DEAR GOD… WHEN CAREGIVING HURTS, HEALS, AND LEANS HEAVY ON MY SHOULDERS
“My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9
Today, I told myself I would wait until the temperature climbed to at least forty degrees before heading out to decorate my sister’s room at the nursing home for Christmas. I’m bringing her a case of pudding and picking up the dirty laundry — the usual “big sister doing what needs to be done” routine.
But before I even put my coat on, a familiar companion showed up… guilt.
Not guilt because I don’t want to help — I do, with all my heart.
But guilt because sometimes… Lord, I am just tired.
Tired from my own responsibilities.
Tired from my job, my husband’s appointments, my grandchildren, my writing, my own body acting up on me.
Tired from being pulled in ten different directions while trying to stay whole myself.
And there’s a special kind of guilt that comes with caregiving when you are exhausted.
A guilt that whispers, “You should be doing more.”
A guilt that berates you for needing a break.
A guilt that makes you feel like resting means failing.
Especially when the person you’re caring for is your younger sister.
Only 48.
Bed bound.
Multiple strokes.
Speech limited.
Taken down by a condition we didn’t even know existed until it barged into our family like a thief in the night.
Sometimes I walk into her room and see her lying there, and my heart squeezes because I remember who she used to be — strong, funny, quick-witted, full of that younger-sister attitude that kept me on my toes.
And then another wave hits:
How dare I complain about being tired when she would give anything to switch places with me for one day?
But Lord… that is not the truth You want me to carry.
Because even with her limitations, she and I still do what sisters do:
trash talk, laugh, joke, roll our eyes, and make the nurses wonder what on earth is going on in Room Whatever-It-Is-This-Week.
She’s still her, and I’m still me, and our sisterhood refuses to die.
And yet, the guilt still shows up when I catch myself sighing too hard, or wishing for one quiet weekend, or resenting the cold weather because caregiving is already heavy enough.
But today, Father, You whispered something to my heart:
“Guilt is not your assignment. Grace is.”
Caregiving is not a competition of strength.
It is not a performance for heaven.
It is not a test You are grading me on.
It is love lived out loud.
It is compassion with skin on it.
It is the ministry nobody sees but You.
Decorating her room today…
It’s not just Christmas décor.
It’s dignity.
It’s joy.
It’s a reminder that she is still here and still loved.
And it is a reminder that I am still allowed to be human.
So Lord, when the guilt rises because life is heavy,
when responsibilities pile up faster than I can carry them,
when I feel torn between caring for her and caring for myself,
remind me:
You never asked me to do this perfectly.
You only asked me to do it with love.
And love, even tired love, is still holy.
With Love,
Chelle
Tag: giving
Growing Through It
Lessons From My Winter Garden
“As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish…so is My word that goes out from My mouth: It will not return to Me empty.”
— Isaiah 55:10–11 (NIV)
I am making my very first attempt at a winter garden. And let me be clear: I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing. Most of my “training” comes from overly enthusiastic YouTube gardeners who clearly have more time and more sunshine than I do.
I’m pretty sure I’ve already spent more money on soil, seeds, and enthusiasm than I’ll ever get back in vegetables. But honestly? For once… I don’t care.
Because this garden isn’t about vegetables at all.
It’s a grief-release project. A quiet place to pour the pain instead of pouring it on somebody. A space where my hands can work while my heart finally breathes.
The “easy 30-minute” mini greenhouse?
It took three hours, two episodes of repentance, and one conversation with myself about whether I should have just grown plastic plants and called it a day.
Digging in the dirt made my back hurt, and apparently I thought a cubic foot of topsoil stretched farther than it does, because three trips to the garden center fixed that delusion.
Then came the bugs—whole nations of them—each one convinced they belonged in my hair.
But the moment that froze me was this one:
I realized it had been nineteen years since I actually sat—really sat—in my own backyard.
Nineteen years since I noticed the quiet.
Nineteen years since I gave myself permission just to exist.
So here I am, tending this little winter garden—measuring, digging, seeding, watering.
Not because I’m expecting a miracle harvest,
but because there is healing in putting your fingers in the dirt and hope in watching something grow in a cold season.
And wouldn’t you know it…
Right as the first snow has fallen, my mama-heart has kicked in full force.
I keep peeking out the window like a nervous parent on the first day of school.
“Lord, protect my babies.”
My seedlings.
My fragile green hopes.
My little reminders that even in winter, life is possible.
And here is the ironic blessing of it all:
– The “easy carrots” have not even whispered.
– The “super easy spinach” has barely shown a shy fleck of green.
– But the tough plants?
The kale and Brussels sprouts—those winter warriors—are popping up like four-leaf clovers.
Of course they are.
Because the things we expect to flourish don’t always flourish first.
And the things we expect to struggle often surprise us with their strength.
Just like us.
Some seasons of our lives are carrots—quiet, hidden, working underground where no one can see.
Some seasons are spinach—delicate, hesitant, unsure.
But some seasons?
We are kale and Brussels sprouts—growing in the cold, thriving in hardship, lifting our heads in weather that would take out weaker
The snowfall isn’t a threat.
It’s a promise.
If God sends snow to water the earth,
He will also watch over the seeds He told me to plant—
the ones in my garden
and the ones in my soul.
And just like these unexpected winter greens,
I believe I’m going to grow through this season
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ME TOO HONESTY
For we have not a high priest which can not be touched with the feeling of our infirmities…
— Hebrews 4:15 KJV
The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
— Psalm 34:18 NIV
I always joke that I’d never make a good politician because I tell everything about myself—there’d be no dirt left to dig up… unless you checked under the carpet. I’ve always believed wearing my heart on my sleeve comes from having a testimony I can’t keep quiet. God has been too good to me. So yes, I live like an open book… or so I thought.
My ministry has often been wrapped in neat and tidy encouragement:
• Be joyful in troubled times.
• Trust God no matter what.
• He will restore everything.
Beautiful words. True words. But they were missing one major detail: my honesty about the moments that weren’t neat. Maybe it was pride. Maybe fear. Maybe I didn’t want to hear myself say the things I still hadn’t fully dealt with.
But then came three people—a trio God hand‑picked to “out” me.
One was fighting to hold onto faith when medicine said “no way.”
One wondered how God could ever love her after the mistakes she’d made.
One had lost her home under the weight of medical and legal battles.
And each of them assumed their fear, hurt, or shame made them “less faithful.”
That’s when God nudged me—actually, shoved me—to pull out what I kept hidden under my own rug. The thing I didn’t think qualified as a testimony. The thing I didn’t want to admit even to myself. And when I finally said it, each of them responded the same way:
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You hid that well.”
“I needed that… I’m normal.”
My secret?
“Me too.”
For nearly 14 years, my son battled severe illness — sudden deafness, countless surgeries, relentless pain, and thrice‑weekly dialysis. Many of you know those parts. What I never shared was the day I got mad at God.
After years of waiting, a perfect donor match was found. We went into preparation mode: cleaning the house for infection control, saving every dime, canceling vacations, even turning down a huge career opportunity. We tip‑toed around loved ones because we wanted to surprise everyone after the transplant.
Then, one morning during devotion, God whispered something odd:
“Forget the Back‑Up Plan.”
I didn’t know what it meant. I assumed it was about finances or job security. Anything except what came next.
Just days before hospital check‑in, a nurse called—cold, flat‑voiced, emotionless.
“No go.”
No explanation.
No compassion.
Just… no.
The ground shifted under me. How was I supposed to tell my son, who was finally hopeful again? I was furious. Was God playing with me like a cat with a string?
I slipped away from everyone. My spirit knew God had a plan, but my heart and my head were wrestling in opposite corners.
Angry, I reminded God of everything we had endured—the nights I stood by the door listening for his breathing, the extreme pain, the surgeries, the exhaustion, the faithfulness. And if my faith wasn’t enough, surely someone out of all the people who prayed for us had at least one mustard seed to spare!
All I heard back was:
“Forget the Back‑Up Plan.”
Later, we learned the donor had developed a condition that would’ve caused the kidney to fail quickly. If my son had received it, we would have ended up in a bigger storm.
God wasn’t teasing us—He was protecting us.
Just like Jeremiah 29 reminds us, His plans include a future, a hope, and a good end… even when the journey makes absolutely no sense.
And then, in God’s timing—not mine—my son received the kidney he needed.
That was seven years ago, and today, he is living proof that long journeys still have victorious endings.
I will be honest: I still jump a little when the phone rings at night. Healing from trauma doesn’t come on schedule. Writing this took years because every now and then, the tears still fall.
But I share this so you know:
Whatever you’re going through — you are normal.
Faith does not erase fear.
Belief does not cancel tears.
Even rejoicing takes reminders (Phil. 4:4 says it *twice*, so clearly God knows us well).
God is not distant. He feels your pain. He welcomes your honesty.
He will not strike you down for asking questions.
Just remember:
It is faith that moves mountains, not the absence of emotion.
Cry if you must.
Hurt if you must.
Question if you must.
But whatever you do…
Keep pushing. God isn’t finished.
With love, Chelle
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Reset
Today, I reset but will not rewind.
I will no longer take cuts with knives I sacrificed for and be hit with stones that I have the deed to. I must say so long to my “Job’s” friends (from the Bible, not work) who need to eclipse me in order to find shine. I will no longer fill voids and patch wounds while being left on battlefields alone. I can no longer be held hostage for my portion or my inheritance
I have never claimed to be perfect or to have all the answers. Life never gave me an easy button or a GPS. I never had the finer things but would give you the shirt off my back. Never had gold in my pocket but every penny you had access to. I did my best with the hand I was dealt. That’s all God requires of m, and in my matured year, I am learning that is a very good thing.
Lord, forgive me for hearing their voices over Yours. I return to the peace you purchased and the love you freely give. I am bruised but not broken. Cast down but not destroyed. Though I sometimes stumble, I will dance with the limp I got and to the song I write.
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As Long As Someone Remembers
It was one of the oddest days of my life. Was sitting at my desk frozen when I got the call from my hometown, sherrif. My brain went into autopilot, and I kept trying to work with tears streaming down my face. My then boss had to force me to breathe and go home. The love my co-workers showed was unmatched. Could not have made it through the coming days and the funeral without them.
He was a complicated man that I did not get to know until he was an old man in need of redemption and forgiveness. In the beginning, I was an abandoned child, looking for answers, who only served him out of obedience to my God, and the Word said to honor thy father. In the end, I became the child thru whom he wanted to give answers and ask forgiveness from his other children thru.
We didn’t have time to become father/daughter in the traditional sense. What we did have was card games, sweet potato pies, road trips, old Navy stories, testaments of the grandparents I didn’t get to meet, and a soft spot for healing to begin. He became my Pop, and I became his church mother. LOL and inside joke between us.
I figure sometimes that I was the “Moses” baby. … shipped off with no knowledge of him…so I could return and become a path to his need for freedom. Though I 💯 validate it, I am blessed to never quite have known the anger my sisters and brothers felt for him. I suppose my heart was kept in reserve for the old man and young child of God he would become.
Still missing you, Pop. I thank you for the gift of the crazy brood of sisters and brothers I inherited 9 years ago.
I hope amongst the milk and honey that there is strong coffee and sweet potato pie!!
Edgar Jerome “Jerry” Franklin-Bradshaw
March 1, 1944 – February 5, 2015
Never Really Gone As Long As Someone Remembers.
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Disconnect
The last few months have been crazy busy with normal things and unusual situations. All resulting in a great rushing around town and telephones ringing incessantly while I wear my many hats as wife, mother, grandma, daughter, sister, employee, minister, caregiver, and advocate for the homeless.
In the midst of stress and exhaustion, there is one time I must pause every morning, typically at 4 a.m. During those wee hours, I don a compression garment that looks very much like a cross between the Micheline Tire Man and Robo Cop. I then connect it to a machine that forces a tight lymphatic massage from my feet up to my arms. Rotating in four zones.
Those one to two hours daily are not much fun. Confining and often sweaty. But nevertheless, a necessary evil to ward off any increasing lymphodema caused by the removal of 100s of lymph nodes during my cancer fight.
To make it less taxing, I typically light a scented candle, make a cup of herbal tea, pull up a sermon on YouTube and attempt to ignore phone calls from those who try to catch me while I am being held captive.
This particular morning was different. I had settled into my routine. Tired from a week of very little sleep, but content to have two hours of escape.
15 minutes in, I noticed that only one of the 4 compression zones was working. I kept changing positions, thinking I was laying on one of the 4 hoses. I shook my legs, hoping maybe kicking would jump start the machine. I am so glad no one could witness what a comical sight it must have been to see a robot dancing on a couch.
I looked at the machine’s monitor twice, and everything was cycling as it should, but I just wasn’t getting my prescribed treatment. I started to panic, wondering how I was going to replace a $5000 medical device. I then remembered I had a 10 year warranty on the thing, but nevertheless, I starting to fret over the process and expense it would take to pack about 10 lbs of equipment and mail back to the non-local service center.
However, as I reached over to the machine that I was expressing anger toward, I felt a puff of air and realized that in my haste and distraction, I had only plugged in one of the four hoses. My machine wasn’t broken, I just hadn’t connected to it.
Immediately, in my spirit, I heard “yeah, kinda like us.”
A painful wave came over me, realizing that my failure to connect had spread to my relationship with my all-encompassing healing Savior.
In my rush and haste to perform “the have to” things in life, my personal time with Him was suffering greatly. He promised to be with me always, but I hadn’t always been with Him. Prayer and praise had been replaced with to-do lists.
Far worse, I had been complaining and pondering over promises and prophetic words that didn’t seem like they were working in my favor. Tired, spent, and joy decreasing. Blaming everything on the “machine” life can be, instead of connecting to the “Power”
As I replugged in the natural, I could also feel the Holy Spirit nudging me get my 4 zones in order : alone time with Him in true worship, more time in the Word learning about Him, re-establishing Him as priority, and trusting in His promise warranties.
I stopped a moment to apologize to Flexitouch Plus for failing to connect to it and narcissisticly making “it” the problem. Once I reconnected, it fulfilled all I needed to get back on track, and I always look forward to the release of pressure at the end of every session.
And yes, of course, I apologized to Jesus, and that release after reconnecting and being forgiven is amazing .
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I said I wasnt..but
I believe almost every member of my family has the giving bug that was gleefully transmitted by my grandma, Alice Gillison. Though only Goochland Christmas for one year in the early 80s, she continued to do the organizing and giving right up until 19 days before she died. She was better than Oprah with “every child gets a gift” campaign.
No matter how poor we were (and we were close to dirt), she believed that giving was living.
I first picked it up on a small scale in memory of her . Then again, because I wanted to adopt a little boy for Christmas after my beloved grandson, Emmanuel slipped away to heaven. My husband and I blessed a little boy with “Manny’s” share last week.
The collections get larger every year. For the past 5 years, I have said each year that I wasn’t going to do anymore. Each year, I Iie to myself.This year, I tackled doing this for two organizations. I have decided that I am nuts, but I love it. Lol.
Thanks for the “Gift” Grandma.
defygravitywithoutwings.com 