Tag: christianity

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On The Altar To Be Altered

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This morning, I called my older sister.

She couldn’t answer, but she texted me back and said she was at a prayer meeting at her church.

Perfect timing, I thought. Because I had some things on my heart. Some people I love. Some situations I can’t control. So I texted her back and asked her to “throw us on the alter.”

She didn’t notice anything unusual about my message. But I did.

I had meant to type “altar”.

I started to correct myself, but I stopped and looked at the word again.

ALTER.

Then the word I intended:

ALTAR.

One little letter separates them. And suddenly, I wasn’t so sure my typo was completely wrong.

Because isn’t that what we do when life becomes bigger than our own ability to handle it? We take it to the ALTAR because we need God to ALTER something.

We bring our children to the altar because there are decisions we can’t make for them.

We bring our marriages because there are places love alone hasn’t been able to fix.

We bring our finances because sometimes the numbers simply don’t make sense.

We bring our jobs, our dreams, our grief, our fears, our disappointments, our bodies, our families and those situations that have kept us awake far too many nights.

We bring all of it. And we say, “God, I need You to alter this.”

But here’s where surrender gets a little uncomfortable. We usually arrive at the altar with a pretty good idea of “what” we’d like God to alter.

Alter them, Lord.

Alter that situation.

Alter these circumstances.

Alter this bank account while You’re at it.

And sometimes He does.

Sometimes God alters the circumstances. Sometimes He alters the timing. Sometimes He alters the direction.

Sometimes He alters a relationship, opens a door, closes another one, moves somebody, restores something, removes something or makes a way we couldn’t see coming.

But sometimes… most times…God alters us.

He alters our perspective. Our priorities. Our expectations. Our attitudes. Our willingness to wait. Our need to control the outcome.

And perhaps that’s why the altar matters so much. The altar isn’t simply the place where I lay something down and tell God what to do with it.

It’s the place where I surrender it enough to let Him decide what needs altering.

Romans 12:1 tells us to present ourselves to God as a living sacrifice.

Not just our problems. Ourselves.

So this morning, I’m taking my accidental little prayer seriously. I’m putting my “me and mine and all of thine: on the alter.

Yes, I know how to spell it. 😂

I’m putting us on the ALTAR and trusting God to ALTER whatever He knows needs to change.

My family. My circumstances. My plans. My heart.

Me.

Because maybe there really is only one letter between the place where we surrender and the change we’ve been praying for.

If you want God to ALTER it, be willing to put it on the ALTAR.

——-

Father, today I place myself and everyone connected to me on Your altar. I give You the things I understand and the things I don’t. The situations I can change and the ones completely beyond my reach. Alter what needs to be altered. Change circumstances where it is Your will, open doors that should open and close those that should close. But Lord, if the change needs to begin in me, give me the courage not to climb back off the altar. Change my heart, my thinking, my direction and my desires until they line up with Yours. I surrender the outcome to You. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Love, Chelle
Defy Gravity Without Wings ❤️

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The $1000 Tomato

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Tonight, I came home from church just as the rain started. I was still in my church clothes.
No umbrella.  No plans to go into the garden.

Truthfully, my heart was still heavy.

Just yesterday, we laid my bonus son to rest. It was a beautiful celebration of his life, filled with music, laughter, tears, and memories. But funerals have a way of leaving an echo. Even after the final song is sung and everyone goes home, grief lingers quietly in the background.

My church clothes still carried the memory of yesterday.

And so did my heart.

As I hurried toward the house through the rain, something caught my eye. A flash of red. On one lonely big boy tomato.

Without thinking, I turned around and ran straight into the rain. No umbrella. Still dressed in my church clothes. Hair…well, let’s not even discuss the hair.

All for one tomato.

I laughed the moment I picked it. After months of building raised beds, filling grow bags, hauling soil, buying fertilizer, tomato cages, watering before work, battling mosquitoes, checking on my plants every morning, and praying over a garden that often seemed determined to test my patience, I joked that I was holding a $1,000 tomato.

The truth is…

It wasn’t worth a thousand dollars.

But in that moment…

It was worth running through the rain for.

Then the Holy Spirit gently whispered to my heart, “Isn’t that what I did for you?”

Jesus saw us caught in a storm far greater than rain. He didn’t stay where it was comfortable. He stepped into our brokenness.

Into our grief. Into our sin. Into death itself.

Not because we were perfect.

Not because we had everything together.

But because He saw something worth rescuing.

The Bible tells us that “while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)
He didn’t wait until we had cleaned ourselves up. He came running toward us while we were still standing in the storm.

Sometimes life leaves us bruised by disappointment, exhausted by loss, or wondering if joy will ever find us again. Yet Jesus never measures our value by what we’ve been through.

He measures it by what He was willing to pay. The cross settled that question forever.

Then another thought settled into my spirit.
Yesterday, I ran toward a casket. Today, I ran toward a tomato.


One reminded me that life on earth is temporary.

The other reminded me that God still has a way of bringing new life out of seasons of sorrow.

Tonight, as I stood in my kitchen holding my little ‘$1,000 tomato,’ I realized maybe God wasn’t just letting me harvest fruit.

Maybe He was reminding me that even after a day of burying someone I loved…

Even while my heart was still aching…

There was still something worth running toward.

Sometimes God doesn’t stop the rain. Sometimes He places a glimpse of hope right in the middle of it.

A reminder that life is still growing.

That joy is still possible.

That healing is still coming.

Sometimes…

It looks like one little red tomato.

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” — Psalm 30:5

Prayer

Father, thank You for stepping into my storms instead of watching them from a distance. Thank You for reminding me that even in seasons of grief, You continue to plant signs of hope along my path. Open my eyes to the little gifts You place in front of me each day, and help me remember that my value was settled at the cross. When my heart is heavy, give me the courage to keep running toward the joy You have prepared for me. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Remembering Donovan ❤️

Love, Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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Stop Living Like Jeremiah 29:11 Doesn’t Exist.

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This morning, my prayers took an unexpected detour.
I started out praying over all the things that don’t make sense. The unexplainables. The burdens that have settled over my family. The heaviness I see across our nation. The questions that don’t come with easy answers.
Somewhere between praying and borderline complaining, a thought slipped through my own conversation with God.


“Lord… I’m getting too old for this.”
Just as quickly came another thought.
“But I’m too young to give in.”


There I was, swinging back and forth between faith and frustration, hope and exhaustion, reminding God of everything that felt impossible.


Then, without warning, the Holy Spirit graciously interrupted my personal pity party with a sentence so simple I almost laughed.
“Stop living like Jeremiah 29:11 doesn’t exist.”
Ouch.


Because that’s exactly what worry does.
It acts as if God has forgotten His plans.
It behaves as though hope has expired.
It assumes the future has already been decided by today’s circumstances.
But Jeremiah 29:11 is still in the Bible.
The economy doesn’t erase it.
Bad news doesn’t cancel it.
Family struggles don’t rewrite it.
A doctor’s report doesn’t edit it.
Political chaos doesn’t overrule it.
God never said I would understand every chapter.
He simply said He already knows the ending.


Here’s the part that humbled me.
Jeremiah 29:11 wasn’t spoken to people whose lives were going according to plan.
It was spoken to people living in exile.
People who had lost what was familiar.
People who couldn’t see how God could possibly bring beauty from the ashes around them.
People who wondered if His promises had somehow expired.
Yet God didn’t begin by explaining their circumstances.
He began by reminding them of His sovereignty.
“For I know the plans I have for you…”
Notice the emphasis.
You don’t have to know the plan… because God does.
We spend so much time trying to figure out what God is doing that we forget Who is doing it.
Maybe that’s today’s reminder.
When our thoughts begin rehearsing every possible disaster, perhaps we need to lovingly interrupt ourselves.
“Stop living like Jeremiah 29:11 doesn’t exist.”
Not because life isn’t hard.
But because God’s promises haven’t changed.
Faith isn’t pretending the storm isn’t real. It’s refusing to live as though God misplaced the forecast.
Maybe faith isn’t always loud.
Maybe sometimes faith looks like getting up one more morning…
praying one more prayer…
believing one more promise…
and taking one more step down a country road toward a sunrise you haven’t reached yet.
Because Jeremiah 29:11 still exists.
And so does the God who spoke it.
Prayer
Father, forgive me for the moments when I let fear preach louder than Your promises. When my circumstances become more believable than Your Word, gently redirect my heart. Teach me to remember that You already know the plans You have for me—even when I can’t see them. Help me walk by faith instead of forecasting disaster. Today I choose to trust that Your hope is greater than my uncertainty and Your future is stronger than my fear.

Thank You for reminding me that I don’t have to know the plan because I know the One who does. When I drift from praying into borderline complaining, lovingly call me back to Your promises. Give me the courage to take one more step, pray one more prayer, and trust You one more day.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans for your welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” — Jeremiah 29:11 (ESV)

Love, Chelle

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The Cracked Coin

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“There are two sides to every coin, but if you split a quarter, you still won’t get twelve and a half cents. You just get a crack.”

Those words came out of my mouth during a conversation I never expected to have.

Someone I care about was hurting, and another person was trying to explain why things had happened the way they did. We were each looking at the same situation through very different lenses.

As we talked, I quietly said,

“Somewhere between your truth and their truth is the truth…and that’s what we should be looking for.”

Then came the thought that stayed with me long after the conversation ended.

“If you split a quarter, you still won’t get twelve and a half cents. You just get a crack.”

A coin was never meant to be separated.

Neither were truth and grace.

So often we become determined to defend our side that we stop searching for God’s perspective. We see one face of the coin. Someone else sees the other. But God sees the whole coin—including the parts hidden from everyone involved.

What I’m most grateful for isn’t that I made my point.

It’s that I didn’t lose myself trying to make it.

There were moments when I could have raised my voice, spoken from my hurt, or said things that could never be taken back. Instead, I chose to stay as calm as I could. Not because I agreed with everything being said, but because my witness mattered more than winning an argument.

Scripture reminds us:

“Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.”
— James 1:19–20

Being slow to anger doesn’t mean pretending wrong is right.

It means refusing to let anger become the author of our words.

Cracked coins don’t spend well.

Neither do cracked relationships.

Not every relationship can be restored. Not every misunderstanding will be resolved. Not every person is willing to search for truth. But we can always choose to leave a conversation knowing we reflected Christ.

Sometimes the greatest victory isn’t having the last word.

It’s walking away with nothing you need to apologize for later.

Prayer

Father, help me seek truth instead of simply defending my position. Give me ears that listen, a heart that remains tender, and a tongue that is governed by Your Spirit. When conversations become difficult, remind me that my character speaks long after my words are forgotten. May I never sacrifice my witness for the sake of winning an argument. Where hearts have been cracked, bring healing according to Your perfect will. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Love, Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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KEEP BELIEVING

Posted in cancer, faith, God, health, inspiration, love, money, relationships, selfhelp, Uncategorized, workTagged , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

This morning I walked into my garden carrying more than Tomato-tone.

I carried worry.

Last week’s storms had been relentless. Then life happened. Family emergencies. Hospital visits. Exhaustion. The garden got the best I could give it, but not always everything I wanted to give it.

As I made my rounds, my fears seemed justified. Several of my biggest green tomatoes had blossom end rot. Months of watering, fertilizing, staking, and waiting… only to find them ruined before they ever ripened.

I picked them off one by one and tossed them across the yard to the squirrels, who had probably been waiting all season for me to make a mistake.

I was disappointed. Maybe even a little angry.
Not just because of the tomatoes. Sometimes one rotten tomato becomes the place where everything else finally shows up.

The financial pressures.


Watching people I admired and believed would make it…walk away from marriages I thought would last forever.


Family struggles I can’t fix.


Dreams that seem to take one step forward and two steps back.


Storm after storm.

The tomatoes just happened to be what broke my heart that morning.

Then I walked around to the other side of the my garden expecting more losses. More disappointments.

But, there she was. My very first zucchini. She hadn’t even been there the last time I looked. Then I remembered something.

The bees hadn’t been showing up because of all the rain. That little zucchini only existed because, one morning, I stepped in and hand-pollinated the flower. At the time it felt almost foolish. I wondered if it would even matter.

Today I held the answer in my hand.

Isn’t that just like God?

Sometimes we become so focused on what’s been damaged that we almost miss what He’s growing on the other side.

The rotten tomatoes were real. But so was the harvest.

Maybe that’s the lesson I needed today.

Not every fruit survives the storm. But neither does every promise die in it.

The storms didn’t stop the zucchini. The rain didn’t cancel the harvest.

The bees didn’t show up… but God still did.

If God asks us to keep planting, keep watering, keep believing, He also has a way of surprising us with fruit we weren’t expecting.

Today, my first zucchini wasn’t just dinner. It was a reminder that disappointment is never the whole story.

Sometimes the blessing you’ve been praying for isn’t gone. It’s simply growing on the other side.

So if today you find yourself throwing rotten tomatoes to the squirrels, don’t leave the garden just yet. Walk around to the other side.

You just might find that while you were grieving what didn’t make it… God was quietly growing something beautiful all along.

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” — Galatians 6:9

Love, Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com ❤️

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Sometimes The Holiest Thing You Can Do is Take A Nap

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I caught my reflection in the mirror today.

My face looked tired. Not just sleepy… worn.

The kind of worn that comes from always running. Always carrying. Always trying to squeeze one more thing into the day before collapsing into bed at night.

Stress and exhaustion have a way of changing our faces long before they change our calendars.

As I stood there looking at myself, I realized something. This was never what God intended.

Somewhere along the way, I started wearing fatigue like a badge of honor. I convinced myself that constantly doing more somehow made me more faithful, more productive, or more valuable.

Then I saw a sign that read:
“Daniel slept in a lion’s den. Peter slept in a prison. Jesus slept in a storm. No matter what your circumstances, you can take a nap.”

I laughed. And I thought about it. Those aren’t just clever words on a sign. They’re reminders that peace isn’t determined by your surroundings.

Daniel didn’t wait until the lions disappeared.
Peter didn’t wait until the prison doors opened.
Jesus didn’t wait until the waves settled.

They rested anyway.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve convinced ourselves that rest is a reward for finishing everything.
“I’ll rest when the laundry is done.”
“I’ll rest when the kids stop needing me.”
“I’ll rest when work slows down.”
“I’ll rest when life gets easier.”

But life keeps moving the finish line.

The Bible paints a different picture. Rest isn’t the absence of responsibility. It’s an act of trust. Every time we lay our heads down, we’re declaring,

“God, I’m no longer trying to be You. You’ll keep the world turning while I close my eyes.”

That doesn’t mean we ignore our responsibilities. Daniel still had lions to face. Peter still had chains around his wrists. Jesus still had a cross ahead of Him.

It simply means that exhaustion isn’t a badge of honor. Sometimes faith looks less like striving… and more like sleeping.

So today, I made a decision. I’m setting a timer during my lunch break. I’m going to find somewhere to lay my head down.

Not because my work is finished. Not because all my problems have disappeared. But because my body is telling the truth my heart has been trying to ignore.

Stressed and tired are a dangerous combination, and they were never God’s design for us.

Perhaps if you’re reading this, you need permission too. Take the nap. Close your eyes.
Trust the One who never does.

After all…

Daniel slept in a lion’s den.
Peter slept in a prison.
Jesus slept in a storm.

Maybe the holiest thing you can do today…

…is take a nap.

“In peace I will lie down and sleep, for You alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.”
Psalm 4:8

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Kindergarten Dreams

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

This month marks 24 or  25 years at my job. I always get confused. Let’s just say a quarter of a century.

I’m grateful. I really am.

This job has put food on my table, helped pay mortgages and medical bills, carried me through cancer, raised children, celebrated grandchildren, and kept the lights on through seasons I never saw coming.

It has been a gift. But if I’m honest…

The thought made me pull the blanket back over my head and wish I was in kindergarten again.

No sales quotas. No deadlines. No responsibilities.

Just nap time, chocolate milk, and somebody else deciding what came next.

Instead, I lay there thinking about twenty-five years. I was thankful. But I was grieving too.

Not because I hated my job. I didn’t. Well not exactly. Lol

I was mourning the woman I thought I would have become by now. The books I thought I would have written. The places I imagined speaking. The dreams I assumed would have happened “one day.”

Somewhere between providing for everyone else and simply surviving life, I quietly convinced myself those dreams could wait.

Then I looked up… and decades had passed.

As I lay there feeling sorry for myself, the Lord interrupted my thoughts with a simple question.

“Who told you I was finished writing your story?”

I couldn’t answer. Because the truth is…

Dead dreams don’t keep showing up. They don’t whisper while you’re driving to work. They don’t find you while you’re digging in a garden. They don’t keep tapping you on the shoulder through devotionals, stories, and moments that won’t leave you alone.

Maybe I wasn’t mourning dead dreams. Maybe I was grieving the timeline I had written for God.

The older I get, the more I’m discovering that God isn’t nearly as concerned with my schedule as I am. He wastes nothing. Not the years. Not the detours.

Not the job that faithfully provided while quietly teaching me lessons I couldn’t have learned anywhere else. Looking back, maybe I wasn’t just building a career.

Maybe God was building a writer. A storyteller. A woman with enough life behind her to recognize His fingerprints in places she once overlooked.

This morning I wanted to hide under the covers like a kindergartener hoping the day would go away. Instead, God reminded me that I’m not in kindergarten anymore.

I’m still in His classroom.

And apparently…

The lesson isn’t over yet.

“Being confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 1:6

Love, Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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When Joy Spins In A Wheelchair

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I was already having one of those days. Maybe it was the stress of a long day at work spilling past quitting time and being made late getting to where I needed to be. Maybe it was the heaviness that has become familiar with my sister Cheryl’s illness.

But tonight, the nursing home had transformed one of its rooms into a prom. There were balloons, music, decorations, smiles, and volunteers who had worked hard to make it special.

Cheryl looked beautiful. She wore a bright red dress, fire engine lipstick and a crown. She smiled at her reflection . For a short while, she was the fashionable diva sister from her youth.

Her son and her former physical therapist proudly escorted her as her two handsome prom dates, while our older sister, Melody, and I happily served as her royal court attendants.

She enjoyed herself.

And yet, if I’m honest, part of me couldn’t stop seeing what wasn’t supposed to be.

It was still a nursing home. She was still in pain. She was still in a wheelchair.

Some losses don’t disappear just because someone hangs streamers on the wall.

Then the music changed.Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” began filling the room.

Across the room sat another resident—a woman a little older than Cheryl. She was dressed in a sparkly black gown with a fluffy tutu peeking beneath it and ballerina slippers on her feet.

When the music started, she didn’t apologize for her wheelchair. She lifted her hands toward the ceiling. She spun. She laughed.

She did wheelies across that nursing home floor as though she were dancing on the biggest stage in the world.

As I sang along with Whitney’s words, she rolled her wheelchair right over to me, reached out with a smile, and invited me to dance with her.

For a moment, she wasn’t asking me to ignore her wheelchair. She was inviting me to look beyond it. I couldn’t stop watching her.

Then something surprised me. I wasn’t feeling pity. I was feeling jealousy.

Not because she could walk. She couldn’t. Not because she wasn’t hurting. I’m sure she was.

 I was jealous because she possessed something I had misplaced:

Joy.

She reminded me that joy isn’t the absence of pain. Joy is refusing to let pain have the final word.

That woman never stood up. But somehow she rose above the room.

I wonder how many of us are waiting to dance until everything is healed. We’re waiting until the diagnosis changes. Until the relationship is restored. Until the finances improve. Until life looks the way we imagined.

But what if joy was never meant to wait for perfect circumstances? What if worship can happen in a wheelchair? What if celebration can exist in a nursing home?

What if God is inviting us to dance while we’re still waiting for the miracle?

That evening , I went to encourage my sister. Instead, God introduced me to a ballerina in a wheelchair who quietly preached a sermon I’ll never forget.

Maybe today you feel confined by something you didn’t choose. A diagnosis. A disappointment. A loss. A season that doesn’t look anything like you prayed it would.

If that’s you, don’t wait for life to become perfect before you lift your hands. Some of the most beautiful dances happen in places where no one expected joy to live.

“You have turned my mourning into dancing…” — Psalm 30:11

Healing isn’t always the first miracle. Sometimes joy is.

 Love, Chelle

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The Fragrance of Basil

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My hands smelled like basil this morning.

I don’t particularly enjoy eating basil by itself. In fact, I’ll probably never snack on a handful of basil leaves. But every time I walk through my little garden, I find myself rubbing a leaf between my fingers.

Hours later, the fragrance is still there.

It made me think about a dream I had years ago. In the dream, I was ushering at a funeral. I spent the service helping everyone else find their seats, passing tissues, comforting grieving families, and doing what ushers do. By the time I finally approached the casket to pay my own respects, something impossible happened.

The deceased sat up.

Looking directly at me, they smiled and said,
“It was your perfume that made me rise.”
I woke up before they explained what they meant, but I never forgot the dream.

Years later, I found myself saying something to another minister that surprised even me.
“I can smell your anointing.”

Now…before rumors started another church meeting, let me explain. 😄 I wasn’t saying the man needed a shower. In fact, the congregation looked at me like I had just announced, “Pastor, you stink.” It took a minute to convince everyone I wasn’t talking about body odor at all.

I wasn’t talking about cologne. I wasn’t talking about lotion.I was trying to describe something words struggle to explain.

There are people whose lives have spent so much time in the presence of God that you sense His peace before they ever open their mouths. Their words aren’t louder. Their personalities aren’t bigger. Yet somehow, they leave behind hope, peace, and life wherever they go.

The Apostle Paul wrote that we are “the aroma of Christ.”

Not because we wear the right fragrance. But because we’ve been close enough to Him that His presence lingers on us.

This morning, while rubbing a basil leaf between my fingers, I realized that basil never has to announce itself or introduce itself. It simply becomes what God created it to be, and everyone who brushes against it leaves carrying its fragrance.

We spend so much time announcing ourselves.
“I’m a minister.”
“I’m an elder.”
“I’m a worship leader.”
“I’m a Christian.”
“Blah, blah, blah” And so on.

There’s nothing wrong with those titles. They describe our calling and our service. But titles were never meant to substitute for transformation.

Basil never says a word. It doesn’t have to convince you it’s basil. It doesn’t wear a name tag. It doesn’t introduce itself before releasing its fragrance.

It simply becomes what God created it to be, and everyone who brushes against it knows they have encountered something different.

Maybe our greatest witness isn’t what we announce about ourselves… Maybe it’s the fragrance people carry away after they’ve encountered us.

Maybe our words comfort. Maybe our patience calms. Maybe our generosity feeds. Maybe our forgiveness heals. Maybe our presence reminds someone that God has not forgotten them.

Long after we’ve left the room…

…the fragrance remains.

This morning, I walked back into my house with basil on my hands. My prayer is that I walk into every room carrying Christ in my spirit.

So today I’m asking myself a different question.

Not…

“What perfume am I wearing?”

But…

“What fragrance am I leaving behind?”

Because if a simple basil plant can leave its scent on my hands with just the slightest touch…

How much more should a life touched by Christ leave behind His love, His peace, and His hope?

May those who brush against our lives leave carrying the fragrance of Christ.

Love, Chelle

“For we are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing.”
— 2 Corinthians 2:15

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When The Role Changes But The Purpose Remains

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Yesterday, I did something that is not unusual for me when I get tired of adulting. I went to see a children’s movie.

Some people head to a spa. Some go shopping. Some book a weekend getaway. I apparently seek spiritual counseling from animated characters.

After a frustrating day at work and life, I exited being grown and didn’t  even stop for a grandchild so i wouldn’t look weird in the theater without a kid. 

I wasn’t looking for a life lesson. I was simply tired and in need of a break from the responsibilities and pressures of everyday life. I walked into the theater looking for a distraction. I walked out with a devotional.

As the story unfolded, I found myself drawn to Sheriff Jessie. Without spoiling Pixar’s story, Jessie finds herself wrestling with a question many of us eventually face: What happens when the role you’ve always known no longer defines your future?

At first glance, it sounds like a children’s movie question. It isn’t. It is a life question.

For years, Jessie understood who she was through a specific role and purpose. Then circumstances changed, and she had to decide whether she would cling to the identity she had always known or embrace the purpose that was still unfolding.

As I sat there with my popcorn, I realized I wasn’t really thinking about Jessie anymore. I was thinking about me.

Most of us spend years introducing ourselves by our roles. We are mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, employees, caregivers, ministers, leaders, providers, and problem-solvers. Those roles matter. They are gifts from God and assignments for a season.

But what happens when a season changes?
What happens when the children grow up?
What happens when retirement appears on the horizon? What happens when a ministry shifts? What happens when a relationship changes?

What happens when the title you’ve carried for years no longer fits as comfortably as it once did?

Too often, we mistake the role for the purpose. The role is simply the container. The purpose is what God placed inside it.

Moses was a prince before he was a shepherd. He was a shepherd before he was a deliverer.

Peter was a fisherman before he became a disciple.

Esther was an orphan before she became a queen.

Paul was a Pharisee before he became an apostle.

The roles changed. The purpose remained.

As I watched Jessie struggle with letting go of who she thought she was, I began to wonder how many of us are fighting the same battle. Sometimes God asks us to release an identity that has become too small for where He is leading us.

Not because the old role was bad. Not because the old season was a failure. But because the role was never meant to be permanent.

Recently, my garden has been preaching the same sermon. My potato plants are dying back. The leaves are yellowing. The vines are flopping. To an untrained eye, it looks like something is dying.

And it is.

But underneath the soil, something beautiful has been growing all along. The purpose was never the leaves. The leaves were evidence of the process. The harvest was hidden beneath the surface.

Yesterday morning, I found myself sad because some of the joy I usually feel in the garden seemed harder to find. Life had been busy. Responsibilities had piled up. Grief, work, caregiving, deadlines, and adulting had all been taking up more space than I wanted them to.

Then it rained.

While I sat in a movie theater watching Sheriff Jessie wrestle with purpose, the sky was watering my garden.

God has a way of doing that. He reminds us that not everything depends on us. Sometimes while we are busy worrying about the leaves, He is tending the harvest.

Perhaps you are standing in a season where the leaves are changing. A role may be ending. A chapter may be closing. A title may be shifting. If so, do not be afraid.

When God changes the role, He has not abandoned the purpose. What He planted in you is still there. What He called you to be is still there. What He spoke over your life is still there.

The role may change.

The purpose remains.

Love, Chelle

Pray with me:

Father, help me recognize the difference between my role and my purpose. When You call me into a new season, give me the courage to release what is familiar and trust what You are growing beneath the surface. Remind me that my value is not found in a title, an assignment, or the expectations of others, but in being Your child. When the leaves begin to change, help me trust the harvest You have been preparing all along. In Jesus’ name, Amen.