Tag: cancer

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Somewhere Between The Car And The Kitchen

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Disappointment doesn’t usually knock loudly.
It just keeps adding weight.


Brick by brick, we pack the backpack:
• unmet expectations
• things we thought God would do by now
• roles we keep carrying because “someone has to”
• stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what’s possible

And if I’m honest, this is the same part of me that tries to carry all the groceries in one trip.
Because clearly, asking for help would be admitting weakness…
and making two trips would be a personal failure.


So there I am — keys dangling, bags cutting off circulation, dignity questionable — determined to prove I’ve got this.
I call it independence. Heaven calls it unnecessary.


And somewhere between the car and the kitchen, I’m reminded that even Jesus sent the disciples out two by two.


Inevitably, something falls.
Or worse… something gets left in the trunk.And a couple of days later, there’s a smell. A mysterious, soul-searching smell that forces a reckoning.


Nothing humbles you faster than realizing the real burden wasn’t the bags —
it was the banana you refused to admit you dropped.


That’s how unexamined burdens work too.
What we refuse to set down eventually announces itself.
Some of the limits we feel aren’t placed by God — they’re placed by our own expectations of how we think  He should move.


We overpack faith with control.
We leave no room for surprise.
No room for grace.
No room for God to have His way — because the backpack is already full.


Jesus never asked us to be strong and burdened.
He asked us to come — and let Him carry what we were never meant to hold.


“Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you.” — Psalm 55:22


Maybe today isn’t about pushing harder.
Maybe it’s about making two trips.
Or — heaven forbid — asking for help.


Drop the bricks.
Check the trunk.
Walk  lighter.

Love, Chelle

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A Meeting Place

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This may not sound like me.


I’m usually the one who finds the humor, the metaphor, the small spark of light tucked inside the ordinary. I believe in joy — deeply. I still do.

But today, joy feels quieter, and sorrow feels closer to the surface .
The world feels fractured.
Nation against nation.
Neighbor against neighbor.
Families strained.
Friendships reduced to likes, views, and fleeting affirmations.


And somewhere in the middle of all this noise, what seems to be slipping away is our sense of community — the kind where people are known, not curated. Where connection doesn’t require a platform or performance.


Yesterday, as I mourned world events ,  all of this along with a side of opinions still wrapped with faith, I was told I was hiding behind God and the Bible.


That stayed with me.


Not because it shook my faith, but because it revealed something deeper about the times we’re living in — a world so uncomfortable with lament that even sacred language is suspect when it refuses to harden into arguments or slogans.


But my faith has never been a hiding place.
It has always been a meeting place — where grief and hope are allowed to sit together without rushing one another out of the room.


Today, I find myself weeping.
Not because faith has failed, but because love is still very much alive.
“Jesus wept.” — John 11:35
He stood in the presence of grief and loss and did not rush to fix it, explain it, or weaponize it. He allowed tears to speak where words fell short. If tears were worthy of Him, they are not beneath us.
Scripture doesn’t ask us to bypass sorrow — it calls us to enter it together.
“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” — Romans 12:15


This isn’t a departure from who I am.
It’s a refusal to pretend.
I still believe in hope. I still believe in resurrection. I still believe God has not lost the plot. But I also believe sorrow has a place in the story — not as an ending, but as an honest chapter.


So today, I show up softer. Quieter. More tender. Trusting that God can hold my tears just as faithfully as He holds my hope.


And believing that even here — especially here — grace is present.
Love Chelle

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Eviction Notices ( Without the Panic)

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As I pack up the end of one year to experience the wonders of the next, I was reminded of how many times I was evicted. Not in the natural sense but by God.


I’ve learned that God’s eviction notices don’t come with flashing lights or raised voices.
They don’t sound like “You’re fired.”
They don’t arrive with chaos or fear.
They feel like stability that no longer fits.


I call it an eviction notice when God begins to unsecure me in a place He never intended to be my final address. Provision is present. The lights are on. The ground is steady. And yet—peace quietly taps me on the shoulder and whispers, “This isn’t home.”


For people like me—faithful to a fault, a true “Stable Mabel”—dependable, steady, the one who shows up no matter what—God doesn’t shove.
He anchors.
He makes sure the floor doesn’t drop out.
He removes the threat of free-fall.
He rearranges just enough, so survival is no longer the distraction.
And that’s when it gets confusing.
Because when panic leaves, clarity arrives.
And clarity is harder to ignore.
An eviction notice from God doesn’t say leave now.
It gently says, don’t give this place your last.
It shows up as: – security without satisfaction
– provision without peace
– competence without calling
It feels like gratitude… mixed with restlessness.
I used to think eviction meant loss.
But I’m learning it often means permission.
Permission to stop confusing loyalty with assignment.
Permission to admit that faithfulness has a future—and it doesn’t always look like staying.


Scripture gives me a different picture of how God moves His children:
“Like an eagle that stirs up its nest
and hovers over its young,
that spreads its wings to catch them
and carries them aloft…”
(Deuteronomy 32:11)


When I think of God’s eviction notices now, I don’t picture being thrown out.
I picture a nest that has grown too comfortable—warm feathers, familiar edges.
God stirs the nest not to harm, but to wake.
There is a push, yes—but there is also hovering.
There is a letting go, but never abandonment.
Before the feathers can be too ruffled,
before fear turns into free fall,
the same wings that nudged are the wings that catch.
That’s what this season feels like.
Not panic.
Not loss.
But the unsettling grace of being lifted by a God who refuses to let me stay small—and refuses to let me crash while I learn.
Here is the grounding truth I’m holding close:
God is not asking me to burn down my life.
He is inviting me to build the next one alongside it—until it’s strong enough to stand.
No rushing.
No scorched earth.
No fear-driven decisions.
Just a quiet understanding that a holding pen is not a home—and that noticing the gate is unlocked is already movement.
If this is an eviction notice, it isn’t cruel.
It’s merciful.
Because God doesn’t evict His children into the cold.
He prepares the next place before He asks us to pack.
And peace—real peace—always goes with us.
— Love. Chelle

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Deleting The Receipts

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

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

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

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

And for a while, that was okay.

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

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

I deleted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

Love, Chelle

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Faith With A Yawn

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(Or: When Christmas Finally Got Me)


I did something yesterday that I almost never do.
I fell asleep at the table.

Not the polite, chin-in-hand, “I’m listening” kind of sleepy.
The real kind. The head-dip. The eyelids surrendering mid-conversation.
The kind that scared me just enough to notice.

Christmas finally got me.

I had planned for rest. I needed rest.
But life — and love — had other things lined up.

A quick visit to the nursing home turned into three hours because they were short-staffed. Again.
I stayed — because love doesn’t clock out when it’s inconvenient.

Somewhere in between, there was also chasing down folks to drop off gifts.
“Let me just swing by real quick.”
“One more stop.”
One more smile. One more bag. One more moment of making sure nobody felt forgotten.

By the time I made it home, I barely had enough energy to pivot to the next thing — visiting my mother-in-love.

Bless her — she cooked.
I ate.
And somewhere between gratitude and exhaustion, my body simply said, “That’s enough now.”

I nodded off at the table.

I laughed about it later, because it was funny.
But it also scared me — because I don’t do that.
I’m usually the one pushing through, powering up, showing up.

What I realized later is this:
That moment wasn’t weakness.
It was honesty.

My body told the truth before my mouth ever would.

We talk a lot about rest, but rarely about what happens when we don’t get it — when we keep pouring, keep visiting, keep delivering, keep caring, and assume adrenaline and responsibility will carry us through.

Sometimes they do.
Sometimes… they don’t.

And God doesn’t shame us for that.

“It is useless for you to work so hard from early morning until late at night, anxiously working for food to eat; for God gives rest to His loved ones.” — Psalm 127:2

That verse doesn’t scold.
It exhales.

Maybe falling asleep at the table wasn’t failure.
Maybe it was permission.

Permission to admit that Christmas — the beauty, the chaos, the caregiving, the gift-chasing, the expectations — costs something.
Permission to stop pretending we’re machines.
Permission to rest without first earning it.

Today, I’m still tired.
Still booting up.
Still faithful — just slower.

And that’s okay.

If you’ve nodded off emotionally, spiritually, or physically this season — you’re not broken.
You’re human.

Pull up a chair.
Take a breath.
God is not offended by your yawn.


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Ministry In The Margins

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When the year ends and life still feels unfinished

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

Safe in His arms to Be Carried Into A New Year

Love, Chelle

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When Life Blows Your Cover

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The wind didn’t check my schedule.
It didn’t ask permission.
It didn’t care that I had already done enough for one week, much less one day.


It just came—
hard, sudden, unapologetic—
and ripped the cover right off my greenhouse.


Which, for a brief and dramatic moment, sent me spiraling into full bad plant mommy theology.
I immediately calculated the money I’ve spent on soil, seeds, trays, covers, optimism, and audacity.
I pictured myself explaining—again—how I tried one more time to grow food like a capable adult.
And somewhere in that panic, I accepted my future fate:
All this effort.
All this chaos.
And next spring… one carrot.
Crooked.
Probably bitter.
Judging me.


That’s when my heart did that drop it does when something precious feels exposed.
My babies.
Tender things.
Things still growing.


That’s the panic, really.
Not the storm itself—
but the fear of exposure.


But then grace slipped in quietly.
My son found the cover.
He put it back on.
And it was secured before the temperature dropped.
That timing matters.


Because sometimes life doesn’t destroy what we love—
it just startles us long enough to remind us how vulnerable we are.


The wind will come.
Covers will lift.
Plans will flap wildly in directions we didn’t approve.


But here’s what this moment taught me:
The roots were already stronger than I realized.
Protection returned before the damage reached what mattered most.
God doesn’t always stop the wind.
Sometimes He just makes sure the cold doesn’t get to the roots.


And when I go out later today to check on my babies,
I already know this truth will meet me there:
They survived not because conditions were perfect—
but because grace showed up in time.
So if life feels a little exposed right now…
If the wind rattled what you thought was secure…
Take heart.
The cover can be restored.


Help may already be on the way.
And what God planted in you was made to survive more than you think.
“The wind blew my cover, but it didn’t get my roots.”
“The Lord will keep you from all harm—
He will watch over your life.”
— Psalms 121:7
Sometimes grace doesn’t look like calm skies—
it looks like protection returning just in time.


Love,  Chelle

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The Muddy Jesus

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“The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us.” — John 1:14 (NIV)

There are few places where patience is tested more than a medical waiting room.
The chairs are uncomfortable. The clock is loud. And the results take exactly as long as they need to — never as long as I want.

Waiting is not my spiritual gift.
I am a doer. A fixer. A let’s-handle-this-now kind of woman.
So when all I can do is sit and wait for medical results, my faith feels exposed.

That’s where I picture Jesus.

Not standing with answers.
Not hovering with a clipboard.
But sitting beside me — mud on His hands, calm in His posture, completely unbothered by the clock.

I remember the story where He knelt in the dirt, mixed mud with His own saliva, and used it to heal a blind man.
Healing didn’t come through cleanliness or speed —
it came through touch, obedience, and trust in the process.

John tells us the Word became flesh.
Jesus didn’t float above uncertainty — He stepped into it.
He understood human time. Delays. Pauses. Moments when answers didn’t come right away.

The mud on His hands reminds me He’s been working long before I ever sat down in this chair.
Even when I can’t see it.
Especially when I can’t rush it.

And yes… I’d still prefer a fast answer.
But there is something holy happening in the waiting — even if I grumble a little while it happens.

Reflecting Mud

If patience were a muscle, mine would need physical therapy.

But maybe reflecting Jesus isn’t about mastering patience.
Maybe it’s about staying present long enough for healing to unfold.

We reflect the muddy Jesus when we:
• sit with someone waiting for test results instead of filling the silence
• admit we’re anxious without pretending we’re fine
• trust that God can use imperfect moments for holy work

Sometimes faith isn’t tidy.
Sometimes it looks like dirt and delay and trust.

The same hands that once held mud for healing
are still at work today.


Jesus,
You healed with mud and patience and presence.
Sit with me while I wait for answers I can not control.
Help me trust the work of Your hands —
even when they are muddy
and mine are empty.
Teach me to stay.
Amen.

Love Chelle

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The Bottom Half Is Resting In Grace

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Finding God in unfinished rooms, half-lit trees, and early-morning grace

I told myself I wasn’t writing today.
But grace has a way of interrupting plans.

For three mornings in a row, I noticed the time: 5:55 a.m.
Not because I was looking for it.
Not because I set an alarm.
I just happened to glance up — again and again — and there it was.

Triple grace.

It found me in a cluttered living room that still smelled wrong.
In a Christmas tree where the lights didn’t reach the bottom.
In a body asking for gentler care that I had time  to give it.

Nothing about the moment was polished.
Nothing was finished.
And yet, grace showed up anyway.

Grace for what I couldn’t fix.
Grace for what was still uneven.
Grace for the parts of my life that are bright in places and dim in others.

So I will add extra  ornaments where the light falls  short and call it enough.
Because sometimes the bottom half isn’t broken —
it’s just resting in grace.

And maybe that’s what grace does best.
It doesn’t announce itself.
It waits to be noticed.

“Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence,
so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.”
— Hebrews 4:16

So I took my own advice.
I rested my bottom half in the grace of a recliner, wrapped my hands around a cup of fragrant peppermint tea, and closed my eyes long enough to ignore the uneven lights.
I didn’t fix anything else.
I didn’t prove anything.
I just rested.

Sometimes grace doesn’t ask us to finish the job.
Sometimes it invites us to sit down in the middle of it.

Love Chelle

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Dear God- Keep  Digging

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Luke 13:6–9 (NIV)
Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree growing in his vineyard, and he went to look for fruit on it but did not find any.
So he said to the man who took care of the vineyard, ‘For three years now I’ve been coming to look for fruit on this fig tree and haven’t found any. Cut it down! Why should it use up the soil?’
“‘Sir,’ the man replied, ‘leave it alone for one more year, and I’ll dig around it and fertilize it.
If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down.’”
Reflection
Some days, I feel exactly like that fig tree—standing in the middle of life, trying my best, but still wondering if I’m producing anything at all. Not the perfect, fruitful tree everyone expects… just the one hoping nobody notices how bare the branches feel.

And honestly? There are moments I feel inadequate in almost every role I hold:
– As a wife, loving deeply but sometimes running on fumes
– As a mother, praying between grown-child crises, hoping I’m guiding well
– As an employee, juggling tasks with a superhero cape that keeps slipping
– As a minister, pouring out even when my cup feels half-empty
– As a singer, trying to bless God while my voice sometimes protests
– As a writer, full of stories but occasionally stuck between heart and keyboard

And in the middle of all that, I slip into development mode: fix myself, improve myself, upgrade myself—as if I’m a project on a deadline.

But Jesus tells a different story.

In the parable, the owner looks at the tree and says, “Cut it down.” But the Gardener—who knows how roots really work—steps between judgment and mercy and says:
“Give her time. Give her grace. Let Me work with her.”

He doesn’t ask the tree to try harder. He doesn’t shame it. Instead He says:
“Let Me dig around her.”
“Let Me nourish her.”
“Let Me tend to the parts nobody sees.”

While I’m busy trying to perfect myself, Jesus reminds me:
“Growth is My job. Staying connected is yours.”

He is not rushing me. He is not disappointed in me. He is not walking away from me.

He is kneeling in the soil of my life saying:
“Give her another year. I know what she needs. Let Me grow her in My timing.”

And that truth sets my soul at rest.
Prayer
Dear Lord,
Thank You for being the Gardener who refuses to give up on me. Forgive me for the times I rush myself, judge myself, or declare myself fruitless. Teach me to rest in You, to stay rooted in You, and to trust Your timing over my own. Dig around me, nourish me, and grow me in the way only You can. And when I feel inadequate, remind me that Your grace is still at work beneath the surface.

With love,
Chelle