Tag: healing

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Go Up!!!

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“Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things.” Colossians 3:2


I had had a day. One of those long, stressful days where, by the time work was over, I had a whole list of complaints ready for God. And apparently, He had a visual aid ready for me.


I was picking up my son from work when a storm brewed up hot and fast. The sky changed almost without warning. While I was focused on a huge lightning strike, something else caught my attention.


A small-engine plane suddenly ducked incredibly low over us.


Living near the airport, low-flying planes don’t usually bother me. I’m used to them. But this one was low, low. I mean real low.
Low enough that I could see people inside.


Then I watched the pilot make a slight rolling turn to avoid clipping the light pole right there at the traffic light.


For a moment, my heart was probably somewhere near my red glasses.


But then I watched what happened next.With incredible precision, the pilot aimed the plane upward toward the one patch of blue sky still visible. Up. The storm was raging around them, so they went up. They couldn’t stop the lightning. They couldn’t calm the wind. They couldn’t move the clouds. But they could change their position in relation to the storm.


And standing there watching them climb, suddenly all the things I had spent the day complaining about seemed different. I had been staring at my storm. God reminded me to look up.


Sometimes faith doesn’t mean God immediately removes what’s happening around us. Sometimes He gives us the wisdom, strength, and grace to rise above what is trying to consume us. The clouds may still be there. The wind may still be blowing.
The lightning may still be flashing.


But there can still be a patch of blue somewhere above it all. And maybe that’s why Scripture keeps calling our attention upward. “Set your minds on things above…”
Not because what happens down here doesn’t matter. Not because the storm isn’t real. But because if all I see is the storm, I can forget the One who sits above it.


And suddenly I had to laugh at myself.
I’d spent the day complaining about everybody who had gotten on my nerves, only to end the evening throwing my hands toward heaven.


“Lord, forgive me for my stresspasses, as I forgive those who stress-pass against me.” 

(Nope you won’t find that in the King James version. Just in  the book of Chelle’s Confessions .)


Because sometimes the people don’t change. The circumstances don’t change. The storm doesn’t even change. We change altitude.


Tonight, I watched a pilot find the patch of blue. And God reminded me to do the same.


Father, forgive me for the moments when I become so focused on what’s happening around me that I forget to look toward You. When frustration gets loud, help me go higher. When circumstances feel dangerously close, give me wisdom to navigate them. When I can’t change the storm, change my perspective. And when I find myself counting everybody else’s stresspasses, remind me of how much grace You have extended to me.

Help me find the patch of blue.

Amen.
Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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On The Altar To Be Altered

Posted in cancer, faith, food, God, health, inspiration, love, money, selfhelp, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

This morning, I called my older sister.

She couldn’t answer, but she texted me back and said she was at a prayer meeting at her church.

Perfect timing, I thought. Because I had some things on my heart. Some people I love. Some situations I can’t control. So I texted her back and asked her to “throw us on the alter.”

She didn’t notice anything unusual about my message. But I did.

I had meant to type “altar”.

I started to correct myself, but I stopped and looked at the word again.

ALTER.

Then the word I intended:

ALTAR.

One little letter separates them. And suddenly, I wasn’t so sure my typo was completely wrong.

Because isn’t that what we do when life becomes bigger than our own ability to handle it? We take it to the ALTAR because we need God to ALTER something.

We bring our children to the altar because there are decisions we can’t make for them.

We bring our marriages because there are places love alone hasn’t been able to fix.

We bring our finances because sometimes the numbers simply don’t make sense.

We bring our jobs, our dreams, our grief, our fears, our disappointments, our bodies, our families and those situations that have kept us awake far too many nights.

We bring all of it. And we say, “God, I need You to alter this.”

But here’s where surrender gets a little uncomfortable. We usually arrive at the altar with a pretty good idea of “what” we’d like God to alter.

Alter them, Lord.

Alter that situation.

Alter these circumstances.

Alter this bank account while You’re at it.

And sometimes He does.

Sometimes God alters the circumstances. Sometimes He alters the timing. Sometimes He alters the direction.

Sometimes He alters a relationship, opens a door, closes another one, moves somebody, restores something, removes something or makes a way we couldn’t see coming.

But sometimes… most times…God alters us.

He alters our perspective. Our priorities. Our expectations. Our attitudes. Our willingness to wait. Our need to control the outcome.

And perhaps that’s why the altar matters so much. The altar isn’t simply the place where I lay something down and tell God what to do with it.

It’s the place where I surrender it enough to let Him decide what needs altering.

Romans 12:1 tells us to present ourselves to God as a living sacrifice.

Not just our problems. Ourselves.

So this morning, I’m taking my accidental little prayer seriously. I’m putting my “me and mine and all of thine: on the alter.

Yes, I know how to spell it. 😂

I’m putting us on the ALTAR and trusting God to ALTER whatever He knows needs to change.

My family. My circumstances. My plans. My heart.

Me.

Because maybe there really is only one letter between the place where we surrender and the change we’ve been praying for.

If you want God to ALTER it, be willing to put it on the ALTAR.

——-

Father, today I place myself and everyone connected to me on Your altar. I give You the things I understand and the things I don’t. The situations I can change and the ones completely beyond my reach. Alter what needs to be altered. Change circumstances where it is Your will, open doors that should open and close those that should close. But Lord, if the change needs to begin in me, give me the courage not to climb back off the altar. Change my heart, my thinking, my direction and my desires until they line up with Yours. I surrender the outcome to You. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Love, Chelle
Defy Gravity Without Wings ❤️

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Stop Living Like Jeremiah 29:11 Doesn’t Exist.

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This morning, my prayers took an unexpected detour.
I started out praying over all the things that don’t make sense. The unexplainables. The burdens that have settled over my family. The heaviness I see across our nation. The questions that don’t come with easy answers.
Somewhere between praying and borderline complaining, a thought slipped through my own conversation with God.


“Lord… I’m getting too old for this.”
Just as quickly came another thought.
“But I’m too young to give in.”


There I was, swinging back and forth between faith and frustration, hope and exhaustion, reminding God of everything that felt impossible.


Then, without warning, the Holy Spirit graciously interrupted my personal pity party with a sentence so simple I almost laughed.
“Stop living like Jeremiah 29:11 doesn’t exist.”
Ouch.


Because that’s exactly what worry does.
It acts as if God has forgotten His plans.
It behaves as though hope has expired.
It assumes the future has already been decided by today’s circumstances.
But Jeremiah 29:11 is still in the Bible.
The economy doesn’t erase it.
Bad news doesn’t cancel it.
Family struggles don’t rewrite it.
A doctor’s report doesn’t edit it.
Political chaos doesn’t overrule it.
God never said I would understand every chapter.
He simply said He already knows the ending.


Here’s the part that humbled me.
Jeremiah 29:11 wasn’t spoken to people whose lives were going according to plan.
It was spoken to people living in exile.
People who had lost what was familiar.
People who couldn’t see how God could possibly bring beauty from the ashes around them.
People who wondered if His promises had somehow expired.
Yet God didn’t begin by explaining their circumstances.
He began by reminding them of His sovereignty.
“For I know the plans I have for you…”
Notice the emphasis.
You don’t have to know the plan… because God does.
We spend so much time trying to figure out what God is doing that we forget Who is doing it.
Maybe that’s today’s reminder.
When our thoughts begin rehearsing every possible disaster, perhaps we need to lovingly interrupt ourselves.
“Stop living like Jeremiah 29:11 doesn’t exist.”
Not because life isn’t hard.
But because God’s promises haven’t changed.
Faith isn’t pretending the storm isn’t real. It’s refusing to live as though God misplaced the forecast.
Maybe faith isn’t always loud.
Maybe sometimes faith looks like getting up one more morning…
praying one more prayer…
believing one more promise…
and taking one more step down a country road toward a sunrise you haven’t reached yet.
Because Jeremiah 29:11 still exists.
And so does the God who spoke it.
Prayer
Father, forgive me for the moments when I let fear preach louder than Your promises. When my circumstances become more believable than Your Word, gently redirect my heart. Teach me to remember that You already know the plans You have for me—even when I can’t see them. Help me walk by faith instead of forecasting disaster. Today I choose to trust that Your hope is greater than my uncertainty and Your future is stronger than my fear.

Thank You for reminding me that I don’t have to know the plan because I know the One who does. When I drift from praying into borderline complaining, lovingly call me back to Your promises. Give me the courage to take one more step, pray one more prayer, and trust You one more day.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans for your welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” — Jeremiah 29:11 (ESV)

Love, Chelle

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The Cracked Coin

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“There are two sides to every coin, but if you split a quarter, you still won’t get twelve and a half cents. You just get a crack.”

Those words came out of my mouth during a conversation I never expected to have.

Someone I care about was hurting, and another person was trying to explain why things had happened the way they did. We were each looking at the same situation through very different lenses.

As we talked, I quietly said,

“Somewhere between your truth and their truth is the truth…and that’s what we should be looking for.”

Then came the thought that stayed with me long after the conversation ended.

“If you split a quarter, you still won’t get twelve and a half cents. You just get a crack.”

A coin was never meant to be separated.

Neither were truth and grace.

So often we become determined to defend our side that we stop searching for God’s perspective. We see one face of the coin. Someone else sees the other. But God sees the whole coin—including the parts hidden from everyone involved.

What I’m most grateful for isn’t that I made my point.

It’s that I didn’t lose myself trying to make it.

There were moments when I could have raised my voice, spoken from my hurt, or said things that could never be taken back. Instead, I chose to stay as calm as I could. Not because I agreed with everything being said, but because my witness mattered more than winning an argument.

Scripture reminds us:

“Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.”
— James 1:19–20

Being slow to anger doesn’t mean pretending wrong is right.

It means refusing to let anger become the author of our words.

Cracked coins don’t spend well.

Neither do cracked relationships.

Not every relationship can be restored. Not every misunderstanding will be resolved. Not every person is willing to search for truth. But we can always choose to leave a conversation knowing we reflected Christ.

Sometimes the greatest victory isn’t having the last word.

It’s walking away with nothing you need to apologize for later.

Prayer

Father, help me seek truth instead of simply defending my position. Give me ears that listen, a heart that remains tender, and a tongue that is governed by Your Spirit. When conversations become difficult, remind me that my character speaks long after my words are forgotten. May I never sacrifice my witness for the sake of winning an argument. Where hearts have been cracked, bring healing according to Your perfect will. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Love, Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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Heaven Is Moving Furniture

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

This week arrived carrying more heartache than I thought one heart could hold.

Hospital rooms. Goodbyes. A young life lost too soon. Family relationships strained to the breaking point. Watching people I love fight battles I cannot fight for them. Trying to keep working while my heart wanted to sit still for a while.

By the time the week reached Wednesday morning, I felt like I had been carrying far more than my share.

Then, at four o’clock this morning, the thunder woke me before the alarm ever had a chance.

As a little girl, my grandmother never called it a thunderstorm. She would smile and say, “Baby, that’s just Heaven moving furniture.”

I still think of her every time the windows rattle.

This morning, I lay there listening to the deep rumble overhead, tea waiting in the kitchen, rain tapping against the roof, and my stomach still reminding me that stress has a way of settling into places we never invited it.

Then I remembered my favorite scripture whenever the weather frightens me:

“He weighs the wind and measures the waters by measure. When He made a decree for the rain, and a way for the lightning of the thunder.” — Job 28:25–26

What an incredible thought.

The wind has weight.
The rain has measure.
The lightning has a path.

Nothing about the storm is accidental.

Every gust…
Every drop…
Every clap of thunder…

God already knows exactly where it belongs.

If He is careful enough to weigh something I cannot even see, then surely He has not lost sight of the burdens I carry.

If He measures every drop of rain, then He certainly measures every tear.

If He charts a path for lightning across the heavens, then He has already marked a path through every storm I will ever face.

Maybe that’s why my grandmother’s words still bring me comfort. Perhaps Heaven really is moving furniture.

Not because God is scrambling to fix what caught Him by surprise—but because He is always preparing what comes next. Rearranging what no longer belongs. Making room for blessings I cannot yet see. Moving things into place before I ever arrive.

Maybe He’s making room for healing where sickness has lived too long.

Maybe He’s making room for peace where grief has settled in.

Maybe He’s making room for restoration where relationships have been broken.

And maybe, just maybe, what sounds like thunder to us is simply the sound of God preparing tomorrow.

As I listened to the thunder this morning, I wondered if God was doing more than shaking the sky.

Maybe He was rearranging my perspective.

Maybe He was reminding me that what feels like chaos to me is still under His careful hand.

Maybe He was whispering that before He sends new mercies, He often makes room for them.

So instead of fearing the thunder, I listened.

And somewhere between the rumble of the sky and the whisper of God’s Word, I found peace. Enough to nod back off instead of my normal routine of rushing into my day.

The same God who weighs the wind is carrying me.

The same God who measures the waters is measuring out grace for today.

And the same God who makes a path for the lightning has already made a path for me.

Sometimes the storm isn’t announcing God’s absence.

Sometimes it’s simply the sound of Heaven moving furniture.

Love,
Chelle

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Kindergarten Dreams

Posted in cancer, cancer, faith, God, health, inspiration, love, relationships, selfhelp, Uncategorized, workTagged , , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

This month marks 24 or  25 years at my job. I always get confused. Let’s just say a quarter of a century.

I’m grateful. I really am.

This job has put food on my table, helped pay mortgages and medical bills, carried me through cancer, raised children, celebrated grandchildren, and kept the lights on through seasons I never saw coming.

It has been a gift. But if I’m honest…

The thought made me pull the blanket back over my head and wish I was in kindergarten again.

No sales quotas. No deadlines. No responsibilities.

Just nap time, chocolate milk, and somebody else deciding what came next.

Instead, I lay there thinking about twenty-five years. I was thankful. But I was grieving too.

Not because I hated my job. I didn’t. Well not exactly. Lol

I was mourning the woman I thought I would have become by now. The books I thought I would have written. The places I imagined speaking. The dreams I assumed would have happened “one day.”

Somewhere between providing for everyone else and simply surviving life, I quietly convinced myself those dreams could wait.

Then I looked up… and decades had passed.

As I lay there feeling sorry for myself, the Lord interrupted my thoughts with a simple question.

“Who told you I was finished writing your story?”

I couldn’t answer. Because the truth is…

Dead dreams don’t keep showing up. They don’t whisper while you’re driving to work. They don’t find you while you’re digging in a garden. They don’t keep tapping you on the shoulder through devotionals, stories, and moments that won’t leave you alone.

Maybe I wasn’t mourning dead dreams. Maybe I was grieving the timeline I had written for God.

The older I get, the more I’m discovering that God isn’t nearly as concerned with my schedule as I am. He wastes nothing. Not the years. Not the detours.

Not the job that faithfully provided while quietly teaching me lessons I couldn’t have learned anywhere else. Looking back, maybe I wasn’t just building a career.

Maybe God was building a writer. A storyteller. A woman with enough life behind her to recognize His fingerprints in places she once overlooked.

This morning I wanted to hide under the covers like a kindergartener hoping the day would go away. Instead, God reminded me that I’m not in kindergarten anymore.

I’m still in His classroom.

And apparently…

The lesson isn’t over yet.

“Being confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 1:6

Love, Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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When Joy Spins In A Wheelchair

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I was already having one of those days. Maybe it was the stress of a long day at work spilling past quitting time and being made late getting to where I needed to be. Maybe it was the heaviness that has become familiar with my sister Cheryl’s illness.

But tonight, the nursing home had transformed one of its rooms into a prom. There were balloons, music, decorations, smiles, and volunteers who had worked hard to make it special.

Cheryl looked beautiful. She wore a bright red dress, fire engine lipstick and a crown. She smiled at her reflection . For a short while, she was the fashionable diva sister from her youth.

Her son and her former physical therapist proudly escorted her as her two handsome prom dates, while our older sister, Melody, and I happily served as her royal court attendants.

She enjoyed herself.

And yet, if I’m honest, part of me couldn’t stop seeing what wasn’t supposed to be.

It was still a nursing home. She was still in pain. She was still in a wheelchair.

Some losses don’t disappear just because someone hangs streamers on the wall.

Then the music changed.Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” began filling the room.

Across the room sat another resident—a woman a little older than Cheryl. She was dressed in a sparkly black gown with a fluffy tutu peeking beneath it and ballerina slippers on her feet.

When the music started, she didn’t apologize for her wheelchair. She lifted her hands toward the ceiling. She spun. She laughed.

She did wheelies across that nursing home floor as though she were dancing on the biggest stage in the world.

As I sang along with Whitney’s words, she rolled her wheelchair right over to me, reached out with a smile, and invited me to dance with her.

For a moment, she wasn’t asking me to ignore her wheelchair. She was inviting me to look beyond it. I couldn’t stop watching her.

Then something surprised me. I wasn’t feeling pity. I was feeling jealousy.

Not because she could walk. She couldn’t. Not because she wasn’t hurting. I’m sure she was.

 I was jealous because she possessed something I had misplaced:

Joy.

She reminded me that joy isn’t the absence of pain. Joy is refusing to let pain have the final word.

That woman never stood up. But somehow she rose above the room.

I wonder how many of us are waiting to dance until everything is healed. We’re waiting until the diagnosis changes. Until the relationship is restored. Until the finances improve. Until life looks the way we imagined.

But what if joy was never meant to wait for perfect circumstances? What if worship can happen in a wheelchair? What if celebration can exist in a nursing home?

What if God is inviting us to dance while we’re still waiting for the miracle?

That evening , I went to encourage my sister. Instead, God introduced me to a ballerina in a wheelchair who quietly preached a sermon I’ll never forget.

Maybe today you feel confined by something you didn’t choose. A diagnosis. A disappointment. A loss. A season that doesn’t look anything like you prayed it would.

If that’s you, don’t wait for life to become perfect before you lift your hands. Some of the most beautiful dances happen in places where no one expected joy to live.

“You have turned my mourning into dancing…” — Psalm 30:11

Healing isn’t always the first miracle. Sometimes joy is.

 Love, Chelle

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Silent Screaming

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Trigger Warning: This reflection discusses grief, youth violence, childhood trauma, emotional neglect, and the long-term impact of silence within families and communities.

I thought I was just there to sing.

Instead, after my last song,  I sat listening to a mother whose 19-year-old son had been killed less than five minutes from home. She described him as the good kid. The one who checked on his parents. The one who helped people. The one who stayed connected.

And somehow, despite all of that goodness, she now lives with the reality that she had to bury him.

What shook me even more was not just her pain, but her posture.

As she spoke about the young man responsible receiving a 46-year sentence, I heard both grief and forgiveness in her voice. Not weakness. Not denial. Just a heartbreaking understanding that tragedy had swallowed more than one life that night.

She spoke about childhood trauma. About children carrying pain nobody stops to address until it explodes into violence in the streets. And then she said something that settled heavily in my spirit. She talked about the dangerous things we normalize in our homes:

“Children are to be seen and not heard.”

“What happens in this house stays in this house.”

For generations, many of us were taught those sayings as discipline, respect, or family loyalty. But sometimes those same words teach children something else entirely:

Your feelings do not matter here.

Your pain is inconvenient here.

Your truth is unsafe here.

So children learn to survive by swallowing emotions they were never meant to carry alone. Fear gets buried. Anger gets buried. Shame gets buried. Hurt gets buried.

But buried pain does not disappear.

Eventually it leaks somewhere.

Sometimes it leaks into addiction.
Sometimes into rage.
Sometimes into depression.
Sometimes into violence.
Sometimes into emotional numbness.
Sometimes into streets filled with children trying to release emotions nobody allowed them to safely process at home.

As I listened to her speak, a familiar phrase rose in my spirit so strongly that I walked up and shared it with her afterward.

I told her, “I call it silent screaming.”

Because that is exactly what so many people are doing.

They are screaming internally while functioning externally.

Smiling.
Working.
Going to church.
Posting selfies.
Making jokes.
Serving others.
Showing up every Sunday while quietly unraveling inside.

And honestly, the church should be leading the effort to erase silent screaming.

Not by becoming a place where people perfect appearances, but by becoming safe enough for honesty again.

Too many people have mastered church behavior while still bleeding emotionally underneath the surface. We know how to shout over pain, dance over pain, quote Scripture over pain, and hide pain behind ministry titles.

But Jesus always stopped for what was underneath.

He noticed the overlooked.
He listened to the hurting.
He saw what everybody else missed.

And maybe that is part of our assignment too.

To hear people before they become headlines.

To create homes where children feel emotionally safe enough to speak.

To remind people that silence is not always strength.

Sometimes silence is survival.

And some children end up on the 6 o’clock news because nobody heard them when they whispered.

“There is a time to be silent and a time to speak.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:7

Love, Chelle


DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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Even When It Still Looks Like Just Dirt

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I found myself out in the garden with my uncle the other day. Him just starting his own, looking at me like I was some kind of expert.

I almost laughed.

Because just a little while ago, I was the one Googling, guessing, and hoping something—anything—would grow.

But there I was… walking him through it. Pointing to each plant. Naming what was what. Explaining what needed covering, what needed watering, what needed just a little more time—especially with that unexpected return to winter creeping back into the forecast.

“Watch this one.” “Protect that one.” “This one’s doing just fine.”

And then we got to those two patches. Just… buckets of dirt.

No green. No signs of life. No proof that anything had taken root at all.

I didn’t have a confident answer for those. I didn’t know if it was bad seed.Didn’t know if it was timing. Didn’t know if something had already failed before it ever had a chance to show itself.

But I heard myself say it anyway: “Give it two more weeks.”

Not because I had evidence… but because I understood something deeper. Everything that looks like nothing  isn’t nothing.

Some things take longer to break through. Some growth happens where you cannot see it first. Some seeds are doing their most important work in the dark. 

And maybe that’s where I am too.

Not behind.

Not forgotten.

Just… still becoming.

God is not rushing this season.

He is tending to me with intention—even in the places that look like bare soil.

Especially there.

Say this aloud with me:

I am not behind. I am not forgotten.

God is tending to me with intention, even in the quiet places.

What is meant for me is still growing, even when I cannot see it yet.

Isaiah 30:15

“In quietness and trust is your strength.”

Galatians 6:9

“Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.”

Dear God,

Thank You for the places in my life that are growing even when I cannot see them.

Help me trust You in the waiting, in the wondering, and in the not knowing.

Give me patience for what is still beneath the surface, and faith to believe that nothing You’ve planted in me is wasted.

Remind me that I am not behind—I am still becoming.

Amen.

God sees you… trusting the soil, even when it looks like dirt.

Love, Chelle

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When Praise Cost You A Toe ( and a Little Pride)

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This morning was supposed to be simple.

Just me, a broom, and some soft worship music. Nothing dramatic. Nothing deep. Just cleaning the house and minding my business.

But somewhere between sweeping one corner and turning toward the next…
that broom turned into a rhythm.

And that rhythm turned into a sway.
And that sway turned into a little two-step.

Now listen… I have not truly praise danced since my early 30s. And even then, let’s be honest, even then,I was in the back of the sanctuary respectfully copying the professionals 😌

But this morning?
Oh, I was feeling it.
Clumsy? Yes.
Anointed? Also yes.

And for a moment, it felt free.
Like I could just stay right there…
moving, praising, forgetting everything else.

And that’s where it shifted.

Because instead of staying in the praise,
my mind wandered into the problems I was trying to outdance.

Like Peter stepping out on the water in Matthew 14:29–30. As long as his eyes were on Jesus, he was good. But the moment he looked at the wind? He started sinking.

Well…The moment I stopped focusing on the praise and started focusing on everything else… I didn’t sink.

I stubbed my pinky toe.

And not just a polite little tap either. No ma’am. The kind that makes you see your whole life flash before your eyes.

Which then threw me off balance…
which then reminded my knee about that old meniscus injury from my 30s…

So now I’m in the middle of my living room,
half praising, half limping, trying to decide if I need prayer or an ice pack.

But here’s the thing Even through the pain, my thoughts got corrected. Because I realized:

Praising your way through something will cost you if you stop mid-praise to pick your problems back up.

You can’t hold both.
Not well anyway.

And right there—in between the limp and the laughter— I had to laugh at myself. Because I know I looked like something.

Just me… off beat… off balance…
still trying to be faithful in the middle of it.
And while nobody else saw it…

God did. And I believe He smiled. Because it wasn’t perfect. But it was real.

And if you needed this today…

Go ahead and praise anyway.
Even if it’s off rhythm.
Even if it’s in your kitchen.
Even if it turns into a wobble instead of a dance. Just… keep your eyes in the right place.

And if you do happen to stumble? Laugh, reset, and keep moving. Because the goal was never perfection.

It was presence.

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com 💛