I didn’t plan on doing heart work this morning. I was just trying to clear storage—make my phone run smoother, lighten the load, make room for what’s next.
I was deleting blurry screenshots, duplicate photos, and saved recipes I’ll probably never make— right alongside hundreds of pictures of my grandchildren that I can’t bring myself to let go of.
And tucked in between it all were receipts I once needed to survive. Thirty frames of words that bruised from an argument. A disagreement that no longer makes sense. Pain from a season that had already passed.
I kept them because I thought I might need proof. Proof that I wasn’t imagining things. Proof in case I ever needed to defend myself.
And for a while, that was okay.
But this morning, standing on the edge of a new season, I realized something had shifted. I no longer needed protection from the past. I needed permission to release it.
So I didn’t reread. I didn’t rehearse the hurt. I didn’t reopen the courtroom in my mind.
I deleted.
Not because it didn’t matter— but because it doesn’t get to lead anymore.
Scripture says, “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!” — Isaiah 43:18–19
Forgetting doesn’t mean pretending it didn’t happen. It means choosing not to live there anymore.
There’s a difference between wisdom and weight. Between remembering and reliving. Between holding truth and being held hostage by it.
“Let us throw off everything that hinders.” — Hebrews 12:1
Not everything that hinders is sinful. Some things were necessary once—but become heavy later.
I didn’t erase the story. I simply stopped carrying the evidence.
And as the year turns and the air feels fresh again, I’m learning this sacred truth:
Dead and done are not the same thing—but neither needs to be dragged into tomorrow.
Sometimes the holiest thing you can do is delete what no longer serves the person you are becoming.
Prayer: God, thank You for seasons of protection—and for the courage to release them when they’re no longer needed. Help me walk lighter into what’s next, trusting You with the truth I no longer need to carry. Amen.
I’ve been sitting with these thoughts since Christmas Eve, wanting to honor tender hearts.
During this season, I know several people walking through fresh grief — the loss of parents, spouses, siblings, children, grandchildren.
Others carry a different kind of ache: childhoods that hold no warm memories to return to. One person even whispered that they weren’t sure they wanted to live to see the New Year.
That kind of pain deserves reverence, not rush.
I was determined not to meet their sorrow with well-meaning clichés — “volunteer,” “adopt a family,” “stay busy,” “choose joy.” Those things can be beautiful, and I do them now. But it took me years of sitting inside my own grief before I could get there. Years before someone else’s smile softened the sting instead of feeling like salt in the wound. So I don’t beat people over the head with happiness.
Sometimes the greatest gift we can give is not advice, not solutions, not silver linings — but presence. To sit. To be quiet. To resist the urge to fix. To simply watch and wait with someone.
Scripture tells us: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18
Notice what it doesn’t say. It doesn’t say God rushes the brokenhearted. It doesn’t say He lectures them into joy. It says He is close.
Jesus did come to bring joy to the world — but grief, like the ocean, comes in waves. And the return to joy doesn’t arrive all at once. It comes in stages.
That truth surprised me again while watching Disney’s “Inside Out 2”. When Joy tried to take over too quickly — before the main character was ready — it didn’t heal her. It pushed her deeper into despair. What she needed wasn’t forced positivity. She needed permission to sit with sorrow and memory for a while without being rushed toward “better.”
Sometimes joy doesn’t need to be summoned. It needs to be allowed to come back when it’s ready.
If this season finds you heavy, please hear this: You are not failing because you aren’t cheerful. You are not weak because you’re tired. You are not faithless because joy hasn’t returned yet.
Jesus is close to the tenderhearted — not waiting on the other side of your healing, but sitting with you right in the middle of it. And sometimes, that quiet companionship is the most sacred gift of all.
Can we pray? Jesus, You who are close to the brokenhearted, draw near to every tender soul reading this.
For those carrying fresh grief, sit with them in the quiet where words fall short. For those whose memories ache instead of comfort, hold them without asking them to explain.
Guard them from the pressure to perform joy before it has found its way home again. Give permission for tears, for pauses, for breathing slowly.
Where sorrow comes in waves, be the steady presence that does not leave. And when joy is ready to return — even in small, fragile ways — let it arrive gently, without force or fear.
Until then, be enough. Be near. Be kind to the tenderhearted.
Amen.
For Shelby. Heaven makes noise a 3 a.m. just for you.
When the year ends and life still feels unfinished
The end of a year has a funny way of demanding closure. Wrap it up. Sum it up. Name the wins. Count the lessons. Post the highlight reel.
But some years don’t cooperate. Some years limp to the finish line. They end not with fireworks but with unanswered prayers, half-healed hearts, and a to-do list that spills right into January.
And that’s where I’ve learned something holy happens.
Ministry doesn’t wait for January 1st. It lives in the margins between what was and what’s coming next. That thin space between “I made it” and “I’m still standing.” Between gratitude and grief. Between hope and exhaustion.
I used to think ministry happened in neat rows — in quiet moments, with plenty of stillness and the right words. But life didn’t wire me that way.
I’ve spent years feeling slightly unqualified — too busy to sit still, too restless to fit the mold. Cancer didn’t simplify that. It complicated it. Chemo brain stole words I used to reach for easily. A speech impediment I thought I’d conquered as a child quietly returned — humbling me in ways I didn’t expect. And the truth is, I’ve never quite fit into the version of “qualified” society seems most comfortable with. Clear. Calm. Composed. Tidy faith. Tidy testimony. That hasn’t been my story.
And yet… God still showed up. Not correcting my pace. Not asking me to sound different. Not waiting for me to feel confident or complete.
Jesus has always been comfortable in the margins. He’s the Savior with mud on His hands, not a microphone. The One who kneels in the dirt. The One who notices the people others step around — and calls them.
The margins are where we stop pretending the year went as planned. Where faith sounds less like a declaration and more like a whisper. Where our prayers become, “Lord, carry me forward.” And maybe that’s the truest kind of ministry there is.
As this year closes, I’m not interested in pretending it was tidy. I’m grateful — deeply — but I’m also honest. Some healing is still in progress. Some clarity hasn’t returned on command. Some strength showed up only one imperfect day at a time. And yet… grace was there. In the margins.
If you’re crossing into a new year feeling unfinished — If your faith feels real but worn around the edges — If you don’t feel polished, poised, or particularly qualified… You’re not behind. You’re standing exactly where God loves to work. Right there. Between the years. In the margins. I’m not entering the new year polished — I’m entering it carried.
It’s Christmas. Which means the house isn’t quiet, the schedule isn’t kind, and nothing is quite as together as the Hallmark movies promised.
There are lists half-checked, boxes half-opened, and flour somehow in places flour should never be.
I used a box mix for the cookies. No-bake “snow pies” pretending real hard to be cheesecake. And the pie? Well… the crust came from the store, but the filling? That part is 100% real.
Also—full disclosure— there is a pile of tasting spoons in the sink. Because no shortcut baker is licking a spoon and putting it back. We are tired, not reckless.
Somewhere between the chaos, the Christmas music playing too loud, and me stepping over things I swear weren’t there five minutes ago, it hit me.
We spend a lot of time apologizing for our shortcuts.
“I didn’t make it from scratch.” “I didn’t do as much as I wanted.” “I don’t have it all together this year.”
But what if God isn’t inspecting the packaging— what if He’s tasting the heart?
The crust might be store-bought, but the love is homemade. The method might be quick, but the intention is honest. The presentation might be simple, but the offering is real.
Jesus never demanded everything be handcrafted— He asked that it be sincere.
He fed crowds with borrowed bread. He healed with mud and spit. He entered the world not in perfection, but in a mess of hay, noise, and interrupted plans.
Not fancy. Not polished. Just real.
So if your Christmas looks like box mix faith and no-bake prayers, don’t disqualify it.
If your life feels like shortcuts and substitutions, but the filling is still genuine— grace counts that.
Scripture reminds us—right in the middle of our mess:
“The Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” — 1 Samuel 16:7
God isn’t grading your technique. He’s receiving your offering.
And tonight, around a table of “good enough” desserts, Christmas clutter, and way too many spoons to wash, there is more holiness than we realize.
Because what’s real on the inside has always mattered more than how it was wrapped.
P.S. If you come wash these spoons, I’ll save you a little something
“The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us.” — John 1:14 (NIV)
There are few places where patience is tested more than a medical waiting room. The chairs are uncomfortable. The clock is loud. And the results take exactly as long as they need to — never as long as I want.
Waiting is not my spiritual gift. I am a doer. A fixer. A let’s-handle-this-now kind of woman. So when all I can do is sit and wait for medical results, my faith feels exposed.
That’s where I picture Jesus.
Not standing with answers. Not hovering with a clipboard. But sitting beside me — mud on His hands, calm in His posture, completely unbothered by the clock.
I remember the story where He knelt in the dirt, mixed mud with His own saliva, and used it to heal a blind man. Healing didn’t come through cleanliness or speed — it came through touch, obedience, and trust in the process.
John tells us the Word became flesh. Jesus didn’t float above uncertainty — He stepped into it. He understood human time. Delays. Pauses. Moments when answers didn’t come right away.
The mud on His hands reminds me He’s been working long before I ever sat down in this chair. Even when I can’t see it. Especially when I can’t rush it.
And yes… I’d still prefer a fast answer. But there is something holy happening in the waiting — even if I grumble a little while it happens.
Reflecting Mud
If patience were a muscle, mine would need physical therapy.
But maybe reflecting Jesus isn’t about mastering patience. Maybe it’s about staying present long enough for healing to unfold.
We reflect the muddy Jesus when we: • sit with someone waiting for test results instead of filling the silence • admit we’re anxious without pretending we’re fine • trust that God can use imperfect moments for holy work
Sometimes faith isn’t tidy. Sometimes it looks like dirt and delay and trust.
The same hands that once held mud for healing are still at work today.
Jesus, You healed with mud and patience and presence. Sit with me while I wait for answers I can not control. Help me trust the work of Your hands — even when they are muddy and mine are empty. Teach me to stay. Amen.
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.
“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.
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.
Funny how fears can rule you! All my life I have refused to eat any food that moves, jiggles, or looks like it might still be breathing. Jell-O? Absolutely not. Pudding? Hard pass. Runny eggs? Never. I don’t know why, but something about the texture has always made my stomach flip like an Olympic gymnast with no spotter.
This morning, I found myself in a situation at work where I either had to eat… or be rude and not eat at all. And tempted as I was to decline, I figured I’d at least try the little thing they called a *Croque*—thick toast, fancy cheeses, tomato jam, and right on top… a sunny side–up egg. You already know what part scared me.
To make matters worse, I had just talked in Bible study the night before about embracing all that life has to offer and not letting fear write the rules. After fighting cancer , everything else *should* seem easy, right? Right… Well I’ll be dern. It was delicious. Movement and all. I wanted another.
What I learned from this was as fattening as the menu; *Psalm 34:4 “I sought the Lord, and He answered me; He delivered me from all my fears.” → Fear looks small until you’re the one staring down a wiggly egg. Isaiah 41:10 “Fear not, for I am with you…” → Even at the breakfast table. 2 Timothy 1:7 “For God has not given us a spirit of fear…” → Fear is borrowed—not owned. It’s time to return it John 10:10 “…I have come that they may have life and have it more abundantly.” → Abundant life sometimes starts with a bite.
Sometimes, it isn’t the “big things” that grow us—sometimes it’s the tiny choices that stretch us beyond our comfort zones. Fear sneaks into the smallest corners: decisions, relationships, opportunities, and yes… even breakfast. But growth isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s as simple as saying, “Lord, help me try something new today.” And when we do, God gently proves—again and again—that He meets us in the smallest acts of courage.
Sometimes, the thing we feared ends up blessing us. Sometimes, it just ends up being a funny story. Either way, we survive… and grow. Here’s to trying new things. Here’s to facing old fears. And here’s to trusting God with both the big leaps and the wiggly eggs. P.s. I need more deliverance and prayer time for Jello. LOL With Love, Chelle
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.
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