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
As I write this, Tibetan monks are walking the East Coast on a pilgrimage for peace. Step by step. Mile by mile. No microphones. No arguments. Just feet on pavement and the quiet conviction that peace is still worth walking toward. When I shared a simple prayer online — yes, let peace come — another believer replied, “What’s the point? The Bible says the bad things must happen.” It stopped me for a moment. Yes, Scripture tells us the world will groan. It speaks honestly about deception, division, and heartbreak. The Bible doesn’t deny the mess we’re living in. But it also never tells us to stop praying. It never tells us to stop loving. And it never tells us to stop showing up. Through the prophet Isaiah, God gives us a picture that still steadies me: “How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace.” (Isaiah 52:7) Isaiah praises feet — not arguments, not timelines, not predictions. Peace, in Scripture, is not passive. It walks. Somewhere along the way, religion replaced relationship and politics fractured fellowship. Both young and old are left confused — unsure what to believe or whether prayer still matters. Here’s what I still believe: Hope is not denial. Hope is obedience. Jesus never told us to love only when it fixes everything. He told us to love because that is who we are — even while we wait, even while the world aches. So when someone asks, “What’s the point?” This is my quiet answer: Love still matters. Prayer still matters. Peace is never pointless. Waiting for Jesus does not mean standing still. It means walking faithfully — even now. And if monks can walk for peace knowing the world is broken, surely we can still pray for it. Yes, Lord. Let peace come.
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.
Like some kind of finely tuned timepiece, my internal alarm goes off — clockwork faithful. No snooze button negotiations. No grace period. Just “bing.”
And there it is… 3:00 a.m. glowing on my digital clock (yes, I still have one — don’t judge).
I pull the comforter up like it might save me. It does not.
My body says, up up up, while my soul whispers, “Really, Lord? Again?”
There was a time I filled those early hours with “responsible things” — finishing chores I ignored the night before, paying bills that had been staring at me all day, or letting the TV talk so I didn’t have to think.
Busy things. Distracting things. Things that looked productive but didn’t change me one bit.
But lately… I’m up writing.
Blog entries. Poems. Devotionals.
Words spilling out at a pace that tells me I’m not in charge of this schedule anymore.
And somewhere between the glow of that clock and the scratch of my pen, truth had my full attention.
I’ve moved from me cleaning house to God housekeeping me.
Because once I’m fully awake, I go full steam — fixing, managing, pushing, performing. But at 3 a.m.? I’m not impressive. I’m not polished. I’m barely caffeinated.
And that’s exactly when God starts pointing things out.
Things my soul was too tired to hear during the day, my pen now faithfully records in the quiet.
Cleaning me. Pruning me. Digging around places I thought were “fine.” Re-creating what I rushed past in daylight.
This isn’t insomnia. This is divine interruption.
Early-morning housekeeping — the kind where God gently rearranges what I’ve been tripping over inside while I’m still wrapped in blankets and honesty.
And I’m reminded, softly, without accusation or demand: “In quietness and trust is your strength.” (Isaiah 30:15)
Turns out, God doesn’t always wake us up to get more done.
Sometimes He wakes us up because He’s not finished with us yet.
When I went to make my coffee this morning, I noticed my Brazilian wood plant — the one I call Groot because of the ornament on him — is still growing from just one side.
He’s developing a beautiful arm branch, but only one. By all accounts, there should be two by now.
Most folks would give up on a plant like that. But I can’t.
All my life, I’ve collected broken things — toys, dolls, records… sometimes even people. Things that seemed useless or pointless to others always found a home with me. I’d turn them into art, merge them with something else, or simply let them be what they were until their value showed itself.
This little Groot reminds me that everything has value exactly as it is, even when it doesn’t quite match the catalog pictures of society.
That one arm? It’s raised like it’s in praise. And the smile in the bark makes me happy.
I believe God sees our imperfections with grace and purpose — I know He’s done that for me.
My seasons of brokenness and feeling like a misfit produced music, plays, and even this writing.
Periods of pain with purpose… feeling like a fish out of water… all converted into unique brands of joy.
So if you’re feeling a little uneven today… a little out of the mold… a little unlike what you thought you were supposed to be… You’re not broken. You’re just growing differently.
Now go raise that arm!
“…everyone who is called by My name, whom I created for My glory.” — Isaiah 43:7
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 stood in my greenhouse clutching scissors like I was about to commit a felony. These weren’t plants. These were my plant babies. I grew them. I watered them. I whispered encouragement like a slightly unhinged garden aunt. And now I was being told they were “too crowded.”
Excuse me??? They looked happy. Thriving. Living their best leafy lives. But apparently, love without boundaries leads to chaos. Who knew.
The word thinning showed up— and my heart heard destruction. Because when you’re wired like me, making room feels an awful lot like abandonment.
I mean, how do you explain to a perfectly healthy kale plant that it’s not being rejected— it’s just being relocated, harvested early, or “released into purpose”?
I felt like I was ruining everything. Until I realized… nothing was being wasted. Some plants were transplanted. Some were harvested and nourished something immediately.
And the ones left behind? They finally had space to become what they were always meant to be. That’s when it hit me. Pruning doesn’t change who we are. It reveals it. God isn’t cutting us down—
He’s cutting away what keeps us from becoming strong, rooted, and fruitful. Not every removal is punishment. Not every loss is failure. Some things leave so we can finally grow into ourselves.
“Every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit.” — John 15:2
Pruning feels personal when you’re emotionally attached to the leaves. But it’s the very thing that shapes the harvest. Thinning is not killing. It’s the painful, purposeful process of becoming.
And if I’m honest… I still apologized to my kale, needed a moment of silence, and may require counseling before the next round of thinning.
Because apparently God and gardening are both committed to making us who we’re supposed to be— even when we’re dramatic about it.
“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 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 