Tag: God

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The Muddy Jesus

Posted in cancer, faith, God, health, inspiration, love, relationships, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment


“The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us.” — John 1:14 (NIV)

There are few places where patience is tested more than a medical waiting room.
The chairs are uncomfortable. The clock is loud. And the results take exactly as long as they need to — never as long as I want.

Waiting is not my spiritual gift.
I am a doer. A fixer. A let’s-handle-this-now kind of woman.
So when all I can do is sit and wait for medical results, my faith feels exposed.

That’s where I picture Jesus.

Not standing with answers.
Not hovering with a clipboard.
But sitting beside me — mud on His hands, calm in His posture, completely unbothered by the clock.

I remember the story where He knelt in the dirt, mixed mud with His own saliva, and used it to heal a blind man.
Healing didn’t come through cleanliness or speed —
it came through touch, obedience, and trust in the process.

John tells us the Word became flesh.
Jesus didn’t float above uncertainty — He stepped into it.
He understood human time. Delays. Pauses. Moments when answers didn’t come right away.

The mud on His hands reminds me He’s been working long before I ever sat down in this chair.
Even when I can’t see it.
Especially when I can’t rush it.

And yes… I’d still prefer a fast answer.
But there is something holy happening in the waiting — even if I grumble a little while it happens.

Reflecting Mud

If patience were a muscle, mine would need physical therapy.

But maybe reflecting Jesus isn’t about mastering patience.
Maybe it’s about staying present long enough for healing to unfold.

We reflect the muddy Jesus when we:
• sit with someone waiting for test results instead of filling the silence
• admit we’re anxious without pretending we’re fine
• trust that God can use imperfect moments for holy work

Sometimes faith isn’t tidy.
Sometimes it looks like dirt and delay and trust.

The same hands that once held mud for healing
are still at work today.


Jesus,
You healed with mud and patience and presence.
Sit with me while I wait for answers I can not control.
Help me trust the work of Your hands —
even when they are muddy
and mine are empty.
Teach me to stay.
Amen.

Love Chelle

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Dear God – When Caregiving Hurts and Heals

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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

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Trying New Things (Even When They Wiggle”

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Funny how fears can rule you!
All my life I have refused to eat any food that moves, jiggles, or looks like it might still be breathing. Jell-O? Absolutely not. Pudding? Hard pass. Runny eggs? Never. I don’t know why, but something about the texture has always made my stomach flip like an Olympic gymnast with no spotter.


This morning, I found myself in a situation at work  where I either had to eat… or be rude and not eat at all. And tempted as I was to decline, I figured I’d at least try the little thing they called a *Croque*—thick toast, fancy cheeses, tomato jam, and right on top… a sunny side–up egg. You already know what part scared me.


To make matters worse, I had just talked in Bible study the night before  about embracing all that life has to offer and not letting fear write the rules. After fighting cancer , everything else *should* seem easy, right? Right…
Well I’ll be dern. 
It was delicious. Movement and all. I wanted another. 


What I learned from this  was as fattening as the menu;
*Psalm 34:4
“I sought the Lord, and He answered me; He delivered me from all my fears.” 
→ Fear looks small until you’re the one staring down a wiggly egg.
Isaiah 41:10
“Fear not, for I am with you…” 
→ Even at the breakfast table.
2 Timothy 1:7
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear…” 
→ Fear is borrowed—not owned. It’s time to return it
John 10:10
“…I have come that they may have life and have it more abundantly.” 
→ Abundant life sometimes starts with a bite.


Sometimes, it isn’t the “big things” that grow us—sometimes it’s the tiny choices that stretch us beyond our comfort zones. Fear sneaks into the smallest corners: decisions, relationships, opportunities, and yes… even breakfast.
But growth isn’t always loud. 
Sometimes it’s as simple as saying, 
“Lord, help me try something new today.”
And when we do, God gently proves—again and again—that He meets us in the smallest acts of courage.

Sometimes, the thing we feared ends up blessing us. Sometimes, it just ends up being a funny story. Either way, we survive… and grow.
Here’s to trying new things. 
Here’s to facing old fears. 
And here’s to trusting God with both the big leaps and the wiggly eggs.
P.s.  I need more deliverance and prayer time for Jello. LOL
With Love,  Chelle

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Red Light, Green Light

Posted in faith, God, health, inspiration, love, relationships, selfhelp, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

Lately, I’ve been stretched thin — the kind of thin where coffee starts looking like an emotional support beverage, and my bed feels like a distant memory. With relatives going in and out of hospitals, caretaking shifts, family worry, and decision fatigue (add a side of job and regular life), I’ve been functioning on autopilot. And not the smooth, first-class autopilot. More like the “Lord, please fly this plane because I’m tired” version.
Then, yesterday, on the way to yet another appointment, I found myself sitting at a stoplight. I thought it was red, so I just sat there… waiting, replaying the last few weeks in my head. My shoulders were tight, my eyelids heavy, and my spirit stretched. Then suddenly — BEEP! An irritated horn behind me snapped me back to reality.

And that’s when I realized:
I wasn’t sitting at a red light at all.
It wasn’t even green.
It was yellow — a caution light telling me, “Proceed when safe.”

🌟 Misreading the Signals
That moment hit me deeper than I expected. Because stress will have you out here misreading life’s signals.
When you’re tired enough, everything looks like a stop.
A closed door feels like punishment.
A pause feels like abandonment.
A delay feels like failure.
A quiet season feels like rejection.
A yellow light looks red.
But exhaustion is a lens that lies to us.
Sometimes, God isn’t saying “STOP.”
He’s saying, “Chelle, slow down, breathe, look around… and move forward with Me.”

God Uses Yellow Seasons Too
We love the green-light seasons — when everything flows, doors open, blessings drop, and strength is high.
And we understand the red-light seasons — when God lovingly tells us to wait, rest, or retract.
But that yellow light?
That in-between, not-quite-here, not-quite-there space?
We treat it like an inconvenience.
God treats it as instruction.
A yellow season says:
“Be cautious, but don’t freeze.”
“Use wisdom, but don’t quit.”
“Move forward, but stay alert.”
“Pay attention, but don’t be afraid.”
A yellow light is still movement — just intentional movement.

The dig into  this moment wrapped itself around one of my Uncle/Pastor Ron’s favorite scriptures:
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;
in all your ways acknowledge Him,
and He shall direct your paths.”
— Proverbs 3:5–6

My scripturally adjacent version:
When we’re exhausted, our understanding gets cloudy.
When we’re overwhelmed, our perspective gets foggy.
But when we trust God, He clears the road even when our vision is blurry.

Honk Honk,  if you feel like you’ve been waiting at a red light for too long…
Ask yourself gently:
“Is this really a red light…
or am I just too weary to see that God is saying, ‘Proceed — just proceed wisely’?”
Look again.
Take a breath.
Lift your head.
Reset your spirit.
Ask for fresh strength.
Sometimes, the miracle is not the light changing…
it’s your clarity returning.

So before I pick up my keys again and cause some other signal light saints to lose their religion, pray with me:

Lord
I am tired. My mind is overloaded, and sometimes I misread what You’re trying to show me.
Help me see clearly today.
Help me not confuse exhaustion with direction or fear with caution.
Give me discernment to know when to rest, when to wait, and when to move forward.
Thank You for being patient with me when I stall at yellow lights.
Guide my steps. Strengthen my spirit.
And help me proceed wisely, safely, and confidently with You.
Amen.

With Love Chelle

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Bloom Baby Bloom A Christmas Cactus Sermon I Didn’t Ask For

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


So listen… this morning I’m minding my business, sipping my coffee, scrolling Facebook, and everyone and their Grandma is posting pictures of these big, full, show-off Christmas cactuses blooming like they’re auditioning for The Voice.


And then there’s mine.
Sitting in my living room.
Looking like it’s thinking about blooming, but hasn’t quite made a decision.
One tiny blush of color like, “Don’t rush me, sis. I’m processing.”


I’m looking at this plant like, “Ma’am… it is almost Christmas. I need you to get it together. Shine for the people.”


So I start Googling tips. Because I refuse to be the only one with a cactus that looks like it has low iron. And baby… what I found? A whole WORD. A sermon. A Bible study. A TED Talk.


Apparently, if you want a Christmas cactus to bloom, you have to do something called “darkening to bloom.”


Yes. You literally put that plant in the dark 12–16 hours a day like it’s grounded.
Then! You’re supposed to pluck off the long, lazy leaves (but don’t you dare use scissors).
Keep it a little colder.
Restrict its comfort.
Limit its light.
Disrupt its cozy routine.
And after all that?
…It blooms.
It blooms brighter because of the dark.
Not the light.
Not the pampering.
Not the perfect conditions.
THE DARK.


And I said, “Well God… if You wanted to speak to me directly, you didn’t have to drag my plant into this.”
Because sometimes life puts us into a “darkening to bloom” season.
Not because we’re failing.
Not because we did anything wrong.
Not because God forgot us.
But because the bloom requires it.


Sometimes He limits our distractions.
Sometimes He cuts off excess.
Sometimes He cools the room so we stop running and finally rest.
Sometimes He hides us away long enough to develop something deep, strong, and beautiful.


And just like that cactus, you won’t even notice the change happening…until a day, somebody walks past you and says: “Oh wow… look at you shining.”
And you’ll realize the dark didn’t break you —
It prepared you.
It strengthened you.
It sharpened you.
It positioned you.
It pushed your bloom right to the edge of the breakthrough.
So if you’re in a season that feels cold, quiet, hidden, or clipped…
Baby, don’t panic.
You’re not dying.
You’re developing.
And when the time comes?
Listen…
You’re gonna bloom so hard folks will swear you’re a Christmas cactus on the front page of Facebook.
Amen and amen.

With Love Chelle

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Reset

Posted in cancer, chemotherapy, christmas, God, health, inspiration, love, relationshipsTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

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

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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

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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

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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.

In This, My 54th Year.

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Once again I want to thank you, my heartbeats, for all the love shown this week. My 54th year started off a wee bit strange with major changes professionally and personally. Made my knees shake but my faith ain’t fake. No worries babies. God is in the details.

I have come to realize that I am a full year older than my mother was when she died and God has brought me back from more near misses than I can recount here. I owe it to her, to God and to myself to make this year count!!

Pulling back a wee bit so I can move forward. Choosing the fast God chose for me and using this time to straightened my crown.

ALL MY LOVE, MICHELLE


#MystoryGod’sGlory