Tag: Family

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When The Living Room Is Empty

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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.

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Fourteen Ounces

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My kitchen cabinet is full of mugs.
Tall ones.
Short ones.
Skinny ones and fat ones.
Plain white. Red ones (my fav).

Loud sayings. Funny ones. Spiritual ones that make visitors pause mid-sip.


Some are glass. Some ceramic. Some insulated steel meant to keep things hot long past my capacity to remember when I made its contents.


Every day—sometimes several times a day—I reach in and choose one. Not based on worth, but on need. Coffee when I need courage. Cocoa when I need comfort. Tea when I need calm.


Over the years, some of them have lost their tops.
Okay… I lost their tops.
And without those lids, the heat doesn’t last as long. But here’s what I noticed one quiet morning while waiting for the kettle to whistle:
Almost every single one of them holds fourteen ounces.
Despite the differences.
Despite the wear.
Despite the missing pieces.
Same capacity.
No mug holds more because it’s taller.
No mug holds less because it’s chipped.
No mug is disqualified because it doesn’t match the rest.
They were all made to receive.


And I wondered when the Church forgot that.
Somewhere along the way, we started ranking the mugs.
Preferring certain shapes.
Deciding which ones looked “right” on the shelf.
We forgot that Jesus never measured vessels by appearance.
He poured Himself out freely—into fishermen, skeptics, women with reputations, men with questions, people missing lids.


“But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.”
— 2 Corinthians 4:7


That’s muddy ministry.
Muddy ministry is faith that doesn’t stay clean.
It’s Jesus kneeling in the dirt.
Touching the untouchable.
Lingering with grief.
Showing up before fixing anything.
Muddy ministry doesn’t inspect the vessel.
It just pours.
It understands that people—like mugs—come in different shapes, carry different scars, and hold warmth differently, yet bear the same image of God and the same capacity for grace.


Religion becomes abusive when it starts inspecting mugs instead of filling them.
When it withholds the pour because the vessel doesn’t look familiar.
When it mistakes uniformity for holiness.
But Jesus?
Jesus keeps pouring.
Fourteen ounces of mercy.
Fourteen ounces of patience.
Fourteen ounces of love.
Enough for each of us.


And the mugs without lids?
They know to drink while it’s hot.
They don’t waste the moment.
Maybe that’s the real lesson.
Not to become a “better mug.”
Not to match the cabinet.
Just to stay open…
and let Him pour.


And maybe that’s why this truth found me so suddenly.
Because once upon a time, fourteen ounces wasn’t just a measurement in my kitchen.
It was my grandson, Emmanuel Langston Gillison.
Barely more than fourteen ounces at birth, his life gathered hundreds into prayer—family, friends, strangers—hoping for a miracle.
We prayed boldly.
We hoped desperately.
We trusted God with everything we had.
And when the miracle didn’t come the way we longed for, Emmanuel’s life still poured out.
His brief presence became muddy ministry in its purest form—
a ministry of grief, honesty, and learning to trust God when faith doesn’t get what it hoped for.


Fourteen ounces was enough.
Enough to draw people together.
Enough to change us.
Enough to teach us that capacity is not measured by size or by how long something lasts.
Some vessels are filled fully…
even if they are held only briefly.

Dedication
In loving memory of my grandson,
Emmanuel Langston Gillison—
Fourteen ounces of life,
and a lifetime of grace.                                  Some children grow old in years.
Some grow old in impact.

Loving you always Nama Chelle

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The Cheerful Misfit

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When nothing seems to fit — and that’s okay

“On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable.” — 1 Corinthians 12:22

Some of us move through life with the quiet sense that we’re slightly out of step — not broken, not rebellious, just never quite fitting the mold we were handed. We show up, we work hard, we love deeply… and still feel like we’re standing just off to the side of the picture.


I’ve been thinking about the quiet ones lately. The ones who don’t quite fit the mold. The ones who try to blend in, not because they lack light, but because standing out feels risky — or exhausting — or simply unnecessary.


Somewhere along the way, we were taught that faith, success, and even joy had to be loud. That if you weren’t noticed, applauded, or affirmed publicly, you must be doing something wrong. But that’s not how God works. And that’s not how growth usually happens.


There’s an old song that keeps playing in my head: “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.” It isn’t an upbeat song. It isn’t even particularly spiritual. It’s about a man walking through life wondering why things don’t seem to line up for him the way they do for everyone else. No matter how hard he tries, the rain keeps falling — and there’s a moment where he admits, almost with a shrug, that nothing seems to fit quite right.


That feeling isn’t failure. It’s often the first sign that you were never meant to squeeze yourself into someone else’s shape.


Scripture is full of people who didn’t stand out at first glance. Shepherds. Younger siblings. Widows. Servants. People whose names were whispered before they were ever written down. God didn’t choose them because they were impressive. He chose them because they were available — willing to show up, willing to listen, willing to stay.


Sometimes the calling isn’t to stand out — it’s to stand firm.
To keep doing good when no one is clapping.
To keep loving when you’re taken for granted.
To keep believing when you feel like a misfit in the room.


If you’ve ever felt like you don’t quite belong — not in your family, not at work, not even in church — hear this gently:
You are not overlooked.
You are being shaped.


Raindrops may keep falling. Life may feel a little off-key. But God has a way of using the steady, the faithful, and the quietly obedient to water the very ground where others will one day find shelter.


You don’t have to force yourself to stand out.
You were already set apart.


Prayer
God, it’s me again — the one who sometimes trips over her own feet while trying to do the right thing. Help me remember that even when I feel out of place, I am not out of Your care. Let me stop auditioning for rooms I was never meant to impress. Teach me to walk faithfully, laugh freely, and rest in the truth that You see me — not as a joke, not as an afterthought, but as Your very worthy clown. Amen.

Now Breathe!
Inhale grace. Exhale comparison.
We may not fit every room — and that’s okay.
We belong to God. Now, come walk  forward with God and me as a cheerful misfit.

Love Chelle

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DEAR GOD… THESE BULBS AIN’T BULBING

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SCRIPTURE
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” — John 1:5


There is nothing quite like a Christmas tree to expose the truth about your spiritual maturity. All year long you can love people, show grace, pray faithfully, encourage the saints… but let one strand of lights refuse to light, and suddenly you’re two seconds from throwing the whole tree — and half of your Christianity — out the window.

I stood there staring at a section of lights that worked perfectly last year. This morning? Dead. Dim. Uncooperative. Just like some seasons in my life.

I kept tugging, twisting, tapping, and praying under my breath — the kind of “Jesus help me before I say something” prayer. Because I could feel the frustration rising, not just from the tree, but from everything I’ve been carrying these past few days.

And right in the middle of the chaos, God whispered:

“All light isn’t broken… Some of it just needs to be reconnected.”

It stopped me. Because that’s exactly how I’ve been feeling: 
Tired in spots. 
Dim in places. 
Still trying to shine, but not nearly as bright as I used to.

Sometimes we’re not broken — we’re just overwhelmed. 
Sometimes we’re not out of faith — we’re out of energy. 
Sometimes the problem isn’t the whole strand — it’s just one little place that needs a reset.

And here’s the good news: 
God knows how to find the bulb that’s not bulbing. 
And He knows how to restore the light.

Even when we don’t have the patience. 
Even when we want to throw everything back in the box until next Christmas. 
Even when we’re standing there with tears, peppermint tea, and attitude.

Purpose doesn’t disappear because one section went dark. 
Your life is still lit. 
Your calling is still glowing. 
Your hope is still wired into Him.

And if I need to add a new string of lights on top? God isn’t offended. Sometimes grace looks like “make it easier for yourself, daughter.”

-Love Chelle

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Dear God- Keep  Digging

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Luke 13:6–9 (NIV)
Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree growing in his vineyard, and he went to look for fruit on it but did not find any.
So he said to the man who took care of the vineyard, ‘For three years now I’ve been coming to look for fruit on this fig tree and haven’t found any. Cut it down! Why should it use up the soil?’
“‘Sir,’ the man replied, ‘leave it alone for one more year, and I’ll dig around it and fertilize it.
If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down.’”
Reflection
Some days, I feel exactly like that fig tree—standing in the middle of life, trying my best, but still wondering if I’m producing anything at all. Not the perfect, fruitful tree everyone expects… just the one hoping nobody notices how bare the branches feel.

And honestly? There are moments I feel inadequate in almost every role I hold:
– As a wife, loving deeply but sometimes running on fumes
– As a mother, praying between grown-child crises, hoping I’m guiding well
– As an employee, juggling tasks with a superhero cape that keeps slipping
– As a minister, pouring out even when my cup feels half-empty
– As a singer, trying to bless God while my voice sometimes protests
– As a writer, full of stories but occasionally stuck between heart and keyboard

And in the middle of all that, I slip into development mode: fix myself, improve myself, upgrade myself—as if I’m a project on a deadline.

But Jesus tells a different story.

In the parable, the owner looks at the tree and says, “Cut it down.” But the Gardener—who knows how roots really work—steps between judgment and mercy and says:
“Give her time. Give her grace. Let Me work with her.”

He doesn’t ask the tree to try harder. He doesn’t shame it. Instead He says:
“Let Me dig around her.”
“Let Me nourish her.”
“Let Me tend to the parts nobody sees.”

While I’m busy trying to perfect myself, Jesus reminds me:
“Growth is My job. Staying connected is yours.”

He is not rushing me. He is not disappointed in me. He is not walking away from me.

He is kneeling in the soil of my life saying:
“Give her another year. I know what she needs. Let Me grow her in My timing.”

And that truth sets my soul at rest.
Prayer
Dear Lord,
Thank You for being the Gardener who refuses to give up on me. Forgive me for the times I rush myself, judge myself, or declare myself fruitless. Teach me to rest in You, to stay rooted in You, and to trust Your timing over my own. Dig around me, nourish me, and grow me in the way only You can. And when I feel inadequate, remind me that Your grace is still at work beneath the surface.

With love,
Chelle

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Dear God – When Caregiving Hurts and Heals

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DEAR GOD… WHEN CAREGIVING HURTS, HEALS, AND LEANS HEAVY ON MY SHOULDERS

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9

Today, I told myself I would wait until the temperature climbed to at least forty degrees before heading out to decorate my sister’s room at the nursing home for Christmas. I’m bringing her a case of pudding and picking up the dirty laundry — the usual “big sister doing what needs to be done” routine.

But before I even put my coat on, a familiar companion showed up… guilt.

Not guilt because I don’t want to help — I do, with all my heart.
But guilt because sometimes… Lord, I am just tired.

Tired from my own responsibilities.
Tired from my job, my husband’s appointments, my grandchildren, my writing, my own body acting up on me.
Tired from being pulled in ten different directions while trying to stay whole myself.

And there’s a special kind of guilt that comes with caregiving when you are exhausted.
A guilt that whispers, “You should be doing more.”
A guilt that berates you for needing a break.
A guilt that makes you feel like resting means failing.

Especially when the person you’re caring for is your younger sister.
Only 48.
Bed bound.
Multiple strokes.
Speech limited.
Taken down by a condition we didn’t even know existed until it barged into our family like a thief in the night.

Sometimes I walk into her room and see her lying there, and my heart squeezes because I remember who she used to be — strong, funny, quick-witted, full of that younger-sister attitude that kept me on my toes.
And then another wave hits:
How dare I complain about being tired when she would give anything to switch places with me for one day?

But Lord… that is not the truth You want me to carry.

Because even with her limitations, she and I still do what sisters do:
trash talk, laugh, joke, roll our eyes, and make the nurses wonder what on earth is going on in Room Whatever-It-Is-This-Week.
She’s still her, and I’m still me, and our sisterhood refuses to die.

And yet, the guilt still shows up when I catch myself sighing too hard, or wishing for one quiet weekend, or resenting the cold weather because caregiving is already heavy enough.

But today, Father, You whispered something to my heart:

“Guilt is not your assignment. Grace is.”

Caregiving is not a competition of strength.
It is not a performance for heaven.
It is not a test You are grading me on.

It is love lived out loud.
It is compassion with skin on it.
It is the ministry nobody sees but You.

Decorating her room today…
It’s not just Christmas décor.
It’s dignity.
It’s joy.
It’s a reminder that she is still here and still loved.
And it is a reminder that I am still allowed to be human.

So Lord, when the guilt rises because life is heavy,
when responsibilities pile up faster than I can carry them,
when I feel torn between caring for her and caring for myself,
remind me:

You never asked me to do this perfectly.
You only asked me to do it with love.
And love, even tired love, is still holy.

With Love,
Chelle

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Growing Through It

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Lessons From My Winter Garden

“As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish…so is My word that goes out from My mouth: It will not return to Me empty.”
— Isaiah 55:10–11 (NIV)

I am making my very first attempt at a winter garden. And let me be clear: I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing. Most of my “training” comes from overly enthusiastic YouTube gardeners who clearly have more time and more sunshine than I do.

I’m pretty sure I’ve already spent more money on soil, seeds, and enthusiasm than I’ll ever get back in vegetables. But honestly? For once… I don’t care.

Because this garden isn’t about vegetables at all. 

It’s a grief-release project. A quiet place to pour the pain instead of pouring it on somebody. A space where my hands can work while my heart finally breathes.

The “easy 30-minute” mini greenhouse?
It took three hours, two episodes of repentance, and one conversation with myself about whether I should have just grown plastic plants and called it a day.

Digging in the dirt made my back hurt, and apparently I thought a cubic foot of topsoil stretched farther than it does, because three trips to the garden center fixed that delusion.
Then came the bugs—whole nations of them—each one convinced they belonged in my hair.

But the moment that froze me was this one:
I realized it had been nineteen years since I actually sat—really sat—in my own backyard.
Nineteen years since I noticed the quiet.
Nineteen years since I gave myself permission just to exist.

So here I am, tending this little winter garden—measuring, digging, seeding, watering.
Not because I’m expecting a miracle harvest,
but because there is healing in putting your fingers in the dirt and hope in watching something grow in a cold season.

And wouldn’t you know it…
Right as the first snow has fallen, my mama-heart has kicked in full force.
I keep peeking out the window like a nervous parent on the first day of school.

“Lord, protect my babies.”
My seedlings.
My fragile green hopes.
My little reminders that even in winter, life is possible.

And here is the ironic blessing of it all:

– The “easy carrots” have not even whispered.
– The “super easy spinach” has barely shown a shy fleck of green.
– But the tough plants?
  The kale and Brussels sprouts—those winter warriors—are popping up like four-leaf clovers.

Of course they are.

Because the things we expect to flourish don’t always flourish first.
And the things we expect to struggle often surprise us with their strength.

Just like us.

Some seasons of our lives are carrots—quiet, hidden, working underground where no one can see.
Some seasons are spinach—delicate, hesitant, unsure.
But some seasons?
We are kale and Brussels sprouts—growing in the cold, thriving in hardship, lifting our heads in weather that would take out weaker
The snowfall isn’t a threat.
It’s a promise.

If God sends snow to water the earth,
He will also watch over the seeds He told me to plant—
the ones in my garden
and the ones in my soul.

And just like these unexpected winter greens,
I believe I’m going to grow through this season

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ME TOO HONESTY

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For we have not a high priest which can not be touched with the feeling of our infirmities… 
— Hebrews 4:15 KJV 
The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. 
— Psalm 34:18 NIV 


I always joke that I’d never make a good politician because I tell everything about myself—there’d be no dirt left to dig up… unless you checked under the carpet. I’ve always believed wearing my heart on my sleeve comes from having a testimony I can’t keep quiet. God has been too good to me. So yes, I live like an open book… or so I thought.


My ministry has often been wrapped in neat and tidy encouragement: 
• Be joyful in troubled times. 
• Trust God no matter what. 
• He will restore everything. 


Beautiful words. True words. But they were missing one major detail: my honesty about the moments that weren’t neat. Maybe it was pride. Maybe fear. Maybe I didn’t want to hear myself say the things I still hadn’t fully dealt with.


But then came three people—a trio God hand‑picked to “out” me.
One was fighting to hold onto faith when medicine said “no way.” 
One wondered how God could ever love her after the mistakes she’d made. 
One had lost her home under the weight of medical and legal battles.
And each of them assumed their fear, hurt, or shame made them “less faithful.”


That’s when God nudged me—actually, shoved me—to pull out what I kept hidden under my own rug. The thing I didn’t think qualified as a testimony. The thing I didn’t want to admit even to myself. And when I finally said it, each of them responded the same way:
“Why didn’t you tell me?” 
“You hid that well.” 
“I needed that… I’m normal.”
My secret?
“Me too.”


For nearly 14 years, my son battled severe illness — sudden deafness, countless surgeries, relentless pain, and thrice‑weekly dialysis. Many of you know those parts. What I never shared was the day I got mad at God.


After years of waiting, a perfect donor match was found. We went into preparation mode:  cleaning the house for infection control, saving every dime, canceling vacations, even turning down a huge career opportunity. We tip‑toed around loved ones because we wanted to surprise everyone after the transplant.


Then, one morning during devotion, God whispered something odd:
“Forget the Back‑Up Plan.”


I didn’t know what it meant. I assumed it was about finances or job security. Anything except what came next.


Just days before hospital check‑in, a nurse called—cold, flat‑voiced, emotionless.
“No go.” 
No explanation. 
No compassion. 
Just… no.


The ground shifted under me. How was I supposed to tell my son, who was finally hopeful again? I was furious. Was God playing with me like a cat with a string?


I slipped away from everyone. My spirit knew God had a plan, but my heart and my head were wrestling in opposite corners.

Angry,  I reminded God of everything we had endured—the nights I stood by the door listening for his breathing, the extreme pain, the surgeries, the exhaustion, the faithfulness. And if my faith wasn’t enough, surely someone out of all the people who prayed for us had at least one mustard seed to spare!


All I heard back was:
“Forget the Back‑Up Plan.”


Later, we learned the donor had developed a condition that would’ve caused the kidney to fail quickly. If my son had received it, we would have ended up in a bigger storm.


God wasn’t teasing us—He was protecting us.
Just like Jeremiah 29 reminds us, His plans include a future, a hope, and a good end… even when the journey makes absolutely no sense.


And then, in God’s timing—not mine—my son received the kidney he needed. 
That was seven years ago, and today, he is living proof that long journeys still have victorious endings.


I will be honest: I still jump a little when the phone rings at night. Healing from trauma doesn’t come on schedule. Writing this took years because every now and then, the tears still fall.


But I share this so you know:
Whatever you’re going through — you are normal.
Faith does not erase fear. 
Belief does not cancel tears. 
Even rejoicing takes reminders (Phil. 4:4 says it *twice*, so clearly God knows us well).


God is not distant. He feels your pain. He welcomes your honesty. 
He will not strike you down for asking questions.
Just remember:
It is faith that moves mountains, not the absence of emotion.
Cry if you must. 
Hurt if you must. 
Question if you must.
But whatever you do… 
Keep pushing. God isn’t finished.


With love, Chelle

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A Clown Called Worthy

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2500 people.

A hot, humid Virginia night.

And me—standing on the Dogwood Dell stage, smelling like I bathed in a designer fragrance called “Eau de OFF!”

Listen… I wasn’t just wearing bug spray.

I was marinated in it.

If any mosquito came for me, they would’ve turned around and filed a complaint.

Five minutes.

That’s all the time they gave me to stand there with all my 55 years, all my stories, all my scars, all my holy sass… and share an original piece only about three people were truly going to “get.”

And honestly? I prayed most folks wouldn’t understand it too well — because it was raw, personal, and inspired by that sad little clown inside me who finally decided she deserved some joy, too.

People laughed.

People cried.

People tilted their heads like confused puppies trying to interpret my metaphors.

And yes… one person came strictly to see me fail.(Satan always sends somebody. It’s in his job description.)

And then it happened…

Not my feet—

but my tongue betrayed me.

See, when I get nervous, my words tango.

Between my stutter, my little childhood speech lisp, and this post cancer chemo brain that sometimes takes a coffee break without warning, a few words just packed their bags and left me mid-sentence.

But here’s the funny part:

Most in the audience thought that pause was intentional.

They thought I was giving them deep drama, spoken-word artistry, pregnant silence, poetic tension—

Nope.

Sis just forgot her line.

But God used it anyway.

Because that “mistake” was actually the unveiling of something old—

the little girl who tried her whole life to fit into rooms she was never built for.

The child who once thought her voice was “less than.”

The woman who learned the hard way that the things we try to hide are the things God loves to spotlight.

And on that stage, with my tongue tripping but my spirit standing tall, something broke—and something healed.

I spoke about differences…

disabilities…

heartbreak…

grief…

love lost and breath stolen…

but also about reclaiming my right to be seen, to be heard, to be honored, to be treated with softness, and to outgrow every lie my past tried to tattoo onto my identity.

The applause was loud, beautiful…

but the loudest thing was inside me—

my heartbeat finally syncing with God’s truth:

I am worthy.

Not because I performed.

Not because I impressed anybody.

But because God never once asked me to be flawless—

He only asked me to be faithful.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.”

— 2 Corinthians 12:9

My weakness didn’t disqualify me.

It qualified me for grace.

It made the moment real.

It made it mine.

Sometimes God lets you trip over your tongue so you stop tripping over your past.

Sometimes He lets your words fall so your truth can rise.

Sometimes your “mistake” is just Heaven’s way of proving that you don’t need perfection to be powerful…

you just need courage.

And if a five-minute performance in “OFF!” perfume taught me anything, it’s this:

If God says you’re worthy, no stumble, no lisp, no past, no hater, and no missing word can argue Him down.

Love, Chelle

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Red Light, Green Light

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Lately, I’ve been stretched thin — the kind of thin where coffee starts looking like an emotional support beverage, and my bed feels like a distant memory. With relatives going in and out of hospitals, caretaking shifts, family worry, and decision fatigue (add a side of job and regular life), I’ve been functioning on autopilot. And not the smooth, first-class autopilot. More like the “Lord, please fly this plane because I’m tired” version.
Then, yesterday, on the way to yet another appointment, I found myself sitting at a stoplight. I thought it was red, so I just sat there… waiting, replaying the last few weeks in my head. My shoulders were tight, my eyelids heavy, and my spirit stretched. Then suddenly — BEEP! An irritated horn behind me snapped me back to reality.

And that’s when I realized:
I wasn’t sitting at a red light at all.
It wasn’t even green.
It was yellow — a caution light telling me, “Proceed when safe.”

🌟 Misreading the Signals
That moment hit me deeper than I expected. Because stress will have you out here misreading life’s signals.
When you’re tired enough, everything looks like a stop.
A closed door feels like punishment.
A pause feels like abandonment.
A delay feels like failure.
A quiet season feels like rejection.
A yellow light looks red.
But exhaustion is a lens that lies to us.
Sometimes, God isn’t saying “STOP.”
He’s saying, “Chelle, slow down, breathe, look around… and move forward with Me.”

God Uses Yellow Seasons Too
We love the green-light seasons — when everything flows, doors open, blessings drop, and strength is high.
And we understand the red-light seasons — when God lovingly tells us to wait, rest, or retract.
But that yellow light?
That in-between, not-quite-here, not-quite-there space?
We treat it like an inconvenience.
God treats it as instruction.
A yellow season says:
“Be cautious, but don’t freeze.”
“Use wisdom, but don’t quit.”
“Move forward, but stay alert.”
“Pay attention, but don’t be afraid.”
A yellow light is still movement — just intentional movement.

The dig into  this moment wrapped itself around one of my Uncle/Pastor Ron’s favorite scriptures:
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;
in all your ways acknowledge Him,
and He shall direct your paths.”
— Proverbs 3:5–6

My scripturally adjacent version:
When we’re exhausted, our understanding gets cloudy.
When we’re overwhelmed, our perspective gets foggy.
But when we trust God, He clears the road even when our vision is blurry.

Honk Honk,  if you feel like you’ve been waiting at a red light for too long…
Ask yourself gently:
“Is this really a red light…
or am I just too weary to see that God is saying, ‘Proceed — just proceed wisely’?”
Look again.
Take a breath.
Lift your head.
Reset your spirit.
Ask for fresh strength.
Sometimes, the miracle is not the light changing…
it’s your clarity returning.

So before I pick up my keys again and cause some other signal light saints to lose their religion, pray with me:

Lord
I am tired. My mind is overloaded, and sometimes I misread what You’re trying to show me.
Help me see clearly today.
Help me not confuse exhaustion with direction or fear with caution.
Give me discernment to know when to rest, when to wait, and when to move forward.
Thank You for being patient with me when I stall at yellow lights.
Guide my steps. Strengthen my spirit.
And help me proceed wisely, safely, and confidently with You.
Amen.

With Love Chelle