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Worship Beyond The Song

Worship is easy when the music is right,
the lights are soft, and nobody has touched your wounds that day.

But real worship?
Real worship sounds different.
It sounds like forgiving while your heart is still tender to the touch. It looks like choosing God when people are still choosing to bruise you.

Because worship was never just a song…
it’s a decision. A decision to trust that God is still good even when people are not.

And we saw it—not in a sanctuary, but on a cross.

When Jesus looked at the very people who were crucifying Him and said, “Father, forgive them…” (Luke 23:34)

Not after it was over. Not when it stopped hurting. While it was happening.


Sometimes worship looks like the opposite of what we expected:
Forgiving when you’re still hurting.
Praying when you’re disappointed.
Trusting when nothing makes sense.
Giving when you feel empty.
Staying when it would be easier to walk away.
Walking away when it would be easier to stay.
Being kind to people who mishandled you.
Keeping your heart soft in a hard situation.
Choosing peace when chaos would feel justified.
Telling the truth when a lie would protect you.
Resting when pressure says perform.
Waiting when everything in you wants to rush.
Obeying when you don’t understand.
Loving without getting anything back.
Letting go of what you prayed would stay.
Thanking God before you see the outcome.
Showing up again after being let down.
Keeping your integrity when nobody is watching.
Not clapping back when you have the perfect comeback.
Blessing people who bruised you.
Believing God is still good on a bad day.
Choosing joy without evidence.
Honoring God privately, not just publicly.
Surrendering your version of how it should go.
Standing still when fear says run.
Moving forward when comfort says sit down.

Because sometimes the most powerful worship isn’t what you sing in a moment of peace… it’s what you choose in the middle of pain.


It’s saying:
“God, I honor You… not because this feels good, but because You are good.”

So yes, worship Him even while the bruise is still fresh.

Not because they deserve it.But because He does.

“In quietness and trust shall be your strength.”
— Isaiah 30:15


God, teach me how to worship You beyond what is comfortable. When my heart is bruised, help me not to harden it.

When I don’t understand what You’re allowing, help me trust who You are.

Give me the strength to forgive even when the pain is still fresh, and the courage to release what is trying to take root in me that You never planted.

Let my life honor You not just in my songs,
but in my choices.

Even here. Even now.

Amen.

Love, Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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When It Bolts

It’s 4:23 a.m. on Easter Sunday and I’m standing in my little greenhouse, looking at spinach that decided overnight… it was done.

Tall stems where leaves used to be. Little flowers where nourishment used to grow.
Bolting.

Translation? “It’s too hot for what I used to do.”

And for a second, I felt disappointed. Like I did something wrong. Like I missed a window. Like I should’ve held on longer.
But spinach doesn’t argue with the season.
It doesn’t force itself to keep producing what the environment no longer supports. It shifts.

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1

And standing there, I realized… Some of us are still trying to produce peace in places that have already gotten too hot.

Still trying to hold conversations that only grow bitterness. Still trying to get nourishment from situations that have already shifted into something else.

And we call it perseverance. But sometimes…
It’s just a season that’s ended. The spinach didn’t fail. The season changed.

And instead of forcing leaves that would turn bitter anyway… it moved on to producing something new.
Seeds.
Future.
What’s next.

And maybe that’s where I am too.
Not failing.
Not falling apart.
Not losing ground.
Just recognizing that I don’t have to keep forcing what no longer grows here.

Because the work of the  Cross didn’t just prove He could get up… it proved that endings don’t get the final say.

So I don’t have to panic when something stops producing. Idon’t have to force life out of what has already shifted. And I don’t have to sit in disappointment like something has gone wrong.

Nothing went wrong.

The season changed.

And the same God who allowed this one to close… is already making room for what comes next. And instead of holding on too tight… I’m learning how to release without fear.

“Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth…” — Isaiah 43:18–19

So I’m not mourning what bolted. I’m watching for what’s about to spring up.

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Release While In Motion


It was one of those days that needed me to be focused.

Not halfway. Not distracted.
The kind of day where details matter, timing matters, and anything pulling at your attention feels like it’s trying to sabotage something important.

And yet… my mind would not sit still.

It kept circling the same place.
Big decisions. Career. Finances. Life.

The kind of decisions that don’t come with a clear map. The kind that make you pause long enough to ask God, “Am I supposed to stay… or am I free to go?”

So somewhere in the middle of moving, thinking, preparing, and trying to keep my day on track, I said it:

“Lord… I need You to tell me I’m released.”

Not emotional. Not panicked. Just honest.

Because I wasn’t trying to escape anything…
I just didn’t want to stay somewhere out of habit when You had already given permission to move.

And without missing a beat…God answered me in traffic.

A car passed by with the license plate:

GodHVUS

I paused.

Because… okay Lord. I hear You.

A few minutes later, another one rolled past:

DBLBLSD

Now I’m sitting there like… “Sir… are You serious right now?”

And then it settled in. Not just what passed me… but what I was already sitting in.

My own car. My own plate.

Renew2

“See, I am doing a new thing; now it springs up—do you not perceive it?” — Isaiah 43:19

I asked God for release… and He answered with coverage, increase, and a reminder I had been carrying the whole time.

God has us. Double blessed. Renewed too.

And just like that, what felt heavy…
shifted.

Because release doesn’t always come with a loud announcement. Sometimes it comes with peace that quietly replaces pressure. Sometimes it shows up while you’re still in motion… not when you’ve stopped everything to go looking for it.

God doesn’t just release you from a place.
He renews you for the next one.

Because walking into something new with an old mindset will have you second-guessing doors He already opened.

It will make you call provision “too uncertain”
and growth “too uncomfortable.”

But when God is in it…there is a steadiness that follows.

Not because you have every answer but because you know you’re not walking alone.

So if you find yourself in the middle of a busy day… trying to hold everything together while quietly asking God for direction,

Pay attention.

He may not stop your schedule to answer you. But He will meet you right in it. And when He does…you won’t have to force clarity.

It will roll right past you.

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Flowers Don’t Apologize

This prayer is for those who need to realize…
you can’t have flowers without the dirt… and some rain.

I know… we love the bloom.
We love the part people can see.
We love the color, the beauty, the evidence that something worked.

But real growth?
It doesn’t happen in the spotlight.

It happens down in the dirt.
In the messy places.
In the seasons that don’t look like anything is happening at all.

And if we’re being honest…
some of us have been side-eyeing the dirt in our lives.

Questioning it.
Trying to rush out of it.
Asking God why it had to be this way.

But this morning… let me remind you gently…

“His mercies are new every morning.”
— Lamentations 3:23

That means yesterday’s mess didn’t disqualify you. It didn’t ruin the process.
It didn’t cancel what God is growing in you.

It watered something.

Even the hard conversations. Even the tears.
Even the moments you wish you could redo.

God used it.

So yes… there may be some mud in your life right now. Yes… it may feel uncomfortable.
Yes… it may not look like growth yet.

But that doesn’t mean nothing is happening.
It means something is forming beneath the surface.

So today… we make a choice.
We choose to rejoice.
Not because everything feels good…
but because we trust what God is doing.

We rejoice in all things…
because we understand that dirt and rain
are part of the process of becoming.

And when it’s time to bloom…
You won’t have to explain a thing.

Flowers don’t apologize for the dirt it took to grow them.

Dear God,
Thank You for not wasting the dirt in our lives. Even the parts we didn’t choose…
even the seasons that felt heavy, messy, and unclear. 

Help us to trust You in the middle of it. When we don’t see growth…
when all we feel is the weight of the soil…
remind us that You are still working beneath the surface.


Teach us to stop resisting what You are using.
Give us the grace to endure the rain and the patience to wait for what is being formed.
And when it’s hard… help us to rejoice anyway. Not because everything feels good,
but because You are good in everything.

Grow us in the places we tried to escape.
Strengthen what we thought was breaking.
And when it’s time to bloom…
let it be undeniable that it was You.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Step Off Now!

I walked out of the hospital holding back tears.

Not the kind that fall freely…
the kind that sit right behind your eyes
because your heart is full and heavy at the same time.

I had poured in. Tears. Prayers. Words of life. And I meant every bit of it.

Before I even made it off the elevator,
my mind had already started moving ahead of me…Who can I call?
What resources can I connect?
What can I put in place to help carry this?

By the time those automatic doors opened,
I had a plan forming. I was ready to do more.
Be more. Help more.

And right there,  as I stepped outside… I heard it in my spirit:

“Step off now.”

Not later.
Not after one more call.
Not after I “just check on one thing.”

Now.

And it didn’t match what I felt. Because everything in me wanted to stay involved.
To keep my hands in it. To make sure it would be okay.

But I’ve learned something… both in the garden and in life:

There are moments when the worst thing you can do is touch it.

When the soil is too wet even good hands make mud. You can have the best intentions.
The purest heart. The right tools. And still…do damage by stepping in too soon.


“In quietness and trust is your strength…” — Isaiah 30:15

Because sometimes strength doesn’t look like movement. Sometimes it looks like restraint.

In the garden, wet soil means wait.
Let it settle. Let the excess drain. Let the roots breathe again.

And here’s what took me time to learn…Not every plant needs constant tending.Some plants actually thrive when they are allowed to grow without being handled every day.

Too much touching…
too much adjusting…
too much checking… can stunt what was already trying to grow.

In life, in ministry… it’s the same.

I must trust God to show me which seeds I am assigned to plant… and which ones I am not meant to cultivate.

Because every seed I sow is not mine to steward long-term.

Some will be watered by others.
Some will be strengthened in places I will never see.
Some will grow best when I am no longer standing over them.

Doing nothing can feel like neglect. But sometimes it’s obedience.

That day, standing outside those hospital doors, I had to make a decision : Trust what I heard or trust what I felt.

And what I felt said: “Stay. Help. Fix it.”

But what I heard said:

“Step off.”

So I did.

Not because I didn’t care.

But because I trusted that God was already working in ways I could not see… and without making it muddier.

Truth:

Everything that’s messy is not mine to fix.

Some soil needs to settle before anything can grow. And some seeds need space to become
what God intended without my constant touch.


Dear Lord, teach me the difference
between when to step in and when to step back. When my heart wants to help,
but Your Spirit says wait…give me the strength to listen.

Help me trust that You are working even when my hands are still. Show me which seeds are mine to plant… and which ones I must release into Your care and the care of others.


Help me with trusting You with what I have  planted, even when I am not the one called to stay.

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Before The Final Hour

There is a moment before everything becomes real.

Before the doors open.
Before the voices gather.
Before the weight of it settles in your chest.

A quiet hour. The kind where time pauses just long enough for memory to walk in unannounced and sit beside you.

I went to prepare myself to show up for someone else’s loss… and found myself standing in the doorway of my own.

Because grief does not stay in its lane.
It recognizes itself.
It echoes across years.
It gently taps your shoulder and whispers,
“You remember this.”

And in that quiet hour…before the final hour… when a casket tries to close a chapter in a well read life…. I remembered something sacred:

My mother never really left.

I see her… in the mirror when my face catches the light just right.

I hear her in my voice when I’m talking to my children and don’t even realize it at first.

And lately… I feel her in the way I beam at my grandchildren. That deep, undeniable joy
that doesn’t ask permission to show up on your face. The kind that says,
“This love didn’t start with me.”

She shows up in the kitchen. In the way I don’t reach for measuring cups…but trust a palm and a pinch of two fingers to decide what salt and sugar ought to do. Somewhere along the way, her tongue for spices became mine.

She shows up in the way I clean. Because a house is not clean unless there’s a cap of bleach poured into a small tub basin in the sink… and oh the smell of Pine-Sol rising up like proof. That sharp, honest scent that says,
“Now it’s done right.”

She shows up in my music. Because cleaning without music? That’s just work. But cleaning with Aretha Franklin? That turns into a whole moment.

And somehow… the dance is not right unless it happens in the living room.  Not the kitchen. Not the hallway. The living room. Like joy has a location memory.

She shows up in my mornings. In a cup that’s more cream than coffee.


In quiet writing hours before any rooster thinks about waking up. Discipline that looks like devotion. Routine that feels like inheritance.

And every now and then… when something stirs my spirit the wrong way, I catch myself standing with my hand on my hip, leaning just a little to one side, squinting my eyes like I can hold the tears back if I narrow the view.

It was intimidating on her six-foot frame.
Not quite the same on my five-foot-three one… But I try. Oh, I still try

And now I realize  what I thought was loss…
started to look a lot like continuation.

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you.” — Isaiah 66:13

Because God, in His mercy, doesn’t just take people home…
He lets them leave themselves behind in us.
In our habits. In our preferences. In our voice. In our love for the next generation.

So yes… there is a final earthly hour. A moment where everything becomes real.

But there is also this quiet, sacred truth:
She is still here.
In the mirror.
In the movement.
In the memory that turned into muscle.


In the love that keeps reaching forward.

Dear Lord, meet us in that quiet hour before everything becomes real. When memory rises and grief feels close enough to touch, let it carry comfort with it. Remind us that love does not end… it continues in us. In what we do without thinking. In what we carry without trying.


Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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They Grow While You’re Gone


It’s 5:30 a.m.
I’m sipping my coffee, staring out the window into the darkness… somehow convinced I can see trouble in my garden from 100 feet away.

Don’t judge me… but I really considered stepping out there in my robe in 35 degrees to go check on my plant babies.

And somewhere between that first sip and the silence… I caught myself.

This isn’t about seeds.

This is about how easily my mind will grab hold of something—anything—and worry it to death.

Work stress that doesn’t clock out when I do.
Money questions that don’t always have quick answers.
A newborn I just prayed over in the hospital,
with whispers of concern about her ability to thrive.
Friends walking through the slow, sacred heartbreak of losing their parents…
and me carrying pieces of that with them.

All real things. All things that matter. All things experienced before.
And yet…

Look how quickly my heart starts hovering over them, like it’s my job to make sure everything turns out alright. Like if I think about it enough, check it enough, replay it enough…

I can help God along.

But I can’t.

Because even when I am doing the work of God, it is still God who is working.
I am not the outcome.
I am not the fixer.
I am not the one holding it all together.

I am just… hands in the soil.
Faithful to plant.
Faithful to water.
Faithful to show up.

But the growing?
The healing?
The sustaining?

That was never mine.

And if I’m not careful, I will let the weight of what I care about pull me out of the very places God is calling me to be present.

Sitting here with my coffee, trying to manage what He already has in His hands…
while He’s already prepared a seat for me somewhere else today.

There is a time to plant.
A time to water.
And then… a time to trust.
Not anxious trust.
Not hovering trust.
Real trust.

The kind that finishes the coffee,
gets dressed, and walks into the day
without carrying what God never assigned me to hold.

So I’m going where I’m supposed to be.
And I’m leaving the garden…
and everything it represents…
right where it is.

Because what God has already taken responsibility for does not need my worry added to it.

Even the good things don’t get to compete
with obedience.

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:1

Love, Chelle

DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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The Doctor Who Chose to Heal the Forgotten – Rebecca Lee Crumpler


(February 8, 1831 – March 9, 1895)

Sometimes healing begins where others refuse to go.

Rebecca Lee Crumpler grew up in a time when medicine was almost entirely closed to women, and especially to African Americans. Yet she believed deeply in the power of caring for the sick and protecting the vulnerable.

In 1864 she became the first Black woman in the United States to earn a medical degree.

After the Civil War ended, Crumpler moved to Virginia, where she treated newly freed men, women, and children who had little access to medical care. The conditions were difficult, resources were scarce, and prejudice remained strong.

But she continued her work.

Crumpler believed that knowledge should serve compassion. She later wrote A Book of Medical Discourses, one of the first medical texts written by an African American physician.

There is a verse in Jeremiah that says, “Heal me, Lord, and I will be healed.”

Rebecca Lee Crumpler answered that prayer not only with faith but with skill, dedication, and love for those who had long been ignored.

Sometimes the most powerful medicine
is the courage to care.

Bread Crumbs

Service does not always appear glamorous.

Rebecca Lee Crumpler chose to practice medicine where the need was greatest and recognition was smallest.

She reminds us that compassion often requires perseverance.

Sometimes the calling God places on your life
is simply to heal what others have overlooked.

Steps From Our Sisters
Honoring the Women Who Marched Before Us

Curated by
Michelle Gillison-Robinson
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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You Are Black History

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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Hattie McDaniel, First In  A Segregated Room


In 1940, Hattie McDaniel became the first African American to win an Academy Award. She won Best Supporting Actress for her role as Mammy in Gone with the Wind (1939). She was also the first African American ever nominated for an Oscar. History shifted that night.


And yet, at the ceremony held at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, she was required to sit at a small segregated table against the wall, apart from her white castmates. Victory. With boundaries.


When the film premiered in Atlanta in 1939, Georgia’s Jim Crow laws barred Black cast members from attending. It is widely reported that her co-star Clark Gable objected strongly and threatened not to appear in protest. Accounts say Hattie encouraged him to attend, understanding the political climate and the fragile footing of her position in Hollywood. Public outrage from powerful allies could make headlines. But she would still have to live and work inside the system afterward. Strategy is not surrender.


MORE THAN MAMMY
Hattie McDaniel was born in Kansas to parents who had been enslaved.

She was among the first Black women to sing on American radio in the 1920s, a successful blues performer before Hollywood and recorded 16 blues sides between 1926 and 1929. She appeared in over 300 films, though many roles went uncredited. Her best known other major films are Alice AdamsIn This Our LifeSince You Went Away, and Song of the South.

She became one of the highest-paid Black entertainers of her era and later starred in the radio show Beulah, becoming one of the first Black women to headline a nationally broadcast radio program.

In 1952, she became one of the first Black women to star in a television series when Beulah moved to television.

She holds two stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame — one for motion pictures and one for radio.


All of this was before Rosa Parks. Before Martin Luther King Jr. became a national figure. Before the Civil Rights Act.

Jim Crow was law. Black actors were largely confined to domestic or servile roles. Many within the Black community criticized those portrayals for reinforcing stereotypes.

Hattie’s response was pragmatic and pointed: “I’d rather play a maid than be one.”

Being first does not mean being free. McDaniel died of breast cancer on October 26, 1952, at age 59 in Woodland Hills, California. Her final wish to be buried in the Hollywood Cemetery was denied due to its segregation policy at the time.  Decades later, a memorial plaque was placed in her honor.

In  2006, she was honored with a US postage stamp, and in 2010, she was inducted into the Colorado Women’s Hall of Fame.

In 2006, the Academy replaced her long-missing Oscar, confiscated by IRS debt, with a replica, formally acknowledging her historic win.  The original was to have been displayed at Howard University but went missing in the 1970s

Notably, no other Black woman would win an Oscar for 50 years after Hattie. Not until Whoopie Goldberg won for Best Supporting Actress in Ghost.

Galatians 6:9

“Let us not grow weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.”


CARRY THIS WITH YOU
Sometimes the door that opens to you is imperfect. Sometimes the room is segregated.
Sometimes you are allowed in — but only to the edge.

Hattie McDaniel walked in anyway. Not because the system was fair. But because excellence inside limitation still moves history forward.


BREADCRUMB
What opportunity are you resisting because the conditions are not ideal? Being the first often means carrying contradictions so others can inherit clarity.


SALUTE
We see you, Hattie McDaniel — for becoming the first when the room was not ready, and for claiming victory in a nation that tried to seat you in the shadows.

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