Tag: giving

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Crumbs Of Grace, My 2nd New Year.

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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

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A Meeting Place

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This may not sound like me.


I’m usually the one who finds the humor, the metaphor, the small spark of light tucked inside the ordinary. I believe in joy — deeply. I still do.

But today, joy feels quieter, and sorrow feels closer to the surface .
The world feels fractured.
Nation against nation.
Neighbor against neighbor.
Families strained.
Friendships reduced to likes, views, and fleeting affirmations.


And somewhere in the middle of all this noise, what seems to be slipping away is our sense of community — the kind where people are known, not curated. Where connection doesn’t require a platform or performance.


Yesterday, as I mourned world events ,  all of this along with a side of opinions still wrapped with faith, I was told I was hiding behind God and the Bible.


That stayed with me.


Not because it shook my faith, but because it revealed something deeper about the times we’re living in — a world so uncomfortable with lament that even sacred language is suspect when it refuses to harden into arguments or slogans.


But my faith has never been a hiding place.
It has always been a meeting place — where grief and hope are allowed to sit together without rushing one another out of the room.


Today, I find myself weeping.
Not because faith has failed, but because love is still very much alive.
“Jesus wept.” — John 11:35
He stood in the presence of grief and loss and did not rush to fix it, explain it, or weaponize it. He allowed tears to speak where words fell short. If tears were worthy of Him, they are not beneath us.
Scripture doesn’t ask us to bypass sorrow — it calls us to enter it together.
“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” — Romans 12:15


This isn’t a departure from who I am.
It’s a refusal to pretend.
I still believe in hope. I still believe in resurrection. I still believe God has not lost the plot. But I also believe sorrow has a place in the story — not as an ending, but as an honest chapter.


So today, I show up softer. Quieter. More tender. Trusting that God can hold my tears just as faithfully as He holds my hope.


And believing that even here — especially here — grace is present.
Love Chelle

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Clown Shoes On Holy Ground

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I was born on a Sunday.
The old poem says, “Sunday’s child is full of grace.” I believe that’s true — but grace doesn’t arrive in a vacuum.

I was a Sunday child who learned early about loss.
About poverty that makes you grow up faster than your age.
About grief that shows up uninvited and stays too long.
About loneliness that teaches you how to be self-sufficient
and insecurities that whisper you’d better be useful if you want to be loved.

So I learned to protect myself.

I learned how to make people laugh and have them sing along.
How to lighten rooms before they noticed the weight I was carrying.
How to read emotions faster than words.
How to bring joy without asking for much in return.

What I didn’t know then was that God was watching all of it —
not with disappointment,
but with intention.

Scripture says:
“But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise;
God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.”
— 1 Corinthians 1:27

From that place of self-protection, something holy was being formed.

My ministry didn’t begin in confidence.
It began in clown shoes —
joy worn on holy ground,
humor used as armor,
Melodies offered as a bridge when I didn’t yet have language for my own pain.

For a long time, I thought joy meant I hadn’t been hurt enough.
That if I laughed, my grief must not be legitimate.
That holiness required heaviness.

But holy ground taught me otherwise.

Holy ground can handle pride that cracks, not joy.
God was never offended by my antics.
He was present in it.

Somewhere along the way, God redeemed my survival skills.
What I once used to protect myself,
He began using to comfort others.

I didn’t stop carrying sacred things —
I just learned how to carry them without pretending they weren’t holy.

I still wear the clown shoes.
Not because I don’t know sorrow,
but because I do.

Joy is not denial.
Joy is defiance.
Joy is faith that has survived the night
and still shows up in the morning.

So if you see me smiling, laughing, singing,  softening the room —know this:

I am standing on holy ground.
I am carrying sacred things.
And God has always been in the business
of using what the world dismisses
to do His most meaningful work.

Clown shoes and all.

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The Third Pie

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I wasn’t trying to be deep.
I was just trying to bake.

One sweet potato pie for my husband.
One for my brother-in-law who has been begging for one like it’s his spiritual gift.
I followed the recipe to the letter. Measured. Mixed. Poured.

And somehow… there was a full third pie.

Not a baker’s bite.
Not a “let me scrape the bowl and see what happens.”
A whole, mind-your-business, respectable third pie.

What makes this even better is this:
I hadn’t made a sweet potato pie in almost a year.

Not because I didn’t want to.
Not because I forgot how.
But because life was lifing — loudly — at almost every holiday when joy normally shows up wrapped in foil and tradition. Some seasons don’t leave room for extra, only endurance.

So when I finally baked again, I wasn’t expecting anything special.
Just two pies.
Just getting back to myself.

And still — there was extra.

I didn’t stretch the recipe.
I didn’t short the pies.
I didn’t hustle or improvise.

I simply did what was in front of me.

Later that day, the third pie didn’t wait for a plan.
Two of my teenage grandsons devoured it like it was made just for them — laughing, grabbing seconds, completely unaware they were standing in the quiet, perfect timing of God’s provision.

And that’s when it settled in.

Sometimes, provision doesn’t shout.
Sometimes grace shows up finished.
Sometimes, abundance waits patiently for us to notice.

I planned for two.
Grace planned for three.

“The Lord will open for you His good storehouse, the heavens, to bless all the work of your hands.”
— Deuteronomy 28:12

And this morning, with coffee in hand and crumbs on the counter, I’m reminded:
Even after long pauses, God’s timing is still generous.

Love, Chelle

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Faith With Cream

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If you know me well, you know this:
there is a Do Not Disturb sign on my whole being before my first cup of coffee.


Not because I’m mean — because I’m unfinished. Conversations are risky. Decisions are suspect. Eye contact is optional and not encouraged.

Coffee is not a luxury in my house.
It’s a transition ritual — the bridge between sleep and sanity.

I’ve tried drinking it black.
I respect the people who do.
But I am not one of them.

I also refuse to pay six dollars for a cup of bean water served with foam, a wooden stir stick, and a side of financial regret.

So I do what most of us do in real life:
I work with what I have.

A splash of cream. Sometimes thickened milk.
Sometimes eggnog (non-alcoholic, of course).
Always grace.

And somewhere between the mug and the quiet, God meets me.

Faith works the same way.

There’s a version of spirituality that insists you drink life black —
no softness, no comfort, no pause.
Just endure. Prove you’re strong. Push through.

There’s another version that says peace only comes if you buy it, chase it, or overspend your way into it.

But Scripture gives us a wiser prayer — not for excess, not for deprivation,
but for enough:

“Give me neither poverty nor riches;
feed me with the food that I need.”
— Proverbs 30:8 (NRSV)

That is provision without punishment.
Sufficiency without suffering.

Faith with cream doesn’t erase the bitterness —
it makes it bearable.
It doesn’t deny reality —
it softens it enough to receive joy.

God has always provided daily bread —
not to test us, but to sustain us.

So this morning, if you’re like me —
still warming up, still waiting for the cream you forgot at the store to arrive —
know this:

God is not offended by your need for gentleness.
He honors prayers for enough.

Drink the coffee.
Delay the noise.
Let faith be tender today.

Faith with cream still counts.

Love, Chelle

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Eviction Notices ( Without the Panic)

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As I pack up the end of one year to experience the wonders of the next, I was reminded of how many times I was evicted. Not in the natural sense but by God.


I’ve learned that God’s eviction notices don’t come with flashing lights or raised voices.
They don’t sound like “You’re fired.”
They don’t arrive with chaos or fear.
They feel like stability that no longer fits.


I call it an eviction notice when God begins to unsecure me in a place He never intended to be my final address. Provision is present. The lights are on. The ground is steady. And yet—peace quietly taps me on the shoulder and whispers, “This isn’t home.”


For people like me—faithful to a fault, a true “Stable Mabel”—dependable, steady, the one who shows up no matter what—God doesn’t shove.
He anchors.
He makes sure the floor doesn’t drop out.
He removes the threat of free-fall.
He rearranges just enough, so survival is no longer the distraction.
And that’s when it gets confusing.
Because when panic leaves, clarity arrives.
And clarity is harder to ignore.
An eviction notice from God doesn’t say leave now.
It gently says, don’t give this place your last.
It shows up as: – security without satisfaction
– provision without peace
– competence without calling
It feels like gratitude… mixed with restlessness.
I used to think eviction meant loss.
But I’m learning it often means permission.
Permission to stop confusing loyalty with assignment.
Permission to admit that faithfulness has a future—and it doesn’t always look like staying.


Scripture gives me a different picture of how God moves His children:
“Like an eagle that stirs up its nest
and hovers over its young,
that spreads its wings to catch them
and carries them aloft…”
(Deuteronomy 32:11)


When I think of God’s eviction notices now, I don’t picture being thrown out.
I picture a nest that has grown too comfortable—warm feathers, familiar edges.
God stirs the nest not to harm, but to wake.
There is a push, yes—but there is also hovering.
There is a letting go, but never abandonment.
Before the feathers can be too ruffled,
before fear turns into free fall,
the same wings that nudged are the wings that catch.
That’s what this season feels like.
Not panic.
Not loss.
But the unsettling grace of being lifted by a God who refuses to let me stay small—and refuses to let me crash while I learn.
Here is the grounding truth I’m holding close:
God is not asking me to burn down my life.
He is inviting me to build the next one alongside it—until it’s strong enough to stand.
No rushing.
No scorched earth.
No fear-driven decisions.
Just a quiet understanding that a holding pen is not a home—and that noticing the gate is unlocked is already movement.
If this is an eviction notice, it isn’t cruel.
It’s merciful.
Because God doesn’t evict His children into the cold.
He prepares the next place before He asks us to pack.
And peace—real peace—always goes with us.
— Love. Chelle

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Seven Days Of Light

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Honoring cultural tradition, affirming shared values, and weaving Scripture with care.

A Gentle Word Before We Begin:

There was a time when I didn’t know what Kwanzaa was. And if I’m honest, there were years when the Christian church around me misunderstood it—labeling it as something it was never meant to be.

Kwanzaa is not a religion. It does not replace faith. It does not compete with Christ. It is an intentional celebration of values—principles that strengthen family, community, character, and responsibility.

Kwanzaa was established in 1966 by Dr. Maulana Karenga, in the aftermath of the Watts uprising, to reaffirm African American cultural identity and restore community-centered values rooted in family, culture, and collective responsibility.

Scripture tells us that “the law is fulfilled in one word: love” (Galatians 5:14), and that “against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:23). When values cultivate love of God and neighbor, they deserve reflection—not fear.

This study honors the Nguzo Saba (the Seven Principles of Kwanzaa) with respect, while gently weaving Scripture for those who follow Jesus and recognize His fingerprints in every good and life-giving value.

The traditional greeting for Kwanzaa is:

“Habari Gani?”

(hah-BAH-ree GAH-nee)

It’s Swahili and means:
“What’s the news?” or “What’s happening?”

When someone says: Habari Gani? Your response is the principle of the day:

Day 1 – Umoja (Unity)

Unity is not sameness; it is commitment. It is choosing one another again and again—especially when it would be easier to withdraw. Umoja reminds us that fractured families and divided communities heal when we decide to stand together.

Scripture Reflection:
“How good and pleasant it is when God’s people live together in unity.” – Psalm 133:1

Prayer Thought:
Lord, teach us how to guard unity without erasing truth, and to love without condition.

Day 2 – Kujichagulia (Self-Determination)

Kujichagulia is about reclaiming voice and agency. It is refusing to let others define our worth or our future. In Christ, we are not mislabeled—we are named.

Scripture Reflection:
“You are a chosen people…” – 1 Peter 2:9

Prayer Thought:
God, help us walk boldly in who You created us to be.

Day 3 – Ujima (Collective Work & Responsibility)

Ujima reminds us that community is not a spectator sport. We are responsible for one another—not out of obligation, but out of love.

Scripture Reflection:
“Carry each other’s burdens…” – Galatians 6:2

Prayer Thought:
Jesus, make us aware of where we can show up with presence.

Day 4 – Ujamaa (Cooperative Economics)

Ujamaa calls us to steward resources with communal care. Where we invest reflects what we value.

Scripture Reflection:
“Each of you should use whatever gift you have received…” – 1 Peter 4:10

Prayer Thought:
Lord, teach us to circulate generosity.

Day 5 – Nia (Purpose)

Purpose is not always loud. Sometimes, it is faithful consistency. Our lives are not random.

Scripture Reflection:
“For we are God’s handiwork…” – Ephesians 2:10

Prayer Thought:
God, align our gifts with the needs around us.

Day 6 – Kuumba (Creativity)

Creativity is holy work. Kuumba calls us to leave what we touch more beautiful.

Scripture Reflection:
“See, I am doing a new thing…” – Isaiah 43:19

Prayer Thought:
Creator God, let us partner with You.

Day 7 – Imani (Faith)

Imani is faith with memory. For believers, it ultimately rests in God.

Scripture Reflection:
“Now faith is confidence in what we hope for…” – Hebrews 11:1

Prayer Thought:
Lord, anchor our faith for generations to come.

So, if you have learned something today, then I have done my job for today. If nothing else, please know that Kwanzaa does not ask us to abandon faith. It invites us to practice values—many of which Scripture has been teaching all along. Unity. Responsibility. Purpose. Creativity. Faith. Against these, there is no law—only love.

Habari Gani?

Love, Chelle

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When Joy Waits

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I’ve been sitting with these thoughts since Christmas Eve, wanting to honor tender hearts.


During this season, I know several people walking through fresh grief — the loss of parents, spouses, siblings, children, grandchildren.

Others carry a different kind of ache: childhoods that hold no warm memories to return to. One person even whispered that they weren’t sure they wanted to live to see the New Year.


That kind of pain deserves reverence, not rush.


I was determined not to meet their sorrow with well-meaning clichés — “volunteer,” “adopt a family,” “stay busy,” “choose joy.” Those things can be beautiful, and I do them now. But it took me years of sitting inside my own grief before I could get there. Years before someone else’s smile softened the sting instead of feeling like salt in the wound.
So I don’t beat people over the head with happiness.


Sometimes the greatest gift we can give is not advice, not solutions, not silver linings — but presence. To sit. To be quiet. To resist the urge to fix. To simply watch and wait with someone.


Scripture tells us:
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18


Notice what it doesn’t say.
It doesn’t say God rushes the brokenhearted.
It doesn’t say He lectures them into joy.
It says He is close.


Jesus did come to bring joy to the world — but grief, like the ocean, comes in waves. And the return to joy doesn’t arrive all at once. It comes in stages.


That truth surprised me again while watching Disney’s “Inside Out 2”. When Joy tried to take over too quickly — before the main character was ready — it didn’t heal her. It pushed her deeper into despair. What she needed wasn’t forced positivity. She needed permission to sit with sorrow and memory for a while without being rushed toward “better.”


Sometimes joy doesn’t need to be summoned.
It needs to be allowed to come back when it’s ready.


If this season finds you heavy, please hear this:
You are not failing because you aren’t cheerful.
You are not weak because you’re tired.
You are not faithless because joy hasn’t returned yet.


Jesus is close to the tenderhearted — not waiting on the other side of your healing, but sitting with you right in the middle of it.
And sometimes, that quiet companionship is the most sacred gift of all.

Can we pray?
Jesus,
You who are close to the brokenhearted,
draw near to every tender soul reading this.

For those carrying fresh grief,
sit with them in the quiet where words fall short.
For those whose memories ache instead of comfort,
hold them without asking them to explain.

Guard them from the pressure to perform joy
before it has found its way home again.
Give permission for tears, for pauses, for breathing slowly.

Where sorrow comes in waves,
be the steady presence that does not leave.
And when joy is ready to return — even in small, fragile ways —
let it arrive gently, without force or fear.

Until then, be enough.
Be near.
Be kind to the tenderhearted.

Amen.

For Shelby. Heaven makes noise a 3 a.m. just for you.

Love, Chelle

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Faith With A Yawn

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(Or: When Christmas Finally Got Me)


I did something yesterday that I almost never do.
I fell asleep at the table.

Not the polite, chin-in-hand, “I’m listening” kind of sleepy.
The real kind. The head-dip. The eyelids surrendering mid-conversation.
The kind that scared me just enough to notice.

Christmas finally got me.

I had planned for rest. I needed rest.
But life — and love — had other things lined up.

A quick visit to the nursing home turned into three hours because they were short-staffed. Again.
I stayed — because love doesn’t clock out when it’s inconvenient.

Somewhere in between, there was also chasing down folks to drop off gifts.
“Let me just swing by real quick.”
“One more stop.”
One more smile. One more bag. One more moment of making sure nobody felt forgotten.

By the time I made it home, I barely had enough energy to pivot to the next thing — visiting my mother-in-love.

Bless her — she cooked.
I ate.
And somewhere between gratitude and exhaustion, my body simply said, “That’s enough now.”

I nodded off at the table.

I laughed about it later, because it was funny.
But it also scared me — because I don’t do that.
I’m usually the one pushing through, powering up, showing up.

What I realized later is this:
That moment wasn’t weakness.
It was honesty.

My body told the truth before my mouth ever would.

We talk a lot about rest, but rarely about what happens when we don’t get it — when we keep pouring, keep visiting, keep delivering, keep caring, and assume adrenaline and responsibility will carry us through.

Sometimes they do.
Sometimes… they don’t.

And God doesn’t shame us for that.

“It is useless for you to work so hard from early morning until late at night, anxiously working for food to eat; for God gives rest to His loved ones.” — Psalm 127:2

That verse doesn’t scold.
It exhales.

Maybe falling asleep at the table wasn’t failure.
Maybe it was permission.

Permission to admit that Christmas — the beauty, the chaos, the caregiving, the gift-chasing, the expectations — costs something.
Permission to stop pretending we’re machines.
Permission to rest without first earning it.

Today, I’m still tired.
Still booting up.
Still faithful — just slower.

And that’s okay.

If you’ve nodded off emotionally, spiritually, or physically this season — you’re not broken.
You’re human.

Pull up a chair.
Take a breath.
God is not offended by your yawn.


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Seasonal Plants, Seasonal People

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A Virgin Gardener’s Confession


I buy poinsettias every year for one reason and one reason only: color.
Not longevity.
Not horticultural excellence.
Certainly not because I have a long-term relationship with plants.
This year, they had an added job description:
Cover the bottom of the Christmas tree so nobody notices I ran out of lights.
Mission accomplished.


Until Christmas Day.
That’s when the leaves started dropping.
Now, let me be clear:
I am a virgin gardener.
I don’t pretend to know plant science.
I buy things for vibes and hope for the best.


So my first instinct was to feel accused.
What did I do wrong?
Did I overwater? Underwater? Look at it funny?
But then it hit me.
The poinsettias weren’t failing.
They were finished.
They had done exactly what they were created to do — bring color, warmth, and beauty to the season.


But I had quietly reassigned them.
I wanted them to hold weight they were never meant to carry.
And when Christmas arrived — when their purpose had been fulfilled — they began to let go.
Leaves dropping isn’t always a problem.
Sometimes it’s a release.


That’s when the Spirit gently tapped me and said,
You do this too.
We stretch ourselves past our assignment.
We keep covering gaps that were meant to be temporary.
We try to stay vibrant in seasons that are asking us to rest.
And then we panic when we feel ourselves dropping leaves.
But maybe we’re not dying.
Maybe we’re done.
We can’t force beyond purpose or season.
Not plants. Not people. Not souls.
Even Scripture reminds us:
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
— Ecclesiastes 3:1


The poinsettia doesn’t apologize for being seasonal.
It doesn’t strive to be evergreen.
It simply shows up, shines, and then releases.
There is wisdom in that.


So this Christmas, if you feel a little bare…
If something beautiful in you feels like it’s letting go…
If you’re tempted to label it failure —
Pause.


Ask instead:
Did I serve my season well?
Because sometimes the holiest thing you can do
is stop forcing bloom
and allow rest.


— Signed,
A Virgin Gardener
Learning to let things be what they were created to be 🌺

Love Chelle