Tag: celebration

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Third Cup of Coffee, First Lesson Of Grace

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I didn’t wake up asking for a lesson.
I woke up asking a question.

When, Lord?
When will things be different?
When will healing finally arrive?

A year has passed since surgery.
By my own calendar, I decided I should be past this.
Past the restrictions.
Past the tenderness.
Past the reminders that my body has its own pace.

But today, my belly disagrees with my timeline.

If I’m being honest, it may also disagree with my choices.
Perhaps the third cup of coffee was ambitious.
Perhaps chocolate and I — though still emotionally attached — are currently not on speaking terms.
And perhaps I should have remembered the boatload of readily available internet wisdom that calmly, repeatedly explains the very misery I have managed to create for myself.

Still, I find myself asking God the same question Scripture has echoed for generations.

“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?” (Psalm 13)

That cry reminds me that impatience is not a lack of faith.
It is often proof that we believe God hears us well enough to answer.

What if healing is not only about what is removed,
but about what is relearned?

Without a gallbladder, my body asks for gentleness.
Without certainty, my heart does the same.

Maybe the invitation today is not to rush healing,
but to remember that restrictions are not punishment —
they are protection still at work.

And maybe God isn’t offended by my when.
Maybe He meets it with mercy.

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning.” (Lamentations 3:22–23)

That promise doesn’t say mercy arrives when I finally get it right —
only that it shows up faithfully, even when I don’t.

So today, I loosen my self-imposed deadlines.
I stop arguing with my body.
I release the belief that progress must look linear to be real.

I may not control the timeline,
but I can choose attentiveness over impatience.

And instead of asking, When will this be over?
I ask a better question:

Lord, how do You want to meet me here?

Because even here —
especially here —
He is present.

Love, Chelle

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Practice the Presence That Protects the Promise

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A reflection of Psalm 91

There are days when the world feels too loud for jokes.


The headlines carry war, division, fear, and the slow erosion of freedoms we once assumed were permanent. The ground feels less steady. The future feels less certain.

And the little clown in me—the one who usually believes laughter can soften almost anything—finds herself mourning.


Not because hope is gone.
But because peace matters too much to pretend this doesn’t hurt.


Psalm 91 doesn’t ask us to deny danger. It invites us to dwell.
“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” (Psalm 91:1)


Protection, here, is not earned.
It is not performed.
It is not proven by volume, certainty, or strength.
It is positional.
To dwell is to stay.
To remain.
To practice presence when the world feels unrecognizable.


This is protection without performance.
Not faith that shouts.
Not hope that rushes to fix.
Not peace that pretends everything is fine.
Just presence—steady, near, covering.


The promise of Psalm 91 is not that trouble will disappear, but that God does not. The shadow does not move. The refuge does not close. The shelter does not require us to be unafraid—only willing to come close.


So today, the clown in me removes her red shoes.
She sits on holy ground—
trusting the same God who once said, “Stay.”
Trusting that what marks the door also guards the dwelling.
She mourns for peace honestly.
And still—quietly—she dwells in hope.


Today’s practice is simple:
not fixing, not proving, not performing—
just dwelling in His Presence.

—-
God of refuge and nearness,
When the world feels unstable and peace feels fragile, help me to dwell rather than strive. Teach me to trust Your presence more than my ability to understand what is happening around me.
Let Your covering be enough today.
Amen.


With Love And A Multitude Of Prayers,
Chelle

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Before Coffee,  Before Control

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This wasn’t a quiet, reflective night moment.
This was a stressed 3 a.m. morning, when sleep clocks out early and your brain clocks in loud — with opinions.

I wasn’t trying to hear from God.
I was trying to finish a work  email before coffee, which already tells you I was operating without full emotional supervision.

I kept shortening it.
Not because I didn’t know what I wanted to say — but because I know my boss. I know there may still be a meeting. I know she’ll ultimately direct and take charge. So I trimmed. Simplified. Took out the pre-explaining and the imaginary rebuttals. I said what needed to be said and stopped trying to manage the outcome.

And somewhere between rereading sentences and realizing I was too tired to argue with myself, it landed:

This is exactly how we treat God.

We make plans — good ones — and then we hover.
We explain too much.
We brace for redirection.
We add footnotes to obedience.

Not because we don’t trust Him —
but because we really like being on the steering committee.

Meanwhile, God has already given us the playback in His Word.

He’s already shown us how authority works.
How obedience works.
How trust works.

We do our part.
We speak honestly.
We move wisely.
And then we let go — preferably before caffeine convinces us we should take over.

“In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.” – Proverbs 16:9

Not might.
Not if He agrees.
He does.

This morning reminded me that obedience isn’t about directing God — it’s about participating with Him. Doing what’s mine to do without trying to edit the ending.

I don’t need to manage God the way I manage emails.
I don’t need to anticipate His response.
And I definitely don’t need to rewrite His plan before coffee.

Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is hit send, make the coffee, and trust God with the meeting that follows.

Prayer
Lord, help me do my part without trying to control Yours. Teach me to trust You with the outcome, even before the coffee kicks in.
Order my steps, steady my heart, and remind me that You’re already ahead of me.
Amen.

Love, Chelle

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Will & Grace

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I woke up smiling this morning.
Not because everything is fixed.
Not because the season has suddenly gotten easier.
But because I was reminded—before my feet even hit the floor—that God still speaks.


An old friend texted me a few days ago wanting to send me a birthday gift. A cash offering. She said it might be late and she wasn’t sure how much.


I immediately told her no.


Not because I didn’t need it—but because I know her story. I know her struggles.
I didn’t want her putting herself out for me.
My heart was in the right place… or so I thought.


She gently stopped me and said, “God told me to sow—and I won’t interfere with God talking to me.”


Well then.
Message received. Loud and clear.


Here’s the part I hadn’t said out loud to anyone:
With a season of   illness, deaths, job issues, a roof repair, and the bills that follow close behind, one of the quiet things I let go of was me.
Specifically—my hair.
Long twist locs reduced to a ponytail (which is no small feat), creative parting, strategic styling,
and gray hairs hollering, “Didn’t you just get old?”


I was debating whether to cancel my usual four-hour appointment this weekend—or worse, swipe a credit card while praying over the interest rate.


But look at God.


With exactly what she sent, the Old Lady Rescue will be in full effect.
No debt. No guilt. Just provision—with intention.


But the real miracle wasn’t the money.


“Not by might nor by power, but by my Spirit,” says the Lord Almighty. (Zechariah 4:6 (NIV)


It was confirmation—on both sides—that God still speaks.
And He doesn’t just speak to pastors, prophets, or people with microphones.
He speaks to friends.
To women who listen.
To hearts that say yes before they fully understand why.


I was reminded this morning that God provides for all things.
Even the things we label as “extra.”
Even Saturday-morning self-care.
Even hair.


And I was reminded of something else:
sometimes our well-meaning “no” gets in the way of someone else’s obedience.


I thought I was protecting her.
Instead, I would’ve robbed us both—
her of the joy of obedience,
and me of the grace God had already assigned.


“My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.”  John 10:27 (NIV)


There’s a line from the old sitcom Will & Grace that came rushing back to me this morning.
One character is frustrated, asking why God doesn’t talk anymore.
Another replies:
“When having conversations with God, make sure you’re not doing all the talking.”


Lesson learned.


Sometimes God’s answer sounds like a text message.
Sometimes provision looks like hair being restored before pride is.
And sometimes Grace shows up laughing—right alongside gratitude, when we submit to His Will.


Today, I’m thankful.
Not just for the gift—but for the reminder to listen…
and not interfere when God speaks.


Love, Chelle


PS.
A BIG  thank you to my Christmas music loving,  sugary named, millionaire by multiplication, friend who knows how to hear God !!!

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Grossly Underqualified. Still Expecting A Harvest

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I still don’t know what I’m doing.
The sweet potato in the jar in my window  can confirm it.

I stood it upright like a microphone instead of laying it down like a seed. Slips are forming anyway—which feels both rude and deeply grace-filled.

By every measurable standard, I am grossly underqualified for this harvest. I don’t garden with confidence — I garden with Google and apologies. I whisper encouragement to my plants like they’re on a faith journey too.

And yet… green keeps showing up.

Scripture says, “Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.”
— Zechariah 4:10

Apparently, this applies to gardeners too.

The sweet potato didn’t ask for my credentials.
It didn’t wait for me to feel confident.
It just responded to warmth, light, and the fact that I didn’t give up on it.

That feels uncomfortably familiar.

God has never waited for my expertise before growing something in my care. He responds to availability, not mastery. To people who stay put long enough for growth to decide it’s safe.

I keep expecting God to say, “You’re not ready for this yet.”
Instead, He keeps saying, “Watch.”

Watch what grows when you stop over-correcting.
Watch what happens when you don’t uproot yourself every time doubt shows up.
Watch what slips free when the season is right.

Turns out God grows things even when the gardener is winging it.

I may be underqualified.
But I’m determined.
And apparently… that’s enough for a harvest.

Love, Chelle

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Crumbs Of Grace, My 2nd New Year.

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When I think of the most important birthdays, I don’t start with cake or candles.
I start with life.


I think of the 37th birthday when  I helped deliver my grandson, Jayon — my eldest son’s first child. On that day, I didn’t just celebrate another year of my own life; I welcomed new life, new hopes, and new dreams into the world. In a way, our birthdays became twins. His arrival was proof that God was still creating, still trusting the future to fragile hands. And year after year, Jayon has never disappointed — not because he’s perfect, but because he has lived into the promise of that moment.


I think of my 50th birthday — the day I was scheduled to start chemotherapy for breast cancer. Fear tried to claim that day, but my husband gave me a birthday slumber party instead with the ladies in my crew.. Laughter showed up before dread could unpack its bags. It felt like God whispering through cupcakes and pajamas: Fight. Fight. You are not done.


On my 55th birthday, the fear shifted again. Instead of waiting anxiously for scan results, I stood on a stage wearing a crown and a “Drive 55” shirt — a playful, holy reminder to pace myself and keep going. Sometimes courage looks regal. Sometimes it looks ridiculous. Both can preach.


But my favorite birthdays are always the next one.


Whether they arrive loud and celebratory or quiet and reflective like today, they carry the same invitation. I call January 5th my second New Year — a moment to pause, look back at all that happened since last year, the good and the not-so-good. To thank God for the joys He brought us into, and for the things He delivered us out of.


“This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” — Psalm 118:24


Not the perfect day.
Not the painless day.
Just this one.


And today includes crumbs.
Crumbs from a Kentucky Butter Cake I made with more butter than I’m fairly certain a woman of my age should publicly admit to.

But here’s the truth: butter makes things richer. Grace does too. And neither one asks permission before doing its work.


“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning.” — Lamentations 3:22–23

Even on birthdays.
Especially on birthdays.


These years aren’t measured by candles alone. They’re marked by crumbs of grace — small evidences left behind that say I was fed, I was held, I was carried through

.
And if that’s what this year leaves behind — crumbs, butter, joy, survival, and gratitude — then it has been a very good year indeed.


Love, Chelle

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Popcorn Isn’t Dinner

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I own a microwave. Nothing earth shattering in that announcement.


It lives near my fancy cooktop and mostly functions as a glorified popcorn popper and an occasional emergency coffee reheater. It’s efficient, dependable, and excellent at handling immediate needs.


But it has never fed my soul.


I grew up in a time when food took time. Things were simmered, stewed, braised, and watched. You didn’t just make dinner—you tended it.


I still carry evidence of that kind of cooking: little cuts on my fingers from dull knives, small burns from forgetting pot holders, and an instinct to hover near the stove because something important is happening here.


That’s the kind of faith formation I recognize.
Microwave food is fast. Slow cooking is faithful.


The microwave satisfies a craving. The slow pot answers a hunger.


Scripture reminds us that faith was never meant to be instant. “Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (James 1:4, NIV). Perseverance doesn’t microwave. It simmers. It stays. It waits for the work to be done.


We live in a world that loves microwave spirituality: – quick verses – instant breakthroughs – tidy testimonies – three easy steps and a closing prayer.


And listen—I’m not mad at the microwave. Sometimes popcorn is necessary.
But popcorn isn’t dinner.


Faith that matures—faith that holds when life burns, cuts, and bruises—comes from staying near the stove. From paying attention. From trusting the heat even when it’s uncomfortable.


Slow-cooked faith smells different. It fills the house. It draws people in before it’s finished.
And yes, it might leave a mark or two.
But those marks aren’t failures. They’re proof you stayed long enough for God to finish His work.


So if your faith feels like it’s taking longer than expected… If you’re still simmering when you wanted to be served… If you’ve got a few burns and nicks to show for the journey…
Take heart.
You’re not being microwaved.
You’re being made.

Love,Chelle

Prayer
Father, thank You for not rushing what You are forming in me. Help me stay near the heat without growing bitter, impatient, or afraid. Teach me to trust the slow work of Your hands, even when I want instant results. And when I’m tempted to settle for spiritual snacks, remind me that You are preparing something that truly satisfies.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.

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A Season Of Miracles Of Rest (Even When We Can’t Sleep Yet)

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Every new year arrives carrying declarations.
More. Faster. Bigger. Better.

But this year, something different is echoing through pulpits and prayers alike:
a quiet but radical declaration—
this is a season of miracles of rest.

Ironically, many of us are hearing that message while lying awake at night…
thinking about rest.
Planning rest.
Wondering why rest feels like another assignment we’re failing.
(Ask me how I know.)

Still, Scripture reminds us that some of God’s most powerful work happens when we stop striving—even when stopping doesn’t come easily.

“Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28

Rest is not a reward for finishing.
It is often the starting place—even if our bodies haven’t caught up with the invitation yet.

Renew Me
Renewal isn’t about becoming someone new.
It’s about being refreshed into who God already designed us to be.

Sometimes renewal looks holy and quiet.
Other times it looks like admitting,
“I’m exhausted… and still awake.”

God is not offended by that honesty.

“He restores my soul.”
— Psalm 23:3

Revive Me
To revive is to bring life back to what looks dormant.
Not dead—just tired.
Just worn thin by years of pushing through.

If you’ve ever felt like your spirit hit the snooze button even while your faith stayed intact, you’re not alone.

“Will You not revive us again, that Your people may rejoice in You?”
— Psalm 85:6

Restore Me
Restoration is holy repair.
It is God returning what was lost, broken, or depleted—not always in the same form, but with deeper wisdom attached.

Including the ability to rest without guilt.

“I will restore to you the years the locust has eaten.”
— Joel 2:25

Room to Breathe
Not rushing into the next assignment.
Not proving the miracle worked.
But giving yourself permission to exhale—even if sleep comes later.

Sometimes faith looks like lying still and trusting God is working while we’re learning how to rest again.

“In returning and rest you shall be saved;
in quietness and trust shall be your strength.”
— Isaiah 30:15

God, as this year begins, renew us where we are weary—even when we can’t quiet our minds yet.
Revive what has grown tired within us.
Restore what life has worn down.
And teach us how to rest without guilt, trusting that You are still moving, even while we lie awake learning how to breathe again.
Amen.

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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Watch Night Reflection: Auld Lang Syne in a Colder World

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“Auld Lang Syne” (yes… I had to look up how to spell it) is often sung on nights like this, though many of us don’t quite know what we’re saying. The phrase comes from old Scots and simply means “times long past” or “old long since.”


It’s really a question—Should old acquaintance be forgot?


Tonight, we know the answer is no.
Some traditions look different now.
Watch Night doesn’t stretch to midnight anymore.
Candles burn a little shorter.
Doors close earlier than they used to—not because faith has failed, but because the world has grown colder, louder, and less safe.
And yet… here we are.


We gather not to mourn what’s changed, but to remember what still matters.


“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is Your faithfulness.”
— Lamentations 3:22–23 (NIV)


“Auld Lang Syne” isn’t about nostalgia—it’s about honoring the bonds that carried us through. It invites us to pause, look back, and say: We made it. Together.
So tonight, before we step into a new year, let us do a few holy things:
• Give thanks for the days behind us—both joyful and hard
• Release what no longer serves our spirit
• Recommit to the people God placed in our care
• Check on family, even the ones who don’t answer right away
• And if you really love me… bake the baker  a pineapple upside-down cake, because my birthday is in a few days (amen and thank you in advance)


Because in a world that feels colder, connection is resistance.
Community is courage.
And faith—quiet, steady faith—still keeps watch.
So even if we leave before midnight,
even if the song fades early,
we carry the meaning with us:


Old times remembered.
New mercies ahead.
God still with us.
Amen.

Loving you right into our next adventure,  Chelle


Michelle Gillison-Robinson

defygravitywithoutwings.com