1 Samuel 16:7 — People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.
I am known in my family as “The Mad Not Wrapper.”
Not because I’m angry. Not because I don’t care. But because I refuse—*REFUSE*—to wrestle with wrapping paper, tape that sticks to itself, and bows that look like they were sat on.
Instead, I use Christmas-printed trash bags and gift bags. Festive. Functional. Honest.
If you’re lucky, you might get tissue paper. If you’re really lucky, the bag won’t have a knot.
And yet… somehow… every year… There are tears. There is laughter. There is joy.
Which tells me something important: The magic was never in the wrapping.
Jesus never wrapped the loaves and fishes. No parchment. No ribbon. No “presentation matters” speech.
There were no matching baskets or branded packaging. Just a boy’s lunch. Bread. Fish. Ordinary. Bare. Exposed.
And here’s the part we often rush past:
Jesus saw the need. He received what was offered. And He gave thanks before anything multiplied.
That gratitude—before the miracle—was the wrapping.
He didn’t disguise the lack. He didn’t pretend it was enough on its own. He simply acknowledged it fully and thanked God anyway.
And thanksgiving? That’s where miracles breed.
We live in a world obsessed with wrapping.
We wrap our lives in filters. Our faith in pretty words. Our pain in silence. Our generosity in explanations.
We size people up by their packaging: how they speak how they dress how polished their testimony sounds
We even do it to ourselves.
“I’d offer more if I had it together.” “I’d serve if my life wasn’t such a mess.” “I’d show up if I looked the part.”
But Jesus never asked for polished packaging. He asked for **what you have**.
Unwrapped. Unfiltered. Still smelling like fish.
Some of the most powerful gifts I’ve ever received weren’t wrapped at all: * a hand held in a hospital room * a meal dropped off in a grocery bag * a prayer whispered when words ran out
None of them were pretty. All of them were holy.
And I wonder how many miracles we miss because we’re too busy critiquing the container instead of receiving the gift.
Here’s the truth the Mad Not Wrapper has learned:
Love doesn’t need lace. Faith doesn’t need bows. Purpose doesn’t need perfection.
What God multiplies is what’s inside — when it’s offered honestly and thanked for fully.
So this season, maybe we stop evaluating: our worth others’ value our readiness based on the wrapping.
Maybe we learn to see the gift.
Because Jesus still takes ordinary things, gives thanks, and feeds multitudes. No wrapping required.
And if He can do that with bread and fish…
He can surely do something beautiful with you.
Merry Christmas. May your lack of wrapping bring you joy.
Faith With Hospital Wristbands, Holiday Chaos, and Learning to Rest Without Guilt
Normally, this is my season. From Thanksgiving to Christmas, my house is supposed to look like Mrs. Claus and Oprah teamed up and ignored every fire code. For almost 21 years, I’ve carried on what my grandma started — “You get a gift. You get a coat. You get a toy.” Everybody gets something. No background check. No budget meeting. Just love.
We weren’t rich growing up — not even a little — but my grandma taught me that giving is sacrifice with beautiful returns and terrible timing. She made generosity feel like oxygen: you don’t hoard it, you breathe it out. But the last two years? Chaos said, “Oh, you like traditions? Cute.”
Last year, I nearly exited the planet thanks to an emergency gallbladder infection — which, for the record, did not come with a warning email. This year — almost to the day — my husband decided to add a cardiac episode to the holiday calendar. Nothing says Merry Christmas like hospital wristbands and vending-machine dinners.
So instead of my living room being stacked with toys and coats to the point of requiring alternate routes and safety briefings, it stayed… walkable. No piles. No rerouting. No “don’t trip, that’s for the kids” warnings.
And I hated how much that hurt.
Because when chaos is my idea, I thrive. I can organize mess. I can schedule generosity. I can turn madness into ministry.
But this chaos? This one flipped the table and said, “You’re going to sit down now.”
The guilt tried to convince me I’d lost my purpose. That I’d failed Mrs. Claus school. That someone else stepping up meant I’d been replaced.
But Jesus doesn’t measure faithfulness in square footage or stack height. And He doesn’t shame people whose bodies clock out before their hearts do.
“God loves a cheerful giver.” — 2 Corinthians 9:7
And some seasons, cheer looks like wrapping gifts. Some seasons, it looks like sacrifice.
And some seasons — the loud, scary, unplanned ones — it looks like surviving, laughing anyway, and whispering thank You from a hospital chair.
An empty living room doesn’t mean an empty calling. It just means love changed outfits this year. Someone else stepping up isn’t proof I’ve been replaced — it’s proof the lesson worked. And maybe this season, the most generous thing I can give is rest without guilt and faith with hospital wristbands.
Pocket Peace: Jesus, meet me in the chaos — the ER lights, the interrupted plans, the traditions on pause. Remind me that purpose doesn’t disappear when life goes sideways — it adapts, it waits, it trusts You to keep the giving going even when my hands are shaking and my living room is suspiciously clean. Amen.
Luke 13:6–9 (NIV) Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree growing in his vineyard, and he went to look for fruit on it but did not find any. So he said to the man who took care of the vineyard, ‘For three years now I’ve been coming to look for fruit on this fig tree and haven’t found any. Cut it down! Why should it use up the soil?’ “‘Sir,’ the man replied, ‘leave it alone for one more year, and I’ll dig around it and fertilize it. If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down.’” Reflection Some days, I feel exactly like that fig tree—standing in the middle of life, trying my best, but still wondering if I’m producing anything at all. Not the perfect, fruitful tree everyone expects… just the one hoping nobody notices how bare the branches feel.
And honestly? There are moments I feel inadequate in almost every role I hold: – As a wife, loving deeply but sometimes running on fumes – As a mother, praying between grown-child crises, hoping I’m guiding well – As an employee, juggling tasks with a superhero cape that keeps slipping – As a minister, pouring out even when my cup feels half-empty – As a singer, trying to bless God while my voice sometimes protests – As a writer, full of stories but occasionally stuck between heart and keyboard
And in the middle of all that, I slip into development mode: fix myself, improve myself, upgrade myself—as if I’m a project on a deadline.
But Jesus tells a different story.
In the parable, the owner looks at the tree and says, “Cut it down.” But the Gardener—who knows how roots really work—steps between judgment and mercy and says: “Give her time. Give her grace. Let Me work with her.”
He doesn’t ask the tree to try harder. He doesn’t shame it. Instead He says: “Let Me dig around her.” “Let Me nourish her.” “Let Me tend to the parts nobody sees.”
While I’m busy trying to perfect myself, Jesus reminds me: “Growth is My job. Staying connected is yours.”
He is not rushing me. He is not disappointed in me. He is not walking away from me.
He is kneeling in the soil of my life saying: “Give her another year. I know what she needs. Let Me grow her in My timing.”
And that truth sets my soul at rest. Prayer Dear Lord, Thank You for being the Gardener who refuses to give up on me. Forgive me for the times I rush myself, judge myself, or declare myself fruitless. Teach me to rest in You, to stay rooted in You, and to trust Your timing over my own. Dig around me, nourish me, and grow me in the way only You can. And when I feel inadequate, remind me that Your grace is still at work beneath the surface.
Today I did a thing I am quite proud of. I pushed past my fear of webs and spiders and other creepy things and spent an exhausting amount of hours cleaning and tossing out stuff in the garage.
Tired,sore, itchy and most likely washing my hair for several days, but it feels good to decide what goes, what stays, and what’s going to be sold to the highest bidder.
This day was this kind of work…. in the natural and in my spirit. Going beyond the fears, doubts, and physical limitations to see what I am really made of. Decluttering and releasing that which no longer serves a purpose to me. Finding strength and courage to let go.
The closets and things hiding in the shadows are next. 22 years of junk and 56 years of secrets and faith killers being exposed.
After my very good doctor’s appt today, my husband & I went to a restaurant a bit out of our way, but I insisted because I wanted to see my fav waitress, Theresa Ann Hatch . Long story short, a couple from Columbus, Ohio were also drawn to detour and find Satterwhites. After they left, Theresa tells us that the gentleman said God told him to pay for our meal. When I ran out to find them in the parking lot he says she wasn’t supposed to tell me but since I was there……..he read all the mail in my heart from all the letters I have ever written to God. Had me crying in the parking lot. Talked my hearts desires and my need for rest and that God doesn’t expect a minster like me to try to rescue the whole world but do my part. He also said I need to get in my head how much God loves me and not just in a generic sense.
He never gave me a chance to say a word, so everything he said was 100% from God. They held on to me, and it brought a peace that I can not describe. Oddly my eyes were still dilated from my retina appt so I couldn’t get a grasp of what they looked like, just that they had a glow about them that wasn’t hurting my eyes like the sun does when your eyes are dilated. I don’t know if God will allow me to see them again in this life as they were just passing through, but My God, My God, I believe I entertained angels.
When a situation births the twins of joy and pain, it makes me feel schizophrenic.
My go-to response is to clean the kitchen and bake something new. Mess up what I just fixed with goodies I will never eat. Provide delight to others while I’m screaming inside. Ministering sweets to others when I need a taste for myself.
My current loss is another’s gain. I feel quite selfish in wanting to hold on to someone who I am happy is finally free.
I know. I know. It is not the end of all things. We will meet again, at some junction, some highway, under some rainbow.
She liked to say I put my “foot in that!”. Naw gurl! It’s smiles and tears.
I was out in the Carytown area yesterday. One of the worst places to be when you know that you can’t have solid food for 36 hours before a medical test. But I was looking to pick up my last meal for a few days and wanted something special.
However my husband and I ran across homeless people near the trash cans of so many of these trendy restaurants . I began to weep when I saw them because this is America….the land of excess…and yet so many are living like this. Carytown flows with cash. Most times I can afford nothing there. It was heartbreaking seeing people of all ages and colors hoping for some wasteful person’s scraps.
This situation is only exasperated by Covid closing so many churches and shelter resources. It is also created by a ” I got mine. You get yours” attitude so many financially secure people have.
We don’t have a lot in our house but we are blessed. My husband and pooled what we had and bought as many sandwiches and fries we could handle. Thank you to the Carytown McDonald’s for asking what we were doing and donating a matching amount of bottled water.
I was shook so much by one married couple out on the corner with what seemed to be all of their possessions huddled against the cold. I freaked when I noticed a baby stroller but was relieved to find it was a very old dog wrapped in a blanket. I’m not a pet lover but I had to feed it. The poor thing was so tired looking he barely lifted his head at the smell of food. The young husband was so grateful he started to cry.
In the age of Covid you can’t touch, get too close or even see smiles anymore. But I was struck by all the emotions in his eyes and they spoke the volume of the problems in the human experience. His eyes were a golden brown color that I have never seen before and pierced right through me as a reminder to be grateful in all things. Even under the dirt and behind a make shift mask his face glowed.
I also noticed that they still wore their wedding bands. Tells me that they have not been out there too long. Most folks would have pawned for a room. Also tells me that they are determined to stay a family.
My husband and I made one last pass thru the street to make sure we hadn’t missed anybody we saw. Thought I had gone crazy because the couple and that old dog were suddenly gone. No way they could have moved that fast. We had just circled the block.
All I can do is wonder if we had been visited and tested. I pray we passed. My own food is still in the fridge. No need for it. My heart filled me.
I suppose I will answer in fuller detail later. But I was asked earlier about my “why me?” moments. My answer was this: of course I have them. But I try simply to avoid them because then I find my spiritual self asking my carnal self “why not me? ” to which both sides have lofty answers. And then the fight ends with the question to which no pure soul can answer with a holy heart “Who would I rather God had picked instead?”
Cancer sucked. Surgery sucked. Chemo really sucked. And I suppose my upcoming radiation will too. But no where do I believe I have a target on my back. My name is not Job or Job-ette. We live in a world where stuff happens even to those who love God and are loved by God. The magnificent difference is I am never alone. I would have lost my mind without His ever presence.
Would I have chosen this path? A resounding NOPE. But nor would I choose to hand it off to someone else. There is none else worthy to walk in my shoes nor is none else deserving to have the pain I bear walking in my shoes.
I fight on believing that purpose and goodness shall come out of this. That nothing I have experienced, bad or good, is in vain.
I shall not waste time wondering “why” on many days. I would rather spend the many days wondering how to powerfully live.
In the grand scheme of things, there was nothing nuclear about it. The world has not ended. But it certainly felt like I had been hit by a bomb.
I was prepared and unready all at the same time. My infusion nurse had warned me. My oncologist had warned me. Every book and every fellow survivor had warned me.
It had even warned me. In the three days prior, and without further description, everything below my neck had made a steady march toward the shower drain. Adding insult to injury by forcing me to repeatedly clean the “shower shroom” I had purchased in case of such of an event.
I even had a beautician and a back-up beautician on stand by. I was going to take control of this. I was not going to let it beat me. I was going to be brave and rid myself of the trauma. Was even going to go live on social media with it. I was going to declare that “Pink Warriors” rule. A group of us girls were going to fight back.
But this was not to be the case. Whether this was bad luck or whether it was divine providence, I don’t know. Every single lady involved but me was busy that Friday night. My power moment was quickly becoming a whimper.
I was desperate. I was edgy, but I was sure I could make it to Saturday morning. “Just go to bed”, I told myself, “It will be okay”.
Taxotere aka “The Hair Taxi” said ” Yeah, Right!”
Ever had a sunburn on your head? That’s what it felt like when the “glow bugs” came to fight. Woke me up at 3 a.m. with a jolt. Instantly, my hand rises for my head. Ascends empty and descends full of what used to be.
My face was wet with mourning before I even picked up the comb and started to loosening the plaits I had been wearing to lessen impact. But nothing could save me from the pain in my scalp nor the pain in my spirit as they began to fall on their own. For each one I pulled, another came with it.
Exhausted from trying to keep up, I woke my husband up at 4 a.m . I sat between his knees on the floor to let him finish the job. Towel around my shoulders and bag in hand to protect the carpet.
We turned on the comedy channel, though neither of us really felt like laughing. I was attempting to drown out the screaming that was going on in and on my head.
After nearly two straight hours of digging, pulling and stopping to cool my scalp with a towel, I was left with a gallon sized freezer bag of what used to be black (and grey) natural curls and braids.
My “Whoopie Goldberg” pigtails use to extend just about my shoulders. Very few in my professional life had seen them. I kept them neatly tucked under a curly wig of about the same length during daylight hours. They were my little secret that got exposed the minute I hit my door frame each night and all weekend long. Only my closest family and friends had seen them. Oh, and occasionally, the mail man who I felt no need to be fake with.
My “Whoopies” were my guilty little pleasures. My real me. My freedom. And now I was carefully gathering them for a funeral procession in a zip lock bag coffin. A sobbing march to the super can outside so I would not be tempted to keep them.
SIDE NOTE: It is just hair. I know that. But it was mine. The next person with a full head of hair who has not experienced chemo or alopecia…. and says that I should just get over it….. best believe they should stand at least my arm span away for a week or more.
In rotation, for 50 years. Together, thru a gazillion style and color changes. Fads and bad hair cuts. Extensions and protective wigs. Personality, definition, style! Alter ego! It was mine and I need at least 24 hours to pout and eat some of the crap I have been avoiding. I will smile again Sunday.
As I ran my hand again through the remnant still attached to me, the physical pain was very much there. I would spend most of the morning with cold towels on my head trying to minimize the burn. I tried to talk to God to do the same for my soul. I have come to the conclusion that I was not allowed to beat this part of the race because He needed me to “feel” this for somebody else. Testimonies are never for ourselves, but for those in ear shot or in the reading.
I will be real with you. This day, though horrible for a few hours, was truly never really about hair. It was about the feeling of breast cancer robbing me of something else.
Please, don’t read pity …. read mad as spit.
I know what millions of men and women feel as surgery changes your body. Scars criss-cross in vain places. Things taken off and things inserted in. Skin texture changes and color changes. Ruined taste buds. Weight gain and weight loss. Steroid hots and steroids cold. Steroid cries and steroids mean. Just this week, I met a lady who lost her hearing to chemo. Another of whom it caused heart problems.
Let’s not forget people talking to your chest like your tumor will glow and reveal itself or your missing boob will reappear before their eyes. Or the dumb things that are said like “my 3rd cousin didn’t make it”, “where’s your faith” or “it’s just hair”.
I got myself together Saturday morning. Since the beauticians were still not available, I grabbed my daughter and headed straight to the neighborhood barbershop where I take my boys to. I knew “Pop Trim” as he is affectionately called would be opened early. I needed to get this over with quickly. I called ahead and was greeted with a ” I got you girl”.
The shop is normally full of noise and a lot of trash talking guys. I am one of only a few ladies that can hang in such a place…. well trained by my large family of uncles and male cousins. But today I was first in the door and it was almost silent.
Pop, a veteran of the Armed Forces and a retired firefighter with strong hands, handled me like he was cradling a newborn baby. His quiet demeanor was almost unsettling as I had never seen it before… and probably never will again.
Scissors and clippers flying around my head, he took breaks in between when the sobs came. He never acknowledge them. Didn’t hand me a tissue. He just let me have my tears. I thought I wanted an army of women with me to cheer me on. But the healing touch of this stately rescuer who knew how to properly war was more than enough.
My eyes flowed upward toward the ceiling seeking my true Rescuer. I know He is with me and will never leave me comfortless.
And then into the eyes of my daughter who was filming my buzz cut. I pray for the day that breast cancer goes playing in traffic. I want my girly girl to never know what this feel like.
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