So here’s something I learned this week: winter storms have names. I was today-years-old when I found out they name winter storms the same way they name summer hurricanes. And wouldn’t you know it—the one that iced me into my house and blocked me from my greenhouse was named Fern. Fern. A plant name. A green thing. A symbol of life. Make it make sense. Winter Storm Fern didn’t just bring cold—she brought audacity. It was so cold one day that my front door wouldn’t even open. Not stuck—sealed. As if the house itself said, “Nope. You live here now.” When the door finally did open the next day, I stepped outside and immediately thought, “Oh. I was happier not knowing.” That kind of cold doesn’t invite you out. It humbles you back inside. Now here we are again. More snow coming Saturday—and again on Wednesday. But this time, they’re calling for powder, not ice. And apparently, there’s a difference. Ice traps you. Powder covers you. Ice shuts doors. Powder rests gently on what’s still alive underneath. Some seasons don’t stop growth—they insulate it. Under the white blanket, the soil is still breathing. Roots haven’t resigned. Seeds aren’t panicking. They know winter may come labeled and official, but it never gets the final word. “Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines… yet I will rejoice in the Lord.” — Habakkuk 3:17–18 Faith isn’t pretending winter isn’t winter. It’s recognizing the difference between what freezes you and what simply passes through. Winter Storm Fern may have sealed my door for a day. She may have iced the path to the greenhouse. But she didn’t cancel the harvest. Dead and dormant are not the same. Covered and defeated are not synonyms. Spring is not offended by powder. And I’ve learned not to argue with doors God temporarily keeps shut.
For weeks—WEEKS—I have been doing the holy, unglamorous work of editing and reorganizing a soon-to-be book. Moving chapters. Fixing commas that think they run things. Re-threading stories. Listening for where God was nudging—and where I was just rambling.
This was faithful work. Quiet work. The kind nobody claps for.
And then… The tool I use to assist and “catch mistakes” decided to eat my manuscript.
Not nibble. Not misplace a paragraph. Eat it.
I have survived cancer, grief, caregiving, deadlines, and ice storms—but watching weeks of careful labor vanish off a screen? That will make your chest tighten and your salvation flicker for a hot second.
I sat there spiraling: Did I just lose half a book? Am I behind now? Did I just waste weeks of my life arguing with chapter headings?
Cue the dramatic sigh. Cue me talking to my laptop like it had personally betrayed the family.
And then—grace, wearing sneakers—slid in sideways and whispered:
Your work is not gone. You are not behind. We did not lose half a book.
Because real work doesn’t live only in files. It lives in muscle memory, lived experience, and a heart that’s been steeped in the message.
And Scripture backs this up.
“So I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten…” — Joel 2:25
God restores years, not just results. Restoration doesn’t always look like retrieval. What God restores often comes back stronger.
So breathe. Roll your shoulders. Open a new document.
The words still know how to find you. And the story is very much alive.
Sometimes I miss the house in the middle of the corn fields with no indoor plumbing. The pot-belly stove that decided when we were warm enough. The way night fell heavy and close, and everyone settled where they could—sharing rooms, beds, blankets, breath.
I say my room, but that’s a loose word. Privacy was a luxury we didn’t own. Still, there was one place that felt like mine: the narrow view through the keyhole.
Almost every night, after the fires were dampened and the house full of children finally stilled, I would watch my grandmother at her writing table. Her hands folded. Her Bible open. A pen moving slowly, deliberately.
Women of the Bible were her favorite. Deborah. Ruth. Esther. Mary. Women who listened closely and lived bravely.
She wrote sermons—real ones. Thoughtful. Scripturally sound. Insightful in ways people did not expect from a woman in those days. Especially a woman who cleaned other people’s houses for a living.
But it was her prayer ritual that marked me.
She prayed in whispers—not because God was quiet, but because love was. She didn’t want to wake a house full of children. Except, apparently, the little girl at the keyhole.
I couldn’t hear the words. But I could see her face.
Sometimes she smiled. Sometimes she laughed—like she and God shared a private joke. Sometimes she cried. The kind of crying that doesn’t fall apart, just falls down.
And as I watched—hidden, still, unnoticed—I was learning. Learning how faith looks when no one is applauding. Learning that prayer does not need volume to have weight. Learning that God listens closely to whispers.
When she finished praying, she always reached for the same thing.
A small plastic bread loaf. One of those coin banks from organizations that fed “poor kids in Africa.”
She would slip a coin inside. Sometimes a dollar. Hard-earned. Scrubbed-for. Long-hours-standing money.
Money from a woman the world might have called poor— but who never believed she was exempt from generosity.
I didn’t understand it then. But I do now.
That table was a pulpit. That whispering was power. That plastic loaf was faith that refused to shrink. And that keyhole? It was my first seminary.
And that little girl at the keyhole? She’s still watching. Still learning how to pray without performing. Still believing a few faithful offerings can touch a wide world.
“She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.” — Proverbs 31:26 “Your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.” — Matthew 6:6
Some of the strongest sermons are whispered after bedtime, preached without microphones, and learned by children watching through keyholes.
On days like these, my mother would stand on the porch and ask for a Bermuda High to come down and turn the snow and ice away.
In the thick, sticky heat of summer, she’d pray for a Canadian Low to sweep through and cool the air.
She didn’t call it meteorology. She called it faith. And more often than not, the weather shifted.
When I got older, some of my friends picked up the same habit. We didn’t have robes or titles—just house shoes, coffee cups, and enough sense to know the porch was close enough to heaven for our prayers to travel. We called ourselves the Porch-Praying Sisters.
We prayed about the weather, yes—but also about children, marriages, money, bodies that wouldn’t cooperate, and news reports that made our stomachs knot. We spoke our requests into the open air like God might just be passing by and decide to stop and listen.
Today, we’re in the middle of a Virginia ice storm. Freezing temperatures. Sleet tapping the windows. The quiet, low-grade anxiety of Will we lose power? humming beneath everything else.
And maybe that’s what storms still do best. They set the altar.
They slow us down, pull us inward, strip away noise and options until all that’s left is warmth, breath, and the remembering that we are not in control—but we are not alone either.
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you… when you walk through the fire, you will not be burned.” (Isaiah 43:2)
Over the years, we drifted. Life scattered us. Jobs, moves, losses, disagreements, silence. That happens. But in this current environment— with ice on the ground, tension in the air, and uncertainty pressing in— I find myself praying again. Not polished prayers. Porch prayers.
The kind that believe faith doesn’t have to be loud to be effective. The kind that remember Jesus said even “faith as small as a mustard seed” can speak to what feels immovable and tell it to move. (Matthew 17:20)
Maybe the weather won’t always change. Maybe the power will flicker. Maybe the storm will linger longer than we’d like. But when a storm sets the altar, something always moves. And sometimes… that something is us.
Pink polka‑dotted elephants. That’s what I call the thoughts that show up uninvited — loud, ridiculous, and determined to distract you from what is right, true, and good. Scripture tells us to think on things that are lovely. Pure. Worthy. Aligned with God’s Word. It reminds us that God has a plan for our good and our welfare — not our harm. But tonight, after my usual bedtime routine of potions, pills, injections, and all the other expensive stuff designed to keep me breathing… along came that stupid elephant in the room. No — I wasn’t high off anything. 😂 That elephant showed up because someone had casually asked earlier, “Are you afraid of dying young?” I didn’t answer them. Apparently, however, some inquiring devils wanted a response. I tried. I really did. I quoted scripture after scripture in my head: “Jesus bore my sickness and carried my diseases. By His stripes I am healed. I shall live and not die and declare the works of the Lord.” But the little imp was determined. Sleep was cancelled. So I finally answered — not the human who asked, but the thought itself. No. I am not afraid of dying young. What I am afraid of… are people who will watch me grow old, yet insist I live like I’m dying. They mean well. I know that. But do they really need to remind me how bad I look every time they see me? Yes, I know what the doctors said. But I also know what Jesus died for. My symptoms are just that — symptoms. Not verdicts. Not identity. Not destiny. They are lying vanities compared to what I already know to be true. Whether healing manifests in a way that satisfies you is not my responsibility — or God’s. Could you please just rejoice in the hope and testimony I am aiming for? And no — I am not putting down my microphone. I’m pretty sure my head won’t explode while hitting a high note. And yes, I laugh because it’s funny you don’t know me well enough to realize I have zero intention of laying myself away and quietly accepting anything. So listen up, pink polka‑dotted elephants in the room — beware. The Overcomer has arrived. You may not always be able to ignore the silly thoughts the enemy sends. But remember this: he already knows he has lost. (Big dummy.) All he can do now is try to trick you into focusing on lies and nonsense. The only way he wins is if you let your imagination run in his direction. So address those contradicting thoughts with what you know to be true about God’s Word. Think thoughts of healing. Prosperity. Love. Dreams. And the good things God desires for you — a life more abundant. And as for the elephants? Enough already. Back to hell’s zoo they go. For good this time.
Seven years later, I can read these words with tears and gratitude. I am a breast cancer survivor. The elephants didn’t win. Fear didn’t get the final word. And God proved — again — that truth, when held onto long enough, becomes testimony. Completion with scars turned sacred.
Love, Chelle
Catalog Note: This post is archived for future inclusion in the book project Whistle While He Works. Originally written years earlier and revisited at the seven‑year survivor mark.
Every time the forecast whispers snow, Virginia loses its mind.
Milk disappears first. Bread follows. Eggs become currency. And suddenly people who haven’t cooked since 2014 are preparing for Snowmageddon: The Reckoning.
This morning, listening to the low-grade panic hum through social media, I thought of my grandma.
No emergency rations. No twelve-step preparedness plan. No frantic news watching.
Just quiet confidence.
Flour meant I can make something. Butter and sugar meant comfort is still allowed. Coffee meant sit down, we’re talking. Milk meant somebody might need care. Eggs meant breakfast feeds more than hunger. Salt meant wisdom — because everything needs seasoning. Tea bags meant there’s time to slow down. And bacon? Bacon meant joy is practical.
Grandma didn’t fear snow. She respected it. And if it wasn’t the first snow, she’d be outside making snow cream like it was just another blessing falling from the sky.
She lived what Scripture later put into words: “She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.” (Proverbs 31:25)
She knew storms came — and went. She knew how to stretch what she had. She knew a warm kitchen calmed cold nerves better than any headline ever could.
What strikes me most now is this: Her list wasn’t about survival. It was about presence.
Enough on hand to feed whoever showed up. Enough calm to keep the house steady. Enough wisdom not to confuse inconvenience with catastrophe.
We live in a time where every storm is framed like the end of the world. But some of us were raised by women who understood that preparation doesn’t require panic — and peace doesn’t require abundance.
So if snow comes this week, let it snow. Well… I’m no snow lover — even if I was born in January — but I trust the kind of wisdom that keeps coffee brewing, tea steeping, and bacon sizzling.
I’ll be thinking about grandma. Her list. Her calm. And the quiet strength of knowing that love, when prepared, is never caught off guard.
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.
I’ll admit it — I went into a little shock when I learned blueberries and strawberries operate on a two-to-three-year growth plan. Years. Plural.
I stood there staring at seeds like they had personally betrayed me.
Up until that moment, I genuinely thought I was being resourceful. Frugal. Garden-savvy. A woman with a plan.
Turns out, I had signed up for a long-term relationship without reading the commitment clause.
That’s when I decided I’m not planting berries until I move into my forever home. Because berries don’t do well with temporary addresses. They want stability. Consistency. A place where nobody’s packing boxes just as the harvest shows up.
And honestly? I get it now.
I finally understand why blueberries and strawberries cost what they do at the store. It’s not inflation — it’s time. It’s patience. It’s years of watering something that gives you nothing back except leaves and hope.
I really thought it was a good idea. And it was — just not for this season.
Jesus talked a lot about seeds, soil, and timing. He never rushed growth — He explained it.
“First the blade, then the ear, then the full grain in the ear.” (Mark 4:28)
Nothing about that process is instant. Nothing about it is wasted.
Even Jesus waited. Thirty years before public ministry. Hidden seasons. Quiet obedience. Roots forming where no one was applauding.
So I’ll wait too. Not because I lack faith — but because I’ve learned that timing matters.
Some things are worth planting when you know you can stay long enough to enjoy the fruit.
Until then, I’ll pay store prices with a little more humility… and a lot more respect for the journey those berries have been on.
Because growth was never the problem. Timing was the lesson.
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?
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