Tag: gift

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On The Altar To Be Altered

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This morning, I called my older sister.

She couldn’t answer, but she texted me back and said she was at a prayer meeting at her church.

Perfect timing, I thought. Because I had some things on my heart. Some people I love. Some situations I can’t control. So I texted her back and asked her to “throw us on the alter.”

She didn’t notice anything unusual about my message. But I did.

I had meant to type “altar”.

I started to correct myself, but I stopped and looked at the word again.

ALTER.

Then the word I intended:

ALTAR.

One little letter separates them. And suddenly, I wasn’t so sure my typo was completely wrong.

Because isn’t that what we do when life becomes bigger than our own ability to handle it? We take it to the ALTAR because we need God to ALTER something.

We bring our children to the altar because there are decisions we can’t make for them.

We bring our marriages because there are places love alone hasn’t been able to fix.

We bring our finances because sometimes the numbers simply don’t make sense.

We bring our jobs, our dreams, our grief, our fears, our disappointments, our bodies, our families and those situations that have kept us awake far too many nights.

We bring all of it. And we say, “God, I need You to alter this.”

But here’s where surrender gets a little uncomfortable. We usually arrive at the altar with a pretty good idea of “what” we’d like God to alter.

Alter them, Lord.

Alter that situation.

Alter these circumstances.

Alter this bank account while You’re at it.

And sometimes He does.

Sometimes God alters the circumstances. Sometimes He alters the timing. Sometimes He alters the direction.

Sometimes He alters a relationship, opens a door, closes another one, moves somebody, restores something, removes something or makes a way we couldn’t see coming.

But sometimes… most times…God alters us.

He alters our perspective. Our priorities. Our expectations. Our attitudes. Our willingness to wait. Our need to control the outcome.

And perhaps that’s why the altar matters so much. The altar isn’t simply the place where I lay something down and tell God what to do with it.

It’s the place where I surrender it enough to let Him decide what needs altering.

Romans 12:1 tells us to present ourselves to God as a living sacrifice.

Not just our problems. Ourselves.

So this morning, I’m taking my accidental little prayer seriously. I’m putting my “me and mine and all of thine: on the alter.

Yes, I know how to spell it. 😂

I’m putting us on the ALTAR and trusting God to ALTER whatever He knows needs to change.

My family. My circumstances. My plans. My heart.

Me.

Because maybe there really is only one letter between the place where we surrender and the change we’ve been praying for.

If you want God to ALTER it, be willing to put it on the ALTAR.

——-

Father, today I place myself and everyone connected to me on Your altar. I give You the things I understand and the things I don’t. The situations I can change and the ones completely beyond my reach. Alter what needs to be altered. Change circumstances where it is Your will, open doors that should open and close those that should close. But Lord, if the change needs to begin in me, give me the courage not to climb back off the altar. Change my heart, my thinking, my direction and my desires until they line up with Yours. I surrender the outcome to You. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Love, Chelle
Defy Gravity Without Wings ❤️

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Stop Living Like Jeremiah 29:11 Doesn’t Exist.

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This morning, my prayers took an unexpected detour.
I started out praying over all the things that don’t make sense. The unexplainables. The burdens that have settled over my family. The heaviness I see across our nation. The questions that don’t come with easy answers.
Somewhere between praying and borderline complaining, a thought slipped through my own conversation with God.


“Lord… I’m getting too old for this.”
Just as quickly came another thought.
“But I’m too young to give in.”


There I was, swinging back and forth between faith and frustration, hope and exhaustion, reminding God of everything that felt impossible.


Then, without warning, the Holy Spirit graciously interrupted my personal pity party with a sentence so simple I almost laughed.
“Stop living like Jeremiah 29:11 doesn’t exist.”
Ouch.


Because that’s exactly what worry does.
It acts as if God has forgotten His plans.
It behaves as though hope has expired.
It assumes the future has already been decided by today’s circumstances.
But Jeremiah 29:11 is still in the Bible.
The economy doesn’t erase it.
Bad news doesn’t cancel it.
Family struggles don’t rewrite it.
A doctor’s report doesn’t edit it.
Political chaos doesn’t overrule it.
God never said I would understand every chapter.
He simply said He already knows the ending.


Here’s the part that humbled me.
Jeremiah 29:11 wasn’t spoken to people whose lives were going according to plan.
It was spoken to people living in exile.
People who had lost what was familiar.
People who couldn’t see how God could possibly bring beauty from the ashes around them.
People who wondered if His promises had somehow expired.
Yet God didn’t begin by explaining their circumstances.
He began by reminding them of His sovereignty.
“For I know the plans I have for you…”
Notice the emphasis.
You don’t have to know the plan… because God does.
We spend so much time trying to figure out what God is doing that we forget Who is doing it.
Maybe that’s today’s reminder.
When our thoughts begin rehearsing every possible disaster, perhaps we need to lovingly interrupt ourselves.
“Stop living like Jeremiah 29:11 doesn’t exist.”
Not because life isn’t hard.
But because God’s promises haven’t changed.
Faith isn’t pretending the storm isn’t real. It’s refusing to live as though God misplaced the forecast.
Maybe faith isn’t always loud.
Maybe sometimes faith looks like getting up one more morning…
praying one more prayer…
believing one more promise…
and taking one more step down a country road toward a sunrise you haven’t reached yet.
Because Jeremiah 29:11 still exists.
And so does the God who spoke it.
Prayer
Father, forgive me for the moments when I let fear preach louder than Your promises. When my circumstances become more believable than Your Word, gently redirect my heart. Teach me to remember that You already know the plans You have for me—even when I can’t see them. Help me walk by faith instead of forecasting disaster. Today I choose to trust that Your hope is greater than my uncertainty and Your future is stronger than my fear.

Thank You for reminding me that I don’t have to know the plan because I know the One who does. When I drift from praying into borderline complaining, lovingly call me back to Your promises. Give me the courage to take one more step, pray one more prayer, and trust You one more day.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans for your welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” — Jeremiah 29:11 (ESV)

Love, Chelle

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When Joy Spins In A Wheelchair

Posted in cancer, faith, God, health, inspiration, love, relationships, selfhelp, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

I was already having one of those days. Maybe it was the stress of a long day at work spilling past quitting time and being made late getting to where I needed to be. Maybe it was the heaviness that has become familiar with my sister Cheryl’s illness.

But tonight, the nursing home had transformed one of its rooms into a prom. There were balloons, music, decorations, smiles, and volunteers who had worked hard to make it special.

Cheryl looked beautiful. She wore a bright red dress, fire engine lipstick and a crown. She smiled at her reflection . For a short while, she was the fashionable diva sister from her youth.

Her son and her former physical therapist proudly escorted her as her two handsome prom dates, while our older sister, Melody, and I happily served as her royal court attendants.

She enjoyed herself.

And yet, if I’m honest, part of me couldn’t stop seeing what wasn’t supposed to be.

It was still a nursing home. She was still in pain. She was still in a wheelchair.

Some losses don’t disappear just because someone hangs streamers on the wall.

Then the music changed.Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” began filling the room.

Across the room sat another resident—a woman a little older than Cheryl. She was dressed in a sparkly black gown with a fluffy tutu peeking beneath it and ballerina slippers on her feet.

When the music started, she didn’t apologize for her wheelchair. She lifted her hands toward the ceiling. She spun. She laughed.

She did wheelies across that nursing home floor as though she were dancing on the biggest stage in the world.

As I sang along with Whitney’s words, she rolled her wheelchair right over to me, reached out with a smile, and invited me to dance with her.

For a moment, she wasn’t asking me to ignore her wheelchair. She was inviting me to look beyond it. I couldn’t stop watching her.

Then something surprised me. I wasn’t feeling pity. I was feeling jealousy.

Not because she could walk. She couldn’t. Not because she wasn’t hurting. I’m sure she was.

 I was jealous because she possessed something I had misplaced:

Joy.

She reminded me that joy isn’t the absence of pain. Joy is refusing to let pain have the final word.

That woman never stood up. But somehow she rose above the room.

I wonder how many of us are waiting to dance until everything is healed. We’re waiting until the diagnosis changes. Until the relationship is restored. Until the finances improve. Until life looks the way we imagined.

But what if joy was never meant to wait for perfect circumstances? What if worship can happen in a wheelchair? What if celebration can exist in a nursing home?

What if God is inviting us to dance while we’re still waiting for the miracle?

That evening , I went to encourage my sister. Instead, God introduced me to a ballerina in a wheelchair who quietly preached a sermon I’ll never forget.

Maybe today you feel confined by something you didn’t choose. A diagnosis. A disappointment. A loss. A season that doesn’t look anything like you prayed it would.

If that’s you, don’t wait for life to become perfect before you lift your hands. Some of the most beautiful dances happen in places where no one expected joy to live.

“You have turned my mourning into dancing…” — Psalm 30:11

Healing isn’t always the first miracle. Sometimes joy is.

 Love, Chelle

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Pocket Visions and Cleaning Supplies

Posted in faith, food, God, inspiration, love, relationships, selfhelp, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , Leave a comment


This morning, I woke up and couldn’t find my glasses.

Now, for those of us who have reached a certain age and prescription strength, this is not a minor inconvenience. This is a full-scale emergency.

I looked on the nightstand.
I looked under the bed.
I looked in the bathroom.
I looked in places where glasses have never been a day in their lives.

Nothing.

So I sent a message to the Gillison Girls group chat:

*”Uggh. I must have been sleepwalking again. Can’t find my glasses anywhere. And no, they are not on my face.”*

My Aunt Katy, immediately responded:
*”Did you find them? True essay—walking by faith, not by sight.”*

Everybody laughed.

Then my older sister Melody came in for the finish:
*”Or when you’re walking around with your vision in your pocket.”*

Because, yes. That’s exactly where the glasses were.

In my pants pocket.

The same pants I had apparently laid out during some mysterious middle-of-the-night adventure.

To make matters stranger, the shoes were positioned. The clothes were arranged. From all available evidence, Sleepwalking Chelle was preparing to go somewhere.

I just have no idea where.

The whole thing was funny until I realized there was a sermon hiding in the middle of the jokes.

How many times have we told God we couldn’t see?
Couldn’t see the answer.
Couldn’t see the next step.
Couldn’t see how things were going to work out.
Couldn’t see the purpose.
Couldn’t see the miracle.

And all the while, we’ve been carrying the very vision we thought we lost. Maybe not the whole picture. Maybe not every detail.

But enough. Enough light for the next step. Enough wisdom for today’s decision. Enough faith for today’s burden. Enough grace for today’s journey.

Sometimes we’re searching the whole house for something God has already placed in our pocket.

We ask Him for vision when He’s already given us purpose.We ask Him for direction when He’s already shown us the next step. We ask Him for confirmation when He’s already spoken.

The glasses weren’t lost.I just didn’t know where to look. Maybe that’s true of some of the things we’re praying about too.

And then there’s the part I can’t stop laughing about. Apparently, in the middle of the night, I was getting ready to go somewhere.The clothes say so. The shoes say so. The glasses in the pocket say so.

I may not remember the journey, but there was evidence of preparation.

That’ll preach.

Because sometimes God is preparing us for places we can’t yet see.

We don’t know where we’re going. We don’t understand what’s happening. We can’t remember how we got here.

But there are signs everywhere that He is getting us ready. Ready for healing. Ready for ministry. Ready for change. Ready for a blessing. Ready for the next chapter.

So if you can’t see clearly today, don’t panic. Check your pockets.

You may be carrying more vision than you think.

Oh and before I forget,  after I found my glasses in my pocket I found a duster cover in the pajama shirt I was wearing.

Wherever I was planning to go, I was apparently determined to see it clearly and dust it first.

With Love And Laughter
Chelle

defygravitywithoutwings.com

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$5 in My Pocket… Lemons at My Door

Posted in faith, food, God, health, inspiration, love, moneyTagged , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

I didn’t need a miracle with flashing lights. I didn’t need a breakthrough big enough for everybody else to recognize. Honestly, I just needed my mind to slow down. Because lately, it’s been doing that thing—running numbers, replaying conversations, trying to solve tomorrow before today even finishes. Not because anything is completely falling apart, but because enough has shifted that my spirit knows to pay attention. And if I’m honest, I was thinking a little too much.

So I tried to interrupt myself. Not with prayer this time. Not with a deep scripture study. Just something simple. I had seen a sermon about decluttering—move five things in five minutes. Nothing deep. Nothing dramatic. Just… move something. So I did. One thing, then another. By the time I got to the fifth thing, I reached into the pocket of a dress I hadn’t worn in at least a year—and there it was. Five dollars.

Now let’s be clear. Five dollars is not going to change anybody’s financial situation, but it changed my moment. Because it made me smile. And in a season where your mind is trying to run ahead of you, sometimes a smile is the interruption you didn’t know you needed. I didn’t think much more about it. I just tucked the moment away and kept moving.

On the way to church, I started going through my wallet. Receipts everywhere. Old ones, faded ones, the kind you keep just in case but never actually need. So I started sorting through them, one by one, making sure there wasn’t anything important I needed to hold on to. And that’s when I saw it—another five dollars. Then another. And then another. Three crisp five-dollar bills sitting where receipts should have been.

Now wait, because this is where my spirit leaned in—not my logic, my spirit. Because four five-dollar bills is still just twenty dollars, and twenty dollars, in the grand scheme of real-life responsibilities, is not fixing anything major. But something in me knew this wasn’t about fixing. This was about finding. God wasn’t solving my situation in that moment; He was steadying my heart in it. He was saying, without saying a word, “You don’t have to carry this the way you are carrying it.” And I sat there in that car, holding those little bills like they were something bigger than money, because they were. They were peace. All magnified by the number 5 being the number of grace denoting God’s unmerited favor

Church was good. I smiled through it—not because everything was handled, but because I felt handled. And when I got home, I thought the moment was over.

I got home, and there it was—a simple bag at my door. Inside were lemons. Not one or two, but five bags—bright, yellow, beautiful lemons. Thirty of them. I stood there looking at them like, “Okay Lord… now this feels personal.” Because you’ve heard the saying, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade,” but this didn’t feel like life. Life gives lemons with pressure. Life gives lemons and expects you to figure it out. This felt like God.

And while I was trying to figure out what to do with so many lemons, I started giving them away. Nobody knew I had them. Nobody asked for them. I just… started gifting. If you showed up at the door, you left with some. LOL.  And somewhere in that simple act, it settled in my spirit that maybe everything God places in your hands isn’t meant to stay there. Some things show up not just as provision, but as permission—to bless, to share, to lighten someone else’s day without needing a reason or an announcement.

Because He didn’t wait until I had everything figured out. He met me while I was trying not to spiral, while I was moving five small things, while I was clearing out what I didn’t need, while I was doing the little bit I could control. He didn’t flood me with answers. He didn’t overwhelm me with provision. He didn’t drop a solution big enough to remove every question. He just… found me.

He found me in a dress pocket I forgot about, in a wallet I almost ignored, in a moment where I chose not to overthink. And then He made me laugh, because who sends somebody thirty lemons unless they are trying to say something?

“Your Father knows what you need before you ask Him.” — Matthew 6:8

So no, it wasn’t about twenty dollars, and it wasn’t about lemons. It was about being reminded that I am not navigating this season by myself. That even when my thoughts start running ahead of me, God is already present where I’m trying to get to. And sometimes, He doesn’t calm your life all at once. He just leaves little confirmations along the way so your soul can rest while you walk it out.

So if your mind has been busy lately, if you’ve been trying not to worry but still feeling it creep in, if you’re doing the best you can with what’s in front of you—pay attention to the small things, the found things, the unexpected things, the things that make you smile before you can explain them. Because God doesn’t always show up loud. Sometimes, He shows up in fives.

Gently reminded that God meets you in the middle, not just at the outcome.

Love,
Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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Not Chained. Positioned.

Posted in faith, God, health, inspiration, law, love, money, relationships, Uncategorized, workTagged , , , , , , , Leave a comment

It’s 1:15 a.m.
The house is quiet, but my mind isn’t.
My spirit is talking, but my thoughts keep trying to interrupt. And if I’m honest, I don’t even want to go where my mind keeps taking me.

Because yesterday… I got burned.
Not a misunderstanding.
Not a small thing I can laugh off later.
Burned.
And not the kind you can just pray off and keep it moving like nothing happened.

And the part that makes it sit heavy in my chest is this: I’m still expected to show up tomorrow like nothing happened.
Smiling. Producing. Performing.
Because apparently… healing is not on the job description.

Because responsibilities don’t pause for disappointment. Bills don’t care about betrayal. And sometimes… purpose doesn’t immediately pull you out of uncomfortable places.

So there I was… sitting in the quiet, feeling tired in a way sleep can’t fix and the thought slipped in:

“I’m chained to this situation.”


Gee… I didn’t even like how that sounded coming out of my own mouth. But just as quickly… something in my spirit pushed back.

Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just steady:

“You’re not chained… you’re positioned.”

Whew.

Because chained means stuck. No movement. No options. No end.
But positioned? Positioned means this is not permanent… no matter how long it’s been.
Positioned means there is purpose even here.
Positioned means you’re still on your way somewhere.

So I had to correct myself. I am not chained.
I am in transition with responsibilities.
And that changes how I stand in this space.

It means I don’t burn bridges out of frustration but I also don’t build my identity in a place that hurt me.

It means I pay attention. Because what hurt me also showed me something.
How people move.
What I can and cannot depend on.
Where I need boundaries.

What happened yesterday? That wasn’t just pain. That was data. And baby… I take notes.
And data helps you move wiser.

So instead of letting my mind replay the moment or fast-forward me into feeling stuck forever, I made a decision in the quiet:

I will deal with this tomorrow. Not at 1:15 a.m. Because I am not losing sleep over something God is already handling.

Because this hour isn’t for fixing. It’s for listening. And when I listened,I heard it clearly:
“I am not chained. I am collecting what I need before I move.”

So I’ll show up. I’ll do what needs to be done.
Not because they deserve my best… but because I do.

But I won’t shrink. I won’t forget who I am or whose child I am. And I won’t mistake a temporary season for a permanent assignment.

To be clear… just because I’m still here doesn’t mean I’m staying. Because even here,

God is still positioning me.

—

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord… “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. – Jeremiah 29

—

Love,
Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com 💛

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The Things I Didn’t Throw Away

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All my life, I’ve collected broken things.

Toys missing pieces.
Tools that didn’t quite work right anymore.
People… especially people.

Not because I didn’t notice what was wrong.
But because I could still see what was there.

I think my favorite rescue was a Christmas ornament—
a little elf on skis… missing one leg.

He couldn’t glide like he was made to.
Couldn’t balance like the others on the tree.
But I kept him anyway.

Hung him where he could still be seen.

Then there was that little robot suncatcher.
The one that doesn’t dance anymore
because his color panel is worn down.

He just… stands there now.
Still catching light, just differently.

And just this week, I stood in a nursery
while someone said, “Don’t buy those.
They’ll only last a week.”

Tulips on the clearance rack.
Already on their way out.
And I thought, a week of beauty is still beauty.


So I bought what I could afford.
Not to save them forever…
just to enjoy them while they’re here.

I’ve never been drawn to perfect things.
Perfect things don’t need you.

But worn things? They need a little time.
A little patience. A little belief that they’re not finished yet.

And somewhere along the way, I decided this:
Just because something doesn’t work the way it used to… doesn’t mean it has no use at all.

Sometimes it just needs a different kind of care.
A slower hand.
A softer place to land.
Someone willing to stay a little longer than is convenient.

Because even the smallest things,
a crooked ornament,
a quiet presence,
a short-lived bloom,
can still add something to the world.

I’ve always believed there is a kind of invisible ledger… a quiet tally being kept.
Not of perfection. Not of productivity.

But of smiles.

And if something—anything—can still add to the smile quota of the world… then it still has value.

I’ve seen what happens when you don’t give up too quickly. I’ve ve seen people who were overlooked become the very ones who light up a room.

I’ve seen what love can do when it doesn’t rush off at the first sign of difficulty.

So if you’re feeling worn today…
set aside…
like maybe people have decided you’re too much or not enough,

Hear me:

You are not something to be discarded.
You are still capable of adding something good to this world. Even if it looks different than it used to. Even if it’s quieter than before.

Even if it’s just one smile.

And that counts more than you think.

Matthew 5:7
“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.”

I see you — still adding to the world in quiet ways that matter more than you know.

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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

Posted in Black History Month, faith, food, God, inspiration, money, relationships, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , Leave a comment


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

Posted in Black History Month, faith, God, inspiration, love, Uncategorized, workTagged , , , , , , Leave a comment

( 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

Image

Robert Smalls: He Knew the Way Through

Posted in Black History Month, faith, food, God, inspiration, love, relationships, workTagged , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

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