Tag: college

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A Release of Miracles

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


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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You Are Black History

Posted in Black History Month, faith, God, inspiration, love, relationships, Uncategorized, workTagged , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Black history does not live only in textbooks, timelines, or framed portraits. It lives in you.


It lives in the prayers your grandmother whispered that no one recorded. It lives in the courage it took for your parents and grandparents to keep going when quitting would have been easier.

It lives in the way you show up to work, to church, to community, to family — even when the reward is unclear.


Black history is not only something that happened. It is something that is still happening.


It is made every time you choose dignity over bitterness. Every time you carry joy in a system that profits from your exhaustion. Every time you tell the truth — even quietly. Every time you endure, love, build, teach, heal, or believe anyway.


Some names were written down. Many were not.
Some stories were celebrated. Many were survived.
But history is not only what is remembered — it is what continues.


You stand on the shoulders of those who were victorious without reward. Those who served faithfully without applause. Those who planted seeds they would never live to see bloom.


Their courage flows through you.


And we have always known how to leave something behind.


Breadcrumbs on the ground when the path was uncertain. Hushpuppies tossed not as waste, but as wisdom — a way to distract danger long enough to keep moving. Cornrows braided tight to the scalp, not only as beauty or tradition, but as memory — paths etched into hair, holding maps to water, to safety, to freedom.


What could not be written down was carried. What could not be spoken aloud was encoded. What could not be protected by law was protected by love, community, and God.


This was not myth. This was method.
A people learning how to survive systems designed to erase them — by remembering anyway.


If you are still leaving breadcrumbs for those coming behind you… still marking the way quietly… still choosing faith, dignity, and care when no one is watching…
You are doing what has always been done.


You are part of a holy lineage of guidance and endurance. A living echo of the God who makes a way where none seems visible and leads His people forward, step by step.


“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
“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.”
— Psalm 119:105


If you are still standing, still hoping, still loving, still reaching for God and for one another — you are Black history in motion.
Not just because of where you came from, but because of how you choose to live.


We see you. We honor you. You matter.
Love, Chelle

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A.D. King – The Other King

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Before history narrowed the movement to one name, there were two brothers.

Alfred Daniel Williams King. Born in 1930. Preacher. Organizer. Strategist. Three years younger than Martin Luther King Jr. but standing in the same danger.

When Birmingham, Alabama became ground zero in 1963, A.D. did not visit. He moved there.
Birmingham was nicknamed “Bombingham” because of the frequency of racial terror bombings. Churches. Homes. Black neighborhoods.

A.D. helped lead mass meetings and demonstrations alongside Fred Shuttlesworth and Ralph Abernathy. While Martin carried the national microphone, A.D. carried the local weight: Organizing. Stabilizing. Coordinating.
Keeping frightened communities steady.

He was arrested during the Birmingham Campaign.His home was bombed.  While Martin wrote “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” A.D. was outside holding the infrastructure together.

Movements do not survive on speeches alone.
They survive on people whose names do not trend. After Martin was assassinated in 1968, A.D. stepped further into leadership. 
One year later, in 1969, A.D. King was found drowned in his swimming pool at just 38 years old. The death was ruled accidental. But many in the community questioned how a strong adult man, familiar with his own pool, could drown under unclear circumstances.

No national day of mourning. No holiday. No monument echoing his name. History has a habit of compressing movements into a single face. But there were always second lines. Siblings. Strategists. The ones who held meetings when the cameras left.

We still do it today. We elevate one leader.
We forget the organizers. We chant one name.
We overlook the network. A.D. King represents that hidden layer.

He stood in the same fire. Faced the same threats. Carried the same calling. But the spotlight did not linger.

Micah 6:8

“He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?”

CARRY THIS WITH YOU
If your work is not visible, is it still valuable? Of course it is.  If your name is not printed, is your impact erased? Of course not.

BREADCRUMB
History may narrow the headline. But heaven keeps fuller records.

We see you, A.D. King — for carrying weight without applause.

Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us.
Victorious without reward. Still here.

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Bill “Bojangles” Robinson — The Man Who Danced Forward

Posted in Black History Month, faith, God, inspiration, love, money, relationships, selfhelp, Uncategorized, workTagged , , , , , , 2 Comments

Born in 1878 in Richmond’s Jackson Ward, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson did not inherit ease. He inherited survival.

Orphaned young, he found rhythm before he found security. Instead of letting the world bend his back, he stood straight and tapped anyway.

He did not shuffle.

He clarified tap. Clean lines. Upright posture. Dignity in every strike of the shoe.

He
• Redefined tap dancing
• Became one of the highest-paid entertainers of his era
• Performed with excellence on segregated stages without lowering himself
• Created the legendary stair dance
• Gave generously back to Richmond

And when the city would not install a traffic light in Jackson Ward to protect Black children crossing the street, he did not argue.

He reached into his own pocket. He paid for the light. Not for praise. For protection.

Today his bronze statue stands in Jackson Ward beneath that light, shoes mid step, forever guarding the intersection.

On screen with Shirley Temple, he smiled.
Off screen, he built safety.

And Scripture whispers underneath his steps:

“Seest thou a man diligent in his business? he shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean men.”
— Proverbs 22:29

He stood before kings.
But he made sure children could cross safely at home.

From Jackson Ward to Broadway lights, he proved something we still hold close:

You can climb the stairs without bowing.
And you can light the street when the city will not.

And somewhere in Jackson Ward, if you listen close enough, you can still hear the stairs answering his shoes.

May we be the kind of people who do not just climb them, but leave the light on behind us.


BREADCRUMB
Sometimes progress dances—and still changes the street.


We see you, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson — for dancing forward and making the way safer behind you.


Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us.
Victorious without reward. Still here.

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The Hymn Before the Headline

Posted in Black History Month, cancer, christmas, faith, food, God, inspiration, love, selfhelp, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , Leave a comment

Before it was debated,
Before it was dissected on timelines and talk shows, it was a hymn.

Originally titled
Lift Every Voice and Sing (The Negro National Hymn)

Hymn.

Not rebellion.  Not replacement.


Hymn.

Written in 1900 by James Weldon Johnson, and set to music by his brother John Rosamond Johnson, it was first sung by Black schoolchildren who were barely a generation removed from bondage.

And still they sang.

Psalm 98 says, “Sing unto the Lord a new song.”

Our ancestors did.

They sang through Jim Crow.
They sang through separate water fountains.
They sang when hoses knocked bodies down and dogs were turned loose.
They sang when grief had no courtroom relief.

This hymn was not written to divide a nation.
It was written to steady a people.

When it shows up on a Super Bowl stage,
that is not intrusion.
That is history breathing.

A hymn is not about replacing anything.
It is about remembering.

Black History Month is not about exclusion.
It is about acknowledgment.

And acknowledgment is not an attack.
It is truth standing upright.

So when we lift every voice,
we are not asking permission.

We are honoring inheritance.

Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us.
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us.

Some songs survive because they are catchy.
This one survived because it carried us.

To the children who first sang it.
To the elders who kept it in the pews.
To every voice that trembled but did not stop

Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us.
Victorious without reward. Still here..

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Charles Hamilton Houston: He Built the Road

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Charles Hamilton Houston believed something radical for his time:

That the law — when disciplined, prepared, and forced to tell the truth — could be used to dismantle injustice.

He was not a march leader.
He was not a headline.
He was a builder.

Born in 1895, Houston became a lawyer and educator who saw segregation not just as wrong, but as structural. He believed it had to be taken apart piece by piece, case by case, classroom by classroom.

So he did the slow work.

As a professor at Howard University School of Law, Houston trained a generation of Black lawyers to be precise, relentless, and morally clear. Among them was a young man named Thurgood Marshall.

Houston taught his students that excellence was not optional — because lives depended on it.

“A lawyer is either a social engineer or a parasite on society.”

Houston chose to be a social engineer.

Long before Brown v. Board of Education reached the Supreme Court, Charles Hamilton Houston was already laying the groundwork.

He challenged unequal pay for Black teachers.
He dismantled segregation in graduate and professional schools.
He forced courts to confront the lie of “separate but equal.”

Case by case, brick by brick, he weakened the foundation of legalized segregation.

Others would stand in front of the nation when the walls finally fell.

Houston would not.

His health deteriorated under the strain of the work.
He died young.
And when history celebrated the victory, his name was often missing from the story.

He was victorious without reward.

Charles Hamilton Houston reminds us that some people are called to prepare the way, not walk through the door themselves.

“Prepare the way of the Lord; make straight paths for Him.” — Isaiah 40:3

Houston prepared paths others would walk — paths that led to justice, dignity, and opportunity for generations he would never meet.

If you have ever done work that made someone else visible,
labored behind the scenes while others stood at the microphone,
poured yourself into something you knew you might not live to see finished,
or believed faithfulness mattered more than credit,

Charles Hamilton Houston stands with you.

He built the road.
Others crossed it.

And God saw every stone he laid.

We see you, Charles.
We honor the work you did quietly.

Bread Crumbs — for those coming after us.
Victorious without reward. Still here.

Love, Chelle

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Knowing The Voice Without The Sound

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


Before I knew my son was losing his hearing,
he had already learned how to listen.
He read lips.
He felt vibration.
He paid attention in ways most people never have to.
By the time the doctors named what was happening,
he had already adapted — quietly, intuitively —
as if his soul knew something before we did.
After surgeries.
After chest ports and vein accesses.
After fistulas and long recoveries.
He never complained.
He only asked one question every time:
“Can I still play my drums?”
That joyful noise he taught himself at eight years old
was his fuel.
His focus.
His prayer.
There were moments when I wondered
if the very equipment meant to help him
might dull something God had already sharpened.
Because there were times — holy times —
when his intuition outpaced amplification.

I remember watching him praise.
He couldn’t process sound the way others did,
but I could tell by the intensity in his face
that he was feeling everything.
The vibration from the keyboard.
The movement in the room.
The rhythm beneath the worship.
At the beginning of a song,
I’d turn my head just enough for him to see me.
Mouth the first line.
Offer a few hand signals.
That’s all it took.
He had studied me so well
that he knew my voice
without being able to hear it.
And I realized something then:
Recognition is deeper than sound.

Isaiah says:
“Whether you turn to the right or to the left,
your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying,
‘This is the way; walk in it.’”
— Isaiah 30:21
Not because it’s loud.
But because it’s familiar.
God does not rely on volume.
He relies on relationship.
Some people hear Him with sound.
Some with memory.
Some with movement.
Some through vibration, pattern, rhythm, and presence.
And some — like my son —
recognize the voice because they’ve watched it long enough to know it.

And if you’re reading this wondering why you can’t seem to hear God right now,
let me say this softly:
Silence does not mean absence.
And difficulty hearing does not mean you’ve lost the ability to recognize Him.
Sometimes God isn’t quieter —
we’re just being invited to listen differently.
Through memory.
Through pattern.
Through peace that doesn’t make sense yet.
Through rhythm instead of words.
You may be hearing more than you think.

We like to talk about praise as something you hear.
But sometimes praise is something you feel.
A drumbeat through the floor.
A chord through the body.
A cue from someone you trust.
I don’t know if we witnessed the world’s first deaf praise drummer.
But I know this:
I witnessed my favorite.
And through him, God handed me a Key.

Closing
God’s voice is not limited by sound.
And praise is not limited by hearing.
Some of us don’t hear God louder.
We hear Him deeper.
Because recognition doesn’t require volume —
only love, attention, and trust.

Love, Chelle

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Good Morning From Groot

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When I went to make my coffee this morning, I noticed my Brazilian wood plant — the one I call Groot because of the ornament on him — is still growing from just one side.


He’s developing a beautiful arm branch, but only one. By all accounts, there should be two by now.


Most folks would give up on a plant like that.
But I can’t.


All my life, I’ve collected broken things — toys, dolls, records… sometimes even people. Things that seemed useless or pointless to others always found a home with me. I’d turn them into art, merge them with something else, or simply let them be what they were until their value showed itself.


This little Groot reminds me that everything has value exactly as it is, even when it doesn’t quite match the catalog pictures of society.


That one arm?
It’s raised like it’s in praise.
And the smile in the bark makes me happy.


I believe God sees our imperfections with grace and purpose — I know He’s done that for me.

My seasons of brokenness and feeling like a misfit produced music, plays, and even this writing.

Periods of pain with purpose… feeling like a fish out of water… all converted into unique brands of joy.


So if you’re feeling a little uneven today…
a little out of the mold…
a little unlike what you thought you were supposed to be…
You’re not broken.
You’re just growing differently.

Now go raise that arm!


“…everyone who is called by My name,
whom I created for My glory.” — Isaiah 43:7

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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New Year’s Eve Eve – When I woke up, but my brain did not.

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Every writer’s fully awake nightmare: a block.
A brain fart.
Nothing profound to say.
Nothing book-worthy for the new year.

For a brief moment, panic tried to convince me that silence meant failure.
But even this—this momentary panic—became permission.

Permission to pause.
Permission to breathe.
Permission to simply exhale.

Truth be told, I sat there staring at the blinking cursor, waiting for something deep, prophetic, and Watch Night-worthy to appear.
Nothing came.
Not a sermon. Not a quote. Not even a clever churchy acronym.
Just me… and the cursor… judging each other.

This morning I woke up—but my brain did not.
And I’m choosing not to wrestle it into submission.

It’s New Year’s Eve Eve.
There’s still much to do.
Watch Night services to prepare for.
Lives to show up for.
And the familiar hum of New Year’s resolutions floating around everywhere.

Everywhere I turn, people are declaring what they’re going to do in the new year.
Gym memberships. Journals. Green smoothies.
And while I applaud the optimism, I already know February is coming… with receipts.

I’ve come to call them Reso-lies—
because so many of them don’t survive past February 1st.

Yes, I have goals.
Yes, I will aim.
But no, I will not condemn myself or pressure myself into a failure complex when things don’t go according to plan.

This year, I’m elevating two truths instead of a checklist:

“Let the Lord be magnified,
who takes pleasure in the prosperity of His servant.”
— Psalm 35:27

“Delight yourself also in the Lord,
and He shall give you the desires of your heart.”
— Psalm 37:4

I wave both scriptures like a banner—
not as entitlement,
but as alignment.

I wish I could tell you this message came together neatly—
that I woke up inspired, organized, and spiritually glowing.
But the truth is, this word came together the same way my life usually does:
honest, a little tired, and fully dependent on grace.

My prayer for the upcoming stroke of midnight is simple and surrendered:

Lord, take pleasure in this servant
as I magnify You.
Give me the desires of my heart
that line up with the delights of Yours.

Resting is not failing.
Pausing is not quitting.
And waking up—even when my brain didn’t
still counts as showing up.

May the Lord Find You In A Delightful Place!!!!

Love, Chelle