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
Tag: christian
Growing Through It
Lessons From My Winter Garden
“As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish…so is My word that goes out from My mouth: It will not return to Me empty.”
— Isaiah 55:10–11 (NIV)
I am making my very first attempt at a winter garden. And let me be clear: I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing. Most of my “training” comes from overly enthusiastic YouTube gardeners who clearly have more time and more sunshine than I do.
I’m pretty sure I’ve already spent more money on soil, seeds, and enthusiasm than I’ll ever get back in vegetables. But honestly? For once… I don’t care.
Because this garden isn’t about vegetables at all.
It’s a grief-release project. A quiet place to pour the pain instead of pouring it on somebody. A space where my hands can work while my heart finally breathes.
The “easy 30-minute” mini greenhouse?
It took three hours, two episodes of repentance, and one conversation with myself about whether I should have just grown plastic plants and called it a day.
Digging in the dirt made my back hurt, and apparently I thought a cubic foot of topsoil stretched farther than it does, because three trips to the garden center fixed that delusion.
Then came the bugs—whole nations of them—each one convinced they belonged in my hair.
But the moment that froze me was this one:
I realized it had been nineteen years since I actually sat—really sat—in my own backyard.
Nineteen years since I noticed the quiet.
Nineteen years since I gave myself permission just to exist.
So here I am, tending this little winter garden—measuring, digging, seeding, watering.
Not because I’m expecting a miracle harvest,
but because there is healing in putting your fingers in the dirt and hope in watching something grow in a cold season.
And wouldn’t you know it…
Right as the first snow has fallen, my mama-heart has kicked in full force.
I keep peeking out the window like a nervous parent on the first day of school.
“Lord, protect my babies.”
My seedlings.
My fragile green hopes.
My little reminders that even in winter, life is possible.
And here is the ironic blessing of it all:
– The “easy carrots” have not even whispered.
– The “super easy spinach” has barely shown a shy fleck of green.
– But the tough plants?
The kale and Brussels sprouts—those winter warriors—are popping up like four-leaf clovers.
Of course they are.
Because the things we expect to flourish don’t always flourish first.
And the things we expect to struggle often surprise us with their strength.
Just like us.
Some seasons of our lives are carrots—quiet, hidden, working underground where no one can see.
Some seasons are spinach—delicate, hesitant, unsure.
But some seasons?
We are kale and Brussels sprouts—growing in the cold, thriving in hardship, lifting our heads in weather that would take out weaker
The snowfall isn’t a threat.
It’s a promise.
If God sends snow to water the earth,
He will also watch over the seeds He told me to plant—
the ones in my garden
and the ones in my soul.
And just like these unexpected winter greens,
I believe I’m going to grow through this season
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Trying New Things (Even When They Wiggle”
Funny how fears can rule you!
All my life I have refused to eat any food that moves, jiggles, or looks like it might still be breathing. Jell-O? Absolutely not. Pudding? Hard pass. Runny eggs? Never. I don’t know why, but something about the texture has always made my stomach flip like an Olympic gymnast with no spotter.
This morning, I found myself in a situation at work where I either had to eat… or be rude and not eat at all. And tempted as I was to decline, I figured I’d at least try the little thing they called a *Croque*—thick toast, fancy cheeses, tomato jam, and right on top… a sunny side–up egg. You already know what part scared me.
To make matters worse, I had just talked in Bible study the night before about embracing all that life has to offer and not letting fear write the rules. After fighting cancer , everything else *should* seem easy, right? Right…
Well I’ll be dern.
It was delicious. Movement and all. I wanted another.
What I learned from this was as fattening as the menu;
*Psalm 34:4
“I sought the Lord, and He answered me; He delivered me from all my fears.”
→ Fear looks small until you’re the one staring down a wiggly egg.
Isaiah 41:10
“Fear not, for I am with you…”
→ Even at the breakfast table.
2 Timothy 1:7
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear…”
→ Fear is borrowed—not owned. It’s time to return it
John 10:10
“…I have come that they may have life and have it more abundantly.”
→ Abundant life sometimes starts with a bite.
Sometimes, it isn’t the “big things” that grow us—sometimes it’s the tiny choices that stretch us beyond our comfort zones. Fear sneaks into the smallest corners: decisions, relationships, opportunities, and yes… even breakfast.
But growth isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s as simple as saying,
“Lord, help me try something new today.”
And when we do, God gently proves—again and again—that He meets us in the smallest acts of courage.
Sometimes, the thing we feared ends up blessing us. Sometimes, it just ends up being a funny story. Either way, we survive… and grow.
Here’s to trying new things.
Here’s to facing old fears.
And here’s to trusting God with both the big leaps and the wiggly eggs.
P.s. I need more deliverance and prayer time for Jello. LOL
With Love, Chelle
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ME TOO HONESTY
For we have not a high priest which can not be touched with the feeling of our infirmities…
— Hebrews 4:15 KJV
The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
— Psalm 34:18 NIV
I always joke that I’d never make a good politician because I tell everything about myself—there’d be no dirt left to dig up… unless you checked under the carpet. I’ve always believed wearing my heart on my sleeve comes from having a testimony I can’t keep quiet. God has been too good to me. So yes, I live like an open book… or so I thought.
My ministry has often been wrapped in neat and tidy encouragement:
• Be joyful in troubled times.
• Trust God no matter what.
• He will restore everything.
Beautiful words. True words. But they were missing one major detail: my honesty about the moments that weren’t neat. Maybe it was pride. Maybe fear. Maybe I didn’t want to hear myself say the things I still hadn’t fully dealt with.
But then came three people—a trio God hand‑picked to “out” me.
One was fighting to hold onto faith when medicine said “no way.”
One wondered how God could ever love her after the mistakes she’d made.
One had lost her home under the weight of medical and legal battles.
And each of them assumed their fear, hurt, or shame made them “less faithful.”
That’s when God nudged me—actually, shoved me—to pull out what I kept hidden under my own rug. The thing I didn’t think qualified as a testimony. The thing I didn’t want to admit even to myself. And when I finally said it, each of them responded the same way:
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You hid that well.”
“I needed that… I’m normal.”
My secret?
“Me too.”
For nearly 14 years, my son battled severe illness — sudden deafness, countless surgeries, relentless pain, and thrice‑weekly dialysis. Many of you know those parts. What I never shared was the day I got mad at God.
After years of waiting, a perfect donor match was found. We went into preparation mode: cleaning the house for infection control, saving every dime, canceling vacations, even turning down a huge career opportunity. We tip‑toed around loved ones because we wanted to surprise everyone after the transplant.
Then, one morning during devotion, God whispered something odd:
“Forget the Back‑Up Plan.”
I didn’t know what it meant. I assumed it was about finances or job security. Anything except what came next.
Just days before hospital check‑in, a nurse called—cold, flat‑voiced, emotionless.
“No go.”
No explanation.
No compassion.
Just… no.
The ground shifted under me. How was I supposed to tell my son, who was finally hopeful again? I was furious. Was God playing with me like a cat with a string?
I slipped away from everyone. My spirit knew God had a plan, but my heart and my head were wrestling in opposite corners.
Angry, I reminded God of everything we had endured—the nights I stood by the door listening for his breathing, the extreme pain, the surgeries, the exhaustion, the faithfulness. And if my faith wasn’t enough, surely someone out of all the people who prayed for us had at least one mustard seed to spare!
All I heard back was:
“Forget the Back‑Up Plan.”
Later, we learned the donor had developed a condition that would’ve caused the kidney to fail quickly. If my son had received it, we would have ended up in a bigger storm.
God wasn’t teasing us—He was protecting us.
Just like Jeremiah 29 reminds us, His plans include a future, a hope, and a good end… even when the journey makes absolutely no sense.
And then, in God’s timing—not mine—my son received the kidney he needed.
That was seven years ago, and today, he is living proof that long journeys still have victorious endings.
I will be honest: I still jump a little when the phone rings at night. Healing from trauma doesn’t come on schedule. Writing this took years because every now and then, the tears still fall.
But I share this so you know:
Whatever you’re going through — you are normal.
Faith does not erase fear.
Belief does not cancel tears.
Even rejoicing takes reminders (Phil. 4:4 says it *twice*, so clearly God knows us well).
God is not distant. He feels your pain. He welcomes your honesty.
He will not strike you down for asking questions.
Just remember:
It is faith that moves mountains, not the absence of emotion.
Cry if you must.
Hurt if you must.
Question if you must.
But whatever you do…
Keep pushing. God isn’t finished.
With love, Chelle
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A Clown Called Worthy
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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Red Light, Green Light
Lately, I’ve been stretched thin — the kind of thin where coffee starts looking like an emotional support beverage, and my bed feels like a distant memory. With relatives going in and out of hospitals, caretaking shifts, family worry, and decision fatigue (add a side of job and regular life), I’ve been functioning on autopilot. And not the smooth, first-class autopilot. More like the “Lord, please fly this plane because I’m tired” version.
Then, yesterday, on the way to yet another appointment, I found myself sitting at a stoplight. I thought it was red, so I just sat there… waiting, replaying the last few weeks in my head. My shoulders were tight, my eyelids heavy, and my spirit stretched. Then suddenly — BEEP! An irritated horn behind me snapped me back to reality.
And that’s when I realized:
I wasn’t sitting at a red light at all.
It wasn’t even green.
It was yellow — a caution light telling me, “Proceed when safe.”
🌟 Misreading the Signals
That moment hit me deeper than I expected. Because stress will have you out here misreading life’s signals.
When you’re tired enough, everything looks like a stop.
A closed door feels like punishment.
A pause feels like abandonment.
A delay feels like failure.
A quiet season feels like rejection.
A yellow light looks red.
But exhaustion is a lens that lies to us.
Sometimes, God isn’t saying “STOP.”
He’s saying, “Chelle, slow down, breathe, look around… and move forward with Me.”
God Uses Yellow Seasons Too
We love the green-light seasons — when everything flows, doors open, blessings drop, and strength is high.
And we understand the red-light seasons — when God lovingly tells us to wait, rest, or retract.
But that yellow light?
That in-between, not-quite-here, not-quite-there space?
We treat it like an inconvenience.
God treats it as instruction.
A yellow season says:
“Be cautious, but don’t freeze.”
“Use wisdom, but don’t quit.”
“Move forward, but stay alert.”
“Pay attention, but don’t be afraid.”
A yellow light is still movement — just intentional movement.
The dig into this moment wrapped itself around one of my Uncle/Pastor Ron’s favorite scriptures:
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;
in all your ways acknowledge Him,
and He shall direct your paths.”
— Proverbs 3:5–6
My scripturally adjacent version:
When we’re exhausted, our understanding gets cloudy.
When we’re overwhelmed, our perspective gets foggy.
But when we trust God, He clears the road even when our vision is blurry.
Honk Honk, if you feel like you’ve been waiting at a red light for too long…
Ask yourself gently:
“Is this really a red light…
or am I just too weary to see that God is saying, ‘Proceed — just proceed wisely’?”
Look again.
Take a breath.
Lift your head.
Reset your spirit.
Ask for fresh strength.
Sometimes, the miracle is not the light changing…
it’s your clarity returning.
So before I pick up my keys again and cause some other signal light saints to lose their religion, pray with me:
Lord
I am tired. My mind is overloaded, and sometimes I misread what You’re trying to show me.
Help me see clearly today.
Help me not confuse exhaustion with direction or fear with caution.
Give me discernment to know when to rest, when to wait, and when to move forward.
Thank You for being patient with me when I stall at yellow lights.
Guide my steps. Strengthen my spirit.
And help me proceed wisely, safely, and confidently with You.
Amen.
With Love Chelle
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Day Two: See-Saw For One
Ironically, the thing I love most about myself is also the thing I love the least…… That I am a tower of Ironies.
I will give unselfishly to some to the point of costing myself. Then selfishly to some others hoping they would return a kindness just so I can feel loved.
I am quick to pray for, hug and comfort a complete stranger in need of “just somebody.” But will proceed with caution with anyone who is supposed to love me….wondering what it is they really want…from me.
I can wrestle with an angel and sometimes a devil on your behalf and full rejoice in your freedom. While secretly dying inside, wondering when it will be my turn, If it will be my turn.
It is a super power that I can operate this see-saw alone. It’s my kyptonite that sometimes I wish someone would deem me worthy to ride with me but let me have the good end.
But even in the midst of what may seem very bipolar, I have come to learn that loving when I feel unloved, makes me all the more worthy. Not externally though. Loving me from within takes work and courage….. but I am so with it and worthy.
I ACCEPT ALL THAT I AM. I AM WORTH LOVING MYSELF TODAY
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Entertained By Angels
My God, My God.
After my very good doctor’s appt today, my husband & I went to a restaurant a bit out of our way, but I insisted because I wanted to see my fav waitress, Theresa Ann Hatch . Long story short, a couple from Columbus, Ohio were also drawn to detour and find Satterwhites. After they left, Theresa tells us that the gentleman said God told him to pay for our meal. When I ran out to find them in the parking lot he says she wasn’t supposed to tell me but since I was there……..he read all the mail in my heart from all the letters I have ever written to God. Had me crying in the parking lot. Talked my hearts desires and my need for rest and that God doesn’t expect a minster like me to try to rescue the whole world but do my part. He also said I need to get in my head how much God loves me and not just in a generic sense.
He never gave me a chance to say a word, so everything he said was 100% from God. They held on to me, and it brought a peace that I can not describe. Oddly my eyes were still dilated from my retina appt so I couldn’t get a grasp of what they looked like, just that they had a glow about them that wasn’t hurting my eyes like the sun does when your eyes are dilated. I don’t know if God will allow me to see them again in this life as they were just passing through, but My God, My God, I believe I entertained angels.
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Smiles And Tears Cake
When a situation births the twins of joy and pain, it makes me feel schizophrenic.
My go-to response is to clean the kitchen and bake something new. Mess up what I just fixed with goodies I will never eat. Provide delight to others while I’m screaming inside. Ministering sweets to others when I need a taste for myself.
My current loss is another’s gain. I feel quite selfish in wanting to hold on to someone who I am happy is finally free.
I know. I know. It is not the end of all things. We will meet again, at some junction, some highway, under some rainbow.
She liked to say I put my “foot in that!”.
Naw gurl! It’s smiles and tears.
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Reset
Today, I reset but will not rewind.
I will no longer take cuts with knives I sacrificed for and be hit with stones that I have the deed to. I must say so long to my “Job’s” friends (from the Bible, not work) who need to eclipse me in order to find shine. I will no longer fill voids and patch wounds while being left on battlefields alone. I can no longer be held hostage for my portion or my inheritance
I have never claimed to be perfect or to have all the answers. Life never gave me an easy button or a GPS. I never had the finer things but would give you the shirt off my back. Never had gold in my pocket but every penny you had access to. I did my best with the hand I was dealt. That’s all God requires of m, and in my matured year, I am learning that is a very good thing.
Lord, forgive me for hearing their voices over Yours. I return to the peace you purchased and the love you freely give. I am bruised but not broken. Cast down but not destroyed. Though I sometimes stumble, I will dance with the limp I got and to the song I write.
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