Tag: empty

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Somewhere Between The Car And The Kitchen

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Disappointment doesn’t usually knock loudly.
It just keeps adding weight.


Brick by brick, we pack the backpack:
• unmet expectations
• things we thought God would do by now
• roles we keep carrying because “someone has to”
• stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what’s possible

And if I’m honest, this is the same part of me that tries to carry all the groceries in one trip.
Because clearly, asking for help would be admitting weakness…
and making two trips would be a personal failure.


So there I am — keys dangling, bags cutting off circulation, dignity questionable — determined to prove I’ve got this.
I call it independence. Heaven calls it unnecessary.


And somewhere between the car and the kitchen, I’m reminded that even Jesus sent the disciples out two by two.


Inevitably, something falls.
Or worse… something gets left in the trunk.And a couple of days later, there’s a smell. A mysterious, soul-searching smell that forces a reckoning.


Nothing humbles you faster than realizing the real burden wasn’t the bags —
it was the banana you refused to admit you dropped.


That’s how unexamined burdens work too.
What we refuse to set down eventually announces itself.
Some of the limits we feel aren’t placed by God — they’re placed by our own expectations of how we think  He should move.


We overpack faith with control.
We leave no room for surprise.
No room for grace.
No room for God to have His way — because the backpack is already full.


Jesus never asked us to be strong and burdened.
He asked us to come — and let Him carry what we were never meant to hold.


“Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you.” — Psalm 55:22


Maybe today isn’t about pushing harder.
Maybe it’s about making two trips.
Or — heaven forbid — asking for help.


Drop the bricks.
Check the trunk.
Walk  lighter.

Love, Chelle

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Crumbs Of Grace, My 2nd New Year.

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When I think of the most important birthdays, I don’t start with cake or candles.
I start with life.


I think of the 37th birthday when  I helped deliver my grandson, Jayon — my eldest son’s first child. On that day, I didn’t just celebrate another year of my own life; I welcomed new life, new hopes, and new dreams into the world. In a way, our birthdays became twins. His arrival was proof that God was still creating, still trusting the future to fragile hands. And year after year, Jayon has never disappointed — not because he’s perfect, but because he has lived into the promise of that moment.


I think of my 50th birthday — the day I was scheduled to start chemotherapy for breast cancer. Fear tried to claim that day, but my husband gave me a birthday slumber party instead with the ladies in my crew.. Laughter showed up before dread could unpack its bags. It felt like God whispering through cupcakes and pajamas: Fight. Fight. You are not done.


On my 55th birthday, the fear shifted again. Instead of waiting anxiously for scan results, I stood on a stage wearing a crown and a “Drive 55” shirt — a playful, holy reminder to pace myself and keep going. Sometimes courage looks regal. Sometimes it looks ridiculous. Both can preach.


But my favorite birthdays are always the next one.


Whether they arrive loud and celebratory or quiet and reflective like today, they carry the same invitation. I call January 5th my second New Year — a moment to pause, look back at all that happened since last year, the good and the not-so-good. To thank God for the joys He brought us into, and for the things He delivered us out of.


“This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” — Psalm 118:24


Not the perfect day.
Not the painless day.
Just this one.


And today includes crumbs.
Crumbs from a Kentucky Butter Cake I made with more butter than I’m fairly certain a woman of my age should publicly admit to.

But here’s the truth: butter makes things richer. Grace does too. And neither one asks permission before doing its work.


“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning.” — Lamentations 3:22–23

Even on birthdays.
Especially on birthdays.


These years aren’t measured by candles alone. They’re marked by crumbs of grace — small evidences left behind that say I was fed, I was held, I was carried through

.
And if that’s what this year leaves behind — crumbs, butter, joy, survival, and gratitude — then it has been a very good year indeed.


Love, Chelle

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A Meeting Place

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This may not sound like me.


I’m usually the one who finds the humor, the metaphor, the small spark of light tucked inside the ordinary. I believe in joy — deeply. I still do.

But today, joy feels quieter, and sorrow feels closer to the surface .
The world feels fractured.
Nation against nation.
Neighbor against neighbor.
Families strained.
Friendships reduced to likes, views, and fleeting affirmations.


And somewhere in the middle of all this noise, what seems to be slipping away is our sense of community — the kind where people are known, not curated. Where connection doesn’t require a platform or performance.


Yesterday, as I mourned world events ,  all of this along with a side of opinions still wrapped with faith, I was told I was hiding behind God and the Bible.


That stayed with me.


Not because it shook my faith, but because it revealed something deeper about the times we’re living in — a world so uncomfortable with lament that even sacred language is suspect when it refuses to harden into arguments or slogans.


But my faith has never been a hiding place.
It has always been a meeting place — where grief and hope are allowed to sit together without rushing one another out of the room.


Today, I find myself weeping.
Not because faith has failed, but because love is still very much alive.
“Jesus wept.” — John 11:35
He stood in the presence of grief and loss and did not rush to fix it, explain it, or weaponize it. He allowed tears to speak where words fell short. If tears were worthy of Him, they are not beneath us.
Scripture doesn’t ask us to bypass sorrow — it calls us to enter it together.
“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” — Romans 12:15


This isn’t a departure from who I am.
It’s a refusal to pretend.
I still believe in hope. I still believe in resurrection. I still believe God has not lost the plot. But I also believe sorrow has a place in the story — not as an ending, but as an honest chapter.


So today, I show up softer. Quieter. More tender. Trusting that God can hold my tears just as faithfully as He holds my hope.


And believing that even here — especially here — grace is present.
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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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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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.