Category: selfhelp

Image

The Familiar Face Was Showing the Wrong Time

Posted in cancer, faith, God, inspiration, love, relationships, selfhelpTagged , , , , , , Leave a comment

All of my clocks changed like they were supposed to except one.

That digital clock I bought years ago because I missed the convenient little readout on the old cable box.

Yes. I bought a clock because I missed a clock on something else. Leave me alone. And if you insist on judging me, you are probably one of those folks who beat the back of a remote instead of changing the battery. Match point!

I can never remember how to change that thing. So for part of the year, it tells the right time. The rest of the year, I do math.

Apparently, I would rather spend months subtracting an hour than spend ten minutes figuring out the buttons.

At three this morning—or should I say two—that was funny to me.

Until it wasn’t.

Because somewhere between laughing at that clock and looking at my life, a thought settled in:

I have been living with the wrong time in front of me and using an old timing pattern to survive.

And now I am sitting here in tears.

I can feel a change coming. The tugging. The shaking. That uncomfortable feeling when something familiar no longer fits quite the way it used to, but you cannot yet see what comes next.

I believe there is purpose in this season, something bigger than me. But knowing that does not keep my heart from being afraid.

And if I am honest, some of it is beginning to look lonely.

The kind of lonely where you can walk into a room full of people who are happy to see you and still search the crowd for a familiar face.

Someone you can exhale around.

Someone who recognizes when your laugh is doing a little extra work.

And sometimes you find that familiar face, only to realize it is still showing the timing of a season you are trying to leave.

There you are again, making adjustments in your head.

Maybe your changing season looks like motherhood after the children have outgrown needing you in the ways they once did. You spent years wishing somebody would stop calling your name for five minutes or let you use the bathroom in peace. Now the quiet has arrived, and you don’t quite know what to do with it.

Maybe it looks like a wife who suddenly becomes a widow, still reaching toward the other side of the bed.

Maybe you spent years imagining retirement, only to have a pink slip arrive before the celebration.

Or maybe it is a relationship caught in that exhausting “dern if you do, darn if you don’t” pattern. You keep changing your approach, hoping this time there will be room for you to get it right.

These things hurt. Some change the whole shape of a life.

Now, don’t get me wrong.

I do not believe God gets up in the morning looking for somebody’s day to ruin. I do not believe He pulls at our heartstrings for entertainment.

And I cannot explain every loss by saying, “God must have something better.”

Some things we lose were good. Some people we miss were precious. We are allowed to grieve them without rushing to find a lesson that makes everybody else comfortable.

But I do believe God can meet us in what has changed.

While we are tending to everybody, answering every call, and trying to keep life moving, He can be at work in places we have barely had time to notice.

The love we learned to give still has somewhere to go. The wisdom we earned can still help somebody. A gift does not expire because the place where we used it has changed.

What I feel I am losing may hold something God can use in a way I have not imagined yet.

I believe that. I still believe that.

I am also crying. I still cry.

Both are happening at this very moment. Both things are true. My tears don’t mean my faith has left the room.

I wish I could write this from the other side and tell you exactly how it all worked out. I would love to have the testimony neatly wrapped, scripture attached, and a little bow on top.

But right now, I am the woman looking at the clock.

I am noticing how much effort I have spent adjusting to things because they were familiar. I am wondering what needs to change, what needs to be grieved, and what I might be holding so tightly that my hands have no room for anything else.

I don’t have all those answers.

Today, I can ask God to help me take the next step without requiring myself to understand the whole season first.

I can let somebody trustworthy know I need company.

I can cry and still make room for the possibility that there is life ahead I will someday be glad I stayed open to.

Ecclesiastes reminds me that there is a season for everything. I am grateful it makes room for weeping, too. (Ecclesiastes 3:1–4)

Because I am very much trying to walk into this new timing.

I just may need a tissue on the way.

That clock can sit there and wait for the world to come back around to its settings.

I can’t.

I have already spent enough time doing math just to make the wrong time work.

So yes, I am crying. Yes, I am scared. And I may need somebody to help me figure out the buttons.

But I refuse to spend my next season subtracting from my life just to make the old settings right.

Love, Chelle

defygravitywithoutwings.com

Image

Who Are You Raising Up For?

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

I had the opportunity to share at a Breast Cancer Awareness event this weekend. Instead of standing behind the podium, I sat down among the women.

We talked about facts and figures. I shared some of my own journey. I emphasized that it is a disease that comes to steal the caregivers from families.

And then we talked about a woman named Tabitha.

You may know her as Dorcas.

In Acts 9:36–42, we meet a woman known for doing good and helping those in need. When she became sick and died, the disciples sent for Peter. When he arrived, the widows stood around him crying and showing him the clothing Dorcas had made.

That part stayed with me.

They had something in their hands that spoke of the care she had given them. Garments she had spent time making. The poor she cared for. Evidence that she had noticed their needs and done something about them.

Scripture doesn’t tell us that Dorcas neglected herself. But those women showing Peter how she had cared for them made me think about how many of us spend our lives caring for everybody else.

We know who needs a meal. Who needs a ride. Who needs prayer. Who needs somebody to listen. We can remember everybody’s appointments, preferences, problems, and prescriptions.

Meanwhile, our own needs keep getting moved to the bottom of the list.

And sometimes we don’t even make the list.

Lord, help us.

I know something about being busy, being needed, and trying to keep everything moving. I also know what it feels like when a diagnosis interrupts all of that.

Before my diagnosis, I was dealing with my ailing father, my youngest son needing a kidney transplant, and the tragic loss of my third-youngest grandson. There was so much happening. So much grief. So many needs.

I kept rescheduling my annual exams. I would get to me later.

Until “later” became three missed annual exams.

I share that with tenderness toward the woman I was then. She was carrying a lot. But somewhere in caring for everybody else and trying to make it through, my own care kept getting pushed back.

On October 10, 2018, I received my breast cancer biopsy results.

The tumor could not be felt during my self-exams. My gynecologist hadn’t felt it either. That is part of why you will keep hearing me talk about getting those smash-a-grams.

Yes, I said smash-a-grams. Y’all know me. We can talk about something serious and still leave a little room to laugh.

Eight years later, I am grateful to be here. And I am still learning what it means to care for the woman who made it through.

Because surviving does not automatically teach us to stop putting ourselves last.

Sometimes we get just enough strength back to pick up every responsibility we had before. Everybody is relieved that we are doing better, and before long, we are cooking, carrying, fixing, answering, and showing up again.

Somewhere in all of that, we can disappear from our own story.

This is the thought I brought to those women—and the one I am bringing home to myself:

We have not been raised up just to create the same habit again. We don’t fight to live just not to live.

In Dorcas’s story, Peter prayed, told her to get up, and gave her his hand to help her stand. The woman whose hands had done so much for others received a helping hand herself.

I love that.

And I mentioned something else while we were together: we are often guilted into performance by the Proverbs 31 woman.

We hear about everything she did. She worked. She provided. She managed her household. She cared for the poor. And somehow, we turn her life into a checklist we are supposed to finish before bedtime.

But hold on a minute.

**She had handmaidens.**

Go back and read Proverbs 31:15. That woman had help.

Meanwhile, we are trying to be the woman, the handmaidens, the transportation department, and the kitchen staff—and feeling guilty because we need a nap.

Lord, help us again.

We can honor her diligence and remember the help that was part of her household. Accepting help does not make us less faithful, less loving, or less capable.

**We do not have to do everything by ourselves to be women of worth.**

There is room in our lives to receive care. To let somebody bring the meal. To say we are tired before we are completely worn out. To keep our appointments. To ask for help without delivering a whole speech explaining why we deserve it.

There is room to enjoy the life we have, too.

To laugh. To rest. To plant something. To dream about something that has nothing to do with somebody else’s needs.

So, who are you raising up for?

I have people I love. People I want to see grow. Moments I want to be present for. I have more songs, more stories, and more living I hope to do.

**And I need to be on that list, too.**

I also hold close the memory of those we have lost. Their love was no smaller. Their faith was no less. My gratitude for being here carries room for their names and their stories.

As I consider the life in front of me, I want to be more intentional about how I live it.

I can love people and let them love me back. I can serve and still rest. I can have faith while my knees knock, and I can let somebody hold my hand until they settle.

I sat among those women to share a message, but I needed to hear it, too.

We spend so much time making sure everybody else has what they need.

**Let’s make sure we are included in our own story.**

Love,
Chelle

Image

TRUSTING WHILE MY KNEES STILL KNOCK

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

Scripture: Hebrews 4:15–16; Psalm 56:3

This week, getting ready for my ninth mammogram since my cancer diagnosis, I realized that the “what if” still knows my address.

Nine mammograms. Eight years. So much grace. So many reasons to thank God.

And here comes “what if,” pulling up a chair like it pays bills here.

What if they see something?
What if I have to go through this again?

I trust God. I do. Apparently, my knees just need to catch up.

Even on my wedding anniversary this October 11, 2026, it was in the back of my mind. Because October 10, 2018—the day before our anniversary—was when I got my biopsy results.

Breast cancer.

That was the year our anniversary was sobs instead of celebration.

Dates have a way of remembering, don’t they? Here I am, grateful for eighteen years of marriage, and somewhere in the back of my mind is the memory of that phone call. That fear. Those tears.

I’m thankful to still be here celebrating. But I remember.

And God knows I remember.

We talk a lot about surviving cancer. We share the diagnosis, the treatments, the pictures, the testimony. But there is a part of the story that keeps showing up afterward.

The next appointment.
The next mammogram.
The waiting.

You can be going about your business, feeling pretty good, and then that appointment reminder shows up. Suddenly, your mind has packed a bag and headed straight to “what if.”

Mine certainly knows the way.

I know God doesn’t want me sitting around freaking out. I believe in the peace Jesus gives me. But He is also touched by my infirmities—and apparently, my knee knocking, too.

Thank God for that.

Because I don’t need another thing to feel guilty about. Being scared is enough without deciding that being scared makes me a bad Christian.

Psalm 56:3 says, “When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”

When I am afraid.

That sounds like a place I know. And right there, in the middle of being afraid, I can choose to trust.

Sometimes that trust comes out in a song. Sometimes it comes out in a testimony. And sometimes it is just, “Jesus, help me. My thoughts are doing too much.”

He hears that prayer, too.

Hebrews 4 reminds us that we have a Savior who understands our weaknesses. We can come to Him for mercy and grace when we need help.

I am so glad I don’t have to get myself all together before I come. Because sometimes getting myself together is exactly what I need help with.

“Lord, I trust You. And I’m scared.”

There it is. Both things. No sense trying to dress it up for Somebody who already knows.

I’m learning that I can bring Him the fear as often as it comes. If I prayed about it this morning and it comes back this afternoon, I can pray again. God isn’t standing there saying, “Chelle, we already covered this.”

He knows what happened eight years ago. He knows why this appointment gets to me.

And He knows I’m going anyway.

That matters.

I can pray and keep the appointment. I can trust God and let the doctors do their work. I can ask somebody to pray with me instead of trying to carry every thought by myself.

My hands may tremble when I sign in, but I can still sign in.

My knees may knock, but I can still walk through the door.

I wish I could tell you that trusting God means every result will be what we want to hear. I can’t. I’ve lived through the news I didn’t want to hear.

But I can tell you that God met me there.

He met me in the tears, in the treatment, and in the days when I was tired of being strong. That is part of what I remember, too.

So when “what if” pulls up its chair, I have something else to bring into the conversation: the memory of how God has carried me.

If you are waiting for results, facing an appointment, or trying to get through something that has your knees holding a whole percussion concert, you can tell Him.

You don’t have to give Him the church answer.

Give Him the truth.

“Lord, I’m afraid. Help me trust You right here.”

Tonight, I don’t need to live through every possible tomorrow. I need grace for this evening. Then, when morning comes, I’ll need grace to get up, get dressed, and take the next step.

My knees may knock.

But by His grace, I’m still walking.

Prayer with me:

Lord, You already know what we’re afraid of. You know the memories behind it and the thoughts we haven’t said out loud. Help us bring all of it to You. Give us peace while we wait, courage to keep our appointments, and the willingness to let somebody help us. When our minds run ahead, help us come back to today. And if our knees keep knocking, help us keep walking with You. In Jesus’ name, amen.

Love, Chelle

Image

NO LONGER PRN – THE YEAR OF THE JOSEPHS

Posted in cancer, faith, food, God, health, inspiration, love, relationships, selfhelp, Uncategorized, women's history monthTagged , , , , , Leave a comment

The other night in Bible study, my pastor, Auntie to me, read from a word declaring this the “Year of the Josephs.” A year for the dreamers. A year for those who have been taken for granted, overlooked and forgotten to finally take their place.
It struck me because the night before, I had dreamed about being PRN in my own life.
PRN.  A professional term meaning “As needed.”
In the dream, I was available for everybody else while somehow being only “as needed” for myself. Everybody else had a standing appointment with my time, my gifts, my strength, my prayers, my wisdom, my problem-solving and my presence. But me? I had squeezed myself into whatever openings remained on the schedule.
And suddenly Joseph looked different to me.
Joseph was a dreamer, but for much of his story, everybody else’s needs seemed to come before the fulfillment of his own dreams. Potiphar needed somebody trustworthy. The prison keeper needed somebody capable. The cupbearer needed somebody to interpret his dream. Joseph kept showing up. He kept serving. He kept using what God had placed inside him.
Then the cupbearer walked away benefiting from Joseph’s gift—and forgot him.
That part sat with me.
Everybody else had a standing appointment with Joseph’s gift while Joseph’s own dream seemed to have been placed on PRN.
And I wondered: What if the Year of the Josephs isn’t only about somebody finally remembering us? What if it is also the year we remember ourselves?
What if taking our place requires us to stop treating the things God placed inside us as optional? Stop giving our dreams whatever scraps of time remain after everybody else’s needs have been met. Stop waiting until there is an emergency in our own souls before attending to ourselves.
But then the Holy Spirit interrupted that thought with another one.
How often do I treat Him the same way?
PRN Holy Spirit.
Holy Spirit, I need You—there’s trouble.
Holy Spirit, speak to me—I have a decision to make.
Holy Spirit, comfort me—my heart is broken.
Holy Spirit, help me—I don’t know what to do.
And none of those prayers are exactly wrong. He is our Comforter, Counselor and Helper. But somewhere along the way, it is possible to treat a promised Presence like an emergency prescription.
Take as needed.
Yet Jesus did not promise us an “as-needed” Holy Spirit. He promised One who would be with us and remain with us. Paul wrote, “Since we are living by the Spirit, let us follow the Spirit’s leading in every part of our lives” (Galatians 5:25, NLT).
Every part.
Not merely emergencies.
Not merely Sunday morning.
Not merely when my own wisdom runs out.
Not merely when Pharaoh calls.
The Holy Spirit was present with Joseph in the pit, in Potiphar’s house, in the prison and in the palace. The location changed. The circumstances changed. Joseph’s title changed. But God’s presence was not PRN.
And perhaps that is part of taking our place too.
I cannot continually make myself PRN while expecting to live fully in my God-given assignment. And I cannot treat the Holy Spirit as PRN while expecting Him to lead a life in which I have already scheduled everything else.
Maybe this Year of the Josephs begins before anybody remembers my name.
Maybe it begins when I remember the dreamer God created in me.
When I give what He placed inside me a standing appointment.
When I stop treating myself like the fill-in.
And most importantly, when I stop treating the Holy Spirit like Someone I call when needed and begin living conscious of the One who was already there.
Because perhaps taking my place isn’t simply about finally arriving at the palace.
Perhaps it is learning to walk with God through every place between the dream and its fulfillment.
Love,
Chelle

Image

For God’s Sake

Posted in Uncategorized, inspiration, selfhelp, money, love, God, health, faithTagged , , , , , , 1 Comment

This morning I was peddling around when I heard another one of those commercials promising to change your entire life with some drastic diet. Normally, I am quite adept at ignoring them. But somewhere in the middle of the suffering heroine’s testimony, she exclaimed, “I used to dance, for God’s sake!”
And my heart shifted. Yeah. I used to.
Now, mind you, I am quite sure she meant those words very differently. Her “for God’s sake” was frustration. An exclamation. Maybe even something she probably shouldn’t have said. But that’s not what I heard. I heard for God’s sake.
And suddenly, I felt sorrow. Genuine sorrow. Because I used to dance for God’s sake.
I was never coordinated enough to be on anybody’s dance team. Nobody was calling me up front for a choreographed praise dance. There were no matching garments, rehearsed steps or applause. I just danced.
Sunday mornings, sometimes in the back of the sanctuary, there was no audience that mattered. No ministry assignment. No particular reason at all. Just the Spirit of God and me. Contrasting dance partners—an infinite and omnipresent God dancing with a brokenhearted single mother.
I danced because He was good. He danced because He wanted me always to know that goodness. I danced because something inside of me couldn’t stay still in His presence. He danced to let me know He would never be still. I danced for God’s sake. He gave His all for mine.
And apparently, He even supplied the music.
Years later, I would find words in Zephaniah that gave language to something that brokenhearted single mother could only feel: “With his love, he will calm all your fears. He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.” — Zephaniah 3:17 (NLT)
Imagine that. While I thought I was the one bringing the praise, Scripture paints a picture of a God who rejoices over His children with singing. I brought the dance. He supplied the song. Maybe that is why I never needed a praise team, choreography or an audience in that little space in the back of the sanctuary. We already had music.
And somewhere between then and now, life got heavier. Responsibilities got heavier. My body got heavier. Some days, my heart got heavier too. And without ever deciding to stop, somehow I stopped dancing.
Maybe that is why those four little words pierced me this morning. Because I wonder how many things we once did simply for God’s sake that we slowly stopped doing. Not because we stopped loving Him. Maybe we just got tired. Maybe life became complicated. Maybe what once flowed freely became another thing we thought had to be done well, done publicly, or done for a purpose.
But what if pleasing God is the purpose?
Paul wrote, “So whether we are here in this body or away from this body, our goal is to please him.” — 2 Corinthians 5:9 (NLT)
What if we reclaimed those words—for God’s sake? What if we loved somebody when loving them wasn’t easy, for God’s sake? Forgave when nobody would blame us for holding the grudge, for God’s sake? Gave when nobody knew our name, sang when nobody handed us a microphone, prayed when nobody asked us to lead, served when nobody was watching, and danced even if the dance didn’t look quite like it used to—all simply for God’s sake?
Not to earn His love. Not to impress anybody else. Not because there is an audience waiting to applaud. But simply because there is still something inside of us that wants our Father to be pleased.
And maybe this morning wasn’t really about remembering the woman who used to dance in the back of the sanctuary. Maybe it was about remembering why she danced. Because God was good. Because God was present. Because God was moving even when she couldn’t see where He was taking her. And because a brokenhearted single mother somehow knew she had a dance Partner who would never leave the floor.
Maybe my dance today won’t look like it did back then. My feet may not move as fast, and my knees may have a meeting about it afterward. Life has certainly given me a few more reasons to sit down. But He is still good. He is still present. He is still dancing.
And perhaps the invitation this morning isn’t for me to become the woman I used to be. Maybe it is simply to remember that the God who danced with her is still here.
The music never stopped. Maybe I just stopped listening for it.
So perhaps I’ll dance again. Not for applause, recognition or ministry. Not because anybody is watching, and certainly not because I suddenly learned choreography. I’ll dance because He is good. I’ll dance because He is worthy. I’ll dance because I want my life—not just my feet—to bring Him pleasure.
After all, He gave His all for mine. Surely I can still give Him something simply for His.
For God’s sake.

Love, Chelle

Image

Lace Under My Armor II

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

When My Armor Starts To Rattle

This weekend, the young son of an extended relation departed for Heaven.

As I watched his mother publicly declare and decree the Word of God, encourage others to prepare for the coming Christ, and refuse to blame or deny God in the midst of her unimaginable pain, something in me went back.

Back to Emmanuel.

Back to the day I suffered the loss of my newborn grandson.

And I found myself thinking about what faith looks like when your heart is broken.

I know what the Word says. I know where my hope lies. I know that God is still God when life hurts in ways I cannot explain. I know that trusting Him is the right thing to do.

But this is no easy way.

Sometimes we tell the stories of women of faith and remember only their armor. We remember Deborah, rising as a mother in Israel and helping lead a nation to victory. We remember Esther, putting her own life on the line and walking courageously before a king.

We celebrate the warrior women.

But inside every Deborah and Esther, I believe there is also something softer.

There is lace under the armor.

There is still a woman underneath the warrior.

And Scripture shows us her, too.

I think about the Shunammite woman in 2 Kings 4. God had blessed her with the son she had never dared ask for—and then that child died in her arms.

She laid him down and went looking for the man of God.

When Gehazi saw her coming and asked whether everything was well with her, her husband and her child, she answered:

“It is well.”

Those three words hit differently when you understand what was waiting back at her house.

Her child was dead.

Yet she said, “It is well.”

But I don’t believe it is well meant I am not hurting.

It didn’t mean I understand this.

It didn’t mean I wanted this.

And it certainly didn’t mean I am okay.

Because when she finally reached Elisha, this same woman who had declared it is well fell at his feet and held on to him. Her grief poured out until Elisha recognized that her soul was in deep distress.

Both things were true.

It was well.
And her soul was hurting.

That’s faith.

Maybe we have sometimes mistaken faith for the absence of pain.

We have admired the woman standing in her armor without realizing that underneath it, she may be shaking so badly that the armor rattles.

I stand on the Word.

But sometimes my armor rattles.

I carry the shield of faith, but sometimes a little lace peeks out from underneath it.

That lace is my femininity. My tenderness. My compassion. My vulnerability. The part of me that still feels deeply even after life has given me plenty of reasons to become hard.

There are tears underneath the helmet.

There is a tender heart behind the breastplate.

There are trembling hands holding the sword.

And none of that means the armor isn’t working.

God never required me to become hard in order to survive hard things.

He didn’t ask me to stop feeling so I could become faithful.

He didn’t tell me that grief cancels faith or that tears invalidate trust.

Sometimes faith is not a woman standing triumphantly on a mountain with her sword raised toward Heaven.

Sometimes faith is a grieving mother making her way toward the man of God, carrying pain no mother should have to carry, somehow finding enough breath to say:

“It is well.”

Sometimes faith sounds like:

God, this hurts.

God, I don’t understand.

God, I would never have chosen this.

God, I don’t know how I am going to carry this.

But I still believe You.

So if my armor rattles, let it rattle.

If the lace underneath shows, let it show.

If tears run down my face while I am declaring the Word, let them fall.

Because none of those things mean I have lost my faith.

They simply prove there is still a woman underneath the armor.

A woman who can grieve and believe.

Who can hurt and worship.

Who can have questions and still trust.

Who can be brokenhearted without becoming bitter.

Who can say this is more than I know how to bear and somehow, through tears, still whisper:

“It is well.”

My faith is not proven by whether my armor rattles.

My faith is proven by what I choose to stand on while it does.

“Stand therefore…”
Ephesians 6:14

There is lace under my armor.

And I think I’m finally learning that God never asked me to hide it.

Love,
Chelle

Image

WHEN YOU CAN’T GET YOURSELF TO THE GARDEN

Posted in cancer, faith, God, inspiration, love, relationships, selfhelp, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

I had been in the house for days. Six to be exact


Sick. Tired. Coughing. And carrying the weight of something happening in my family that I could neither fix nor control. I hadn’t been able to tend my garden.


I knew what the lack of rain had probably done. I knew I hadn’t watered. I knew that after a summer of planting, fighting bugs, pulling weeds, celebrating tiny victories, and spending entirely too much money to grow food I could have bought at the grocery store, much of it was probably dying.


Still, I wanted to see it. Maybe I needed to see it.


The problem was that I didn’t have the energy to walk across the backyard.


So Joseph drove me. Yes. You read that right.
My husband put me in the minivan and drove me across our backyard — in reverse — to my garden.


I can only imagine what the neighbors thought. There we were, slowly backing a Dodge Grand Caravan through the grass as though this were a perfectly ordinary mode of transportation for visiting a garden twenty yards from the house.


But I didn’t care.


He knew I wasn’t strong enough to make the walk. So he found another way. And maybe that’s what love does.


For a little while, I was outside. There was fresh air. There was sunlight. There was my garden. And there was peace.


I didn’t go there to work. That may be the part I need to remember. I didn’t pull weeds. I didn’t drag out a hose. I didn’t try to resurrect what had dried up while I was sick.


For once, I wasn’t going to the garden because something needed something from me. I went because I needed something from the garden.


And when I didn’t have enough strength to get myself there, someone who loved me carried me to it.


That makes me think about the man in Mark 2. He needed to get to Jesus, but he couldn’t get himself there. So four men carried him. And when they arrived, they discovered they couldn’t get through the crowd.


So they found another way. They climbed onto the roof, opened it up, and lowered their friend down to Jesus.


Scripture says that when Jesus saw their faith, He responded.
Their faith.


There are seasons when faith looks like walking boldly toward Jesus on your own two feet. And then there are seasons when faith looks like allowing somebody else to pick up your corner of the mat.


I think we talk a lot about being strong enough to keep going. We don’t talk nearly enough about the grace of being carried.


Moses knew something about that too. In Exodus 17, his hands grew tired. The battle had not ended simply because Moses was exhausted. So Aaron and Hur gave him a place to sit and held his hands up when he could no longer hold them up himself.


Nobody accused Moses of lacking faith because his arms got tired.


Nobody told the man on the mat that if he really wanted Jesus badly enough, he would figure out how to walk.


God allowed other people’s strength to become part of their story. Maybe that is a kind of provision we sometimes miss.


We pray ” Lord, give me strength.”

And sometimes He does. But sometimes His answer looks more like ” I’m sending someone who has enough strength for both of you today.”


Joseph couldn’t fix what was hurting me. He couldn’t make me well. He couldn’t change the things happening around me that I had no control over. He couldn’t even make it rain.


But he could put his wife in the minivan, throw that thing in reverse, and back across the backyard to the little patch of ground that had given her peace during so many other difficult days.


And that was enough.


When we got there, much of the garden looked exactly as I expected.


Dry. Spent. Finished.


But tucked among all of that were a few tomatoes. I picked them. Not enough for some grand harvest. Just enough to hold in my hands and smile.

Somehow, that felt like God too.


Not simply because something had survived. I’ve already learned that lesson. This time, the lesson was that I had been carried there to see them. Sometimes Peace Has to Carry You


Maybe you’ve been trying desperately to get yourself back to your garden. Not necessarily a garden with tomatoes, weird lettuce, and mosquitoes apparently operating an all-you-can-eat buffet.


Maybe your garden is prayer.
Church.
Writing.
Music.
Friendship.
Laughter.
The porch.
A familiar place.
Something that once quieted the noise inside you.


And perhaps you’ve been frustrated because you don’t have enough strength right now to get yourself there.
Maybe you don’t have to.
Maybe this isn’t the season for proving that you can still walk there alone.
Maybe this is the season for letting somebody find another way.
Let them bring dinner.
Let them sit beside you.
Let them hold up your hands.
Let them carry one corner of the mat.
Let them take you somewhere peaceful without requiring you to accomplish a single thing once you arrive.


Let them back the minivan across the backyard if necessary.


Because sometimes God’s provision isn’t the strength to keep carrying everything.
Sometimes His provision is someone who helps carry you.
“They came to him, bringing a paralyzed man, carried by four of them.” — Mark 2:3


Prayer
Lord, thank You for the people who carry us when our own strength runs low. Help me remember that receiving help is not the absence of faith. Sometimes it is how You answer my prayer for strength. When I cannot get myself to the place of peace, send the hands, the shoulders, the friendship, the love — or even the minivan — that helps me get there. And when I am strong enough again, make me willing to pick up someone else’s corner.
Amen.
Love, Chelle

Image

Pull Out What Didn’t Make It.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We harvested greens five times.

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

There was one little green pepper.

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

There were carrots.

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

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

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

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

Some of the harvest fed me differently.

Funny how quickly disappointment can make us forget the harvest.

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

So no, this garden was not a total failure.

Neither was this season.

And neither am I.

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

I can pull out what is finished.

I can clean up what was damaged.

I can keep what still has life.

I can remember what already fed me.

I can refresh depleted soil.

And I can plant again.

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

She never produced one identifiable Brussels sprout.

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

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

She didn’t produce what I expected.

She still fed us.

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

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

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

But that’s not always the truth.

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

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

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

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

Sometimes it is peace.

Sometimes it is laughter.

Sometimes it is a lesson.

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

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

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

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

Some things need to be pulled.

Some things deserve another season.

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

And some empty places are simply waiting for new seed.

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

I’m cleaning the bed.

I’m keeping what still has life.

I’m remembering what already fed me.

I’m refreshing the soil.

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

And Then I Went Outside…

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

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

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

There were tomatoes.

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

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

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

Meanwhile, the garden was still producing.

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

And tonight, I’m making spaghetti.

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

And suddenly there was another lesson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes He gives us enough for tonight’s spaghetti.

That’s still provision.

That’s still harvest.

That’s still something worth thanking Him for.

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

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

What survived.

What fed me differently.

What is still growing.

And what showed up right on time.

Prayer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is still good soil here.

There may even be something still ripening on the vine.

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

Amen.

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

Image

GOD NEVER ASKED THE SHEPHERD TO BECOME THE PASTURE

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

Micah 5:4 “And he shall stand and feed in the strength of the LORD, in the majesty of the name of the LORD his God; and they shall abide…” — KJV

I was supposed to be going to bed. Instead, I went looking for a scripture I couldn’t quite remember. I knew it was somewhere in Micah and had something to do with standing and feeding.

I found it. And apparently God found me.

“And he shall stand and feed in the strength of the LORD…”

Now, I understood the feeding part immediately. Lord knows I feed people.

Sometimes literally. Sometimes emotionally. Sometimes spiritually. Sometimes financially.

Sometimes I am feeding people who have apparently misplaced both their spoon and their ability to locate the kitchen.

But that’s another devotional.

What caught me was stand and feed. Not run around and feed.Not panic and feed.

Not figure out how you’re going to keep everybody fed tomorrow while you’re still trying to feed them today.

Just—Stand. And feed.

Now wait a minute, Lord. Because I have gotten pretty good at doing a whole lot more than standing:

I fix. I worry. I calculate. I rearrange. I make another call. I find another way.

I carry things nobody actually asked me to carry and then have the nerve to wonder why my back hurts.

Figuratively speaking. Well…sometimes literally too.

But I kept reading. “…in the strength of the LORD.”

And there it was. That little part I could have easily read right past was apparently the part God wanted me to sit my tired self down and hear.

The strength wasn’t supposed to come from the shepherd.

Now, Micah is prophetically speaking about Jesus, the coming Ruler from Bethlehem. He is the Shepherd in this passage. So this isn’t a scripture telling me to run out and become everybody’s shepherd.

Thank God, because I have enough sheep.

But looking at the way He shepherds showed me something about the way I have been trying to care for what God has entrusted to me.

The Shepherd stands. The Shepherd feeds. But the Shepherd operates in the strength of the Lord.

And somewhere while sitting with that, a sentence hit me hard: God never asked the shepherd to become the pasture.

Ouch.

Because I think I have done exactly that. The shepherd leads the sheep to the grass. The shepherd leads them to the water. The shepherd watches over them and cares for them.

But the shepherd does not lie down in the field and say, “Well, I guess y’all better start eating me.” Yet how many times have I done the emotional equivalent?

Here, take some more of my energy.
Here, take some more of my time.
Need encouragement? I’ve got you.
Need prayer? I’ve got you.
Need something handled? Give it here.
Need money? Okay, now let’s not get carried away. 😂

But you get my point. Somewhere along the way, serving can quietly turn into supplying.

And if you’re not careful, you stop seeing God as the Source you’re helping people reach and start behaving as though you are the source.

That will wear you slap out.

Because if I become the pasture, everybody grazing on me will eventually leave me bare.

There was the second ouch.

Maybe some of my exhaustion isn’t simply because I have too much to do. Maybe sometimes I’m exhausted because I’m trying to produce what God only assigned me to distribute.

I don’t manufacture peace.
I can point toward the One who gives it.
I don’t manufacture wisdom.
I can ask the One who has it.
I don’t manufacture provision.
I can use what God puts in my hands.

And apparently—I needed Micah to remind me of this at bedtime—I don’t manufacture strength either.

“…in the strength of the LORD.”

His strength. Not mine.

And that made me think about something else. What happens when the shepherd gets hungry?

Because sometimes I am so busy making sure everybody else is okay that I don’t notice that I’m running on fumes until I’m already empty.

And maybe saying, “Lord, I don’t have anything left,” isn’t admitting failure.

Maybe it’s finally telling the truth. Maybe it’s the moment the shepherd remembers:

Oh, I’m hungry too.
I need the pasture too.
I need living water too.
I need encouragement.
I need restoration.
I need somebody to carry me sometimes.

Most importantly, I need the Shepherd.

Because before I am anybody else’s helper, encourager, fixer, prayer partner, mother, wife, friend, minister or whatever other hat I’m wearing that day— I am one of His sheep.

And sheep are supposed to eat.

So maybe the assignment isn’t nearly as complicated as I keep making it.

Stand where God placed me. Feed what He actually entrusted to me. And stop trying to feed every random sheep that wanders across my field.

Then, when I discover that what is required is bigger than what I have— don’t become the pasture. Borrow the strength.

And maybe that’s why this scripture found me tonight of all nights.

Because here I am, already supposed to be in bed, with a tired body and a dull headache—and it just occurred to me that my dinner was a scoop of sorbet.

Yep. Sorbet. For dinner. Dragon fruit at that.

I have spent so much of my life making sure everybody else is fed that apparently tonight the shepherd looked at a scoop of frozen fruit and said, “That’ll do.”

Lord, if that ain’t confirmation for the devotional I don’t know what is.

Because how am I going to write about feeding the flock while sitting here hungry myself?

And suddenly “God never asked the shepherd to become the pasture” hits differently.

Maybe I’ve gotten so accustomed to pouring out that I don’t always notice when I haven’t taken anything in.

Not just spiritually. Sometimes quite literally.

I can make sure everybody else has eaten, everybody has what they need, everybody’s problem has been addressed—and then realize at the end of the day that I have treated my own needs like an optional item on the list.

And maybe that’s part of what God is showing me.

The shepherd needs feeding too.
The shepherd needs rest too.
The shepherd needs care too.

And sometimes the evidence that I’ve forgotten that isn’t some grand spiritual revelation.

Sometimes it’s a dull headache, a tired body, and the realization that I ate sorbet for dinner.

So maybe tonight I don’t need another burst of strength so I can accomplish one more thing. Maybe I need to stop.

Maybe I need to eat something that didn’t come out of the freezer with a dessert spoon.

And then maybe I need to lie down.

After all, Psalm 23 never said the sheep found their own pasture and kept themselves going.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…”

Well, Lord.

Apparently one of Your sheep has been standing long enough.

And perhaps the most obedient thing I can do now is let the Shepherd take care of me.

Prayer

Lord, apparently I needed Micah last night

Teach me the difference between what You have actually entrusted to me and the things I picked up because I thought somebody had to carry them.

Help me stand without scrambling. Help me feed without becoming the food. Help me serve without trying to become the Source.
And when I say, “Lord, I don’t have it,” remind me that maybe I was never supposed to have it all by myself. You have the strength. You have the provision. You have the wisdom.
You have the pasture.

And when I get so busy feeding everybody else that I forget I am hungry too, sit me down. Lead me beside some still waters. Restore my soul. Feed me.

And when necessary—
make this stubborn sheep lie down.
Then, when it’s time, help me get back up and stand.

Amen.

Love, Chelle

Image

Go Up!!!

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


“Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things.” Colossians 3:2


I had had a day. One of those long, stressful days where, by the time work was over, I had a whole list of complaints ready for God. And apparently, He had a visual aid ready for me.


I was picking up my son from work when a storm brewed up hot and fast. The sky changed almost without warning. While I was focused on a huge lightning strike, something else caught my attention.


A small-engine plane suddenly ducked incredibly low over us.


Living near the airport, low-flying planes don’t usually bother me. I’m used to them. But this one was low, low. I mean real low.
Low enough that I could see people inside.


Then I watched the pilot make a slight rolling turn to avoid clipping the light pole right there at the traffic light.


For a moment, my heart was probably somewhere near my red glasses.


But then I watched what happened next.With incredible precision, the pilot aimed the plane upward toward the one patch of blue sky still visible. Up. The storm was raging around them, so they went up. They couldn’t stop the lightning. They couldn’t calm the wind. They couldn’t move the clouds. But they could change their position in relation to the storm.


And standing there watching them climb, suddenly all the things I had spent the day complaining about seemed different. I had been staring at my storm. God reminded me to look up.


Sometimes faith doesn’t mean God immediately removes what’s happening around us. Sometimes He gives us the wisdom, strength, and grace to rise above what is trying to consume us. The clouds may still be there. The wind may still be blowing.
The lightning may still be flashing.


But there can still be a patch of blue somewhere above it all. And maybe that’s why Scripture keeps calling our attention upward. “Set your minds on things above…”
Not because what happens down here doesn’t matter. Not because the storm isn’t real. But because if all I see is the storm, I can forget the One who sits above it.


And suddenly I had to laugh at myself.
I’d spent the day complaining about everybody who had gotten on my nerves, only to end the evening throwing my hands toward heaven.


“Lord, forgive me for my stresspasses, as I forgive those who stress-pass against me.” 

(Nope you won’t find that in the King James version. Just in  the book of Chelle’s Confessions .)


Because sometimes the people don’t change. The circumstances don’t change. The storm doesn’t even change. We change altitude.


Tonight, I watched a pilot find the patch of blue. And God reminded me to do the same.


Father, forgive me for the moments when I become so focused on what’s happening around me that I forget to look toward You. When frustration gets loud, help me go higher. When circumstances feel dangerously close, give me wisdom to navigate them. When I can’t change the storm, change my perspective. And when I find myself counting everybody else’s stresspasses, remind me of how much grace You have extended to me.

Help me find the patch of blue.

Amen.
Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com