Tag: christmas

Image

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

Image

When The Living Room Is Empty

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

Faith With Hospital Wristbands, Holiday Chaos, and Learning to Rest Without Guilt

Normally, this is my season.
From Thanksgiving to Christmas, my house is supposed to look like
Mrs. Claus and Oprah teamed up and ignored every fire code.
For almost 21 years, I’ve carried on what my grandma started —
“You get a gift. You get a coat. You get a toy.”
Everybody gets something.
No background check. No budget meeting. Just love.


We weren’t rich growing up — not even a little —
but my grandma taught me that giving is sacrifice
with beautiful returns and terrible timing.
She made generosity feel like oxygen:
you don’t hoard it, you breathe it out.
But the last two years?
Chaos said, “Oh, you like traditions? Cute.”


Last year, I nearly exited the planet
thanks to an emergency gallbladder infection —
which, for the record, did not come with a warning email.
This year — almost to the day —
my husband decided to add a cardiac episode
to the holiday calendar.
Nothing says Merry Christmas like hospital wristbands
and vending-machine dinners.


So instead of my living room being stacked with toys and coats
to the point of requiring alternate routes and safety briefings,
it stayed… walkable.
No piles.
No rerouting.
No “don’t trip, that’s for the kids” warnings.


And I hated how much that hurt.


Because when chaos is my idea, I thrive.
I can organize mess.
I can schedule generosity.
I can turn madness into ministry.


But this chaos?
This one flipped the table and said,
“You’re going to sit down now.”


The guilt tried to convince me I’d lost my purpose.
That I’d failed Mrs. Claus school.
That someone else stepping up meant I’d been replaced.


But Jesus doesn’t measure faithfulness in square footage or stack height.
And He doesn’t shame people whose bodies clock out before their hearts do.


“God loves a cheerful giver.” — 2 Corinthians 9:7


And some seasons, cheer looks like wrapping gifts.
Some seasons, it looks like sacrifice.


And some seasons — the loud, scary, unplanned ones —
it looks like surviving, laughing anyway,
and whispering thank You from a hospital chair.


An empty living room doesn’t mean an empty calling.
It just means love changed outfits this year.
Someone else stepping up isn’t proof I’ve been replaced —
it’s proof the lesson worked.
And maybe this season,
the most generous thing I can give
is rest without guilt
and faith with hospital wristbands.


Pocket Peace:
Jesus, meet me in the chaos —
the ER lights, the interrupted plans, the traditions on pause.
Remind me that purpose doesn’t disappear when life goes sideways —
it adapts, it waits, it trusts You
to keep the giving going
even when my hands are shaking
and my living room is suspiciously clean.
Amen.

Image

The Muddy Jesus

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


“The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us.” — John 1:14 (NIV)

There are few places where patience is tested more than a medical waiting room.
The chairs are uncomfortable. The clock is loud. And the results take exactly as long as they need to — never as long as I want.

Waiting is not my spiritual gift.
I am a doer. A fixer. A let’s-handle-this-now kind of woman.
So when all I can do is sit and wait for medical results, my faith feels exposed.

That’s where I picture Jesus.

Not standing with answers.
Not hovering with a clipboard.
But sitting beside me — mud on His hands, calm in His posture, completely unbothered by the clock.

I remember the story where He knelt in the dirt, mixed mud with His own saliva, and used it to heal a blind man.
Healing didn’t come through cleanliness or speed —
it came through touch, obedience, and trust in the process.

John tells us the Word became flesh.
Jesus didn’t float above uncertainty — He stepped into it.
He understood human time. Delays. Pauses. Moments when answers didn’t come right away.

The mud on His hands reminds me He’s been working long before I ever sat down in this chair.
Even when I can’t see it.
Especially when I can’t rush it.

And yes… I’d still prefer a fast answer.
But there is something holy happening in the waiting — even if I grumble a little while it happens.

Reflecting Mud

If patience were a muscle, mine would need physical therapy.

But maybe reflecting Jesus isn’t about mastering patience.
Maybe it’s about staying present long enough for healing to unfold.

We reflect the muddy Jesus when we:
• sit with someone waiting for test results instead of filling the silence
• admit we’re anxious without pretending we’re fine
• trust that God can use imperfect moments for holy work

Sometimes faith isn’t tidy.
Sometimes it looks like dirt and delay and trust.

The same hands that once held mud for healing
are still at work today.


Jesus,
You healed with mud and patience and presence.
Sit with me while I wait for answers I can not control.
Help me trust the work of Your hands —
even when they are muddy
and mine are empty.
Teach me to stay.
Amen.

Love Chelle

Image

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

Image

The Bottom Half Is Resting In Grace

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

Finding God in unfinished rooms, half-lit trees, and early-morning grace

I told myself I wasn’t writing today.
But grace has a way of interrupting plans.

For three mornings in a row, I noticed the time: 5:55 a.m.
Not because I was looking for it.
Not because I set an alarm.
I just happened to glance up — again and again — and there it was.

Triple grace.

It found me in a cluttered living room that still smelled wrong.
In a Christmas tree where the lights didn’t reach the bottom.
In a body asking for gentler care that I had time  to give it.

Nothing about the moment was polished.
Nothing was finished.
And yet, grace showed up anyway.

Grace for what I couldn’t fix.
Grace for what was still uneven.
Grace for the parts of my life that are bright in places and dim in others.

So I will add extra  ornaments where the light falls  short and call it enough.
Because sometimes the bottom half isn’t broken —
it’s just resting in grace.

And maybe that’s what grace does best.
It doesn’t announce itself.
It waits to be noticed.

“Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence,
so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.”
— Hebrews 4:16

So I took my own advice.
I rested my bottom half in the grace of a recliner, wrapped my hands around a cup of fragrant peppermint tea, and closed my eyes long enough to ignore the uneven lights.
I didn’t fix anything else.
I didn’t prove anything.
I just rested.

Sometimes grace doesn’t ask us to finish the job.
Sometimes it invites us to sit down in the middle of it.

Love Chelle

Image

DEAR GOD… THESE BULBS AIN’T BULBING

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

SCRIPTURE
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” — John 1:5


There is nothing quite like a Christmas tree to expose the truth about your spiritual maturity. All year long you can love people, show grace, pray faithfully, encourage the saints… but let one strand of lights refuse to light, and suddenly you’re two seconds from throwing the whole tree — and half of your Christianity — out the window.

I stood there staring at a section of lights that worked perfectly last year. This morning? Dead. Dim. Uncooperative. Just like some seasons in my life.

I kept tugging, twisting, tapping, and praying under my breath — the kind of “Jesus help me before I say something” prayer. Because I could feel the frustration rising, not just from the tree, but from everything I’ve been carrying these past few days.

And right in the middle of the chaos, God whispered:

“All light isn’t broken… Some of it just needs to be reconnected.”

It stopped me. Because that’s exactly how I’ve been feeling: 
Tired in spots. 
Dim in places. 
Still trying to shine, but not nearly as bright as I used to.

Sometimes we’re not broken — we’re just overwhelmed. 
Sometimes we’re not out of faith — we’re out of energy. 
Sometimes the problem isn’t the whole strand — it’s just one little place that needs a reset.

And here’s the good news: 
God knows how to find the bulb that’s not bulbing. 
And He knows how to restore the light.

Even when we don’t have the patience. 
Even when we want to throw everything back in the box until next Christmas. 
Even when we’re standing there with tears, peppermint tea, and attitude.

Purpose doesn’t disappear because one section went dark. 
Your life is still lit. 
Your calling is still glowing. 
Your hope is still wired into Him.

And if I need to add a new string of lights on top? God isn’t offended. Sometimes grace looks like “make it easier for yourself, daughter.”

-Love Chelle

Image

Dear God – When Caregiving Hurts and Heals

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

DEAR GOD… WHEN CAREGIVING HURTS, HEALS, AND LEANS HEAVY ON MY SHOULDERS

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9

Today, I told myself I would wait until the temperature climbed to at least forty degrees before heading out to decorate my sister’s room at the nursing home for Christmas. I’m bringing her a case of pudding and picking up the dirty laundry — the usual “big sister doing what needs to be done” routine.

But before I even put my coat on, a familiar companion showed up… guilt.

Not guilt because I don’t want to help — I do, with all my heart.
But guilt because sometimes… Lord, I am just tired.

Tired from my own responsibilities.
Tired from my job, my husband’s appointments, my grandchildren, my writing, my own body acting up on me.
Tired from being pulled in ten different directions while trying to stay whole myself.

And there’s a special kind of guilt that comes with caregiving when you are exhausted.
A guilt that whispers, “You should be doing more.”
A guilt that berates you for needing a break.
A guilt that makes you feel like resting means failing.

Especially when the person you’re caring for is your younger sister.
Only 48.
Bed bound.
Multiple strokes.
Speech limited.
Taken down by a condition we didn’t even know existed until it barged into our family like a thief in the night.

Sometimes I walk into her room and see her lying there, and my heart squeezes because I remember who she used to be — strong, funny, quick-witted, full of that younger-sister attitude that kept me on my toes.
And then another wave hits:
How dare I complain about being tired when she would give anything to switch places with me for one day?

But Lord… that is not the truth You want me to carry.

Because even with her limitations, she and I still do what sisters do:
trash talk, laugh, joke, roll our eyes, and make the nurses wonder what on earth is going on in Room Whatever-It-Is-This-Week.
She’s still her, and I’m still me, and our sisterhood refuses to die.

And yet, the guilt still shows up when I catch myself sighing too hard, or wishing for one quiet weekend, or resenting the cold weather because caregiving is already heavy enough.

But today, Father, You whispered something to my heart:

“Guilt is not your assignment. Grace is.”

Caregiving is not a competition of strength.
It is not a performance for heaven.
It is not a test You are grading me on.

It is love lived out loud.
It is compassion with skin on it.
It is the ministry nobody sees but You.

Decorating her room today…
It’s not just Christmas décor.
It’s dignity.
It’s joy.
It’s a reminder that she is still here and still loved.
And it is a reminder that I am still allowed to be human.

So Lord, when the guilt rises because life is heavy,
when responsibilities pile up faster than I can carry them,
when I feel torn between caring for her and caring for myself,
remind me:

You never asked me to do this perfectly.
You only asked me to do it with love.
And love, even tired love, is still holy.

With Love,
Chelle

Image

Entertained By Angels

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

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.

Image

Smiles And Tears Cake

Posted in cancer, cancer, chemotherapy, christmas, God, health, inspiration, love, money, relationships, selfhelpTagged , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

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.

Smiles and Tears
Image

Reset

Posted in cancer, chemotherapy, christmas, God, health, inspiration, love, relationshipsTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

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.