Posted in cancer, chemotherapy, faith, God, inspiration, love, relationshipsTagged , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Recently, I’ve been watching a few Nigerian dramas, and I’ve noticed a phrase that seems to appear whenever a character is struggling.

Someone will eventually look at the person facing hardship and say, “Maybe God has forgotten you.”

Every time I hear it, something inside me pushes back.

Not because I don’t understand the pain behind the statement. I do.

Most of us have lived through seasons when prayers seemed unanswered, doors stayed closed, healing took longer than expected, and hope felt delayed. In those moments, it is easy to wonder if God has overlooked us.

David certainly felt that way.

“How long, O Lord? Will You forget me forever?” (Psalm 13:1)

The remarkable thing about Scripture is that it doesn’t hide these questions. It records them honestly. God’s people have always wrestled with disappointment, delay, and uncertainty.

But feelings and facts are not always the same thing.

When Israel feared they had been abandoned, God answered with one of the most tender promises in Scripture:

“Can a woman forget her nursing child, and not have compassion on the son of her womb? Surely they may forget, yet I will not forget you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands.” (Isaiah 49:15-16)

God does not lose track of His children.

He remembered Noah in the flood.

He remembered Hannah in her barrenness.

He remembered Rachel in her grief.

He remembered Israel in captivity.

And He remembers you.

What is easy to miss is that God saw them long before the answer arrived.

He saw Hannah before Samuel was born.

He saw Joseph before the palace and before the prison doors opened.

He saw David before the throne while he was still tending sheep in obscurity.

He saw Martha and Mary before Lazarus walked out of the tomb.

He saw Noah while the rain was still falling.

In every case, there was a season when heaven seemed quiet, circumstances appeared unchanged, and no visible evidence suggested that God was moving.

Yet silence was not absence.

Delay was not neglect.

And quiet was not proof that God had forgotten them.

The same God who saw them before the answer came sees you now.

He sees the prayer you are still praying.

He sees the promise you are still waiting for.

He sees the tears no one else notices.

He sees the faith it takes to trust Him when nothing appears to be changing.

Just because you cannot yet see the answer does not mean God has stopped watching over the situation.

Sometimes people point to verses where God invites His people to remind Him of His promises and ask, “If God never forgets, why does He tell us to put Him in remembrance?”

“Put Me in remembrance; let us contend together…” (Isaiah 43:26)

I don’t believe God asks for reminders because He misplaced the promise.

I believe He invites us to remind Him because we are the ones who forget.

When we rehearse His Word, pray His promises, and declare what He has spoken, our faith is strengthened. Our hearts are anchored. Our perspective is corrected.

The reminder is not for His memory.

The reminder is for our confidence.

Which brings me to a question that stopped me in my tracks:

If God remembers His covenant, remembers His promises, remembers His people, remembers mercy, and remembers our tears, what does God forget?

According to Scripture, there is one thing He repeatedly promises not to remember.

Forgiven sin.

“I, even I, am He who blots out your transgressions for My own sake; and I will not remember your sins.” (Isaiah 43:25)

“Their sins and lawless deeds I will remember no more.” (Hebrews 10:17)

“You will cast all our sins into the depths of the sea.” (Micah 7:19)

God does not forget because He is absent-minded. He chooses not to hold confessed and forgiven sin against us. Through the finished work of Jesus Christ, what has been covered by grace is no longer counted against us.

Think about the beauty of that.

The God who remembers every promise has chosen to forget every forgiven failure.

The God who remembers your name, your prayers, your tears, and your purpose chooses not to remember the sins you have surrendered to Him.

So the next time hardship lingers and the enemy whispers, “Maybe God has forgotten you,” answer with the truth.

God has not forgotten where you live.

He has not forgotten what He promised.

He has not forgotten your prayers.

He has not forgotten your tears.

He has not forgotten your name.

The only thing God has promised to forget is the sin you’ve placed under the blood of Jesus.

And that is something worth remembering.

Love, Chelle

defygravitywithoutwings.com

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The Weight I Was Never Meant To Carry

Posted in cancer, faith, God, inspiration, love, money, relationships, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , 2 Comments

My grandmother used to remind me that the devil is in the details.

Since I am not allowing the devil to win anything today, I’ll leave out the details of recent situations that wounded people I love and, in turn, wounded my heart. The specifics aren’t important anyway. Pain has a way of changing faces while telling the same story.

What surprised me wasn’t the offense itself. It was how quickly I found myself praying for the offenders before the offense had time to settle into my spirit.

Not because I am especially holy. Not because the hurt wasn’t real. Not because I suddenly understood everything.

But because I’ve lived long enough to know that bitterness is expensive. If you don’t deal with it quickly, it starts charging interest.

As I prayed, I was reminded of Job. We often focus on his suffering, his losses, and his endurance. Yet one of the most remarkable moments in his story comes when he prays for those who wounded him.

Job prayed for people who had misjudged him while he was still carrying his own wounds. He wasn’t pretending they hadn’t hurt him. He wasn’t saying they were right. He simply placed them in God’s hands instead of keeping them in his own.

I used to think release meant agreement. I thought if I stopped rehearsing the offense, I was pretending it never happened. If I stopped holding someone accountable in my heart, I was somehow declaring them innocent.

But God has been teaching me something different.

Release is not approval.

Release is trust.

It is placing people back into the hands of the One who sees everything I cannot see. The One who knows every wound, every motive, every hidden struggle, and every missed opportunity.

Sometimes the hardest people to release are not our enemies. They are the people we loved. The people who disappointed us. The people who hurt us while holding a place in our lives.

We want justice.
We want understanding.
We want healing.
We want the story to end differently.

Yet there comes a holy moment when we stop trying to manage the outcome and simply pray:

“Lord, have mercy on them.”

And in the same breath:

“Lord, have mercy on me.”

That prayer does not erase the past. It simply acknowledges that I was never meant to carry the final verdict.

Some burdens belong to God.

Some people belong to God.

And so do I.

Maybe forgiveness is not always a destination. Maybe sometimes it is a decision we make over and over again before resentment has a chance to take root. Maybe it is choosing prayer before bitterness, surrender before judgment, and trust before understanding.

Whatever it is, I know this:

The weight feels lighter when I stop carrying what was never mine to hold.

Love, 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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A Release of Miracles

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There is a particular kind of grief that comes when someone you love is still here, but you are watching them grow weary from the battle.
It is not the sharp grief of a single loss. It is a quieter grief. A slower one.
It is loving, hoping, helping, praying, adjusting, advocating, and wondering how much more their body can endure.


As I sat in church today, my thoughts drifted to my younger sister Cheryl. After years of strokes, limitations, therapies, setbacks, and victories that most people never see, she is tired. Not tired of life. Not tired of love. Tired of a body that no longer cooperates with the plans she once had for it.


As one of her sisters and amongst an army of caregivers, it is a difficult thing to watch.
When someone you love is hurting, every part of you wants to fix it. You want to pray the right prayer. Find the right doctor. Discover the right treatment. Speak the right words.
You want the miracle. I wanted to witness the miracle.  I had declared it would be a big one with a testimony  that we would be jealous of.


But somewhere along the journey, many caregivers find themselves praying a different prayer. 
“Lord, Your will be done.”

I heard painfully, repeatedly and with soul crushing tears to release my expectations and my need to “see it my way.”
Not because I  have stopped believing.
Because I have learned to trust.


One of the hardest lessons of faith is accepting that what we hope a miracle looks like may be different from what God has planned.


We pray for complete healing.
God may provide strength for one more day.
We pray for the storm to stop.
God may provide peace in the middle of it.
We pray for the mountain to move.
God may teach us how to climb.
None of those answers mean God failed.
They simply mean God sees a bigger picture than we do.


That can be frustrating for people like me. I like answers. I like solutions. I like seeing how all the pieces fit together. But faith does not require me to understand God’s plan.


Faith requires me to trust the One who does.
There is a freedom that comes when we stop trying to second-guess God.
We are not called to be His advisors.
We are not called to explain His timing.
We are not called to understand every twist and turn of the journey.
We are called to trust Him.


Even Jesus prayed, “Not my will, but Yours be done.”
If the Son of God could surrender His preferred outcome to the Father, perhaps I can surrender mine too.


That does not mean I stop praying for Cheryl.
It does not mean I stop believing for miracles.
It simply means I place both the prayer and the outcome in God’s hands.
For years, I have watched Cheryl fight battles she never asked for. I have watched her endure things that would have broken many people. Through it all, I have learned something about love.
Love is not always fixing.
Sometimes love is showing up.
Sometimes love is sitting quietly.
Sometimes love is holding a hand.
Sometimes love is trusting God when you cannot trace what He is doing.


Today, my prayer is simple.
Lord, hold Cheryl close.
Strengthen her where she is weak.
Comfort her where she is weary.
Remind her she is loved.
And help me trust You with the parts of this story that belong only to You.
Because the greatest miracle is not always getting the outcome we wanted.
Sometimes the greatest miracle is discovering that God is still trustworthy when the outcome looks different than we imagined.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.”
Proverbs 3:5
This is especially for you if you are loving someone through a battle you cannot fight for them. We see the weight you carry, the prayers you whisper, and the tears you hide. Most of all, God sees you. 💜
Love Chelle
Defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Let Peace Come Out My Mouth

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Some mornings I wake up already arguing. Not out loud. Just internally. With bills. With fear. With people. With timelines. With memories. With disappointment. With exhaustion.

Before my feet even hit the floor, my spirit already feels like somebody shook the snow globe and forgot to let it settle.

And if I am not careful, whatever fills my heart first starts leaking out my mouth next.

Sharp answers. Heavy sighs. Sarcasm dressed up as humor. Silence that punishes. Worry disguised as “being realistic.”

And whew… some folks can turn one bad mood into a ministry of misery before breakfast.

The older I get, the more I realize peace is not just a feeling God gives me. Sometimes peace is a discipline God teaches me.

Because anybody can speak panic. Anybody can repeat bitterness. Anybody can echo chaos. But it takes maturity to walk into a tense room and refuse to multiply the storm.

That does not mean pretending everything is fine.

Jesus calmed storms while acknowledging they were real storms.

What I am learning is this: I can tell the truth without setting fires. I can be tired without becoming cruel. I can be overwhelmed without making everybody around me drink from the same anxiety.

And honestly? Some days the prayer is not deep or fancy.

It is simply:

“Lord… before I answer this text, before I walk into this office, before I react to this situation, before I say something I cannot unsay, before my face says it before my mouth does… let peace come out my mouth.”

Not perfection. Not fake positivity. Peace.

The kind that pauses before speaking. The kind that softens hard words. The kind that leaves room for grace. The kind that remembers exhausted people often wound each other accidentally.

Because once words leave us, we do not get to gather them back like spilled sugar.

And some of us survived entire childhoods built from somebody else’s unhealed mouth.

So now I ask God to help mine become safer.

Not silent. Not weak. Safer.

Especially in seasons where my own heart feels stretched thin like a dollar menu meal feeding six people.

Scripture says:

“Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt…”
Colossians 4:6

Not bland. Not passive. Seasoned.

Truthful words with wisdom in them.

Maybe that is the real miracle some days. Not that the storm disappeared. But that peace came out of us anyway.

And in a loud world amplified by too many of the wrong words, that is holy.

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When “This” Doesn’t Look Like Increase

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Some seasons sneak in quietly.

Not with one catastrophic moment.
Not with one dramatic phone call or one giant storm.
Just a hundred little things.

One thing goes sideways.
Then another.
Then a few more.

Health hiccups.
Emotional exhaustion.
Too much on the plate.
Things changing faster than you can catch your breath.
Prayers that feel unanswered.
Dreams that feel delayed.
People you love walking through their own battles.
And the constant pressure to keep showing up like everything is fine.

Lately, I have felt the weight of that kind of season.

Not panic exactly.
Just heavy.

The kind of heavy that sits quietly on your shoulders while you continue answering emails, paying bills, checking on people, watering plants, going to church, making dinner, and trying to convince yourself you are not as tired as you really are.

You look around at your life and think:

“This doesn’t look like increase.”

But yesterday, a friend said something to me that has been sitting deep in my spirit ever since:

“What if God makes our decrease become our increase?”

I have been sitting with that.

Because maybe increase is not always louder.
Maybe sometimes it is lighter.

Maybe God is not only found in what grows bigger.
Maybe He is also found in what He lovingly cuts away.

Gardeners understand this better than most people. Sometimes a plant looks smaller after pruning while actually becoming healthier. Dead weight is removed. Energy gets redirected. Air and light finally reach hidden places.

The cutting is not cruelty.
It is care.

And maybe some of us are in seasons where God is lovingly removing things we were never meant to carry forever.

Old pressures.
False responsibilities.
Performance-based identities.
The need to rescue everyone.
The need to prove our worth by how much we can survive.

Some seasons don’t feel like increase at all.
They feel like God quietly taking His hands off things you were never supposed to hold forever.

I know that can feel frightening. Especially for those of us who have built entire lives around being dependable. Around holding things together. Around making sure everyone else is okay.

But what if releasing is not failure?

What if the decrease is making room for breath again?

What if God is teaching us that our value was never supposed to be measured only by how much weight we could carry?

John the Baptist once said of Jesus, “He must increase, but I must decrease.” (John 3:30)

Maybe decrease was never meant to destroy us.
Maybe sometimes it is the very thing that brings us closer to what matters most.

So if your life feels quieter right now…
smaller right now…
lighter in some places and emptier in others…

Do not assume God has abandoned you there.

Some decreases are not punishment.
Some are pruning.
Some are protection.
Some are mercy.

And some are the first sign that new growth is finally about to begin.

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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Holding Space

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There are days when I realize I have been talking to God the same way some people talk to me.

Long. Honest. Full of need. And still… one-sided.

I bring Him everything. My worries. My wants. My weariness. I hold nothing back. But I don’t always stay long enough to notice Him. To feel Him. To hear Him. To let Him respond.

I ask Him to hold space for me without making space for Him.

And if I’m honest…I know exactly what that feels like. Because it hurts when it happens to me. When I am present but not considered. Listening but not included. Holding space but somehow unseen.

It doesn’t make me love less. But it does make me feel… less.

And somewhere in the back of my mind,I hear a line from an old tv show: “When having conversations with God, make sure you are not the only one talking.”

Simple. Almost funny. But it sits heavy when I realize how often it’s true.

Because if it can touch me like that, a flawed, still-growing, learning-how-to-love human, I can only imagine how it grieves the heart of a God who shows up fully every single time for billions of us. 

Yet is still so often left unheard in return. Not ignored on purpose…just… overlooked in the urgency of our own voices.

But God is not just a place to pour into. He is a presence to sit with. Not just a listener. A Father. A responder. A revealer.

Maybe prayer is not just what I say but how long I stay after I’m done talking. Maybe peace doesn’t come when I finish speaking… but when I finally get quiet enough to realize He has been there the whole time.  Waiting… not to interrupt but to be included.

“Be still, and know that I am God.” – Psalm 46:10

Stillness is not silence for silence’s sake. It is space for God to be seen.

Forgive us Lord and thank you for still seeing us.

Love, Chelle

defygravitywithoutwings.com