Tag: forgive tears

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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- 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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Trying New Things (Even When They Wiggle”

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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

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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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Reset

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Today, I reset but will not rewind.

I will no longer take cuts with knives I sacrificed for and be hit with stones that I have the deed to. I must say so long to my “Job’s” friends (from the Bible, not work) who need to eclipse me in order to find shine. I will no longer fill voids and patch wounds while being left on battlefields alone. I can no longer be held hostage for my portion or my inheritance

I have never claimed to be perfect or to have all the answers. Life never gave me an easy button or a GPS. I never had the finer things but would give you the shirt off my back. Never had gold in my pocket but every penny you had access to. I did my best with the hand I was dealt. That’s all God requires of m, and in my matured year, I am learning that is a very good thing.

Lord, forgive me for hearing their voices over Yours. I return to the peace you purchased and the love you freely give. I am bruised but not broken. Cast down but not destroyed. Though I sometimes stumble, I will dance with the limp I got and to the song I write.

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As Long As Someone Remembers

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It was one of the oddest days of my life. Was sitting at my desk frozen when I got the call from my hometown, sherrif. My brain went into autopilot, and I kept trying to work with tears streaming down my face. My then boss had to force me to breathe and go home. The love my co-workers showed was unmatched. Could not have made it through the coming days and the funeral without them.

He was a complicated man that I did not get to know until he was an old man in need of redemption and forgiveness. In the beginning, I was an abandoned child, looking for answers, who only served him out of obedience to my God, and the Word said to honor thy father. In the end, I became the child thru whom he wanted to give answers and ask forgiveness from his other children thru.

We didn’t have time to become father/daughter in the traditional sense. What we did have was card games, sweet potato pies, road trips, old Navy stories, testaments of the grandparents I didn’t get to meet, and a soft spot for healing to begin. He became my Pop, and I became his church mother. LOL and inside joke between us.

I figure sometimes that I was the “Moses” baby. … shipped off with no knowledge of him…so I could return and become a path to his need for freedom. Though I 💯 validate it, I am blessed to never quite have known the anger my sisters and brothers felt for him. I suppose my heart was kept in reserve for the old man and young child of God he would become.

Still missing you, Pop. I thank you for the gift of the crazy brood of sisters and brothers I inherited 9 years ago.

I hope amongst the milk and honey that there is strong coffee and sweet potato pie!!

Edgar Jerome “Jerry” Franklin-Bradshaw
March 1, 1944 – February 5, 2015


Never Really Gone As Long As Someone Remembers.

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Nope, You Ain’t Got This

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I can’t remember who’s social media page I saw it on, so I can’t give proper credit, but this paraphrased sentence shook me to my core.

“Never Tell A Person, ‘you got this’ when they ask for help because obviously they don’t or they wouldn’t be talking to you.“

I know it is something I have said thinking I was be encouraging, but could my pat on the back have seemed dismissive? Did I trivialize a pain that was greater for you than I feel in myself or for myself? Could you have needed a soft place to land and I simply elevated you to somewhere higher to fall from?

I think back to when I was at the height of my cancer battle. Folks would say “oh you got this” or “you are so strong.” In actuality, I was screaming on the inside, needing a shoulder to cry on and desperate for an old school laying on of oil anointed hands. When all my treatments were over, I politely smiled when asked if I was good now. I really should have loudly voiced, “oh heck no, I’m fighting extreme depression, I feel like I’m going crazy, please don’t abandon me.”

Ooooooo forgive me, I did mean well and I oft see past today and into your future. I still envision great things on the horizon. But at the time you need a Word, I will now tell you God got you and let’s see how we can walk through this.

There may be nothing I can do in the natural but be a voice in the darkness or a bit of sunshine clearing shadowing places. Truly, that may be all you need. Or I can point you to some resources beyond me. In wisdom, we will talk to the Father first about what is best for you.

Now bear with me, it may take me awhile to shake that cheerful cliché. But for today, I pray that whatever is disturbing your mind, your heart or your body be washed in the Presence of the Almighty. That you be hugged by the best comforting of the Holy Spirit. That the provision, healing, and freedom purchased by Christ at Calvary be revealed and afforded to you. That every wound be mended and every resource for a Balm in Gilead soothe every where you hurt.

I pray that today you see that God got this and God got you. And that you are never far from one willing to walk it through with you.

Love ya – Chelle

In This, My 54th Year.

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Once again I want to thank you, my heartbeats, for all the love shown this week. My 54th year started off a wee bit strange with major changes professionally and personally. Made my knees shake but my faith ain’t fake. No worries babies. God is in the details.

I have come to realize that I am a full year older than my mother was when she died and God has brought me back from more near misses than I can recount here. I owe it to her, to God and to myself to make this year count!!

Pulling back a wee bit so I can move forward. Choosing the fast God chose for me and using this time to straightened my crown.

ALL MY LOVE, MICHELLE


#MystoryGod’sGlory

When I knew , I knew

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The day my mother died is the day I really knew she loved me. A strange thing to say, I know, but my truth nevertheless.  The understanding of all things from the beginning came with the ending.

I had crawled in bed with her waiting for her last organic breath in a sterile room. My nose irritated by the scents of alcohol and i.v.  Her nose bloody from forcing oxygen. I tried to clean her face.  Lotion even but tears would fall from her left eye.  My strong mother didn’t  cry. She “leaked” as we would call it. I didn’t want to take it away from her.  Truth is, I didn’t  want to lose them myself. If I wiped them, I would never again see the strength of her womanhood again.

She hadn’t spoken for 3 days.  Not since she had given me some rather poetic instructions.  Even now I laugh that she and I could never have a straight conversation.   Always a movie script of some kind.  Meaningful now, drama back then.

When the silence came, her heart monitor spoke for her.  The number of beats would rise and fall as different voices entered the room and addressed her all with the same tone. “Sister?” “Ma’cia?”  “Mama? Mama? MAMA!!”

I knew her 3 day rule. If she didn’t rise in the three days like Jesus did, then she didn’t want to be hooked to nothing that would change that.  She was adamant about not being trapped in weakness. 

But I punked out.  I sang “He’s sweet I know” as if that were going to change her mind.  She waved a few times. I never knew if she was raising her hands in worship or telling me to shut up.

I have always felt I failed my younger sister by allowing her to sign those dreaded papers. I remember the mix of sadness and anger in her eyes as she penned her name and then literally ran from the room. It would be days before I saw her again 

I’m was not quite cognitive of where my older sister was in that moment.  I knew she was there. I suspect she was no longer the Big Sister at that moment but too was again the child with the single pocahontas ponytail praying for Mama not to go. She, like Mama, would try hard to not show it, but vulnerability reveals itself even in stone. 

 I only found out today that they had their private moment at some point  that I must have slipped away. There was a forgiveness time involved and a phone conversation with her best friend. I pray she will tell you all about that someday. 

The youngest was barely a preteen.  Sheltered in the room with the grandchildren.  The “adults ” always feeling the need to protect them from the inevitable. 

I too made that mistake.  I had sent my two youngest kids to school that Monday. Not sure if I was shielding them from death or from seeing me in a child like desperation. Children need to know that their parents are human too.

The treatment of my eldest, I regret the most.  I had him when I was 15. He was her baby. Her son that I birthed. She would laugh and say that I was just the “egg bearer.” 

Through well meaning “it’s going to be okay” I neglected to talk to him about God’s Will and how a person’s will outweighs our tears.  At the moment of her death, he comes flying in with a bouquet of get well balloons, not realizing that her version of getting well meant leaving us behind. 

Let me correct that. She didn’t leave us behind. She left this world behind and we just happened to be still in it.

The room was full though. Sister’s sisters and Sister’s brothers (one on the phone was in New York). There were so many, 10 of them total.  Being on the oldest end, she was a second caregiver to most of them. Missing completely was the youngest brother. He was her original baby boy and had been murdered by a robber a few short years before. Honestly, I believe that was the day she really died.  Her broken heart never quite recovered and affected her body from that point forward.

Her mother, the rock of our family, had been in and out,  wheeled in a chair. But I still  can’t picture her in the room at that moment. I was told later how she drew close to her daughter and gently rubbed her forehead. A silent expression of love that is the hallmark for much of my family. This was the second child she had lost at too young of an age. The baby boy, Ronnie at 33 and my mom not quite 54. Her soul was hurting in ways I cannot and will not try to imagine.

Slowing beeps and tubes being removed, counting each deep draw and release. Five. The number of grace. A number I now have a love / hate relationship with. On Valentine’s Day no less.  A day she has previously disliked and one I still avoid 21 years later.

 I remember my pastor/godmother trying to pull me away and I screamed at her “she brought me in this world, I can go with her out.” I don’t think I ever apologized to Cat for that.  Not sure I should,  that pull almost took my mother’s love from me.

In that moment, holding fiercely to my mother’s arm, I felt her.  Not just a shockingly strange amount of energy that only those who have held on to a transitioning person know.

But I felt her. 

It should have been a peaceful moment. But I was 31 years old  and wasn’t ready for her to go yet. I had questions only she could answer. I screamed. I cried.  I prayed in tongues so strong and loud that Cat asked the  nurse to give me a sedative.. Even now I believe my comical mother got a chuckle out of that. 

But I felt her.

She was free. She was seeing her Savior.  She saw that Ronnie was okay.. Everything that ever burdened her was being released. 

But I felt her.

Though it was only mere minutes it felt like hours. Holding on to her arm,  that ironically had no more strength or warmth, I believe I was selfishly trying to hold on to her.  Hold on to her because  I still needed her. I still wanted her.  

But I felt her. And she was finally fierce. 

Her love was intense. It was given. It was written. It was unspoken. It was taken for granted. It was appreciated.  It was too much and not enough all at once. It hurt her. It hurt others. It healed her and she healed others. 

And in that moment, I felt her. I felt her love and I didn’t cry for her again for one full year.  My mother showed me she loved me when she let me feel her.

November 8, 2021. An excerpt from “My Mama’s Love Is Like …”