Tag: christmas

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When the Tool Ate the Manuscript (and Almost My Heart)

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Let me tell you what almost took me out.

For weeks—WEEKS—I have been doing the holy, unglamorous work of editing and reorganizing a soon-to-be book.
Moving chapters.
Fixing commas that think they run things.
Re-threading stories.
Listening for where God was nudging—and where I was just rambling.

This was faithful work. Quiet work.
The kind nobody claps for.

And then…
The tool I use to assist and “catch mistakes” decided to eat my manuscript.

Not nibble.
Not misplace a paragraph.
Eat it.

I have survived cancer, grief, caregiving, deadlines, and ice storms—but watching weeks of careful labor vanish off a screen?
That will make your chest tighten and your salvation flicker for a hot second.

I sat there spiraling:
Did I just lose half a book?
Am I behind now?
Did I just waste weeks of my life arguing with chapter headings?

Cue the dramatic sigh.
Cue me talking to my laptop like it had personally betrayed the family.

And then—grace, wearing sneakers—slid in sideways and whispered:

Your work is not gone.
You are not behind.
We did not lose half a book.

Because real work doesn’t live only in files.
It lives in muscle memory, lived experience, and a heart that’s been steeped in the message.

And Scripture backs this up.

“So I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten…”
— Joel 2:25

God restores years, not just results.
Restoration doesn’t always look like retrieval.
What God restores often comes back stronger.

So breathe.
Roll your shoulders.
Open a new document.

The words still know how to find you.
And the story is very much alive.

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Snowmaggedon Has Entered the Chat

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Well… here we are.


My favorite weather man is forecasting the first official Snowmaggedon of the season: six to twelve inches of snow, up to an inch of ice layered on top, and—because chaos loves company—the delightful possibility of losing power. Naturally planned for a post-work weekend, because rest is apparently negotiable.
I’ve done my preps.
Grandma’s provision list? Checked.
Every extra blanket in the house washed, folded, and staged like we’re auditioning for Little House on the Prairie: Dominion Energy Edition.
Candles. Tea lights. Batteries. Flashlights. The full “we will survive this living room” starter kit.
I’ve been digging through storage bins to find the reflective cover for my greenhouse, determined to protect my plant babies outside. Because if the lights flicker and the world goes quiet, somebody still needs to be covered. We will endure together—warm-ish, faithful, and protected.
This isn’t panic prepping.
This is inheritance.
This is what happens when you’re raised by women who trusted God and kept extra blankets. Women who understood that peace doesn’t come from pretending storms don’t happen—it comes from knowing you’re sheltered when they do.
“He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge.” — Psalm 91:4
That verse feels different when you’re pulling covers over tender things.
When you’re choosing care over chaos.
When you’re preparing not out of fear, but out of love.
And when the work is done—when the candles are set and the covers are pulled tight—there’s permission to rest.
“In peace I will lie down and sleep, for You alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.” — Psalm 4:8
Now, the only thing I’m not prepared for is being snowed in with young people who have never experienced boredom—or a power outage—as a character-building event. Back in my day we stared at walls and survived…
But even then… provision has already been made.
And that, right there, is peace—with a little sass and a lot of covering.
Love,
Chelle

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Before Dawn Breaks

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Dear Martin,

Thank you for the courage it took
to love loudly
in a world fluent in hate.

Believing the long work could move
even when your hands were tired
from holding up the gate.

Our marching turned to sleepwalking.
Scars.
Stains.
Graves faded into parades.

Why teach us to love our crayoned brothers
when our sisters are heard passing
on streets made of rumor and rage.

We mastered resistance
only to trade it in
for the soft, comfy
quiet chairs of apathy.

Economic empowerments
became the next big sale,
freedom measured in discounts—
forgetting life ain’t free.

I wonder if you are proud us
I wonder if pride and grief
can do a sit-in
at the same table.

Laws need courage.
Platforms for voices.
Access breeds action.
Dream me not a fable.

I hope you see both things—
two things true at once
what we protected
and what we neglected.

The laws we guarded fiercely.
The people we forgot quietly.
What we defended,
then defected.

Still—
there are mornings when children march
without knowing your name
but carrying your dream
in their bones.

There are hands that reach back.
Feet that refuse silence.
Hearts that choose love—
to  let live  and to be left alone.

So if you are watching,
there are still some of us trying,
avoiding rose-colored glasses
and wide-angled scopes.

I hope you notice
some of us straining
to answer  the silence you were buried in
with shaking hands,
quiet prayers,
and stubborn hope.

Sincerely
a daughter of the dream
still learning how to keep it alive,
while  having it deemed woke.

Penned January 2026 – Michelle Gillison-Robinson

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Thinning Is Not Killing (Even Though It Felt Like It)

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I stood in my greenhouse clutching scissors like I was about to commit a felony.
These weren’t plants.
These were my plant babies.
I grew them.
I watered them.
I whispered encouragement like a slightly unhinged garden aunt.
And now I was being told they were “too crowded.”


Excuse me???
They looked happy.
Thriving.
Living their best leafy lives.
But apparently, love without boundaries leads to chaos.
Who knew.


The word thinning showed up—
and my heart heard destruction.
Because when you’re wired like me,
making room feels an awful lot like abandonment.


I mean, how do you explain to a perfectly healthy kale plant
that it’s not being rejected—
it’s just being relocated, harvested early, or “released into purpose”?


I felt like I was ruining everything.
Until I realized…
nothing was being wasted.
Some plants were transplanted.
Some were harvested and nourished something immediately.


And the ones left behind?
They finally had space to become what they were always meant to be.
That’s when it hit me.
Pruning doesn’t change who we are.
It reveals it.
God isn’t cutting us down—


He’s cutting away what keeps us from becoming strong, rooted, and fruitful.
Not every removal is punishment.
Not every loss is failure.
Some things leave so we can finally grow into ourselves.


“Every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit.” — John 15:2


Pruning feels personal when you’re emotionally attached to the leaves.
But it’s the very thing that shapes the harvest.
Thinning is not killing.
It’s the painful, purposeful process of becoming.


And if I’m honest…
I still apologized to my kale,
needed a moment of silence,
and may require counseling before the next round of thinning.


Because apparently God and gardening are both committed
to making us who we’re supposed to be—
even when we’re dramatic about it.


With 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

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When Joy Waits

Posted in cancer, christmas, faith, God, inspiration, love, relationships, selfhelp, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

I’ve been sitting with these thoughts since Christmas Eve, wanting to honor tender hearts.


During this season, I know several people walking through fresh grief — the loss of parents, spouses, siblings, children, grandchildren.

Others carry a different kind of ache: childhoods that hold no warm memories to return to. One person even whispered that they weren’t sure they wanted to live to see the New Year.


That kind of pain deserves reverence, not rush.


I was determined not to meet their sorrow with well-meaning clichés — “volunteer,” “adopt a family,” “stay busy,” “choose joy.” Those things can be beautiful, and I do them now. But it took me years of sitting inside my own grief before I could get there. Years before someone else’s smile softened the sting instead of feeling like salt in the wound.
So I don’t beat people over the head with happiness.


Sometimes the greatest gift we can give is not advice, not solutions, not silver linings — but presence. To sit. To be quiet. To resist the urge to fix. To simply watch and wait with someone.


Scripture tells us:
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18


Notice what it doesn’t say.
It doesn’t say God rushes the brokenhearted.
It doesn’t say He lectures them into joy.
It says He is close.


Jesus did come to bring joy to the world — but grief, like the ocean, comes in waves. And the return to joy doesn’t arrive all at once. It comes in stages.


That truth surprised me again while watching Disney’s “Inside Out 2”. When Joy tried to take over too quickly — before the main character was ready — it didn’t heal her. It pushed her deeper into despair. What she needed wasn’t forced positivity. She needed permission to sit with sorrow and memory for a while without being rushed toward “better.”


Sometimes joy doesn’t need to be summoned.
It needs to be allowed to come back when it’s ready.


If this season finds you heavy, please hear this:
You are not failing because you aren’t cheerful.
You are not weak because you’re tired.
You are not faithless because joy hasn’t returned yet.


Jesus is close to the tenderhearted — not waiting on the other side of your healing, but sitting with you right in the middle of it.
And sometimes, that quiet companionship is the most sacred gift of all.

Can we pray?
Jesus,
You who are close to the brokenhearted,
draw near to every tender soul reading this.

For those carrying fresh grief,
sit with them in the quiet where words fall short.
For those whose memories ache instead of comfort,
hold them without asking them to explain.

Guard them from the pressure to perform joy
before it has found its way home again.
Give permission for tears, for pauses, for breathing slowly.

Where sorrow comes in waves,
be the steady presence that does not leave.
And when joy is ready to return — even in small, fragile ways —
let it arrive gently, without force or fear.

Until then, be enough.
Be near.
Be kind to the tenderhearted.

Amen.

For Shelby. Heaven makes noise a 3 a.m. just for you.

Love, Chelle

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Faith With A Yawn

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(Or: When Christmas Finally Got Me)


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

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

Christmas finally got me.

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded off at the table.

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

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

My body told the truth before my mouth ever would.

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

Sometimes they do.
Sometimes… they don’t.

And God doesn’t shame us for that.

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

That verse doesn’t scold.
It exhales.

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

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

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

And that’s okay.

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

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


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Seasonal Plants, Seasonal People

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A Virgin Gardener’s Confession


I buy poinsettias every year for one reason and one reason only: color.
Not longevity.
Not horticultural excellence.
Certainly not because I have a long-term relationship with plants.
This year, they had an added job description:
Cover the bottom of the Christmas tree so nobody notices I ran out of lights.
Mission accomplished.


Until Christmas Day.
That’s when the leaves started dropping.
Now, let me be clear:
I am a virgin gardener.
I don’t pretend to know plant science.
I buy things for vibes and hope for the best.


So my first instinct was to feel accused.
What did I do wrong?
Did I overwater? Underwater? Look at it funny?
But then it hit me.
The poinsettias weren’t failing.
They were finished.
They had done exactly what they were created to do — bring color, warmth, and beauty to the season.


But I had quietly reassigned them.
I wanted them to hold weight they were never meant to carry.
And when Christmas arrived — when their purpose had been fulfilled — they began to let go.
Leaves dropping isn’t always a problem.
Sometimes it’s a release.


That’s when the Spirit gently tapped me and said,
You do this too.
We stretch ourselves past our assignment.
We keep covering gaps that were meant to be temporary.
We try to stay vibrant in seasons that are asking us to rest.
And then we panic when we feel ourselves dropping leaves.
But maybe we’re not dying.
Maybe we’re done.
We can’t force beyond purpose or season.
Not plants. Not people. Not souls.
Even Scripture reminds us:
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
— Ecclesiastes 3:1


The poinsettia doesn’t apologize for being seasonal.
It doesn’t strive to be evergreen.
It simply shows up, shines, and then releases.
There is wisdom in that.


So this Christmas, if you feel a little bare…
If something beautiful in you feels like it’s letting go…
If you’re tempted to label it failure —
Pause.


Ask instead:
Did I serve my season well?
Because sometimes the holiest thing you can do
is stop forcing bloom
and allow rest.


— Signed,
A Virgin Gardener
Learning to let things be what they were created to be 🌺

Love Chelle

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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