Tag: childhood

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The Gift That Keeps Showing Up

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Every morning — and sometimes as early as 3 a.m. — there’s a small sacred ritual that happens on our phones.


A text thread.
Women connected by blood, history, humor, and habit.
Aunts. Nieces. Sisters. Cousins.


It usually starts with a simple greeting. A prayer emoji or a sermon link. . A “Love y’all.”


And yes… sometimes it starts because one of us can’t sleep and assumes nobody else should be sleeping either. (That one might be on me.)


This is how we stay connected now.
Because age has a way of rearranging life, schedules don’t always line up, and seeing each other as often as we’d like isn’t always possible. But love? Love adapts.


Yesterday, my Aunt Lenora changed the subject in our group text. You know how the family matriarchy does — when wisdom rises up and gently says, Pay attention.


She shared something God had revealed to her about Great-Grandma Martha and Grandma Alice.
They used to say it often around holidays and birthdays:
“I don’t want y’all to give me any gifts this time. Thank you, but I really don’t need any more.”


At the time, we smiled. Sometimes, we insisted anyway.
Because giving is how we show love.
But after they passed, we found something that stopped us in our tracks —
gifts still in their packages.
Closets holding love that had already been received in the heart.


And suddenly, the words made sense.
It wasn’t that they had everything.
It was that satisfaction had settled in.
Gratitude had overflowed.
Hearts were full. Closets were full.
And the desire for more stuff had quietly faded.


Aunt Lenora put it beautifully in the text:
“It’s not that we have everything that could be had. It’s just that at a certain point, satisfaction sets in, gratitude is overflowing, hearts are filled… and even though you’re still grateful for expressions of love, there’s no more desire for stuff.”


And then came the revelation that wrapped everything together:
“We finally understand the real meaning of Christmas.
The Father gave the Son.
The Son gave the Spirit.
The Spirit gives us life —
so we can give the gift of love.
And that gift goes on and on and on.”


That’s it.
That’s Christmas.
Not the packages.
Not the receipts.
Not the pressure to perform joy.
Just love — passed down like an inheritance no one can lose.


This season has reminded me that our worth today is not measured by who shows up for us, but by who we show up as.
Great-Grandma Martha showed up with wisdom.
Grandma Alice showed up with contentment.
Aunt Lenora shows up with revelation.
And the women in that early-morning text thread show up — faithfully, lovingly, imperfectly.


And I show up with a pen — so that my daughter, Paula, will never forget the legacy of these women.
So she will know where she comes from.
So she will recognize the holy inheritance of faith, gratitude, and love that flows through her name.


Sometimes love looks like gifts.
Sometimes it looks like unopened packages.
And sometimes it looks like a 3 a.m. text that says, I’m thinking about you. I’m grateful for you. You’re not alone.


Scripture reminds us:
“A generous person will be enriched, and one who gives water will get water.” — Proverbs 11:25
That may be the gift that never stops giving.

Merry Christmas ,

Chelle

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When Christmas Doesn’t Recognize Itself

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I’ll admit it—I chuckled at first.
I saw a video of a broke Hispanic father joking with his young son that ICE had taken Santa. It was meant to be humorous, a dark joke wrapped in the language of survival. I laughed… and then I stopped.


Because once the laughter faded, the weight of it settled in.


How awful to place that kind of fear on a child. How heartbreaking that this joke even works in our current climate. And then it hit me—harder than I expected.


Under the prevailing American mindset of 2025, the very figures we celebrate at Christmas wouldn’t be welcome here.
Santa would be questioned.
Mary and Joseph would be detained.
Jesus would be born into a system already suspicious of Him.
The wise men would be asked to self-deport.
The angels would be accused of violating airspace.
And the shepherds—unhoused, roaming, living off the land—would likely be jailed for existing outside the rules.


Yes, I know—it sounds like a stretch.


And yes, there must be laws. There must be order. There must be boundaries and systems and responsibility. Scripture never denies that.


But Scripture also never allows us to weaponize law against love.
Because the story of Christmas—the real one—is not clean, controlled, or credentialed. It is a story of displacement. Of vulnerability. Of outsiders. Of God choosing to arrive without papers, privilege, or protection.


Mary wasn’t prepared.
Joseph wasn’t powerful.
Jesus wasn’t safe.
And none of them fit the mold of who society typically makes room for.


Yet this is the story we retell every year with lights and carols and nativity scenes that have grown far too tidy.
Somewhere along the way, we learned to celebrate the symbols of Christmas while quietly opposing everything they stand for.
We sing about peace while nurturing fear.
We speak of joy while guarding our comfort.
We proclaim love while questioning who deserves it.


And that should sober us.
Because Jesus Himself said,
“I was a stranger, and you invited me in.”
Not you vetted me.
Not you verified my worth.
Not you made sure I belonged first.
He didn’t ask us to solve immigration policy.
He asked us to recognize people.


The question Christmas asks us—every year, relentlessly—is not whether we believe in Christ, but whether we resemble Him.
Would we make room for Him now?
Or would we ask Him to prove He belongs?
If the answer makes us uncomfortable, maybe that discomfort is holy. Maybe it’s an invitation to return—not to tradition, but to truth.
Because Christmas has always been about God crossing borders.
And love, by nature, refuses to stay contained.

Love Chelle

Love Chelle

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Ministry In The Margins

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

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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The Light Still Works

Posted in christmas, faith, God, inspiration, love, relationshipsTagged , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment


I’ve always told people this—and I’ll keep telling it until somebody takes my peppermint tea away:


Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa do not cancel each other out.
They don’t compete.
They don’t substitute.
They don’t need a theological cage match.
They simply tell different parts of the human story.


Christmas celebrates His birth—God choosing skin and breath and inconvenience


Hanukkah reminds us of tradition, remembrance, and light that refused to go out, even when logic said it should.


Kwanzaa lifts up principles that look suspiciously Christ-like—unity, purpose, responsibility, faith lived out loud.


Different languages.
Same longing for light.


In Hanukkah, there is a center candle called the shamash—the servant candle.
It’s set apart.
It’s lit first.
And it doesn’t shine for itself.
Its whole purpose is to light all the others.


That image has always stayed with me. Because in Christianity, that’s Jesus.
He didn’t arrive demanding attention.
He didn’t come to be admired from a distance.
He came to serve, to ignite, to give light away—even when it cost Him everything.
Jesus is the Servant Candle.
Lifted up not for status, but for sacrifice.
Set apart not for glory, but for love.


Kwanzaa, too, places a center candle—the black candle—knowing who the people are, grounding everything else in identity and purpose. Not a servant candle, but a reminder that light means little if you forget who you are while holding it.


Different meanings.
Same truth: light is meant to be shared.


This conviction was born years ago when a young friend looked at me like I’d grown a second head because I knew what the symbols on a dreidel meant. He had just given it to me—a gift from a Jewish friend—and suddenly panic set in.
“Is that… disrespectful to your Christian beliefs?”


I smiled. Because fear usually shows up when faith hasn’t been fully introduced to trust yet.
Accepting that gift didn’t weaken my faith.
It revealed it.


Jesus never seemed nervous around other people’s traditions.
He showed up where He was invited.
He honored faith wherever He found it.
He let light come from unexpected places.


And if I’m honest—any faith that collapses because it encountered someone else’s story probably needed better roots.


This is the Scripture I come back to when the debates get loud and the lines get drawn too tight:
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
— John 1:5
Notice it doesn’t say whose darkness.
Or which calendar.
Or what kind of candle.
It just says light still works.


And if a tradition, a candle, or a principle reminds us to live more faithfully, love more generously, or serve more humbly—then maybe the question isn’t “Is this disrespectful?:
Maybe the better question is:
“Did the light reach you?


Because when it does, you don’t argue about the source.
You’re just grateful you can see.

Love Chelle

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Store-Bought Crust, Real Filling

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

What Christmas chaos taught me about sincerity

It’s Christmas.
Which means the house isn’t quiet, the schedule isn’t kind, and nothing is quite as together as the Hallmark movies promised.

There are lists half-checked, boxes half-opened, and flour somehow in places flour should never be.

I used a box mix for the cookies.
No-bake “snow pies” pretending real hard to be cheesecake.
And the pie?
Well… the crust came from the store,
but the filling?
That part is 100% real.

Also—full disclosure—
there is a pile of tasting spoons in the sink.
Because no shortcut baker is licking a spoon and putting it back.
We are tired, not reckless.

Somewhere between the chaos, the Christmas music playing too loud, and me stepping over things I swear weren’t there five minutes ago, it hit me.

We spend a lot of time apologizing for our shortcuts.

“I didn’t make it from scratch.”
“I didn’t do as much as I wanted.”
“I don’t have it all together this year.”

But what if God isn’t inspecting the packaging—
what if He’s tasting the heart?

The crust might be store-bought, but the love is homemade.
The method might be quick, but the intention is honest.
The presentation might be simple, but the offering is real.

Jesus never demanded everything be handcrafted—
He asked that it be sincere.

He fed crowds with borrowed bread.
He healed with mud and spit.
He entered the world not in perfection, but in a mess of hay, noise, and interrupted plans.

Not fancy.
Not polished.
Just real.

So if your Christmas looks like box mix faith and no-bake prayers,
don’t disqualify it.

If your life feels like shortcuts and substitutions,
but the filling is still genuine—
grace counts that.

Scripture reminds us—right in the middle of our mess:

“The Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”
— 1 Samuel 16:7

God isn’t grading your technique.
He’s receiving your offering.

And tonight, around a table of “good enough” desserts, Christmas clutter, and way too many spoons to wash,
there is more holiness than we realize.

Because what’s real on the inside
has always mattered more than how it was wrapped.

P.S.  If you come wash these spoons, I’ll save you a little something

Love Chelle

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The Mad Not Wrapper

Posted in cancer, christmas, faith, God, health, inspiration, love, money, relationships, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

1 Samuel 16:7 — People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.


I am known in my family as “The Mad Not Wrapper.”

Not because I’m angry.
Not because I don’t care.
But because I refuse—*REFUSE*—to wrestle with wrapping paper, tape that sticks to itself, and bows that look like they were sat on.

Instead, I use Christmas-printed trash bags and gift bags.
Festive. Functional. Honest.

If you’re lucky, you might get tissue paper.
If you’re really lucky, the bag won’t have a knot.

And yet… somehow… every year…
There are tears.
There is laughter.
There is joy.

Which tells me something important:
The magic was never in the wrapping.

Jesus never wrapped the loaves and fishes.
No parchment.
No ribbon.
No “presentation matters” speech.

There were no matching baskets or branded packaging.
Just a boy’s lunch.
Bread. Fish.
Ordinary. Bare. Exposed.

And here’s the part we often rush past:

Jesus saw the need.
He received what was offered.
And He gave thanks before anything multiplied.

That gratitude—before the miracle—was the wrapping.

He didn’t disguise the lack.
He didn’t pretend it was enough on its own.
He simply acknowledged it fully and thanked God anyway.

And thanksgiving?
That’s where miracles breed.

We live in a world obsessed with wrapping.

We wrap our lives in filters.
Our faith in pretty words.
Our pain in silence.
Our generosity in explanations.

We size people up by their packaging:
how they speak
how they dress
how polished their testimony sounds

We even do it to ourselves.

“I’d offer more if I had it together.”
“I’d serve if my life wasn’t such a mess.”
“I’d show up if I looked the part.”

But Jesus never asked for polished packaging.
He asked for **what you have**.

Unwrapped.
Unfiltered.
Still smelling like fish.

Some of the most powerful gifts I’ve ever received weren’t wrapped at all:
* a hand held in a hospital room
* a meal dropped off in a grocery bag
* a prayer whispered when words ran out

None of them were pretty.
All of them were holy.

And I wonder how many miracles we miss because we’re too busy critiquing the container instead of receiving the gift.

Here’s the truth the Mad Not Wrapper has learned:

Love doesn’t need lace.
Faith doesn’t need bows.
Purpose doesn’t need perfection.

What God multiplies is what’s inside —
when it’s offered honestly
and thanked for fully.

So this season, maybe we stop evaluating:
our worth
others’ value
our readiness
based on the wrapping.

Maybe we learn to see the gift.

Because Jesus still takes ordinary things, gives thanks, and feeds multitudes.
No wrapping required.

And if He can do that with bread and fish…

He can surely do something beautiful
with you.

Merry Christmas. May your lack of wrapping bring you joy.

Love Chelle

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Fourteen Ounces

Posted in christmas, faith, God, health, inspiration, love, relationships, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

My kitchen cabinet is full of mugs.
Tall ones.
Short ones.
Skinny ones and fat ones.
Plain white. Red ones (my fav).

Loud sayings. Funny ones. Spiritual ones that make visitors pause mid-sip.


Some are glass. Some ceramic. Some insulated steel meant to keep things hot long past my capacity to remember when I made its contents.


Every day—sometimes several times a day—I reach in and choose one. Not based on worth, but on need. Coffee when I need courage. Cocoa when I need comfort. Tea when I need calm.


Over the years, some of them have lost their tops.
Okay… I lost their tops.
And without those lids, the heat doesn’t last as long. But here’s what I noticed one quiet morning while waiting for the kettle to whistle:
Almost every single one of them holds fourteen ounces.
Despite the differences.
Despite the wear.
Despite the missing pieces.
Same capacity.
No mug holds more because it’s taller.
No mug holds less because it’s chipped.
No mug is disqualified because it doesn’t match the rest.
They were all made to receive.


And I wondered when the Church forgot that.
Somewhere along the way, we started ranking the mugs.
Preferring certain shapes.
Deciding which ones looked “right” on the shelf.
We forgot that Jesus never measured vessels by appearance.
He poured Himself out freely—into fishermen, skeptics, women with reputations, men with questions, people missing lids.


“But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.”
— 2 Corinthians 4:7


That’s muddy ministry.
Muddy ministry is faith that doesn’t stay clean.
It’s Jesus kneeling in the dirt.
Touching the untouchable.
Lingering with grief.
Showing up before fixing anything.
Muddy ministry doesn’t inspect the vessel.
It just pours.
It understands that people—like mugs—come in different shapes, carry different scars, and hold warmth differently, yet bear the same image of God and the same capacity for grace.


Religion becomes abusive when it starts inspecting mugs instead of filling them.
When it withholds the pour because the vessel doesn’t look familiar.
When it mistakes uniformity for holiness.
But Jesus?
Jesus keeps pouring.
Fourteen ounces of mercy.
Fourteen ounces of patience.
Fourteen ounces of love.
Enough for each of us.


And the mugs without lids?
They know to drink while it’s hot.
They don’t waste the moment.
Maybe that’s the real lesson.
Not to become a “better mug.”
Not to match the cabinet.
Just to stay open…
and let Him pour.


And maybe that’s why this truth found me so suddenly.
Because once upon a time, fourteen ounces wasn’t just a measurement in my kitchen.
It was my grandson, Emmanuel Langston Gillison.
Barely more than fourteen ounces at birth, his life gathered hundreds into prayer—family, friends, strangers—hoping for a miracle.
We prayed boldly.
We hoped desperately.
We trusted God with everything we had.
And when the miracle didn’t come the way we longed for, Emmanuel’s life still poured out.
His brief presence became muddy ministry in its purest form—
a ministry of grief, honesty, and learning to trust God when faith doesn’t get what it hoped for.


Fourteen ounces was enough.
Enough to draw people together.
Enough to change us.
Enough to teach us that capacity is not measured by size or by how long something lasts.
Some vessels are filled fully…
even if they are held only briefly.

Dedication
In loving memory of my grandson,
Emmanuel Langston Gillison—
Fourteen ounces of life,
and a lifetime of grace.                                  Some children grow old in years.
Some grow old in impact.

Loving you always Nama Chelle

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A Clown Called Worthy

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

2500 people.

A hot, humid Virginia night.

And me—standing on the Dogwood Dell stage, smelling like I bathed in a designer fragrance called “Eau de OFF!”

Listen… I wasn’t just wearing bug spray.

I was marinated in it.

If any mosquito came for me, they would’ve turned around and filed a complaint.

Five minutes.

That’s all the time they gave me to stand there with all my 55 years, all my stories, all my scars, all my holy sass… and share an original piece only about three people were truly going to “get.”

And honestly? I prayed most folks wouldn’t understand it too well — because it was raw, personal, and inspired by that sad little clown inside me who finally decided she deserved some joy, too.

People laughed.

People cried.

People tilted their heads like confused puppies trying to interpret my metaphors.

And yes… one person came strictly to see me fail.(Satan always sends somebody. It’s in his job description.)

And then it happened…

Not my feet—

but my tongue betrayed me.

See, when I get nervous, my words tango.

Between my stutter, my little childhood speech lisp, and this post cancer chemo brain that sometimes takes a coffee break without warning, a few words just packed their bags and left me mid-sentence.

But here’s the funny part:

Most in the audience thought that pause was intentional.

They thought I was giving them deep drama, spoken-word artistry, pregnant silence, poetic tension—

Nope.

Sis just forgot her line.

But God used it anyway.

Because that “mistake” was actually the unveiling of something old—

the little girl who tried her whole life to fit into rooms she was never built for.

The child who once thought her voice was “less than.”

The woman who learned the hard way that the things we try to hide are the things God loves to spotlight.

And on that stage, with my tongue tripping but my spirit standing tall, something broke—and something healed.

I spoke about differences…

disabilities…

heartbreak…

grief…

love lost and breath stolen…

but also about reclaiming my right to be seen, to be heard, to be honored, to be treated with softness, and to outgrow every lie my past tried to tattoo onto my identity.

The applause was loud, beautiful…

but the loudest thing was inside me—

my heartbeat finally syncing with God’s truth:

I am worthy.

Not because I performed.

Not because I impressed anybody.

But because God never once asked me to be flawless—

He only asked me to be faithful.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.”

— 2 Corinthians 12:9

My weakness didn’t disqualify me.

It qualified me for grace.

It made the moment real.

It made it mine.

Sometimes God lets you trip over your tongue so you stop tripping over your past.

Sometimes He lets your words fall so your truth can rise.

Sometimes your “mistake” is just Heaven’s way of proving that you don’t need perfection to be powerful…

you just need courage.

And if a five-minute performance in “OFF!” perfume taught me anything, it’s this:

If God says you’re worthy, no stumble, no lisp, no past, no hater, and no missing word can argue Him down.

Love, Chelle

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Stout

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When I describe my baby sis in her formative years, mean is not quite my word.  Mine was always stout.  Even in the few years, I was taller than her (we switched places when I was 15 and she was 8), she just seemed stout.  Feet always planted solidly.   Always ready to do battle.  Stubborn and determined to have her way.

I have come to know over 47 years that her stance was a defense mechanism designed to cover pain, fear, and rejection. Great effort to reveal her layers gave a bird’s eye view of someone kind, giving and comical….albeit mainly with strangers and outsiders. There is safety in relationships with people who can’t bruise your heart.

My first fight with, over and for my baby sis came all on the same day! Incredibly while she was still in utero. I think I was the one who branded her for life or at least set it in motion.

I was 8 going on 9, and though separated from my mom during the school year, I would spend summers with her at the house of horrors on 28th. I called it that because there were  mostly ratcheted kids in the neighborhood.  Country kids like me didn’t understand city kids. Then also because of the  “vision” issues my stepparent had.  He couldn’t clearly distinguish between my mother and her vulnerable daughters.

That particular summer day, I was bored enough to join in a round of jump rope with some neighborhood weird girls.  All was in fun until my mistep stopped the rope.  Apparently, the 8th deadly sin to preteen girls.

The toughest of the bunch ( who ironically later became my ex-sister-in-law) started the taunts in rhythm. “Ya mama is a ho. He ain’t yo daddy though.  She good and pregnant now and you got to go”

My country bumpkin ignorance was showing. I was not sure which part to be upset about.

I knew that man wasn’t my daddy. I was still waiting for mine to manifest and rescue me like in the little Orphan Annie movies.

The “ho” part didn’t phase me because I had heard him call her that a gazillion times. He had called my older sister this. He had called me that. I only realized it was something wrong when he bestowed the moniker on my grandmother, and I watched her turn her back, never to return, to 1616 N. 28th Street.

It was the “she’s good and pregnant now and you got to go” part that gave me the strength to overcome the bully.  I was blinded in rage. I didn’t know why. But the word felt nasty. Demeaning. Evil. 

I had no clue where babies came from. Well meaning but fearful elders had surmised that keeping a young, physically overdeveloped girl ignorant would somehow spare her.  Worked until I realized in my 9th grade biology class what the weird butterflies in my stomach were.

But back to Nessa and the fight of the century. She still has the barely noticeable scar on her chin from my weapon of choice. A rock from the gravel parking lot of the bus dock across from the house

Snitches brought the adults in to pull us apart. 2 bloody she-gladiators determined to win. I was too angry to take the score, and she, too embarrassed that the runt of the litter had bested her.

I had some regrets that day.  Her alcoholic mother stormed out of the house and gave her a public beating that I didn’t wish for. There is a shame in being overcome by a little one.

And mine. Silently took me home, cleaned me up, and never uttered a word. No questions. No answers.  Summer would end soon, and I would be safely back in my country school forgetting.

But my mother had betrayed me. I would not be going to 28th for Christmas break.  She needed 6 weeks for the stork to finish. Like that was a good explanation to a confused child.  All I could remember was the last of the taunt “and you got to go”

12/12/78 brought a stout 12 pounder with her fist up in her first baby mug shot.

Easter break would come before I met Stout. Only then would I see Nessa again. In Mike’s corner store, I bought Apple Uglies for my mom  and offered my nemesis one as an apology. It would be some 25 years later that she admitted she didn’t know where babies came from that day either.

Go figure!!!