My favorite weather man is forecasting the first official Snowmaggedon of the season: six to twelve inches of snow, up to an inch of ice layered on top, and—because chaos loves company—the delightful possibility of losing power. Naturally planned for a post-work weekend, because rest is apparently negotiable. I’ve done my preps. Grandma’s provision list? Checked. Every extra blanket in the house washed, folded, and staged like we’re auditioning for Little House on the Prairie: Dominion Energy Edition. Candles. Tea lights. Batteries. Flashlights. The full “we will survive this living room” starter kit. I’ve been digging through storage bins to find the reflective cover for my greenhouse, determined to protect my plant babies outside. Because if the lights flicker and the world goes quiet, somebody still needs to be covered. We will endure together—warm-ish, faithful, and protected. This isn’t panic prepping. This is inheritance. This is what happens when you’re raised by women who trusted God and kept extra blankets. Women who understood that peace doesn’t come from pretending storms don’t happen—it comes from knowing you’re sheltered when they do. “He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge.” — Psalm 91:4 That verse feels different when you’re pulling covers over tender things. When you’re choosing care over chaos. When you’re preparing not out of fear, but out of love. And when the work is done—when the candles are set and the covers are pulled tight—there’s permission to rest. “In peace I will lie down and sleep, for You alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.” — Psalm 4:8 Now, the only thing I’m not prepared for is being snowed in with young people who have never experienced boredom—or a power outage—as a character-building event. Back in my day we stared at walls and survived… But even then… provision has already been made. And that, right there, is peace—with a little sass and a lot of covering. Love, Chelle
Every time the forecast whispers snow, Virginia loses its mind.
Milk disappears first. Bread follows. Eggs become currency. And suddenly people who haven’t cooked since 2014 are preparing for Snowmageddon: The Reckoning.
This morning, listening to the low-grade panic hum through social media, I thought of my grandma.
No emergency rations. No twelve-step preparedness plan. No frantic news watching.
Just quiet confidence.
Flour meant I can make something. Butter and sugar meant comfort is still allowed. Coffee meant sit down, we’re talking. Milk meant somebody might need care. Eggs meant breakfast feeds more than hunger. Salt meant wisdom — because everything needs seasoning. Tea bags meant there’s time to slow down. And bacon? Bacon meant joy is practical.
Grandma didn’t fear snow. She respected it. And if it wasn’t the first snow, she’d be outside making snow cream like it was just another blessing falling from the sky.
She lived what Scripture later put into words: “She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.” (Proverbs 31:25)
She knew storms came — and went. She knew how to stretch what she had. She knew a warm kitchen calmed cold nerves better than any headline ever could.
What strikes me most now is this: Her list wasn’t about survival. It was about presence.
Enough on hand to feed whoever showed up. Enough calm to keep the house steady. Enough wisdom not to confuse inconvenience with catastrophe.
We live in a time where every storm is framed like the end of the world. But some of us were raised by women who understood that preparation doesn’t require panic — and peace doesn’t require abundance.
So if snow comes this week, let it snow. Well… I’m no snow lover — even if I was born in January — but I trust the kind of wisdom that keeps coffee brewing, tea steeping, and bacon sizzling.
I’ll be thinking about grandma. Her list. Her calm. And the quiet strength of knowing that love, when prepared, is never caught off guard.
Then I heard the soft, unmistakable sound of soil shifting where it shouldn’t, followed by the sight every plant-loving heart knows too well — one of my pothos vines snapped clean away from the rest of the plant.
Just like that. An accident. A break.
My first thought wasn’t theological. It was maternal. Can it be saved?
I picked it up gently, turning the broken vine over in my hands, looking for signs of life. And there they were — tiny nodes, already formed. Places where roots could grow, even though they hadn’t yet.
What looked like damage was actually possibility.
I learned something standing there in my living room with dirt on the floor and a vine in my hand: Not every break is a loss. Some breaks are an invitation.
The plant wasn’t ruined. It was multiplied. What separated didn’t die — it prepared to grow again, just differently, in a new place.
And isn’t that how it goes with us?
We panic when something breaks — a plan, a season, a relationship, a version of ourselves we worked hard to protect. We assume broken means finished. But God has a way of seeing roots where we only see separation.
Scripture whispers this truth gently:
“There is a time for everything… a time to plant and a time to uproot.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1–2
Uprooting feels violent when it happens unexpectedly. But uprooting isn’t destruction — it’s movement.
That vine didn’t know it was about to be replanted. It didn’t resist the separation. It just carried what it needed inside itself and waited for water.
Maybe that’s where we are too.
Maybe what snapped didn’t end us. Maybe it exposed what was already capable of growing.
So I didn’t lose a plant today. I gained four jars of hope sitting on my counter.
What broke didn’t disappear — it multiplied. And maybe that’s the part we forget when something snaps in our hands.
Waiting isn’t wasted. It’s where roots decide to show up.
“Those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength.” — Isaiah 40:31
Some breaks bring new growth. They just need water… and a little time.
Like some kind of finely tuned timepiece, my internal alarm goes off — clockwork faithful. No snooze button negotiations. No grace period. Just “bing.”
And there it is… 3:00 a.m. glowing on my digital clock (yes, I still have one — don’t judge).
I pull the comforter up like it might save me. It does not.
My body says, up up up, while my soul whispers, “Really, Lord? Again?”
There was a time I filled those early hours with “responsible things” — finishing chores I ignored the night before, paying bills that had been staring at me all day, or letting the TV talk so I didn’t have to think.
Busy things. Distracting things. Things that looked productive but didn’t change me one bit.
But lately… I’m up writing.
Blog entries. Poems. Devotionals.
Words spilling out at a pace that tells me I’m not in charge of this schedule anymore.
And somewhere between the glow of that clock and the scratch of my pen, truth had my full attention.
I’ve moved from me cleaning house to God housekeeping me.
Because once I’m fully awake, I go full steam — fixing, managing, pushing, performing. But at 3 a.m.? I’m not impressive. I’m not polished. I’m barely caffeinated.
And that’s exactly when God starts pointing things out.
Things my soul was too tired to hear during the day, my pen now faithfully records in the quiet.
Cleaning me. Pruning me. Digging around places I thought were “fine.” Re-creating what I rushed past in daylight.
This isn’t insomnia. This is divine interruption.
Early-morning housekeeping — the kind where God gently rearranges what I’ve been tripping over inside while I’m still wrapped in blankets and honesty.
And I’m reminded, softly, without accusation or demand: “In quietness and trust is your strength.” (Isaiah 30:15)
Turns out, God doesn’t always wake us up to get more done.
Sometimes He wakes us up because He’s not finished with us yet.
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
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.
I stood in my greenhouse clutching scissors like I was about to commit a felony. These weren’t plants. These were my plant babies. I grew them. I watered them. I whispered encouragement like a slightly unhinged garden aunt. And now I was being told they were “too crowded.”
Excuse me??? They looked happy. Thriving. Living their best leafy lives. But apparently, love without boundaries leads to chaos. Who knew.
The word thinning showed up— and my heart heard destruction. Because when you’re wired like me, making room feels an awful lot like abandonment.
I mean, how do you explain to a perfectly healthy kale plant that it’s not being rejected— it’s just being relocated, harvested early, or “released into purpose”?
I felt like I was ruining everything. Until I realized… nothing was being wasted. Some plants were transplanted. Some were harvested and nourished something immediately.
And the ones left behind? They finally had space to become what they were always meant to be. That’s when it hit me. Pruning doesn’t change who we are. It reveals it. God isn’t cutting us down—
He’s cutting away what keeps us from becoming strong, rooted, and fruitful. Not every removal is punishment. Not every loss is failure. Some things leave so we can finally grow into ourselves.
“Every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit.” — John 15:2
Pruning feels personal when you’re emotionally attached to the leaves. But it’s the very thing that shapes the harvest. Thinning is not killing. It’s the painful, purposeful process of becoming.
And if I’m honest… I still apologized to my kale, needed a moment of silence, and may require counseling before the next round of thinning.
Because apparently God and gardening are both committed to making us who we’re supposed to be— even when we’re dramatic about it.
I couldn’t sleep, again, so I tuned into one of my favorite comfort-watch movies, Last Holiday (2006), starring Queen Latifah.
I’ve watched it more times than I’ll ever confess, but there is one scene I always slow down for. It’s the kitchen scene. My favorite one.
When Chef Didier looks at Georgia and gently compares her to the baby turnip — the smallest one in the bin, often overlooked, passed by for something bigger or flashier… yet the most tender, the most flavorful, the one a true chef treasures.
That scene gets me every time. Because the baby turnip isn’t flawed. It isn’t unfinished. It isn’t lacking. It’s just quiet. And early. And easy to miss if you’re in a hurry.
And if I’m being honest — part of why that scene hits so hard is because I’ve felt like that turnip. Overlooked. Passed by. Sitting there thinking, “Excuse me… I am organic, well-seasoned, and emotionally available.” But folks keep grabbing the big, loud potatoes.
Meanwhile, God is in the kitchen like a five-star chef saying, “Leave her. She’s tender. She’s not for everybody. And I don’t rush good ingredients.”
Whew.
That’s the holy pause in the story. Not the luxury. Not the bold declarations. But the moment when someone truly sees her.
And isn’t that what so many of us long for? We grow underground — faithful, steady, consistent — while the world keeps reaching for whatever looks impressive on the surface. We’re not trying to be flashy. We’re just trying to be faithful.
Still, being overlooked can sting. Especially when you know you’ve been planted, watered, and patient.
But the baby turnip reminds me of this truth: being passed over by people does not mean being passed by God. God delights in roots. He honors slow growth. He protects what is tender until the right time and the right hands arrive.
Sometimes you’re not hidden because you’re insignificant. You’re hidden because you’re delicate. Because you’re reserved. Because you’re meant for a table that understands flavor.
So yes — I may be under a blanket right now pretending I’m Queen Latifah — but I’m also believing, learning, and internalizing this: I don’t need to audition for worth. I don’t need to shout to be seen. I don’t need to rush my growth just because someone else is loud. If I’m being missed right now, maybe it’s because I’m being saved. And when it’s my turn? They’ll wish they hadn’t rushed past the produce section.
Lord, when I feel unseen, remind me that You see fully. Teach me to trust Your timing, even when I feel overlooked. Help me grow deep roots instead of loud leaves,and rest in the truth that being missed by people does not mean being missed by You.
“I would have fainted, unless I had believed to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.” — Psalm 27:13
1/7/18.
I will always remember that date like a star date in the Star Trek Captain’s Log.
It started as a normal Sunday setup. I had just finished cleaning around the sound booth and was adjusting everything to get ready for that morning’s praise and worship. Service was running a few minutes behind, but we were still riding the spiritual high of pre-worship hour prayer.
Then it happened. My phone rang.
I almost never answer my phone during service. In fact, just two minutes earlier, I had nudged one of our teenagers about using their phone during Sunday school.
But I recognized the number. That familiar 264 exchange—the one every “kidney family” in my region of Virginia knows by heart. Breathless. Full of anticipation. Almost terrified. Palms sweating, face flushed in seconds. I answered to the coordinator’s urgent voice:
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
You see, protocol dictates that when the organ sharing center receives a possible match, they must first confirm that the prospective recipient is within four hours of their chosen transplant hospital. Once your location is confirmed, they tell you they’ll call back—and promptly hang up.
Yes. You read that right.
In one of the shakiest moments of your life, they hang up with a promise to call you back within an hour… or so… if it’s a good match.
I was still in the sound booth. My son was seated in his usual spot, about six rows in front of me. I didn’t know whether to tell him that his life might be about to change. We had already been disappointed by calls like this—twice before.
So instead, I texted him: “Be ready to go when I tap you.”
His response was simple: “Ok.” He didn’t ask why. He didn’t question me. He just trusted that if I said go, we go.
For me, however, the next 59 minutes would be the longest of my entire life. Time and space seemed to stand still. The room suddenly felt too warm, the air too stale. I can’t even remember if I set the microphones correctly. The pastor could have been shouting and I wouldn’t have heard him. The praise team was faithfully belting out worship songs my impatient ears could not discern.
All I could distinguish was the steady rhythm of the drum—now matching my racing heartbeat.
About 45 minutes into the wait, I had to correct my course. Not on the soundboard. In myself.
I found myself apologizing—to God, to Jesus, to the Holy Spirit. I had become so consumed with the call that I had stopped truly worshiping. I had stopped listening to the Word being preached.
I was esteeming what I wanted from God more than I was esteeming God Himself. And in that moment, it felt as though the Holy Spirit was echoing the same question in my heart: “WHERE ARE YOU?”
I steadied myself. I readied myself. Through tears and trembling faith, I began to worship again—declaring that as desperately as I wanted this gift to free my son from five long years of agonizing dialysis, I wanted the Presence of the Lord even more.
As my spiritual hunger was met with the assurance that God was with me no matter what, I heard in my spirit, “Hang up.”
At that exact moment, I looked down at the phone I had been clutching in my hand—and it rang. With tears streaming, I answered. Joyfully, 58 minutes into the wait, the coordinator said: “HOW FAST CAN YOU GET HERE?”
And that is the stuff our walk with Christ is made of. How often do we approach God wanting—and even needing—something deeply tied to a promise we believe He made, only to find ourselves overwhelmed by the waiting? Too often, our “knock and the door shall be opened” faith quietly shifts into a heartsick lifestyle of disappointment, dissatisfaction, and even unbelief—unless we see the manifestation.
Hebrews 11:6 reminds us that “he who comes to God must believe that He is, and that He is a rewarder of those who diligently seek Him.” Notice it says seek Him. Not diligently seek it.
When God asks, “Where are you?” may we be found seeking Him—not just the thing we hope He’ll give us. When He seems to hang up, trust that He will call again. Trust God. Trust His goodness. Even when it feels distant—it is still His plan. Even when it unfolds differently than expected—it is still His plan. Even when the answer is no—for reasons greater than we understand—better is still His plan. Reset your need for control. Let God have His way.
One last question: Since we trust that God is always right on time… how fast can you get here?
I didn’t wake up asking for a lesson. I woke up asking a question.
When, Lord? When will things be different? When will healing finally arrive?
A year has passed since surgery. By my own calendar, I decided I should be past this. Past the restrictions. Past the tenderness. Past the reminders that my body has its own pace.
But today, my belly disagrees with my timeline.
If I’m being honest, it may also disagree with my choices. Perhaps the third cup of coffee was ambitious. Perhaps chocolate and I — though still emotionally attached — are currently not on speaking terms. And perhaps I should have remembered the boatload of readily available internet wisdom that calmly, repeatedly explains the very misery I have managed to create for myself.
Still, I find myself asking God the same question Scripture has echoed for generations.
“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?” (Psalm 13)
That cry reminds me that impatience is not a lack of faith. It is often proof that we believe God hears us well enough to answer.
What if healing is not only about what is removed, but about what is relearned?
Without a gallbladder, my body asks for gentleness. Without certainty, my heart does the same.
Maybe the invitation today is not to rush healing, but to remember that restrictions are not punishment — they are protection still at work.
And maybe God isn’t offended by my when. Maybe He meets it with mercy.
“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning.” (Lamentations 3:22–23)
That promise doesn’t say mercy arrives when I finally get it right — only that it shows up faithfully, even when I don’t.
So today, I loosen my self-imposed deadlines. I stop arguing with my body. I release the belief that progress must look linear to be real.
I may not control the timeline, but I can choose attentiveness over impatience.
And instead of asking, When will this be over? I ask a better question:
Lord, how do You want to meet me here?
Because even here — especially here — He is present.
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