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KEEP BELIEVING

This morning I walked into my garden carrying more than Tomato-tone.

I carried worry.

Last week’s storms had been relentless. Then life happened. Family emergencies. Hospital visits. Exhaustion. The garden got the best I could give it, but not always everything I wanted to give it.

As I made my rounds, my fears seemed justified. Several of my biggest green tomatoes had blossom end rot. Months of watering, fertilizing, staking, and waiting… only to find them ruined before they ever ripened.

I picked them off one by one and tossed them across the yard to the squirrels, who had probably been waiting all season for me to make a mistake.

I was disappointed. Maybe even a little angry.
Not just because of the tomatoes. Sometimes one rotten tomato becomes the place where everything else finally shows up.

The financial pressures.


Watching people I admired and believed would make it…walk away from marriages I thought would last forever.


Family struggles I can’t fix.


Dreams that seem to take one step forward and two steps back.


Storm after storm.

The tomatoes just happened to be what broke my heart that morning.

Then I walked around to the other side of the my garden expecting more losses. More disappointments.

But, there she was. My very first zucchini. She hadn’t even been there the last time I looked. Then I remembered something.

The bees hadn’t been showing up because of all the rain. That little zucchini only existed because, one morning, I stepped in and hand-pollinated the flower. At the time it felt almost foolish. I wondered if it would even matter.

Today I held the answer in my hand.

Isn’t that just like God?

Sometimes we become so focused on what’s been damaged that we almost miss what He’s growing on the other side.

The rotten tomatoes were real. But so was the harvest.

Maybe that’s the lesson I needed today.

Not every fruit survives the storm. But neither does every promise die in it.

The storms didn’t stop the zucchini. The rain didn’t cancel the harvest.

The bees didn’t show up… but God still did.

If God asks us to keep planting, keep watering, keep believing, He also has a way of surprising us with fruit we weren’t expecting.

Today, my first zucchini wasn’t just dinner. It was a reminder that disappointment is never the whole story.

Sometimes the blessing you’ve been praying for isn’t gone. It’s simply growing on the other side.

So if today you find yourself throwing rotten tomatoes to the squirrels, don’t leave the garden just yet. Walk around to the other side.

You just might find that while you were grieving what didn’t make it… God was quietly growing something beautiful all along.

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” — Galatians 6:9

Love, Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com ❤️

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Sometimes The Holiest Thing You Can Do is Take A Nap

I caught my reflection in the mirror today.

My face looked tired. Not just sleepy… worn.

The kind of worn that comes from always running. Always carrying. Always trying to squeeze one more thing into the day before collapsing into bed at night.

Stress and exhaustion have a way of changing our faces long before they change our calendars.

As I stood there looking at myself, I realized something. This was never what God intended.

Somewhere along the way, I started wearing fatigue like a badge of honor. I convinced myself that constantly doing more somehow made me more faithful, more productive, or more valuable.

Then I saw a sign that read:
“Daniel slept in a lion’s den. Peter slept in a prison. Jesus slept in a storm. No matter what your circumstances, you can take a nap.”

I laughed. And I thought about it. Those aren’t just clever words on a sign. They’re reminders that peace isn’t determined by your surroundings.

Daniel didn’t wait until the lions disappeared.
Peter didn’t wait until the prison doors opened.
Jesus didn’t wait until the waves settled.

They rested anyway.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve convinced ourselves that rest is a reward for finishing everything.
“I’ll rest when the laundry is done.”
“I’ll rest when the kids stop needing me.”
“I’ll rest when work slows down.”
“I’ll rest when life gets easier.”

But life keeps moving the finish line.

The Bible paints a different picture. Rest isn’t the absence of responsibility. It’s an act of trust. Every time we lay our heads down, we’re declaring,

“God, I’m no longer trying to be You. You’ll keep the world turning while I close my eyes.”

That doesn’t mean we ignore our responsibilities. Daniel still had lions to face. Peter still had chains around his wrists. Jesus still had a cross ahead of Him.

It simply means that exhaustion isn’t a badge of honor. Sometimes faith looks less like striving… and more like sleeping.

So today, I made a decision. I’m setting a timer during my lunch break. I’m going to find somewhere to lay my head down.

Not because my work is finished. Not because all my problems have disappeared. But because my body is telling the truth my heart has been trying to ignore.

Stressed and tired are a dangerous combination, and they were never God’s design for us.

Perhaps if you’re reading this, you need permission too. Take the nap. Close your eyes.
Trust the One who never does.

After all…

Daniel slept in a lion’s den.
Peter slept in a prison.
Jesus slept in a storm.

Maybe the holiest thing you can do today…

…is take a nap.

“In peace I will lie down and sleep, for You alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.”
Psalm 4:8

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Kindergarten Dreams

This month marks 24 or  25 years at my job. I always get confused. Let’s just say a quarter of a century.

I’m grateful. I really am.

This job has put food on my table, helped pay mortgages and medical bills, carried me through cancer, raised children, celebrated grandchildren, and kept the lights on through seasons I never saw coming.

It has been a gift. But if I’m honest…

The thought made me pull the blanket back over my head and wish I was in kindergarten again.

No sales quotas. No deadlines. No responsibilities.

Just nap time, chocolate milk, and somebody else deciding what came next.

Instead, I lay there thinking about twenty-five years. I was thankful. But I was grieving too.

Not because I hated my job. I didn’t. Well not exactly. Lol

I was mourning the woman I thought I would have become by now. The books I thought I would have written. The places I imagined speaking. The dreams I assumed would have happened “one day.”

Somewhere between providing for everyone else and simply surviving life, I quietly convinced myself those dreams could wait.

Then I looked up… and decades had passed.

As I lay there feeling sorry for myself, the Lord interrupted my thoughts with a simple question.

“Who told you I was finished writing your story?”

I couldn’t answer. Because the truth is…

Dead dreams don’t keep showing up. They don’t whisper while you’re driving to work. They don’t find you while you’re digging in a garden. They don’t keep tapping you on the shoulder through devotionals, stories, and moments that won’t leave you alone.

Maybe I wasn’t mourning dead dreams. Maybe I was grieving the timeline I had written for God.

The older I get, the more I’m discovering that God isn’t nearly as concerned with my schedule as I am. He wastes nothing. Not the years. Not the detours.

Not the job that faithfully provided while quietly teaching me lessons I couldn’t have learned anywhere else. Looking back, maybe I wasn’t just building a career.

Maybe God was building a writer. A storyteller. A woman with enough life behind her to recognize His fingerprints in places she once overlooked.

This morning I wanted to hide under the covers like a kindergartener hoping the day would go away. Instead, God reminded me that I’m not in kindergarten anymore.

I’m still in His classroom.

And apparently…

The lesson isn’t over yet.

“Being confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 1:6

Love, Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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When Joy Spins In A Wheelchair

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

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?

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

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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Pocket Visions and Cleaning Supplies


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


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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Silent Screaming

Trigger Warning: This reflection discusses grief, youth violence, childhood trauma, emotional neglect, and the long-term impact of silence within families and communities.

I thought I was just there to sing.

Instead, after my last song,  I sat listening to a mother whose 19-year-old son had been killed less than five minutes from home. She described him as the good kid. The one who checked on his parents. The one who helped people. The one who stayed connected.

And somehow, despite all of that goodness, she now lives with the reality that she had to bury him.

What shook me even more was not just her pain, but her posture.

As she spoke about the young man responsible receiving a 46-year sentence, I heard both grief and forgiveness in her voice. Not weakness. Not denial. Just a heartbreaking understanding that tragedy had swallowed more than one life that night.

She spoke about childhood trauma. About children carrying pain nobody stops to address until it explodes into violence in the streets. And then she said something that settled heavily in my spirit. She talked about the dangerous things we normalize in our homes:

“Children are to be seen and not heard.”

“What happens in this house stays in this house.”

For generations, many of us were taught those sayings as discipline, respect, or family loyalty. But sometimes those same words teach children something else entirely:

Your feelings do not matter here.

Your pain is inconvenient here.

Your truth is unsafe here.

So children learn to survive by swallowing emotions they were never meant to carry alone. Fear gets buried. Anger gets buried. Shame gets buried. Hurt gets buried.

But buried pain does not disappear.

Eventually it leaks somewhere.

Sometimes it leaks into addiction.
Sometimes into rage.
Sometimes into depression.
Sometimes into violence.
Sometimes into emotional numbness.
Sometimes into streets filled with children trying to release emotions nobody allowed them to safely process at home.

As I listened to her speak, a familiar phrase rose in my spirit so strongly that I walked up and shared it with her afterward.

I told her, “I call it silent screaming.”

Because that is exactly what so many people are doing.

They are screaming internally while functioning externally.

Smiling.
Working.
Going to church.
Posting selfies.
Making jokes.
Serving others.
Showing up every Sunday while quietly unraveling inside.

And honestly, the church should be leading the effort to erase silent screaming.

Not by becoming a place where people perfect appearances, but by becoming safe enough for honesty again.

Too many people have mastered church behavior while still bleeding emotionally underneath the surface. We know how to shout over pain, dance over pain, quote Scripture over pain, and hide pain behind ministry titles.

But Jesus always stopped for what was underneath.

He noticed the overlooked.
He listened to the hurting.
He saw what everybody else missed.

And maybe that is part of our assignment too.

To hear people before they become headlines.

To create homes where children feel emotionally safe enough to speak.

To remind people that silence is not always strength.

Sometimes silence is survival.

And some children end up on the 6 o’clock news because nobody heard them when they whispered.

“There is a time to be silent and a time to speak.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:7

Love, Chelle


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