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Pig Foot Mary: The Woman Who Pushed Her Future Down the Street


Before food trucks.  Before catering contracts.
Before pop-up kitchens. There was a formerly enslaved Black woman  pushing a baby carriage filled with pickled pig’s feet.

Her name was Lillian Harris Dean. History remembers her as Pig Foot Mary. And what some would have called scraps, she called strategy.

Born in Mississippi around 1870. She migrated north during the Great Migration era. She was reported a woman of large stature (striking fear in even some men).

THE BABY CARRIAGE BEGINNING

After emancipation, economic opportunity for Black women was painfully narrow. Formal loans were not available. Property ownership was rare. Protection under the law was inconsistent at best.

So Mary did what resilient women have always done. She looked at what she had.
She cooked pig’s feet — inexpensive cuts that working people could afford — and loaded them into a baby carriage. That’s  right no baby, just a baby carriage purchased with two of the five dollars she arrived with and a tin pot she brought with her.

Then she walked the streets of Washington, D.C., selling directly to laborers, porters, and government workers who had migrated from the South but desperate for a taste of home cooking lacking in the industrial north.

No storefront. No investors. No safety net.
Just legs, grit, and a carriage. That carriage gave her mobility. Mobility gave her customers. Customers gave her capital.
Capital gave her options. Consistency built reputation. Reputation built revenue.

From those early street sales, though unable to read, she negotiated contracts with suppliers, opened restaurants, operated boarding houses, acquired property, and became one of the wealthiest Black women in New York City  during her time. She later married a prominent black lawyer she had hired to keep her financial empire safe.

Later in life, she faced legal troubles that interrupted her business, a common vulnerability for Black entrepreneurs in that era. When her power and influence started to invade beyond the black community and into  white upper Manhattan,  a racist court system convicted her of running a disorderly house.    After her release from prison, she retired to California.

She did not inherit influence. She built it.
She did not wait for approval. She moved.

Pig Foot Mary represents a pattern we see over and over in Black history:
Innovation born from restriction.
Mobility created from limitation.
Enterprise rising from overlooked ingredients.

She took something humble and made it sustaining.

“She considers a field and buys it; out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.” — Proverbs 31:16

Mary did not own fields at first. She owned a route. But the principle is the same.
Use what you have. Work what you have.
Move what you have.

CARRY THIS WITH YOU
You may be waiting for a storefront when all you have is a carriage. Push anyway.

You may be waiting for funding when all you have is a recipe. Cook anyway.

You may be waiting for someone to validate the vision. Walk anyway.

BREADCRUMB

Sometimes the business plan is wrapped in something people underestimate. And sometimes the thing you’re pushing… is actually pushing you into destiny.

We see you, Lillian Harris Dean for turning a baby carriage into a business model. We see you for feeding working hands and building wealth from what others discarded.

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

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Horace And Rose: A Civil Rights Love Story

( Condensed Excerpt)

Horace & Rose Gillison — A Civil Rights Love Story

For Black History Month, I want to honor two people whose legacy shaped not only my family, but the city of Richmond itself: Rev. Horace Gillison and Rose Gillison, my great-uncle and great-aunt. Their civil rights work did not always make headlines—but it changed systems.


Before they ever met, they came from very different worlds. Horace was a Virginia country boy with barely a sixth-grade formal education, big ideas, and—by most accounts—a big mouth. Others saw his limited schooling and dismissed him. Horace saw no limits at all. He believed doors were meant to be opened, systems challenged, and no one was qualified to tell him what could not be done.


Rose was polished and poised, barely grown, hailing from North Carolina before family loss dictated a move to Virginia to live with cousins. Where others saw Horace as rough around the edges, Rose became—for him—a beautiful princess of a challenge. And Horace loved a challenge.


Rose maintained a bail fund solely for Horace’s protests and sit-ins, understanding that resistance required preparation as much as courage. Horace challenged Richmond institutions like Thalhimers and Miller & Rhoads, demanding they hire college-educated Black women on their sales floors. He later took great joy in seeing that pressure bear fruit when I secured my first professional job in their credit offices—proof that justice delayed is not justice denied.


He rattled newspapers by insisting they run his ads—with his beautiful Black skin in all its glory—or face legal action. He was also arrested for earning a pilot’s license in Virginia and flying a plane to Culpeper so his mother could experience his joy of flight.

He was arrested again for attempting to sell a house to a Black family in the then all white neighborhood I now live in. He was rumored to have taken black families to house showings in rented limousines.

When Firestone Tire—a place where Black customers could barely purchase goods, let alone work—hired him as their first Black salesman, Horace did not simply succeed. He excelled.

Together, Horace and Rose ran soup kitchens, Christian charities, wig shops, and a modeling school that taught Black women poise, job readiness, and confidence—quietly fueling economic growth in local Black families. Rose’s porcelain beauty and charm made her the perfect choice to become one of the first Black spokespersons for Carnation Milk during the war. Horace ministered churches and broke corporate barriers as the first Black member of the Richfood board.

Their love story was just as intentional as their activism.

They met at a birthday party—for Horace’s then girlfriend. Upon seeing Rose, Horace declared, “That’s the woman I will marry.”

Rose did not make it easy. Before accepting his proposal, she handed him a list: get a good job, secure transportation, build a house. Each time Horace returned with a checkmark, she added another requirement—a lesson she later passed down to the women in our family: know your worth and make him work for it.

When Horace finally had enough, he arrived with friends, a new dress, and a pair of nylons—nearly impossible to find at the time—and dragged her to the courthouse.

They would reach their fiftieth wedding anniversary before Rose declared they finally had what she considered a proper wedding. Loving attended by 4 generations of the Gillison family

Though they never had biological children, Horace and Rose adopted two, fostered many more, and opened their lives wide enough to shape generations. Their influence rippled through the Gillison family and beyond—teaching love without limitation, legacy without bloodlines, and the quiet truth that family is often chosen, cultivated, and sustained by intention.

Lives, I believed patterned straight from the Bible;
“Learn to do good; seek justice, correct oppression.” — Isaiah 1:17
“Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.” — Amos 5:24
“Two are better than one… because they have a good reward for their labor.” — Ecclesiastes 4:9


Horace learned to do good and refused to wait for permission. Rose ensured that righteousness had structure and love behind it. Together, they made justice move.


BREADCRUMB
Justice does not roll on its own.
Someone has to push.
Someone has to prepare.
Someone has to stand side by side when the system pushes back.


Legacy does not always look like applause.
Sometimes it looks like a bail fund.
Sometimes it looks like insisting your image run in full color.
Sometimes it looks like flying anyway.


SALUTE
We see you, Rev. Horace Gillison and Rose Gillison — for seeking justice, correcting oppression, and laboring together so the stream would keep moving and building an extended family that walks in your shoes while still standing on your shoulders.

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



This is a condensed excerpt from the forthcoming work,

Horace and Rose: A Civil Rights Love Story.

Love,
Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Robert Smalls: He Knew the Way Through

Robert Smalls was born enslaved in South Carolina, in a world where freedom was forbidden and intelligence was dangerous.


But Robert learned the waterways.
He learned the tides.
He learned the rhythms of ships and schedules and signals.
And when the moment came, he used what he knew.


In 1862, Robert Smalls did something no one thought possible. He commandeered a Confederate ship, the CSS Planter, disguised himself in the captain’s uniform, navigated past enemy forts using the correct signals — and delivered himself, his family, and others to freedom.


He did not fire a single shot.
He trusted knowledge.
He trusted timing.
And he trusted that God had already made a way through the water.


In my own family, there are those who make a “not quite”  substantiated claim to Robert Smalls — simply because his last name appears in our family line.
I don’t have records to prove it or disprove it.
I don’t make the claim as fact. But who can deny greatness.


However, the instinct matters.
Because sometimes what we are really claiming is not blood —
but admiration.
Not lineage —
but legacy.


Robert Smalls didn’t stop with freedom.
He went on to serve in the U.S. Navy, help recruit Black soldiers, become a U.S. Congressman, and fight for education, voting rights, and dignity for formerly enslaved people.


And still — he faced resistance.
He was pushed aside.
His leadership was minimized.
His voice was not always welcomed in the halls he helped open.


He was victorious without reward in more ways than one.


More than a century after his courage changed the course of history, the nation finally spoke his name aloud.
In 2023, the U.S. Navy commissioned a ship in his honor — the USS Robert Smalls.


It did not restore what had been denied.
It did not erase the years of resistance he faced.
It did not repay the cost of standing firm in a country slow to remember.
But it did stand as a quiet admission.
The Navy knew who led that ship long before history said it plainly.


And eventually, even delayed recognition had to follow truth.


Robert Smalls teaches us that God often prepares people long before the moment arrives.
“I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” — Isaiah 43:19


Robert didn’t create the river.
He learned it.
He didn’t invent the escape.
He recognized the opening.


Faith sometimes looks like courage.
Sometimes it looks like preparation.


And sometimes it looks like steering calmly through danger because you know where the water leads.

For the One Reading This Today

If you have ever:

prepared quietly for something no one else saw coming

felt drawn to a story because it felt familiar in your spirit

honored someone not because they were yours — but because they were right

trusted God to guide you through impossible terrain

Robert Smalls stands with you.


You don’t have to claim someone as family to carry their courage forward.
Legacy travels deeper than blood.


We see you, Robert.
We honor the way you led others through.


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


Love, Chelle

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Unmarked Seeds And  Clearance Rack Faith

I was standing there with a handful of seeds and no idea what any of them were.
No labels. No instructions. No promises.
Just seeds.


Some were round. Some looked like dust. Some looked like… dirt pretending to be something important.

And full confession — I made the executive decision to buy them from a discount house online, which should have been my first clue that clarity was not included in the price.


Because planting unmarked seeds feels risky.
You don’t know what you’re committing to.
You don’t know how long it will take.
You don’t know what kind of care it will need — or if you just planted hope, oregano, and disappointment all in the same row.


And that is where I had to repent of my disgust with not being able to see the seeds’ vision.


God has planted a lot of unmarked seeds in me.
No timeline.
No instruction card.
No neat little packet that says “This will bloom in 90 days if watered weekly and protected from disappointment, other people’s opinions, and your own impatience.”


Just obedience.
Just trust.
Just dirt and hope.
Some seeds He plants look insignificant — almost invisible.
Some feel mislabeled by other people.
Some feel like they were handed to us without explanation at all.


And yet… seeds don’t need labels to know what they are.
They just need soil.
Light.
Time.


And a gardener who doesn’t dig them up every five minutes to check progress — which, for the record, I have learned is frowned upon in both gardening and faith.


I think that’s where I get tripped up.
I keep wanting proof before growth.
Confirmation before commitment.
Fruit before faith.


But the seed already knows what it carries — even when I don’t.


“So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth.”
— 1 Corinthians 3:7


Maybe the confusion isn’t failure.
Maybe it’s faith in its earliest form.
Maybe God is saying:
Plant it anyway.
Water it anyway.
Stop interrogating the soil.
Because unmarked doesn’t mean unintentional.
And unseen doesn’t mean unimportant.
And dormant is not the same thing as dead.

Love, Chelle

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Third Cup of Coffee, First Lesson Of Grace

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.

Love, Chelle

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Before Coffee,  Before Control

This wasn’t a quiet, reflective night moment.
This was a stressed 3 a.m. morning, when sleep clocks out early and your brain clocks in loud — with opinions.

I wasn’t trying to hear from God.
I was trying to finish a work  email before coffee, which already tells you I was operating without full emotional supervision.

I kept shortening it.
Not because I didn’t know what I wanted to say — but because I know my boss. I know there may still be a meeting. I know she’ll ultimately direct and take charge. So I trimmed. Simplified. Took out the pre-explaining and the imaginary rebuttals. I said what needed to be said and stopped trying to manage the outcome.

And somewhere between rereading sentences and realizing I was too tired to argue with myself, it landed:

This is exactly how we treat God.

We make plans — good ones — and then we hover.
We explain too much.
We brace for redirection.
We add footnotes to obedience.

Not because we don’t trust Him —
but because we really like being on the steering committee.

Meanwhile, God has already given us the playback in His Word.

He’s already shown us how authority works.
How obedience works.
How trust works.

We do our part.
We speak honestly.
We move wisely.
And then we let go — preferably before caffeine convinces us we should take over.

“In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.” – Proverbs 16:9

Not might.
Not if He agrees.
He does.

This morning reminded me that obedience isn’t about directing God — it’s about participating with Him. Doing what’s mine to do without trying to edit the ending.

I don’t need to manage God the way I manage emails.
I don’t need to anticipate His response.
And I definitely don’t need to rewrite His plan before coffee.

Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is hit send, make the coffee, and trust God with the meeting that follows.

Prayer
Lord, help me do my part without trying to control Yours. Teach me to trust You with the outcome, even before the coffee kicks in.
Order my steps, steady my heart, and remind me that You’re already ahead of me.
Amen.

Love, Chelle

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Will & Grace

I woke up smiling this morning.
Not because everything is fixed.
Not because the season has suddenly gotten easier.
But because I was reminded—before my feet even hit the floor—that God still speaks.


An old friend texted me a few days ago wanting to send me a birthday gift. A cash offering. She said it might be late and she wasn’t sure how much.


I immediately told her no.


Not because I didn’t need it—but because I know her story. I know her struggles.
I didn’t want her putting herself out for me.
My heart was in the right place… or so I thought.


She gently stopped me and said, “God told me to sow—and I won’t interfere with God talking to me.”


Well then.
Message received. Loud and clear.


Here’s the part I hadn’t said out loud to anyone:
With a season of   illness, deaths, job issues, a roof repair, and the bills that follow close behind, one of the quiet things I let go of was me.
Specifically—my hair.
Long twist locs reduced to a ponytail (which is no small feat), creative parting, strategic styling,
and gray hairs hollering, “Didn’t you just get old?”


I was debating whether to cancel my usual four-hour appointment this weekend—or worse, swipe a credit card while praying over the interest rate.


But look at God.


With exactly what she sent, the Old Lady Rescue will be in full effect.
No debt. No guilt. Just provision—with intention.


But the real miracle wasn’t the money.


“Not by might nor by power, but by my Spirit,” says the Lord Almighty. (Zechariah 4:6 (NIV)


It was confirmation—on both sides—that God still speaks.
And He doesn’t just speak to pastors, prophets, or people with microphones.
He speaks to friends.
To women who listen.
To hearts that say yes before they fully understand why.


I was reminded this morning that God provides for all things.
Even the things we label as “extra.”
Even Saturday-morning self-care.
Even hair.


And I was reminded of something else:
sometimes our well-meaning “no” gets in the way of someone else’s obedience.


I thought I was protecting her.
Instead, I would’ve robbed us both—
her of the joy of obedience,
and me of the grace God had already assigned.


“My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.”  John 10:27 (NIV)


There’s a line from the old sitcom Will & Grace that came rushing back to me this morning.
One character is frustrated, asking why God doesn’t talk anymore.
Another replies:
“When having conversations with God, make sure you’re not doing all the talking.”


Lesson learned.


Sometimes God’s answer sounds like a text message.
Sometimes provision looks like hair being restored before pride is.
And sometimes Grace shows up laughing—right alongside gratitude, when we submit to His Will.


Today, I’m thankful.
Not just for the gift—but for the reminder to listen…
and not interfere when God speaks.


Love, Chelle


PS.
A BIG  thank you to my Christmas music loving,  sugary named, millionaire by multiplication, friend who knows how to hear God !!!

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Grossly Underqualified. Still Expecting A Harvest

I still don’t know what I’m doing.
The sweet potato in the jar in my window  can confirm it.

I stood it upright like a microphone instead of laying it down like a seed. Slips are forming anyway—which feels both rude and deeply grace-filled.

By every measurable standard, I am grossly underqualified for this harvest. I don’t garden with confidence — I garden with Google and apologies. I whisper encouragement to my plants like they’re on a faith journey too.

And yet… green keeps showing up.

Scripture says, “Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.”
— Zechariah 4:10

Apparently, this applies to gardeners too.

The sweet potato didn’t ask for my credentials.
It didn’t wait for me to feel confident.
It just responded to warmth, light, and the fact that I didn’t give up on it.

That feels uncomfortably familiar.

God has never waited for my expertise before growing something in my care. He responds to availability, not mastery. To people who stay put long enough for growth to decide it’s safe.

I keep expecting God to say, “You’re not ready for this yet.”
Instead, He keeps saying, “Watch.”

Watch what grows when you stop over-correcting.
Watch what happens when you don’t uproot yourself every time doubt shows up.
Watch what slips free when the season is right.

Turns out God grows things even when the gardener is winging it.

I may be underqualified.
But I’m determined.
And apparently… that’s enough for a harvest.

Love, Chelle

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Somewhere Between The Car And The Kitchen

Disappointment doesn’t usually knock loudly.
It just keeps adding weight.


Brick by brick, we pack the backpack:
• unmet expectations
• things we thought God would do by now
• roles we keep carrying because “someone has to”
• stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what’s possible

And if I’m honest, this is the same part of me that tries to carry all the groceries in one trip.
Because clearly, asking for help would be admitting weakness…
and making two trips would be a personal failure.


So there I am — keys dangling, bags cutting off circulation, dignity questionable — determined to prove I’ve got this.
I call it independence. Heaven calls it unnecessary.


And somewhere between the car and the kitchen, I’m reminded that even Jesus sent the disciples out two by two.


Inevitably, something falls.
Or worse… something gets left in the trunk.And a couple of days later, there’s a smell. A mysterious, soul-searching smell that forces a reckoning.


Nothing humbles you faster than realizing the real burden wasn’t the bags —
it was the banana you refused to admit you dropped.


That’s how unexamined burdens work too.
What we refuse to set down eventually announces itself.
Some of the limits we feel aren’t placed by God — they’re placed by our own expectations of how we think  He should move.


We overpack faith with control.
We leave no room for surprise.
No room for grace.
No room for God to have His way — because the backpack is already full.


Jesus never asked us to be strong and burdened.
He asked us to come — and let Him carry what we were never meant to hold.


“Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you.” — Psalm 55:22


Maybe today isn’t about pushing harder.
Maybe it’s about making two trips.
Or — heaven forbid — asking for help.


Drop the bricks.
Check the trunk.
Walk  lighter.

Love, Chelle

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Crumbs Of Grace, My 2nd New Year.

When I think of the most important birthdays, I don’t start with cake or candles.
I start with life.


I think of the 37th birthday when  I helped deliver my grandson, Jayon — my eldest son’s first child. On that day, I didn’t just celebrate another year of my own life; I welcomed new life, new hopes, and new dreams into the world. In a way, our birthdays became twins. His arrival was proof that God was still creating, still trusting the future to fragile hands. And year after year, Jayon has never disappointed — not because he’s perfect, but because he has lived into the promise of that moment.


I think of my 50th birthday — the day I was scheduled to start chemotherapy for breast cancer. Fear tried to claim that day, but my husband gave me a birthday slumber party instead with the ladies in my crew.. Laughter showed up before dread could unpack its bags. It felt like God whispering through cupcakes and pajamas: Fight. Fight. You are not done.


On my 55th birthday, the fear shifted again. Instead of waiting anxiously for scan results, I stood on a stage wearing a crown and a “Drive 55” shirt — a playful, holy reminder to pace myself and keep going. Sometimes courage looks regal. Sometimes it looks ridiculous. Both can preach.


But my favorite birthdays are always the next one.


Whether they arrive loud and celebratory or quiet and reflective like today, they carry the same invitation. I call January 5th my second New Year — a moment to pause, look back at all that happened since last year, the good and the not-so-good. To thank God for the joys He brought us into, and for the things He delivered us out of.


“This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” — Psalm 118:24


Not the perfect day.
Not the painless day.
Just this one.


And today includes crumbs.
Crumbs from a Kentucky Butter Cake I made with more butter than I’m fairly certain a woman of my age should publicly admit to.

But here’s the truth: butter makes things richer. Grace does too. And neither one asks permission before doing its work.


“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning.” — Lamentations 3:22–23

Even on birthdays.
Especially on birthdays.


These years aren’t measured by candles alone. They’re marked by crumbs of grace — small evidences left behind that say I was fed, I was held, I was carried through

.
And if that’s what this year leaves behind — crumbs, butter, joy, survival, and gratitude — then it has been a very good year indeed.


Love, Chelle