Tag: church

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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

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

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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Heaven Is Moving Furniture

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

This week arrived carrying more heartache than I thought one heart could hold.

Hospital rooms. Goodbyes. A young life lost too soon. Family relationships strained to the breaking point. Watching people I love fight battles I cannot fight for them. Trying to keep working while my heart wanted to sit still for a while.

By the time the week reached Wednesday morning, I felt like I had been carrying far more than my share.

Then, at four o’clock this morning, the thunder woke me before the alarm ever had a chance.

As a little girl, my grandmother never called it a thunderstorm. She would smile and say, “Baby, that’s just Heaven moving furniture.”

I still think of her every time the windows rattle.

This morning, I lay there listening to the deep rumble overhead, tea waiting in the kitchen, rain tapping against the roof, and my stomach still reminding me that stress has a way of settling into places we never invited it.

Then I remembered my favorite scripture whenever the weather frightens me:

“He weighs the wind and measures the waters by measure. When He made a decree for the rain, and a way for the lightning of the thunder.” — Job 28:25–26

What an incredible thought.

The wind has weight.
The rain has measure.
The lightning has a path.

Nothing about the storm is accidental.

Every gust…
Every drop…
Every clap of thunder…

God already knows exactly where it belongs.

If He is careful enough to weigh something I cannot even see, then surely He has not lost sight of the burdens I carry.

If He measures every drop of rain, then He certainly measures every tear.

If He charts a path for lightning across the heavens, then He has already marked a path through every storm I will ever face.

Maybe that’s why my grandmother’s words still bring me comfort. Perhaps Heaven really is moving furniture.

Not because God is scrambling to fix what caught Him by surprise—but because He is always preparing what comes next. Rearranging what no longer belongs. Making room for blessings I cannot yet see. Moving things into place before I ever arrive.

Maybe He’s making room for healing where sickness has lived too long.

Maybe He’s making room for peace where grief has settled in.

Maybe He’s making room for restoration where relationships have been broken.

And maybe, just maybe, what sounds like thunder to us is simply the sound of God preparing tomorrow.

As I listened to the thunder this morning, I wondered if God was doing more than shaking the sky.

Maybe He was rearranging my perspective.

Maybe He was reminding me that what feels like chaos to me is still under His careful hand.

Maybe He was whispering that before He sends new mercies, He often makes room for them.

So instead of fearing the thunder, I listened.

And somewhere between the rumble of the sky and the whisper of God’s Word, I found peace. Enough to nod back off instead of my normal routine of rushing into my day.

The same God who weighs the wind is carrying me.

The same God who measures the waters is measuring out grace for today.

And the same God who makes a path for the lightning has already made a path for me.

Sometimes the storm isn’t announcing God’s absence.

Sometimes it’s simply the sound of Heaven moving furniture.

Love,
Chelle

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What Does God Forget?

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Recently, I’ve been watching a few Nigerian dramas, and I’ve noticed a phrase that seems to appear whenever a character is struggling.

Someone will eventually look at the person facing hardship and say, “Maybe God has forgotten you.”

Every time I hear it, something inside me pushes back.

Not because I don’t understand the pain behind the statement. I do.

Most of us have lived through seasons when prayers seemed unanswered, doors stayed closed, healing took longer than expected, and hope felt delayed. In those moments, it is easy to wonder if God has overlooked us.

David certainly felt that way.

“How long, O Lord? Will You forget me forever?” (Psalm 13:1)

The remarkable thing about Scripture is that it doesn’t hide these questions. It records them honestly. God’s people have always wrestled with disappointment, delay, and uncertainty.

But feelings and facts are not always the same thing.

When Israel feared they had been abandoned, God answered with one of the most tender promises in Scripture:

“Can a woman forget her nursing child, and not have compassion on the son of her womb? Surely they may forget, yet I will not forget you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands.” (Isaiah 49:15-16)

God does not lose track of His children.

He remembered Noah in the flood.

He remembered Hannah in her barrenness.

He remembered Rachel in her grief.

He remembered Israel in captivity.

And He remembers you.

What is easy to miss is that God saw them long before the answer arrived.

He saw Hannah before Samuel was born.

He saw Joseph before the palace and before the prison doors opened.

He saw David before the throne while he was still tending sheep in obscurity.

He saw Martha and Mary before Lazarus walked out of the tomb.

He saw Noah while the rain was still falling.

In every case, there was a season when heaven seemed quiet, circumstances appeared unchanged, and no visible evidence suggested that God was moving.

Yet silence was not absence.

Delay was not neglect.

And quiet was not proof that God had forgotten them.

The same God who saw them before the answer came sees you now.

He sees the prayer you are still praying.

He sees the promise you are still waiting for.

He sees the tears no one else notices.

He sees the faith it takes to trust Him when nothing appears to be changing.

Just because you cannot yet see the answer does not mean God has stopped watching over the situation.

Sometimes people point to verses where God invites His people to remind Him of His promises and ask, “If God never forgets, why does He tell us to put Him in remembrance?”

“Put Me in remembrance; let us contend together…” (Isaiah 43:26)

I don’t believe God asks for reminders because He misplaced the promise.

I believe He invites us to remind Him because we are the ones who forget.

When we rehearse His Word, pray His promises, and declare what He has spoken, our faith is strengthened. Our hearts are anchored. Our perspective is corrected.

The reminder is not for His memory.

The reminder is for our confidence.

Which brings me to a question that stopped me in my tracks:

If God remembers His covenant, remembers His promises, remembers His people, remembers mercy, and remembers our tears, what does God forget?

According to Scripture, there is one thing He repeatedly promises not to remember.

Forgiven sin.

“I, even I, am He who blots out your transgressions for My own sake; and I will not remember your sins.” (Isaiah 43:25)

“Their sins and lawless deeds I will remember no more.” (Hebrews 10:17)

“You will cast all our sins into the depths of the sea.” (Micah 7:19)

God does not forget because He is absent-minded. He chooses not to hold confessed and forgiven sin against us. Through the finished work of Jesus Christ, what has been covered by grace is no longer counted against us.

Think about the beauty of that.

The God who remembers every promise has chosen to forget every forgiven failure.

The God who remembers your name, your prayers, your tears, and your purpose chooses not to remember the sins you have surrendered to Him.

So the next time hardship lingers and the enemy whispers, “Maybe God has forgotten you,” answer with the truth.

God has not forgotten where you live.

He has not forgotten what He promised.

He has not forgotten your prayers.

He has not forgotten your tears.

He has not forgotten your name.

The only thing God has promised to forget is the sin you’ve placed under the blood of Jesus.

And that is something worth remembering.

Love, Chelle

defygravitywithoutwings.com

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The Weight I Was Never Meant To Carry

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My grandmother used to remind me that the devil is in the details.

Since I am not allowing the devil to win anything today, I’ll leave out the details of recent situations that wounded people I love and, in turn, wounded my heart. The specifics aren’t important anyway. Pain has a way of changing faces while telling the same story.

What surprised me wasn’t the offense itself. It was how quickly I found myself praying for the offenders before the offense had time to settle into my spirit.

Not because I am especially holy. Not because the hurt wasn’t real. Not because I suddenly understood everything.

But because I’ve lived long enough to know that bitterness is expensive. If you don’t deal with it quickly, it starts charging interest.

As I prayed, I was reminded of Job. We often focus on his suffering, his losses, and his endurance. Yet one of the most remarkable moments in his story comes when he prays for those who wounded him.

Job prayed for people who had misjudged him while he was still carrying his own wounds. He wasn’t pretending they hadn’t hurt him. He wasn’t saying they were right. He simply placed them in God’s hands instead of keeping them in his own.

I used to think release meant agreement. I thought if I stopped rehearsing the offense, I was pretending it never happened. If I stopped holding someone accountable in my heart, I was somehow declaring them innocent.

But God has been teaching me something different.

Release is not approval.

Release is trust.

It is placing people back into the hands of the One who sees everything I cannot see. The One who knows every wound, every motive, every hidden struggle, and every missed opportunity.

Sometimes the hardest people to release are not our enemies. They are the people we loved. The people who disappointed us. The people who hurt us while holding a place in our lives.

We want justice.
We want understanding.
We want healing.
We want the story to end differently.

Yet there comes a holy moment when we stop trying to manage the outcome and simply pray:

“Lord, have mercy on them.”

And in the same breath:

“Lord, have mercy on me.”

That prayer does not erase the past. It simply acknowledges that I was never meant to carry the final verdict.

Some burdens belong to God.

Some people belong to God.

And so do I.

Maybe forgiveness is not always a destination. Maybe sometimes it is a decision we make over and over again before resentment has a chance to take root. Maybe it is choosing prayer before bitterness, surrender before judgment, and trust before understanding.

Whatever it is, I know this:

The weight feels lighter when I stop carrying what was never mine to hold.

Love, Chelle

defygravitywithoutwings.com

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A Release of Miracles

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There is a particular kind of grief that comes when someone you love is still here, but you are watching them grow weary from the battle.
It is not the sharp grief of a single loss. It is a quieter grief. A slower one.
It is loving, hoping, helping, praying, adjusting, advocating, and wondering how much more their body can endure.


As I sat in church today, my thoughts drifted to my younger sister Cheryl. After years of strokes, limitations, therapies, setbacks, and victories that most people never see, she is tired. Not tired of life. Not tired of love. Tired of a body that no longer cooperates with the plans she once had for it.


As one of her sisters and amongst an army of caregivers, it is a difficult thing to watch.
When someone you love is hurting, every part of you wants to fix it. You want to pray the right prayer. Find the right doctor. Discover the right treatment. Speak the right words.
You want the miracle. I wanted to witness the miracle.  I had declared it would be a big one with a testimony  that we would be jealous of.


But somewhere along the journey, many caregivers find themselves praying a different prayer. 
“Lord, Your will be done.”

I heard painfully, repeatedly and with soul crushing tears to release my expectations and my need to “see it my way.”
Not because I  have stopped believing.
Because I have learned to trust.


One of the hardest lessons of faith is accepting that what we hope a miracle looks like may be different from what God has planned.


We pray for complete healing.
God may provide strength for one more day.
We pray for the storm to stop.
God may provide peace in the middle of it.
We pray for the mountain to move.
God may teach us how to climb.
None of those answers mean God failed.
They simply mean God sees a bigger picture than we do.


That can be frustrating for people like me. I like answers. I like solutions. I like seeing how all the pieces fit together. But faith does not require me to understand God’s plan.


Faith requires me to trust the One who does.
There is a freedom that comes when we stop trying to second-guess God.
We are not called to be His advisors.
We are not called to explain His timing.
We are not called to understand every twist and turn of the journey.
We are called to trust Him.


Even Jesus prayed, “Not my will, but Yours be done.”
If the Son of God could surrender His preferred outcome to the Father, perhaps I can surrender mine too.


That does not mean I stop praying for Cheryl.
It does not mean I stop believing for miracles.
It simply means I place both the prayer and the outcome in God’s hands.
For years, I have watched Cheryl fight battles she never asked for. I have watched her endure things that would have broken many people. Through it all, I have learned something about love.
Love is not always fixing.
Sometimes love is showing up.
Sometimes love is sitting quietly.
Sometimes love is holding a hand.
Sometimes love is trusting God when you cannot trace what He is doing.


Today, my prayer is simple.
Lord, hold Cheryl close.
Strengthen her where she is weak.
Comfort her where she is weary.
Remind her she is loved.
And help me trust You with the parts of this story that belong only to You.
Because the greatest miracle is not always getting the outcome we wanted.
Sometimes the greatest miracle is discovering that God is still trustworthy when the outcome looks different than we imagined.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.”
Proverbs 3:5
This is especially for you if you are loving someone through a battle you cannot fight for them. We see the weight you carry, the prayers you whisper, and the tears you hide. Most of all, God sees you. 💜
Love Chelle
Defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Silent Screaming

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

Trigger Warning: This reflection discusses grief, youth violence, childhood trauma, emotional neglect, and the long-term impact of silence within families and communities.

I thought I was just there to sing.

Instead, after my last song,  I sat listening to a mother whose 19-year-old son had been killed less than five minutes from home. She described him as the good kid. The one who checked on his parents. The one who helped people. The one who stayed connected.

And somehow, despite all of that goodness, she now lives with the reality that she had to bury him.

What shook me even more was not just her pain, but her posture.

As she spoke about the young man responsible receiving a 46-year sentence, I heard both grief and forgiveness in her voice. Not weakness. Not denial. Just a heartbreaking understanding that tragedy had swallowed more than one life that night.

She spoke about childhood trauma. About children carrying pain nobody stops to address until it explodes into violence in the streets. And then she said something that settled heavily in my spirit. She talked about the dangerous things we normalize in our homes:

“Children are to be seen and not heard.”

“What happens in this house stays in this house.”

For generations, many of us were taught those sayings as discipline, respect, or family loyalty. But sometimes those same words teach children something else entirely:

Your feelings do not matter here.

Your pain is inconvenient here.

Your truth is unsafe here.

So children learn to survive by swallowing emotions they were never meant to carry alone. Fear gets buried. Anger gets buried. Shame gets buried. Hurt gets buried.

But buried pain does not disappear.

Eventually it leaks somewhere.

Sometimes it leaks into addiction.
Sometimes into rage.
Sometimes into depression.
Sometimes into violence.
Sometimes into emotional numbness.
Sometimes into streets filled with children trying to release emotions nobody allowed them to safely process at home.

As I listened to her speak, a familiar phrase rose in my spirit so strongly that I walked up and shared it with her afterward.

I told her, “I call it silent screaming.”

Because that is exactly what so many people are doing.

They are screaming internally while functioning externally.

Smiling.
Working.
Going to church.
Posting selfies.
Making jokes.
Serving others.
Showing up every Sunday while quietly unraveling inside.

And honestly, the church should be leading the effort to erase silent screaming.

Not by becoming a place where people perfect appearances, but by becoming safe enough for honesty again.

Too many people have mastered church behavior while still bleeding emotionally underneath the surface. We know how to shout over pain, dance over pain, quote Scripture over pain, and hide pain behind ministry titles.

But Jesus always stopped for what was underneath.

He noticed the overlooked.
He listened to the hurting.
He saw what everybody else missed.

And maybe that is part of our assignment too.

To hear people before they become headlines.

To create homes where children feel emotionally safe enough to speak.

To remind people that silence is not always strength.

Sometimes silence is survival.

And some children end up on the 6 o’clock news because nobody heard them when they whispered.

“There is a time to be silent and a time to speak.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:7

Love, Chelle


DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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Let Peace Come Out My Mouth

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Some mornings I wake up already arguing. Not out loud. Just internally. With bills. With fear. With people. With timelines. With memories. With disappointment. With exhaustion.

Before my feet even hit the floor, my spirit already feels like somebody shook the snow globe and forgot to let it settle.

And if I am not careful, whatever fills my heart first starts leaking out my mouth next.

Sharp answers. Heavy sighs. Sarcasm dressed up as humor. Silence that punishes. Worry disguised as “being realistic.”

And whew… some folks can turn one bad mood into a ministry of misery before breakfast.

The older I get, the more I realize peace is not just a feeling God gives me. Sometimes peace is a discipline God teaches me.

Because anybody can speak panic. Anybody can repeat bitterness. Anybody can echo chaos. But it takes maturity to walk into a tense room and refuse to multiply the storm.

That does not mean pretending everything is fine.

Jesus calmed storms while acknowledging they were real storms.

What I am learning is this: I can tell the truth without setting fires. I can be tired without becoming cruel. I can be overwhelmed without making everybody around me drink from the same anxiety.

And honestly? Some days the prayer is not deep or fancy.

It is simply:

“Lord… before I answer this text, before I walk into this office, before I react to this situation, before I say something I cannot unsay, before my face says it before my mouth does… let peace come out my mouth.”

Not perfection. Not fake positivity. Peace.

The kind that pauses before speaking. The kind that softens hard words. The kind that leaves room for grace. The kind that remembers exhausted people often wound each other accidentally.

Because once words leave us, we do not get to gather them back like spilled sugar.

And some of us survived entire childhoods built from somebody else’s unhealed mouth.

So now I ask God to help mine become safer.

Not silent. Not weak. Safer.

Especially in seasons where my own heart feels stretched thin like a dollar menu meal feeding six people.

Scripture says:

“Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt…”
Colossians 4:6

Not bland. Not passive. Seasoned.

Truthful words with wisdom in them.

Maybe that is the real miracle some days. Not that the storm disappeared. But that peace came out of us anyway.

And in a loud world amplified by too many of the wrong words, that is holy.

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$5 in My Pocket… Lemons at My Door

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I didn’t need a miracle with flashing lights. I didn’t need a breakthrough big enough for everybody else to recognize. Honestly, I just needed my mind to slow down. Because lately, it’s been doing that thing—running numbers, replaying conversations, trying to solve tomorrow before today even finishes. Not because anything is completely falling apart, but because enough has shifted that my spirit knows to pay attention. And if I’m honest, I was thinking a little too much.

So I tried to interrupt myself. Not with prayer this time. Not with a deep scripture study. Just something simple. I had seen a sermon about decluttering—move five things in five minutes. Nothing deep. Nothing dramatic. Just… move something. So I did. One thing, then another. By the time I got to the fifth thing, I reached into the pocket of a dress I hadn’t worn in at least a year—and there it was. Five dollars.

Now let’s be clear. Five dollars is not going to change anybody’s financial situation, but it changed my moment. Because it made me smile. And in a season where your mind is trying to run ahead of you, sometimes a smile is the interruption you didn’t know you needed. I didn’t think much more about it. I just tucked the moment away and kept moving.

On the way to church, I started going through my wallet. Receipts everywhere. Old ones, faded ones, the kind you keep just in case but never actually need. So I started sorting through them, one by one, making sure there wasn’t anything important I needed to hold on to. And that’s when I saw it—another five dollars. Then another. And then another. Three crisp five-dollar bills sitting where receipts should have been.

Now wait, because this is where my spirit leaned in—not my logic, my spirit. Because four five-dollar bills is still just twenty dollars, and twenty dollars, in the grand scheme of real-life responsibilities, is not fixing anything major. But something in me knew this wasn’t about fixing. This was about finding. God wasn’t solving my situation in that moment; He was steadying my heart in it. He was saying, without saying a word, “You don’t have to carry this the way you are carrying it.” And I sat there in that car, holding those little bills like they were something bigger than money, because they were. They were peace. All magnified by the number 5 being the number of grace denoting God’s unmerited favor

Church was good. I smiled through it—not because everything was handled, but because I felt handled. And when I got home, I thought the moment was over.

I got home, and there it was—a simple bag at my door. Inside were lemons. Not one or two, but five bags—bright, yellow, beautiful lemons. Thirty of them. I stood there looking at them like, “Okay Lord… now this feels personal.” Because you’ve heard the saying, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade,” but this didn’t feel like life. Life gives lemons with pressure. Life gives lemons and expects you to figure it out. This felt like God.

And while I was trying to figure out what to do with so many lemons, I started giving them away. Nobody knew I had them. Nobody asked for them. I just… started gifting. If you showed up at the door, you left with some. LOL.  And somewhere in that simple act, it settled in my spirit that maybe everything God places in your hands isn’t meant to stay there. Some things show up not just as provision, but as permission—to bless, to share, to lighten someone else’s day without needing a reason or an announcement.

Because He didn’t wait until I had everything figured out. He met me while I was trying not to spiral, while I was moving five small things, while I was clearing out what I didn’t need, while I was doing the little bit I could control. He didn’t flood me with answers. He didn’t overwhelm me with provision. He didn’t drop a solution big enough to remove every question. He just… found me.

He found me in a dress pocket I forgot about, in a wallet I almost ignored, in a moment where I chose not to overthink. And then He made me laugh, because who sends somebody thirty lemons unless they are trying to say something?

“Your Father knows what you need before you ask Him.” — Matthew 6:8

So no, it wasn’t about twenty dollars, and it wasn’t about lemons. It was about being reminded that I am not navigating this season by myself. That even when my thoughts start running ahead of me, God is already present where I’m trying to get to. And sometimes, He doesn’t calm your life all at once. He just leaves little confirmations along the way so your soul can rest while you walk it out.

So if your mind has been busy lately, if you’ve been trying not to worry but still feeling it creep in, if you’re doing the best you can with what’s in front of you—pay attention to the small things, the found things, the unexpected things, the things that make you smile before you can explain them. Because God doesn’t always show up loud. Sometimes, He shows up in fives.

Gently reminded that God meets you in the middle, not just at the outcome.

Love,
Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com