Sometimes the sky becomes the only place left to prove you belong.
Bessie Coleman grew up in Texas at a time when both race and gender limited opportunity. When she dreamed of becoming a pilot, every flight school in the United States refused to teach her.
She was Black. She was a woman.
So Bessie Coleman did something extraordinary.
She learned French and traveled to France, where she earned her pilot’s license in 1921, becoming the first African American and Native American woman in the world to hold an international pilot’s license.
When she returned to the United States, crowds came to watch her fly. Coleman became a famous stunt pilot, performing breathtaking aerial tricks that left audiences amazed.
But she used her platform for something deeper.
She refused to perform at air shows that did not allow Black audiences to attend. To her, flight was not just entertainment.
It was dignity.
There is a verse in Isaiah that says, “They will soar on wings like eagles.”
Bessie Coleman lived that promise with courage and determination.
Sometimes the first person to break a barrier must build the runway herself.
Breadcrumb The world may close doors in front of you.
Bessie Coleman did not accept the doors that were closed.
She crossed an ocean instead.
Sometimes God places a dream in your heart that cannot grow where you started.
And sometimes the path forward begins with the courage to leave the ground.
Steps From Our Sisters Honoring the Women Who Marched Before Us
(c.1530 – 1603) Sometimes history remembers kings. But occasionally the sea belongs to a queen. Grace O’Malley, known in Ireland as Gráinne Mhaol, was born into a powerful maritime clan along Ireland’s western coast. From a young age she refused the expectations placed upon women of her time. She learned the sea instead. Grace commanded ships, led sailors, and controlled trade routes along the rugged Irish coastline. Her fleets became legendary, and her name was spoken with both admiration and caution. When English forces threatened her family and territory, Grace O’Malley did something almost unheard of. She sailed to England and met Queen Elizabeth I face to face. The two women spoke as equals, negotiating the freedom of O’Malley’s son and the restoration of her lands. There is a verse in Psalm 93 that says, “The Lord reigns… the seas have lifted up their voice.” Grace O’Malley’s life seemed to echo that image—strong, fearless, and unafraid of powerful waters. Sometimes courage does not wait for permission. Sometimes it sets sail. Strength often begins with refusing the limits others place on you. Grace O’Malley was expected to live quietly. Instead she commanded ships and negotiated with queens. Her story reminds us that leadership can emerge from the most unexpected places. Sometimes the waves that try to block your path are the very waters meant to carry you forward. Steps From Our Sisters Honoring the Women Who Marched Before Us
In 1940, Hattie McDaniel became the first African American to win an Academy Award. She won Best Supporting Actress for her role as Mammy in Gone with the Wind (1939). She was also the first African American ever nominated for an Oscar. History shifted that night.
And yet, at the ceremony held at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, she was required to sit at a small segregated table against the wall, apart from her white castmates. Victory. With boundaries.
When the film premiered in Atlanta in 1939, Georgia’s Jim Crow laws barred Black cast members from attending. It is widely reported that her co-star Clark Gable objected strongly and threatened not to appear in protest. Accounts say Hattie encouraged him to attend, understanding the political climate and the fragile footing of her position in Hollywood. Public outrage from powerful allies could make headlines. But she would still have to live and work inside the system afterward. Strategy is not surrender.
MORE THAN MAMMY Hattie McDaniel was born in Kansas to parents who had been enslaved.
She was among the first Black women to sing on American radio in the 1920s, a successful blues performer before Hollywood and recorded 16 blues sides between 1926 and 1929. She appeared in over 300 films, though many roles went uncredited. Her best known other major films are Alice Adams, In This Our Life, Since You Went Away, and Song of the South.
She became one of the highest-paid Black entertainers of her era and later starred in the radio show Beulah, becoming one of the first Black women to headline a nationally broadcast radio program.
In 1952, she became one of the first Black women to star in a television series when Beulah moved to television.
She holds two stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame — one for motion pictures and one for radio.
All of this was before Rosa Parks. Before Martin Luther King Jr. became a national figure. Before the Civil Rights Act.
Jim Crow was law. Black actors were largely confined to domestic or servile roles. Many within the Black community criticized those portrayals for reinforcing stereotypes.
Hattie’s response was pragmatic and pointed: “I’d rather play a maid than be one.”
Being first does not mean being free. McDaniel died of breast cancer on October 26, 1952, at age 59 in Woodland Hills, California. Her final wish to be buried in the Hollywood Cemetery was denied due to its segregation policy at the time. Decades later, a memorial plaque was placed in her honor.
In 2006, she was honored with a US postage stamp, and in 2010, she was inducted into the Colorado Women’s Hall of Fame.
In 2006, the Academy replaced her long-missing Oscar, confiscated by IRS debt, with a replica, formally acknowledging her historic win. The original was to have been displayed at Howard University but went missing in the 1970s
Notably, no other Black woman would win an Oscar for 50 years after Hattie. Not until Whoopie Goldberg won for Best Supporting Actress in Ghost.
Galatians 6:9
“Let us not grow weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.”
CARRY THIS WITH YOU Sometimes the door that opens to you is imperfect. Sometimes the room is segregated. Sometimes you are allowed in — but only to the edge.
Hattie McDaniel walked in anyway. Not because the system was fair. But because excellence inside limitation still moves history forward.
BREADCRUMB What opportunity are you resisting because the conditions are not ideal? Being the first often means carrying contradictions so others can inherit clarity.
SALUTE We see you, Hattie McDaniel — for becoming the first when the room was not ready, and for claiming victory in a nation that tried to seat you in the shadows.
Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us. Victorious without reward. Still here.
George Henry White (1852–1918) was the final African American to serve in the United States Congress at the close of Reconstruction. When he left office in 1901, Black representation in Congress disappeared for nearly three decades.
Born in Bladen County, North Carolina, to a free father and a mother who had been enslaved, White came of age in the uncertain promise of Reconstruction. He attended Freedmen’s schools, graduated from Howard University in 1877, became a teacher, then a lawyer, and entered public service during a narrow window when Black political participation was still possible in the South.
Elected to the U.S. House of Representatives in 1896 and reelected in 1898, he served as the only Black member of Congress during his tenure.
While in office, he:
• Introduced the first federal anti-lynching bill in 1900 • Spoke against voter suppression and racial violence • Defended equal protection under the law • Warned that disenfranchisement would wound the nation itself
As Jim Crow laws tightened and Black voters were systematically removed from the ballot, White chose not to seek reelection in a system engineered to silence his people.
On January 29, 1901, he delivered his farewell address. In it he declared:
“This… is perhaps the Negroes’ temporary farewell to the American Congress; but… Phoenix-like he will rise up some day and come again.”
It was not wishful thinking. It was vision.
Twenty-eight years later, Oscar Stanton De Priest returned Black representation to Congress in 1929. Since that return, more than 160 African Americans have served in the United States Congress.
White’s prophecy stretched further still. The groundwork laid by those who endured Reconstruction and its collapse helped clear the path for Thurgood Marshall on the Supreme Court, Barack Obama in the White House, and Ketanji Brown Jackson becoming the first Black woman Justice of the United States Supreme Court.
He did not see those milestones.
But he named the future in a moment designed to erase it.
After Congress, White practiced law, helped establish the Black town of Whitesboro, New Jersey, and founded a Black-owned bank in Philadelphia.
He was the last of an era. And the prophet of the next one.
Scripture
“Write the vision and make it plain upon tables, that he may run that readeth it. For the vision is yet for an appointed time… though it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come.” — Habakkuk 2:2–3
BREADCRUMB
Sometimes the assignment is not to hold the seat, but to hold the prophecy.
SALUTE
We see you, George Henry White — for legislating in hostile air, for introducing justice when it would not pass, for declaring return when disappearance looked certain.
You stood at the edge of erasure and named the future anyway.
Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us. Victorious without reward. Still here.
Somewhere along the way, many of us learned a quiet lie — not from God, but from human interpretation.
We learned it from what was modeled, praised, or rewarded. From homes, churches, systems, and relationships that mistook endurance for faithfulness and exhaustion for virtue.
Most people were doing the best they could with what they knew — but they were still human. And without realizing it, we carried those lessons into our understanding of God.
I know this because I have done it myself.
I confused being loved with doing to be loved. I mixed up belief with performance. And I carried that misunderstanding into my faith and called it obedience.
But that is not God’s heart.
God does not delight in depletion. He delights in wholeness.
Jesus did not invite people to follow Him so they could replace Him. He did not ask them to become saviors, fixers, or endless wells. He asked them to come — as they were — and to unlearn what fear had taught them about love.
Scripture never praises burnout. It praises obedience rooted in love, not fear. It honors service that flows from being seen — not from trying to be noticed.
When Jesus said, “Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest,” He was not offering a reward for those who gave the most. He was correcting what people had been taught about God.
If your kindness comes from feeling unseen, if your faith feels like constant output, if your love has slowly turned into self-erasure — that may be something you learned, but it is not something God requires.
God does not need you emptied to be faithful. He desires you rooted, restored, and whole.
Being needed is not the same as being loved. And God’s love has never required you to disappear.
God, help me separate Your voice from the voices that shaped me. Heal what I learned in survival mode. Teach me Your heart — not a human version of it.
So here’s something I learned this week: winter storms have names. I was today-years-old when I found out they name winter storms the same way they name summer hurricanes. And wouldn’t you know it—the one that iced me into my house and blocked me from my greenhouse was named Fern. Fern. A plant name. A green thing. A symbol of life. Make it make sense. Winter Storm Fern didn’t just bring cold—she brought audacity. It was so cold one day that my front door wouldn’t even open. Not stuck—sealed. As if the house itself said, “Nope. You live here now.” When the door finally did open the next day, I stepped outside and immediately thought, “Oh. I was happier not knowing.” That kind of cold doesn’t invite you out. It humbles you back inside. Now here we are again. More snow coming Saturday—and again on Wednesday. But this time, they’re calling for powder, not ice. And apparently, there’s a difference. Ice traps you. Powder covers you. Ice shuts doors. Powder rests gently on what’s still alive underneath. Some seasons don’t stop growth—they insulate it. Under the white blanket, the soil is still breathing. Roots haven’t resigned. Seeds aren’t panicking. They know winter may come labeled and official, but it never gets the final word. “Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines… yet I will rejoice in the Lord.” — Habakkuk 3:17–18 Faith isn’t pretending winter isn’t winter. It’s recognizing the difference between what freezes you and what simply passes through. Winter Storm Fern may have sealed my door for a day. She may have iced the path to the greenhouse. But she didn’t cancel the harvest. Dead and dormant are not the same. Covered and defeated are not synonyms. Spring is not offended by powder. And I’ve learned not to argue with doors God temporarily keeps shut.
Sometimes I miss the house in the middle of the corn fields with no indoor plumbing. The pot-belly stove that decided when we were warm enough. The way night fell heavy and close, and everyone settled where they could—sharing rooms, beds, blankets, breath.
I say my room, but that’s a loose word. Privacy was a luxury we didn’t own. Still, there was one place that felt like mine: the narrow view through the keyhole.
Almost every night, after the fires were dampened and the house full of children finally stilled, I would watch my grandmother at her writing table. Her hands folded. Her Bible open. A pen moving slowly, deliberately.
Women of the Bible were her favorite. Deborah. Ruth. Esther. Mary. Women who listened closely and lived bravely.
She wrote sermons—real ones. Thoughtful. Scripturally sound. Insightful in ways people did not expect from a woman in those days. Especially a woman who cleaned other people’s houses for a living.
But it was her prayer ritual that marked me.
She prayed in whispers—not because God was quiet, but because love was. She didn’t want to wake a house full of children. Except, apparently, the little girl at the keyhole.
I couldn’t hear the words. But I could see her face.
Sometimes she smiled. Sometimes she laughed—like she and God shared a private joke. Sometimes she cried. The kind of crying that doesn’t fall apart, just falls down.
And as I watched—hidden, still, unnoticed—I was learning. Learning how faith looks when no one is applauding. Learning that prayer does not need volume to have weight. Learning that God listens closely to whispers.
When she finished praying, she always reached for the same thing.
A small plastic bread loaf. One of those coin banks from organizations that fed “poor kids in Africa.”
She would slip a coin inside. Sometimes a dollar. Hard-earned. Scrubbed-for. Long-hours-standing money.
Money from a woman the world might have called poor— but who never believed she was exempt from generosity.
I didn’t understand it then. But I do now.
That table was a pulpit. That whispering was power. That plastic loaf was faith that refused to shrink. And that keyhole? It was my first seminary.
And that little girl at the keyhole? She’s still watching. Still learning how to pray without performing. Still believing a few faithful offerings can touch a wide world.
“She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.” — Proverbs 31:26 “Your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.” — Matthew 6:6
Some of the strongest sermons are whispered after bedtime, preached without microphones, and learned by children watching through keyholes.
On days like these, my mother would stand on the porch and ask for a Bermuda High to come down and turn the snow and ice away.
In the thick, sticky heat of summer, she’d pray for a Canadian Low to sweep through and cool the air.
She didn’t call it meteorology. She called it faith. And more often than not, the weather shifted.
When I got older, some of my friends picked up the same habit. We didn’t have robes or titles—just house shoes, coffee cups, and enough sense to know the porch was close enough to heaven for our prayers to travel. We called ourselves the Porch-Praying Sisters.
We prayed about the weather, yes—but also about children, marriages, money, bodies that wouldn’t cooperate, and news reports that made our stomachs knot. We spoke our requests into the open air like God might just be passing by and decide to stop and listen.
Today, we’re in the middle of a Virginia ice storm. Freezing temperatures. Sleet tapping the windows. The quiet, low-grade anxiety of Will we lose power? humming beneath everything else.
And maybe that’s what storms still do best. They set the altar.
They slow us down, pull us inward, strip away noise and options until all that’s left is warmth, breath, and the remembering that we are not in control—but we are not alone either.
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you… when you walk through the fire, you will not be burned.” (Isaiah 43:2)
Over the years, we drifted. Life scattered us. Jobs, moves, losses, disagreements, silence. That happens. But in this current environment— with ice on the ground, tension in the air, and uncertainty pressing in— I find myself praying again. Not polished prayers. Porch prayers.
The kind that believe faith doesn’t have to be loud to be effective. The kind that remember Jesus said even “faith as small as a mustard seed” can speak to what feels immovable and tell it to move. (Matthew 17:20)
Maybe the weather won’t always change. Maybe the power will flicker. Maybe the storm will linger longer than we’d like. But when a storm sets the altar, something always moves. And sometimes… that something is us.
My favorite weather man is forecasting the first official Snowmaggedon of the season: six to twelve inches of snow, up to an inch of ice layered on top, and—because chaos loves company—the delightful possibility of losing power. Naturally planned for a post-work weekend, because rest is apparently negotiable. I’ve done my preps. Grandma’s provision list? Checked. Every extra blanket in the house washed, folded, and staged like we’re auditioning for Little House on the Prairie: Dominion Energy Edition. Candles. Tea lights. Batteries. Flashlights. The full “we will survive this living room” starter kit. I’ve been digging through storage bins to find the reflective cover for my greenhouse, determined to protect my plant babies outside. Because if the lights flicker and the world goes quiet, somebody still needs to be covered. We will endure together—warm-ish, faithful, and protected. This isn’t panic prepping. This is inheritance. This is what happens when you’re raised by women who trusted God and kept extra blankets. Women who understood that peace doesn’t come from pretending storms don’t happen—it comes from knowing you’re sheltered when they do. “He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge.” — Psalm 91:4 That verse feels different when you’re pulling covers over tender things. When you’re choosing care over chaos. When you’re preparing not out of fear, but out of love. And when the work is done—when the candles are set and the covers are pulled tight—there’s permission to rest. “In peace I will lie down and sleep, for You alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.” — Psalm 4:8 Now, the only thing I’m not prepared for is being snowed in with young people who have never experienced boredom—or a power outage—as a character-building event. Back in my day we stared at walls and survived… But even then… provision has already been made. And that, right there, is peace—with a little sass and a lot of covering. Love, Chelle
Pink polka‑dotted elephants. That’s what I call the thoughts that show up uninvited — loud, ridiculous, and determined to distract you from what is right, true, and good. Scripture tells us to think on things that are lovely. Pure. Worthy. Aligned with God’s Word. It reminds us that God has a plan for our good and our welfare — not our harm. But tonight, after my usual bedtime routine of potions, pills, injections, and all the other expensive stuff designed to keep me breathing… along came that stupid elephant in the room. No — I wasn’t high off anything. 😂 That elephant showed up because someone had casually asked earlier, “Are you afraid of dying young?” I didn’t answer them. Apparently, however, some inquiring devils wanted a response. I tried. I really did. I quoted scripture after scripture in my head: “Jesus bore my sickness and carried my diseases. By His stripes I am healed. I shall live and not die and declare the works of the Lord.” But the little imp was determined. Sleep was cancelled. So I finally answered — not the human who asked, but the thought itself. No. I am not afraid of dying young. What I am afraid of… are people who will watch me grow old, yet insist I live like I’m dying. They mean well. I know that. But do they really need to remind me how bad I look every time they see me? Yes, I know what the doctors said. But I also know what Jesus died for. My symptoms are just that — symptoms. Not verdicts. Not identity. Not destiny. They are lying vanities compared to what I already know to be true. Whether healing manifests in a way that satisfies you is not my responsibility — or God’s. Could you please just rejoice in the hope and testimony I am aiming for? And no — I am not putting down my microphone. I’m pretty sure my head won’t explode while hitting a high note. And yes, I laugh because it’s funny you don’t know me well enough to realize I have zero intention of laying myself away and quietly accepting anything. So listen up, pink polka‑dotted elephants in the room — beware. The Overcomer has arrived. You may not always be able to ignore the silly thoughts the enemy sends. But remember this: he already knows he has lost. (Big dummy.) All he can do now is try to trick you into focusing on lies and nonsense. The only way he wins is if you let your imagination run in his direction. So address those contradicting thoughts with what you know to be true about God’s Word. Think thoughts of healing. Prosperity. Love. Dreams. And the good things God desires for you — a life more abundant. And as for the elephants? Enough already. Back to hell’s zoo they go. For good this time.
Seven years later, I can read these words with tears and gratitude. I am a breast cancer survivor. The elephants didn’t win. Fear didn’t get the final word. And God proved — again — that truth, when held onto long enough, becomes testimony. Completion with scars turned sacred.
Love, Chelle
Catalog Note: This post is archived for future inclusion in the book project Whistle While He Works. Originally written years earlier and revisited at the seven‑year survivor mark.
defygravitywithoutwings.com 