I was listening to one of my favorite songs—“He Knows My Name”—and my emotions spilled out before I could stop them. It happens like that sometimes. After a rough moment. After allowing myself—again—to be hurt by someone who never really took the time to know me. Not my heart. Not my story. Not the way I learned to survive.
I didn’t even realize how much I was carrying until that song started playing. And suddenly, there it was—grief, relief, truth—all at once.
Because here’s the greatest thing about God: He knows my name. And not just my name—He knows my nickname too. The one spoken by people who love me. The one I only answer to when I feel safe.
He knows me with the mask—the strong one, the capable one, the superhero version that keeps showing up.
And He knows me without it—the tired, tender, still-hoping version I don’t always let the world see.
The real me. Not the performance. Not the usefulness. Not the resilience résumé.
This song reminds me that I don’t confuse God. I don’t disappoint Him by being human. I don’t have to explain myself into being worthy of love. It’s my Survivor Song because it tells the truth I forget when I’m hurting: I am already known. Already named. Already held. And when I rest in His arms, I don’t need armor. I don’t need a script. I don’t need to be brave for one more minute. I am safe.
With and without the mask. With and without the cape. Somewhere along the way, I learned to confuse being needed with being known. But God never made that mistake.
So today, if you’re feeling unseen— if you’re nursing the quiet ache of being misunderstood— let the reminder rise up like a song in your chest. You are known by name. You are held without pretending. You are safe in His arms. And sometimes… surviving looks like letting yourself be known—first by God, and then by yourself. “I have called you by name; you are Mine.” — Isaiah 43:1
My favorite weather man is forecasting the first official Snowmaggedon of the season: six to twelve inches of snow, up to an inch of ice layered on top, and—because chaos loves company—the delightful possibility of losing power. Naturally planned for a post-work weekend, because rest is apparently negotiable. I’ve done my preps. Grandma’s provision list? Checked. Every extra blanket in the house washed, folded, and staged like we’re auditioning for Little House on the Prairie: Dominion Energy Edition. Candles. Tea lights. Batteries. Flashlights. The full “we will survive this living room” starter kit. I’ve been digging through storage bins to find the reflective cover for my greenhouse, determined to protect my plant babies outside. Because if the lights flicker and the world goes quiet, somebody still needs to be covered. We will endure together—warm-ish, faithful, and protected. This isn’t panic prepping. This is inheritance. This is what happens when you’re raised by women who trusted God and kept extra blankets. Women who understood that peace doesn’t come from pretending storms don’t happen—it comes from knowing you’re sheltered when they do. “He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge.” — Psalm 91:4 That verse feels different when you’re pulling covers over tender things. When you’re choosing care over chaos. When you’re preparing not out of fear, but out of love. And when the work is done—when the candles are set and the covers are pulled tight—there’s permission to rest. “In peace I will lie down and sleep, for You alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.” — Psalm 4:8 Now, the only thing I’m not prepared for is being snowed in with young people who have never experienced boredom—or a power outage—as a character-building event. Back in my day we stared at walls and survived… But even then… provision has already been made. And that, right there, is peace—with a little sass and a lot of covering. Love, Chelle
Then I heard the soft, unmistakable sound of soil shifting where it shouldn’t, followed by the sight every plant-loving heart knows too well — one of my pothos vines snapped clean away from the rest of the plant.
Just like that. An accident. A break.
My first thought wasn’t theological. It was maternal. Can it be saved?
I picked it up gently, turning the broken vine over in my hands, looking for signs of life. And there they were — tiny nodes, already formed. Places where roots could grow, even though they hadn’t yet.
What looked like damage was actually possibility.
I learned something standing there in my living room with dirt on the floor and a vine in my hand: Not every break is a loss. Some breaks are an invitation.
The plant wasn’t ruined. It was multiplied. What separated didn’t die — it prepared to grow again, just differently, in a new place.
And isn’t that how it goes with us?
We panic when something breaks — a plan, a season, a relationship, a version of ourselves we worked hard to protect. We assume broken means finished. But God has a way of seeing roots where we only see separation.
Scripture whispers this truth gently:
“There is a time for everything… a time to plant and a time to uproot.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1–2
Uprooting feels violent when it happens unexpectedly. But uprooting isn’t destruction — it’s movement.
That vine didn’t know it was about to be replanted. It didn’t resist the separation. It just carried what it needed inside itself and waited for water.
Maybe that’s where we are too.
Maybe what snapped didn’t end us. Maybe it exposed what was already capable of growing.
So I didn’t lose a plant today. I gained four jars of hope sitting on my counter.
What broke didn’t disappear — it multiplied. And maybe that’s the part we forget when something snaps in our hands.
Waiting isn’t wasted. It’s where roots decide to show up.
“Those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength.” — Isaiah 40:31
Some breaks bring new growth. They just need water… and a little time.
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.
Not because He was lazy. Not because the need was gone. Not because the work was finished.
But because He knew when to pour Himself out — and when to be filled again by the Father.
He stepped away while people still needed Him. He withdrew while expectations still waited. He rested even though the world would have gladly kept pulling.
“But Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.” — Luke 5:16
(Jesus withdrew to quiet places. I withdraw to the couch and pretend I’m just “thinking.”)
Last night my body kept waking me up like it was tapping my shoulder saying, Hey. We’re done pretending.
Every hour on the hour. No deep rest. No drifting off.
Thoughts of what I needed to do today were keeping me awake, while those same thoughts were making me tired.
But, yet, there was a quiet insistence that something holy was being ignored.
(Jesus rested. I call it a “strategic pause,” because the word nap feels too optimistic.)
Here is the truth tired women rarely hear out loud:
Rest is not quitting. Pausing is not disobedience. Taking a break is not a lack of faith.
Sometimes it is the most faithful thing you can do.
Jesus didn’t withdraw because He didn’t care. He withdrew because He did — because love that lasts must return to its Source.
(Jesus took a break. I took one too once — accidentally, in the driveway, with the car still running.)
Today I will not apologize for being tired. I will not spiritualize exhaustion. I will not confuse availability with holiness.
I will follow Jesus — even if that means following Him somewhere quiet.
And if all I manage today is showing up gently, that will be enough.
Because Jesus took a break. And somehow… that sets me free.
So if you can’t find me today, I am on the couch with Jesus. Wake Him and ask permission to wake me.
Love, Chelle
Footstep Notes: Luke 5:16; Mark 1:35; Matthew 14:23
“I would have fainted, unless I had believed to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.” — Psalm 27:13
1/7/18.
I will always remember that date like a star date in the Star Trek Captain’s Log.
It started as a normal Sunday setup. I had just finished cleaning around the sound booth and was adjusting everything to get ready for that morning’s praise and worship. Service was running a few minutes behind, but we were still riding the spiritual high of pre-worship hour prayer.
Then it happened. My phone rang.
I almost never answer my phone during service. In fact, just two minutes earlier, I had nudged one of our teenagers about using their phone during Sunday school.
But I recognized the number. That familiar 264 exchange—the one every “kidney family” in my region of Virginia knows by heart. Breathless. Full of anticipation. Almost terrified. Palms sweating, face flushed in seconds. I answered to the coordinator’s urgent voice:
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
You see, protocol dictates that when the organ sharing center receives a possible match, they must first confirm that the prospective recipient is within four hours of their chosen transplant hospital. Once your location is confirmed, they tell you they’ll call back—and promptly hang up.
Yes. You read that right.
In one of the shakiest moments of your life, they hang up with a promise to call you back within an hour… or so… if it’s a good match.
I was still in the sound booth. My son was seated in his usual spot, about six rows in front of me. I didn’t know whether to tell him that his life might be about to change. We had already been disappointed by calls like this—twice before.
So instead, I texted him: “Be ready to go when I tap you.”
His response was simple: “Ok.” He didn’t ask why. He didn’t question me. He just trusted that if I said go, we go.
For me, however, the next 59 minutes would be the longest of my entire life. Time and space seemed to stand still. The room suddenly felt too warm, the air too stale. I can’t even remember if I set the microphones correctly. The pastor could have been shouting and I wouldn’t have heard him. The praise team was faithfully belting out worship songs my impatient ears could not discern.
All I could distinguish was the steady rhythm of the drum—now matching my racing heartbeat.
About 45 minutes into the wait, I had to correct my course. Not on the soundboard. In myself.
I found myself apologizing—to God, to Jesus, to the Holy Spirit. I had become so consumed with the call that I had stopped truly worshiping. I had stopped listening to the Word being preached.
I was esteeming what I wanted from God more than I was esteeming God Himself. And in that moment, it felt as though the Holy Spirit was echoing the same question in my heart: “WHERE ARE YOU?”
I steadied myself. I readied myself. Through tears and trembling faith, I began to worship again—declaring that as desperately as I wanted this gift to free my son from five long years of agonizing dialysis, I wanted the Presence of the Lord even more.
As my spiritual hunger was met with the assurance that God was with me no matter what, I heard in my spirit, “Hang up.”
At that exact moment, I looked down at the phone I had been clutching in my hand—and it rang. With tears streaming, I answered. Joyfully, 58 minutes into the wait, the coordinator said: “HOW FAST CAN YOU GET HERE?”
And that is the stuff our walk with Christ is made of. How often do we approach God wanting—and even needing—something deeply tied to a promise we believe He made, only to find ourselves overwhelmed by the waiting? Too often, our “knock and the door shall be opened” faith quietly shifts into a heartsick lifestyle of disappointment, dissatisfaction, and even unbelief—unless we see the manifestation.
Hebrews 11:6 reminds us that “he who comes to God must believe that He is, and that He is a rewarder of those who diligently seek Him.” Notice it says seek Him. Not diligently seek it.
When God asks, “Where are you?” may we be found seeking Him—not just the thing we hope He’ll give us. When He seems to hang up, trust that He will call again. Trust God. Trust His goodness. Even when it feels distant—it is still His plan. Even when it unfolds differently than expected—it is still His plan. Even when the answer is no—for reasons greater than we understand—better is still His plan. Reset your need for control. Let God have His way.
One last question: Since we trust that God is always right on time… how fast can you get here?
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.
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.
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 !!!
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.
defygravitywithoutwings.com 