Tag: empty

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On The Altar To Be Altered

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

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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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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Sometimes The Holiest Thing You Can Do is Take A Nap

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

I caught my reflection in the mirror today.

My face looked tired. Not just sleepy… worn.

The kind of worn that comes from always running. Always carrying. Always trying to squeeze one more thing into the day before collapsing into bed at night.

Stress and exhaustion have a way of changing our faces long before they change our calendars.

As I stood there looking at myself, I realized something. This was never what God intended.

Somewhere along the way, I started wearing fatigue like a badge of honor. I convinced myself that constantly doing more somehow made me more faithful, more productive, or more valuable.

Then I saw a sign that read:
“Daniel slept in a lion’s den. Peter slept in a prison. Jesus slept in a storm. No matter what your circumstances, you can take a nap.”

I laughed. And I thought about it. Those aren’t just clever words on a sign. They’re reminders that peace isn’t determined by your surroundings.

Daniel didn’t wait until the lions disappeared.
Peter didn’t wait until the prison doors opened.
Jesus didn’t wait until the waves settled.

They rested anyway.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve convinced ourselves that rest is a reward for finishing everything.
“I’ll rest when the laundry is done.”
“I’ll rest when the kids stop needing me.”
“I’ll rest when work slows down.”
“I’ll rest when life gets easier.”

But life keeps moving the finish line.

The Bible paints a different picture. Rest isn’t the absence of responsibility. It’s an act of trust. Every time we lay our heads down, we’re declaring,

“God, I’m no longer trying to be You. You’ll keep the world turning while I close my eyes.”

That doesn’t mean we ignore our responsibilities. Daniel still had lions to face. Peter still had chains around his wrists. Jesus still had a cross ahead of Him.

It simply means that exhaustion isn’t a badge of honor. Sometimes faith looks less like striving… and more like sleeping.

So today, I made a decision. I’m setting a timer during my lunch break. I’m going to find somewhere to lay my head down.

Not because my work is finished. Not because all my problems have disappeared. But because my body is telling the truth my heart has been trying to ignore.

Stressed and tired are a dangerous combination, and they were never God’s design for us.

Perhaps if you’re reading this, you need permission too. Take the nap. Close your eyes.
Trust the One who never does.

After all…

Daniel slept in a lion’s den.
Peter slept in a prison.
Jesus slept in a storm.

Maybe the holiest thing you can do today…

…is take a nap.

“In peace I will lie down and sleep, for You alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.”
Psalm 4:8

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Pig Foot Mary: The Woman Who Pushed Her Future Down the Street

Posted in Black History Month, faith, food, God, inspiration, money, relationships, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , Leave a comment


Before food trucks.  Before catering contracts.
Before pop-up kitchens. There was a formerly enslaved Black woman  pushing a baby carriage filled with pickled pig’s feet.

Her name was Lillian Harris Dean. History remembers her as Pig Foot Mary. And what some would have called scraps, she called strategy.

Born in Mississippi around 1870. She migrated north during the Great Migration era. She was reported a woman of large stature (striking fear in even some men).

THE BABY CARRIAGE BEGINNING

After emancipation, economic opportunity for Black women was painfully narrow. Formal loans were not available. Property ownership was rare. Protection under the law was inconsistent at best.

So Mary did what resilient women have always done. She looked at what she had.
She cooked pig’s feet — inexpensive cuts that working people could afford — and loaded them into a baby carriage. That’s  right no baby, just a baby carriage purchased with two of the five dollars she arrived with and a tin pot she brought with her.

Then she walked the streets of Washington, D.C., selling directly to laborers, porters, and government workers who had migrated from the South but desperate for a taste of home cooking lacking in the industrial north.

No storefront. No investors. No safety net.
Just legs, grit, and a carriage. That carriage gave her mobility. Mobility gave her customers. Customers gave her capital.
Capital gave her options. Consistency built reputation. Reputation built revenue.

From those early street sales, though unable to read, she negotiated contracts with suppliers, opened restaurants, operated boarding houses, acquired property, and became one of the wealthiest Black women in New York City  during her time. She later married a prominent black lawyer she had hired to keep her financial empire safe.

Later in life, she faced legal troubles that interrupted her business, a common vulnerability for Black entrepreneurs in that era. When her power and influence started to invade beyond the black community and into  white upper Manhattan,  a racist court system convicted her of running a disorderly house.    After her release from prison, she retired to California.

She did not inherit influence. She built it.
She did not wait for approval. She moved.

Pig Foot Mary represents a pattern we see over and over in Black history:
Innovation born from restriction.
Mobility created from limitation.
Enterprise rising from overlooked ingredients.

She took something humble and made it sustaining.

“She considers a field and buys it; out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.” — Proverbs 31:16

Mary did not own fields at first. She owned a route. But the principle is the same.
Use what you have. Work what you have.
Move what you have.

CARRY THIS WITH YOU
You may be waiting for a storefront when all you have is a carriage. Push anyway.

You may be waiting for funding when all you have is a recipe. Cook anyway.

You may be waiting for someone to validate the vision. Walk anyway.

BREADCRUMB

Sometimes the business plan is wrapped in something people underestimate. And sometimes the thing you’re pushing… is actually pushing you into destiny.

We see you, Lillian Harris Dean for turning a baby carriage into a business model. We see you for feeding working hands and building wealth from what others discarded.

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

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

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

Let me tell you what almost took me out.

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

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

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

Not nibble.
Not misplace a paragraph.
Eat it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Scripture backs this up.

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

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

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

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

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Porch Prayers & Weather-Wise Faith

Posted in cancer, cancer, faith, food, God, health, inspiration, love, money, relationships, Uncategorized, workTagged , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

On days like these, my mother would stand on the porch and ask for a Bermuda High to come down and turn the snow and ice away.


In the thick, sticky heat of summer, she’d pray for a Canadian Low to sweep through and cool the air.


She didn’t call it meteorology.
She called it faith.
And more often than not, the weather shifted.


When I got older, some of my friends picked up the same habit. We didn’t have robes or titles—just house shoes, coffee cups, and enough sense to know the porch was close enough to heaven for our prayers to travel. We called ourselves the Porch-Praying Sisters.


We prayed about the weather, yes—but also about children, marriages, money, bodies that wouldn’t cooperate, and news reports that made our stomachs knot. We spoke our requests into the open air like God might just be passing by and decide to stop and listen.


Today, we’re in the middle of a Virginia ice storm.
Freezing temperatures.
Sleet tapping the windows.
The quiet, low-grade anxiety of Will we lose power? humming beneath everything else.


And maybe that’s what storms still do best.
They set the altar.


They slow us down, pull us inward, strip away noise and options until all that’s left is warmth, breath, and the remembering that we are not in control—but we are not alone either.

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you… when you walk through the fire, you will not be burned.” (Isaiah 43:2)


Over the years, we drifted. Life scattered us. Jobs, moves, losses, disagreements, silence. That happens.
But in this current environment—
with ice on the ground, tension in the air, and uncertainty pressing in—
I find myself praying again.
Not polished prayers.
Porch prayers.


The kind that believe faith doesn’t have to be loud to be effective. The kind that remember Jesus said even “faith as small as a mustard seed” can speak to what feels immovable and tell it to move. (Matthew 17:20)


Maybe the weather won’t always change.
Maybe the power will flicker.
Maybe the storm will linger longer than we’d like.
But when a storm sets the altar,
something always moves.
And sometimes…
that something is us.


— 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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Unmarked Seeds And  Clearance Rack Faith

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

I was standing there with a handful of seeds and no idea what any of them were.
No labels. No instructions. No promises.
Just seeds.


Some were round. Some looked like dust. Some looked like… dirt pretending to be something important.

And full confession — I made the executive decision to buy them from a discount house online, which should have been my first clue that clarity was not included in the price.


Because planting unmarked seeds feels risky.
You don’t know what you’re committing to.
You don’t know how long it will take.
You don’t know what kind of care it will need — or if you just planted hope, oregano, and disappointment all in the same row.


And that is where I had to repent of my disgust with not being able to see the seeds’ vision.


God has planted a lot of unmarked seeds in me.
No timeline.
No instruction card.
No neat little packet that says “This will bloom in 90 days if watered weekly and protected from disappointment, other people’s opinions, and your own impatience.”


Just obedience.
Just trust.
Just dirt and hope.
Some seeds He plants look insignificant — almost invisible.
Some feel mislabeled by other people.
Some feel like they were handed to us without explanation at all.


And yet… seeds don’t need labels to know what they are.
They just need soil.
Light.
Time.


And a gardener who doesn’t dig them up every five minutes to check progress — which, for the record, I have learned is frowned upon in both gardening and faith.


I think that’s where I get tripped up.
I keep wanting proof before growth.
Confirmation before commitment.
Fruit before faith.


But the seed already knows what it carries — even when I don’t.


“So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth.”
— 1 Corinthians 3:7


Maybe the confusion isn’t failure.
Maybe it’s faith in its earliest form.
Maybe God is saying:
Plant it anyway.
Water it anyway.
Stop interrogating the soil.
Because unmarked doesn’t mean unintentional.
And unseen doesn’t mean unimportant.
And dormant is not the same thing as dead.

Love, Chelle

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Good Morning From Groot

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

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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Timing Is Everything (Apparently So Are Berries)

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

I’ll admit it — I went into a little shock when I learned blueberries and strawberries operate on a two-to-three-year growth plan.
Years.
Plural.

I stood there staring at seeds like they had personally betrayed me.

Up until that moment, I genuinely thought I was being resourceful.
Frugal.
Garden-savvy.
A woman with a plan.

Turns out, I had signed up for a long-term relationship without reading the commitment clause.

That’s when I decided I’m not planting berries until I move into my forever home.
Because berries don’t do well with temporary addresses.
They want stability.
Consistency.
A place where nobody’s packing boxes just as the harvest shows up.

And honestly? I get it now.

I finally understand why blueberries and strawberries cost what they do at the store.
It’s not inflation — it’s time.
It’s patience.
It’s years of watering something that gives you nothing back except leaves and hope.

I really thought it was a good idea.
And it was — just not for this season.

Jesus talked a lot about seeds, soil, and timing.
He never rushed growth — He explained it.

“First the blade, then the ear, then the full grain in the ear.” (Mark 4:28)

Nothing about that process is instant.
Nothing about it is wasted.

Even Jesus waited.
Thirty years before public ministry.
Hidden seasons.
Quiet obedience.
Roots forming where no one was applauding.

So I’ll wait too.
Not because I lack faith — but because I’ve learned that timing matters.

Some things are worth planting when you know you can stay long enough to enjoy the fruit.

Until then, I’ll pay store prices with a little more humility…
and a lot more respect for the journey those berries have been on.

Because growth was never the problem.
Timing was the lesson.

Love, Chelle