Category: money

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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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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

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New Year’s Eve Eve – When I woke up, but my brain did not.

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Every writer’s fully awake nightmare: a block.
A brain fart.
Nothing profound to say.
Nothing book-worthy for the new year.

For a brief moment, panic tried to convince me that silence meant failure.
But even this—this momentary panic—became permission.

Permission to pause.
Permission to breathe.
Permission to simply exhale.

Truth be told, I sat there staring at the blinking cursor, waiting for something deep, prophetic, and Watch Night-worthy to appear.
Nothing came.
Not a sermon. Not a quote. Not even a clever churchy acronym.
Just me… and the cursor… judging each other.

This morning I woke up—but my brain did not.
And I’m choosing not to wrestle it into submission.

It’s New Year’s Eve Eve.
There’s still much to do.
Watch Night services to prepare for.
Lives to show up for.
And the familiar hum of New Year’s resolutions floating around everywhere.

Everywhere I turn, people are declaring what they’re going to do in the new year.
Gym memberships. Journals. Green smoothies.
And while I applaud the optimism, I already know February is coming… with receipts.

I’ve come to call them Reso-lies—
because so many of them don’t survive past February 1st.

Yes, I have goals.
Yes, I will aim.
But no, I will not condemn myself or pressure myself into a failure complex when things don’t go according to plan.

This year, I’m elevating two truths instead of a checklist:

“Let the Lord be magnified,
who takes pleasure in the prosperity of His servant.”
— Psalm 35:27

“Delight yourself also in the Lord,
and He shall give you the desires of your heart.”
— Psalm 37:4

I wave both scriptures like a banner—
not as entitlement,
but as alignment.

I wish I could tell you this message came together neatly—
that I woke up inspired, organized, and spiritually glowing.
But the truth is, this word came together the same way my life usually does:
honest, a little tired, and fully dependent on grace.

My prayer for the upcoming stroke of midnight is simple and surrendered:

Lord, take pleasure in this servant
as I magnify You.
Give me the desires of my heart
that line up with the delights of Yours.

Resting is not failing.
Pausing is not quitting.
And waking up—even when my brain didn’t
still counts as showing up.

May the Lord Find You In A Delightful Place!!!!

Love, Chelle

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Seven Days Of Light

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Honoring cultural tradition, affirming shared values, and weaving Scripture with care.

A Gentle Word Before We Begin:

There was a time when I didn’t know what Kwanzaa was. And if I’m honest, there were years when the Christian church around me misunderstood it—labeling it as something it was never meant to be.

Kwanzaa is not a religion. It does not replace faith. It does not compete with Christ. It is an intentional celebration of values—principles that strengthen family, community, character, and responsibility.

Kwanzaa was established in 1966 by Dr. Maulana Karenga, in the aftermath of the Watts uprising, to reaffirm African American cultural identity and restore community-centered values rooted in family, culture, and collective responsibility.

Scripture tells us that “the law is fulfilled in one word: love” (Galatians 5:14), and that “against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:23). When values cultivate love of God and neighbor, they deserve reflection—not fear.

This study honors the Nguzo Saba (the Seven Principles of Kwanzaa) with respect, while gently weaving Scripture for those who follow Jesus and recognize His fingerprints in every good and life-giving value.

The traditional greeting for Kwanzaa is:

“Habari Gani?”

(hah-BAH-ree GAH-nee)

It’s Swahili and means:
“What’s the news?” or “What’s happening?”

When someone says: Habari Gani? Your response is the principle of the day:

Day 1 – Umoja (Unity)

Unity is not sameness; it is commitment. It is choosing one another again and again—especially when it would be easier to withdraw. Umoja reminds us that fractured families and divided communities heal when we decide to stand together.

Scripture Reflection:
“How good and pleasant it is when God’s people live together in unity.” – Psalm 133:1

Prayer Thought:
Lord, teach us how to guard unity without erasing truth, and to love without condition.

Day 2 – Kujichagulia (Self-Determination)

Kujichagulia is about reclaiming voice and agency. It is refusing to let others define our worth or our future. In Christ, we are not mislabeled—we are named.

Scripture Reflection:
“You are a chosen people…” – 1 Peter 2:9

Prayer Thought:
God, help us walk boldly in who You created us to be.

Day 3 – Ujima (Collective Work & Responsibility)

Ujima reminds us that community is not a spectator sport. We are responsible for one another—not out of obligation, but out of love.

Scripture Reflection:
“Carry each other’s burdens…” – Galatians 6:2

Prayer Thought:
Jesus, make us aware of where we can show up with presence.

Day 4 – Ujamaa (Cooperative Economics)

Ujamaa calls us to steward resources with communal care. Where we invest reflects what we value.

Scripture Reflection:
“Each of you should use whatever gift you have received…” – 1 Peter 4:10

Prayer Thought:
Lord, teach us to circulate generosity.

Day 5 – Nia (Purpose)

Purpose is not always loud. Sometimes, it is faithful consistency. Our lives are not random.

Scripture Reflection:
“For we are God’s handiwork…” – Ephesians 2:10

Prayer Thought:
God, align our gifts with the needs around us.

Day 6 – Kuumba (Creativity)

Creativity is holy work. Kuumba calls us to leave what we touch more beautiful.

Scripture Reflection:
“See, I am doing a new thing…” – Isaiah 43:19

Prayer Thought:
Creator God, let us partner with You.

Day 7 – Imani (Faith)

Imani is faith with memory. For believers, it ultimately rests in God.

Scripture Reflection:
“Now faith is confidence in what we hope for…” – Hebrews 11:1

Prayer Thought:
Lord, anchor our faith for generations to come.

So, if you have learned something today, then I have done my job for today. If nothing else, please know that Kwanzaa does not ask us to abandon faith. It invites us to practice values—many of which Scripture has been teaching all along. Unity. Responsibility. Purpose. Creativity. Faith. Against these, there is no law—only love.

Habari Gani?

Love, Chelle

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Deleting The Receipts

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I didn’t plan on doing heart work this morning.
I was just trying to clear storage—make my phone run smoother, lighten the load, make room for what’s next.

I was deleting blurry screenshots, duplicate photos, and saved recipes I’ll probably never make—
right alongside hundreds of pictures of my grandchildren that I can’t bring myself to let go of.

And tucked in between it all were receipts I once needed to survive.
Thirty frames of words that bruised from an argument.
A disagreement that no longer makes sense.
Pain from a season that had already passed.

I kept them because I thought I might need proof.
Proof that I wasn’t imagining things.
Proof in case I ever needed to defend myself.

And for a while, that was okay.

But this morning, standing on the edge of a new season, I realized something had shifted.
I no longer needed protection from the past.
I needed permission to release it.

So I didn’t reread.
I didn’t rehearse the hurt.
I didn’t reopen the courtroom in my mind.

I deleted.

Not because it didn’t matter—
but because it doesn’t get to lead anymore.

Scripture says,
“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!” — Isaiah 43:18–19

Forgetting doesn’t mean pretending it didn’t happen.
It means choosing not to live there anymore.

There’s a difference between wisdom and weight.
Between remembering and reliving.
Between holding truth and being held hostage by it.

“Let us throw off everything that hinders.” — Hebrews 12:1

Not everything that hinders is sinful.
Some things were necessary once—but become heavy later.

I didn’t erase the story.
I simply stopped carrying the evidence.

And as the year turns and the air feels fresh again, I’m learning this sacred truth:

Dead and done are not the same thing—but neither needs to be dragged into tomorrow.


Sometimes the holiest thing you can do
is delete what no longer serves the person you are becoming.


Prayer:
God, thank You for seasons of protection—and for the courage to release them when they’re no longer needed. Help me walk lighter into what’s next, trusting You with the truth I no longer need to carry. Amen.

Love, Chelle

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Seasonal Plants, Seasonal People

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A Virgin Gardener’s Confession


I buy poinsettias every year for one reason and one reason only: color.
Not longevity.
Not horticultural excellence.
Certainly not because I have a long-term relationship with plants.
This year, they had an added job description:
Cover the bottom of the Christmas tree so nobody notices I ran out of lights.
Mission accomplished.


Until Christmas Day.
That’s when the leaves started dropping.
Now, let me be clear:
I am a virgin gardener.
I don’t pretend to know plant science.
I buy things for vibes and hope for the best.


So my first instinct was to feel accused.
What did I do wrong?
Did I overwater? Underwater? Look at it funny?
But then it hit me.
The poinsettias weren’t failing.
They were finished.
They had done exactly what they were created to do — bring color, warmth, and beauty to the season.


But I had quietly reassigned them.
I wanted them to hold weight they were never meant to carry.
And when Christmas arrived — when their purpose had been fulfilled — they began to let go.
Leaves dropping isn’t always a problem.
Sometimes it’s a release.


That’s when the Spirit gently tapped me and said,
You do this too.
We stretch ourselves past our assignment.
We keep covering gaps that were meant to be temporary.
We try to stay vibrant in seasons that are asking us to rest.
And then we panic when we feel ourselves dropping leaves.
But maybe we’re not dying.
Maybe we’re done.
We can’t force beyond purpose or season.
Not plants. Not people. Not souls.
Even Scripture reminds us:
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
— Ecclesiastes 3:1


The poinsettia doesn’t apologize for being seasonal.
It doesn’t strive to be evergreen.
It simply shows up, shines, and then releases.
There is wisdom in that.


So this Christmas, if you feel a little bare…
If something beautiful in you feels like it’s letting go…
If you’re tempted to label it failure —
Pause.


Ask instead:
Did I serve my season well?
Because sometimes the holiest thing you can do
is stop forcing bloom
and allow rest.


— Signed,
A Virgin Gardener
Learning to let things be what they were created to be 🌺

Love Chelle

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The Gift That Keeps Showing Up

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Every morning — and sometimes as early as 3 a.m. — there’s a small sacred ritual that happens on our phones.


A text thread.
Women connected by blood, history, humor, and habit.
Aunts. Nieces. Sisters. Cousins.


It usually starts with a simple greeting. A prayer emoji or a sermon link. . A “Love y’all.”


And yes… sometimes it starts because one of us can’t sleep and assumes nobody else should be sleeping either. (That one might be on me.)


This is how we stay connected now.
Because age has a way of rearranging life, schedules don’t always line up, and seeing each other as often as we’d like isn’t always possible. But love? Love adapts.


Yesterday, my Aunt Lenora changed the subject in our group text. You know how the family matriarchy does — when wisdom rises up and gently says, Pay attention.


She shared something God had revealed to her about Great-Grandma Martha and Grandma Alice.
They used to say it often around holidays and birthdays:
“I don’t want y’all to give me any gifts this time. Thank you, but I really don’t need any more.”


At the time, we smiled. Sometimes, we insisted anyway.
Because giving is how we show love.
But after they passed, we found something that stopped us in our tracks —
gifts still in their packages.
Closets holding love that had already been received in the heart.


And suddenly, the words made sense.
It wasn’t that they had everything.
It was that satisfaction had settled in.
Gratitude had overflowed.
Hearts were full. Closets were full.
And the desire for more stuff had quietly faded.


Aunt Lenora put it beautifully in the text:
“It’s not that we have everything that could be had. It’s just that at a certain point, satisfaction sets in, gratitude is overflowing, hearts are filled… and even though you’re still grateful for expressions of love, there’s no more desire for stuff.”


And then came the revelation that wrapped everything together:
“We finally understand the real meaning of Christmas.
The Father gave the Son.
The Son gave the Spirit.
The Spirit gives us life —
so we can give the gift of love.
And that gift goes on and on and on.”


That’s it.
That’s Christmas.
Not the packages.
Not the receipts.
Not the pressure to perform joy.
Just love — passed down like an inheritance no one can lose.


This season has reminded me that our worth today is not measured by who shows up for us, but by who we show up as.
Great-Grandma Martha showed up with wisdom.
Grandma Alice showed up with contentment.
Aunt Lenora shows up with revelation.
And the women in that early-morning text thread show up — faithfully, lovingly, imperfectly.


And I show up with a pen — so that my daughter, Paula, will never forget the legacy of these women.
So she will know where she comes from.
So she will recognize the holy inheritance of faith, gratitude, and love that flows through her name.


Sometimes love looks like gifts.
Sometimes it looks like unopened packages.
And sometimes it looks like a 3 a.m. text that says, I’m thinking about you. I’m grateful for you. You’re not alone.


Scripture reminds us:
“A generous person will be enriched, and one who gives water will get water.” — Proverbs 11:25
That may be the gift that never stops giving.

Merry Christmas ,

Chelle

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When Christmas Doesn’t Recognize Itself

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I’ll admit it—I chuckled at first.
I saw a video of a broke Hispanic father joking with his young son that ICE had taken Santa. It was meant to be humorous, a dark joke wrapped in the language of survival. I laughed… and then I stopped.


Because once the laughter faded, the weight of it settled in.


How awful to place that kind of fear on a child. How heartbreaking that this joke even works in our current climate. And then it hit me—harder than I expected.


Under the prevailing American mindset of 2025, the very figures we celebrate at Christmas wouldn’t be welcome here.
Santa would be questioned.
Mary and Joseph would be detained.
Jesus would be born into a system already suspicious of Him.
The wise men would be asked to self-deport.
The angels would be accused of violating airspace.
And the shepherds—unhoused, roaming, living off the land—would likely be jailed for existing outside the rules.


Yes, I know—it sounds like a stretch.


And yes, there must be laws. There must be order. There must be boundaries and systems and responsibility. Scripture never denies that.


But Scripture also never allows us to weaponize law against love.
Because the story of Christmas—the real one—is not clean, controlled, or credentialed. It is a story of displacement. Of vulnerability. Of outsiders. Of God choosing to arrive without papers, privilege, or protection.


Mary wasn’t prepared.
Joseph wasn’t powerful.
Jesus wasn’t safe.
And none of them fit the mold of who society typically makes room for.


Yet this is the story we retell every year with lights and carols and nativity scenes that have grown far too tidy.
Somewhere along the way, we learned to celebrate the symbols of Christmas while quietly opposing everything they stand for.
We sing about peace while nurturing fear.
We speak of joy while guarding our comfort.
We proclaim love while questioning who deserves it.


And that should sober us.
Because Jesus Himself said,
“I was a stranger, and you invited me in.”
Not you vetted me.
Not you verified my worth.
Not you made sure I belonged first.
He didn’t ask us to solve immigration policy.
He asked us to recognize people.


The question Christmas asks us—every year, relentlessly—is not whether we believe in Christ, but whether we resemble Him.
Would we make room for Him now?
Or would we ask Him to prove He belongs?
If the answer makes us uncomfortable, maybe that discomfort is holy. Maybe it’s an invitation to return—not to tradition, but to truth.
Because Christmas has always been about God crossing borders.
And love, by nature, refuses to stay contained.

Love Chelle

Love Chelle

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Ministry In The Margins

Posted in cancer, christmas, faith, God, health, inspiration, love, money, relationships, selfhelpTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

When the year ends and life still feels unfinished

The end of a year has a funny way of demanding closure.
Wrap it up.
Sum it up.
Name the wins. Count the lessons. Post the highlight reel.


But some years don’t cooperate.
Some years limp to the finish line.
They end not with fireworks but with unanswered prayers, half-healed hearts, and a to-do list that spills right into January.


And that’s where I’ve learned something holy happens.


Ministry doesn’t wait for January 1st.
It lives in the margins between what was and what’s coming next.
That thin space between “I made it” and “I’m still standing.”
Between gratitude and grief.
Between hope and exhaustion.


I used to think ministry happened in neat rows — in quiet moments, with plenty of stillness and the right words.
But life didn’t wire me that way.


I’ve spent years feeling slightly unqualified — too busy to sit still, too restless to fit the mold.
Cancer didn’t simplify that. It complicated it.
Chemo brain stole words I used to reach for easily.
A speech impediment I thought I’d conquered as a child quietly returned — humbling me in ways I didn’t expect.
And the truth is, I’ve never quite fit into the version of “qualified” society seems most comfortable with.
Clear. Calm. Composed.
Tidy faith. Tidy testimony.
That hasn’t been my story.


And yet… God still showed up.
Not correcting my pace.
Not asking me to sound different.
Not waiting for me to feel confident or complete.


Jesus has always been comfortable in the margins.
He’s the Savior with mud on His hands, not a microphone.
The One who kneels in the dirt.
The One who notices the people others step around — and calls them.


The margins are where we stop pretending the year went as planned.
Where faith sounds less like a declaration and more like a whisper.
Where our prayers become, “Lord, carry me forward.”
And maybe that’s the truest kind of ministry there is.


As this year closes, I’m not interested in pretending it was tidy.
I’m grateful — deeply — but I’m also honest.
Some healing is still in progress.
Some clarity hasn’t returned on command.
Some strength showed up only one imperfect day at a time.
And yet… grace was there.
In the margins.


If you’re crossing into a new year feeling unfinished —
If your faith feels real but worn around the edges —
If you don’t feel polished, poised, or particularly qualified…
You’re not behind.
You’re standing exactly where God loves to work.
Right there.
Between the years.
In the margins.
I’m not entering the new year polished — I’m entering it carried.

Safe in His arms to Be Carried Into A New Year

Love, Chelle

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Store-Bought Crust, Real Filling

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What Christmas chaos taught me about sincerity

It’s Christmas.
Which means the house isn’t quiet, the schedule isn’t kind, and nothing is quite as together as the Hallmark movies promised.

There are lists half-checked, boxes half-opened, and flour somehow in places flour should never be.

I used a box mix for the cookies.
No-bake “snow pies” pretending real hard to be cheesecake.
And the pie?
Well… the crust came from the store,
but the filling?
That part is 100% real.

Also—full disclosure—
there is a pile of tasting spoons in the sink.
Because no shortcut baker is licking a spoon and putting it back.
We are tired, not reckless.

Somewhere between the chaos, the Christmas music playing too loud, and me stepping over things I swear weren’t there five minutes ago, it hit me.

We spend a lot of time apologizing for our shortcuts.

“I didn’t make it from scratch.”
“I didn’t do as much as I wanted.”
“I don’t have it all together this year.”

But what if God isn’t inspecting the packaging—
what if He’s tasting the heart?

The crust might be store-bought, but the love is homemade.
The method might be quick, but the intention is honest.
The presentation might be simple, but the offering is real.

Jesus never demanded everything be handcrafted—
He asked that it be sincere.

He fed crowds with borrowed bread.
He healed with mud and spit.
He entered the world not in perfection, but in a mess of hay, noise, and interrupted plans.

Not fancy.
Not polished.
Just real.

So if your Christmas looks like box mix faith and no-bake prayers,
don’t disqualify it.

If your life feels like shortcuts and substitutions,
but the filling is still genuine—
grace counts that.

Scripture reminds us—right in the middle of our mess:

“The Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”
— 1 Samuel 16:7

God isn’t grading your technique.
He’s receiving your offering.

And tonight, around a table of “good enough” desserts, Christmas clutter, and way too many spoons to wash,
there is more holiness than we realize.

Because what’s real on the inside
has always mattered more than how it was wrapped.

P.S.  If you come wash these spoons, I’ll save you a little something

Love Chelle