Tag: healing

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Deleting The Receipts

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I didn’t plan on doing heart work this morning.
I was just trying to clear storage—make my phone run smoother, lighten the load, make room for what’s next.

I was deleting blurry screenshots, duplicate photos, and saved recipes I’ll probably never make—
right alongside hundreds of pictures of my grandchildren that I can’t bring myself to let go of.

And tucked in between it all were receipts I once needed to survive.
Thirty frames of words that bruised from an argument.
A disagreement that no longer makes sense.
Pain from a season that had already passed.

I kept them because I thought I might need proof.
Proof that I wasn’t imagining things.
Proof in case I ever needed to defend myself.

And for a while, that was okay.

But this morning, standing on the edge of a new season, I realized something had shifted.
I no longer needed protection from the past.
I needed permission to release it.

So I didn’t reread.
I didn’t rehearse the hurt.
I didn’t reopen the courtroom in my mind.

I deleted.

Not because it didn’t matter—
but because it doesn’t get to lead anymore.

Scripture says,
“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!” — Isaiah 43:18–19

Forgetting doesn’t mean pretending it didn’t happen.
It means choosing not to live there anymore.

There’s a difference between wisdom and weight.
Between remembering and reliving.
Between holding truth and being held hostage by it.

“Let us throw off everything that hinders.” — Hebrews 12:1

Not everything that hinders is sinful.
Some things were necessary once—but become heavy later.

I didn’t erase the story.
I simply stopped carrying the evidence.

And as the year turns and the air feels fresh again, I’m learning this sacred truth:

Dead and done are not the same thing—but neither needs to be dragged into tomorrow.


Sometimes the holiest thing you can do
is delete what no longer serves the person you are becoming.


Prayer:
God, thank You for seasons of protection—and for the courage to release them when they’re no longer needed. Help me walk lighter into what’s next, trusting You with the truth I no longer need to carry. Amen.

Love, Chelle

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When Joy Waits

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I’ve been sitting with these thoughts since Christmas Eve, wanting to honor tender hearts.


During this season, I know several people walking through fresh grief — the loss of parents, spouses, siblings, children, grandchildren.

Others carry a different kind of ache: childhoods that hold no warm memories to return to. One person even whispered that they weren’t sure they wanted to live to see the New Year.


That kind of pain deserves reverence, not rush.


I was determined not to meet their sorrow with well-meaning clichés — “volunteer,” “adopt a family,” “stay busy,” “choose joy.” Those things can be beautiful, and I do them now. But it took me years of sitting inside my own grief before I could get there. Years before someone else’s smile softened the sting instead of feeling like salt in the wound.
So I don’t beat people over the head with happiness.


Sometimes the greatest gift we can give is not advice, not solutions, not silver linings — but presence. To sit. To be quiet. To resist the urge to fix. To simply watch and wait with someone.


Scripture tells us:
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18


Notice what it doesn’t say.
It doesn’t say God rushes the brokenhearted.
It doesn’t say He lectures them into joy.
It says He is close.


Jesus did come to bring joy to the world — but grief, like the ocean, comes in waves. And the return to joy doesn’t arrive all at once. It comes in stages.


That truth surprised me again while watching Disney’s “Inside Out 2”. When Joy tried to take over too quickly — before the main character was ready — it didn’t heal her. It pushed her deeper into despair. What she needed wasn’t forced positivity. She needed permission to sit with sorrow and memory for a while without being rushed toward “better.”


Sometimes joy doesn’t need to be summoned.
It needs to be allowed to come back when it’s ready.


If this season finds you heavy, please hear this:
You are not failing because you aren’t cheerful.
You are not weak because you’re tired.
You are not faithless because joy hasn’t returned yet.


Jesus is close to the tenderhearted — not waiting on the other side of your healing, but sitting with you right in the middle of it.
And sometimes, that quiet companionship is the most sacred gift of all.

Can we pray?
Jesus,
You who are close to the brokenhearted,
draw near to every tender soul reading this.

For those carrying fresh grief,
sit with them in the quiet where words fall short.
For those whose memories ache instead of comfort,
hold them without asking them to explain.

Guard them from the pressure to perform joy
before it has found its way home again.
Give permission for tears, for pauses, for breathing slowly.

Where sorrow comes in waves,
be the steady presence that does not leave.
And when joy is ready to return — even in small, fragile ways —
let it arrive gently, without force or fear.

Until then, be enough.
Be near.
Be kind to the tenderhearted.

Amen.

For Shelby. Heaven makes noise a 3 a.m. just for you.

Love, Chelle

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The Gift That Keeps Showing Up

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Every morning — and sometimes as early as 3 a.m. — there’s a small sacred ritual that happens on our phones.


A text thread.
Women connected by blood, history, humor, and habit.
Aunts. Nieces. Sisters. Cousins.


It usually starts with a simple greeting. A prayer emoji or a sermon link. . A “Love y’all.”


And yes… sometimes it starts because one of us can’t sleep and assumes nobody else should be sleeping either. (That one might be on me.)


This is how we stay connected now.
Because age has a way of rearranging life, schedules don’t always line up, and seeing each other as often as we’d like isn’t always possible. But love? Love adapts.


Yesterday, my Aunt Lenora changed the subject in our group text. You know how the family matriarchy does — when wisdom rises up and gently says, Pay attention.


She shared something God had revealed to her about Great-Grandma Martha and Grandma Alice.
They used to say it often around holidays and birthdays:
“I don’t want y’all to give me any gifts this time. Thank you, but I really don’t need any more.”


At the time, we smiled. Sometimes, we insisted anyway.
Because giving is how we show love.
But after they passed, we found something that stopped us in our tracks —
gifts still in their packages.
Closets holding love that had already been received in the heart.


And suddenly, the words made sense.
It wasn’t that they had everything.
It was that satisfaction had settled in.
Gratitude had overflowed.
Hearts were full. Closets were full.
And the desire for more stuff had quietly faded.


Aunt Lenora put it beautifully in the text:
“It’s not that we have everything that could be had. It’s just that at a certain point, satisfaction sets in, gratitude is overflowing, hearts are filled… and even though you’re still grateful for expressions of love, there’s no more desire for stuff.”


And then came the revelation that wrapped everything together:
“We finally understand the real meaning of Christmas.
The Father gave the Son.
The Son gave the Spirit.
The Spirit gives us life —
so we can give the gift of love.
And that gift goes on and on and on.”


That’s it.
That’s Christmas.
Not the packages.
Not the receipts.
Not the pressure to perform joy.
Just love — passed down like an inheritance no one can lose.


This season has reminded me that our worth today is not measured by who shows up for us, but by who we show up as.
Great-Grandma Martha showed up with wisdom.
Grandma Alice showed up with contentment.
Aunt Lenora shows up with revelation.
And the women in that early-morning text thread show up — faithfully, lovingly, imperfectly.


And I show up with a pen — so that my daughter, Paula, will never forget the legacy of these women.
So she will know where she comes from.
So she will recognize the holy inheritance of faith, gratitude, and love that flows through her name.


Sometimes love looks like gifts.
Sometimes it looks like unopened packages.
And sometimes it looks like a 3 a.m. text that says, I’m thinking about you. I’m grateful for you. You’re not alone.


Scripture reminds us:
“A generous person will be enriched, and one who gives water will get water.” — Proverbs 11:25
That may be the gift that never stops giving.

Merry Christmas ,

Chelle

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Ministry In The Margins

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When the year ends and life still feels unfinished

The end of a year has a funny way of demanding closure.
Wrap it up.
Sum it up.
Name the wins. Count the lessons. Post the highlight reel.


But some years don’t cooperate.
Some years limp to the finish line.
They end not with fireworks but with unanswered prayers, half-healed hearts, and a to-do list that spills right into January.


And that’s where I’ve learned something holy happens.


Ministry doesn’t wait for January 1st.
It lives in the margins between what was and what’s coming next.
That thin space between “I made it” and “I’m still standing.”
Between gratitude and grief.
Between hope and exhaustion.


I used to think ministry happened in neat rows — in quiet moments, with plenty of stillness and the right words.
But life didn’t wire me that way.


I’ve spent years feeling slightly unqualified — too busy to sit still, too restless to fit the mold.
Cancer didn’t simplify that. It complicated it.
Chemo brain stole words I used to reach for easily.
A speech impediment I thought I’d conquered as a child quietly returned — humbling me in ways I didn’t expect.
And the truth is, I’ve never quite fit into the version of “qualified” society seems most comfortable with.
Clear. Calm. Composed.
Tidy faith. Tidy testimony.
That hasn’t been my story.


And yet… God still showed up.
Not correcting my pace.
Not asking me to sound different.
Not waiting for me to feel confident or complete.


Jesus has always been comfortable in the margins.
He’s the Savior with mud on His hands, not a microphone.
The One who kneels in the dirt.
The One who notices the people others step around — and calls them.


The margins are where we stop pretending the year went as planned.
Where faith sounds less like a declaration and more like a whisper.
Where our prayers become, “Lord, carry me forward.”
And maybe that’s the truest kind of ministry there is.


As this year closes, I’m not interested in pretending it was tidy.
I’m grateful — deeply — but I’m also honest.
Some healing is still in progress.
Some clarity hasn’t returned on command.
Some strength showed up only one imperfect day at a time.
And yet… grace was there.
In the margins.


If you’re crossing into a new year feeling unfinished —
If your faith feels real but worn around the edges —
If you don’t feel polished, poised, or particularly qualified…
You’re not behind.
You’re standing exactly where God loves to work.
Right there.
Between the years.
In the margins.
I’m not entering the new year polished — I’m entering it carried.

Safe in His arms to Be Carried Into A New Year

Love, Chelle

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Store-Bought Crust, Real Filling

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What Christmas chaos taught me about sincerity

It’s Christmas.
Which means the house isn’t quiet, the schedule isn’t kind, and nothing is quite as together as the Hallmark movies promised.

There are lists half-checked, boxes half-opened, and flour somehow in places flour should never be.

I used a box mix for the cookies.
No-bake “snow pies” pretending real hard to be cheesecake.
And the pie?
Well… the crust came from the store,
but the filling?
That part is 100% real.

Also—full disclosure—
there is a pile of tasting spoons in the sink.
Because no shortcut baker is licking a spoon and putting it back.
We are tired, not reckless.

Somewhere between the chaos, the Christmas music playing too loud, and me stepping over things I swear weren’t there five minutes ago, it hit me.

We spend a lot of time apologizing for our shortcuts.

“I didn’t make it from scratch.”
“I didn’t do as much as I wanted.”
“I don’t have it all together this year.”

But what if God isn’t inspecting the packaging—
what if He’s tasting the heart?

The crust might be store-bought, but the love is homemade.
The method might be quick, but the intention is honest.
The presentation might be simple, but the offering is real.

Jesus never demanded everything be handcrafted—
He asked that it be sincere.

He fed crowds with borrowed bread.
He healed with mud and spit.
He entered the world not in perfection, but in a mess of hay, noise, and interrupted plans.

Not fancy.
Not polished.
Just real.

So if your Christmas looks like box mix faith and no-bake prayers,
don’t disqualify it.

If your life feels like shortcuts and substitutions,
but the filling is still genuine—
grace counts that.

Scripture reminds us—right in the middle of our mess:

“The Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”
— 1 Samuel 16:7

God isn’t grading your technique.
He’s receiving your offering.

And tonight, around a table of “good enough” desserts, Christmas clutter, and way too many spoons to wash,
there is more holiness than we realize.

Because what’s real on the inside
has always mattered more than how it was wrapped.

P.S.  If you come wash these spoons, I’ll save you a little something

Love Chelle

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When Life Blows Your Cover

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The wind didn’t check my schedule.
It didn’t ask permission.
It didn’t care that I had already done enough for one week, much less one day.


It just came—
hard, sudden, unapologetic—
and ripped the cover right off my greenhouse.


Which, for a brief and dramatic moment, sent me spiraling into full bad plant mommy theology.
I immediately calculated the money I’ve spent on soil, seeds, trays, covers, optimism, and audacity.
I pictured myself explaining—again—how I tried one more time to grow food like a capable adult.
And somewhere in that panic, I accepted my future fate:
All this effort.
All this chaos.
And next spring… one carrot.
Crooked.
Probably bitter.
Judging me.


That’s when my heart did that drop it does when something precious feels exposed.
My babies.
Tender things.
Things still growing.


That’s the panic, really.
Not the storm itself—
but the fear of exposure.


But then grace slipped in quietly.
My son found the cover.
He put it back on.
And it was secured before the temperature dropped.
That timing matters.


Because sometimes life doesn’t destroy what we love—
it just startles us long enough to remind us how vulnerable we are.


The wind will come.
Covers will lift.
Plans will flap wildly in directions we didn’t approve.


But here’s what this moment taught me:
The roots were already stronger than I realized.
Protection returned before the damage reached what mattered most.
God doesn’t always stop the wind.
Sometimes He just makes sure the cold doesn’t get to the roots.


And when I go out later today to check on my babies,
I already know this truth will meet me there:
They survived not because conditions were perfect—
but because grace showed up in time.
So if life feels a little exposed right now…
If the wind rattled what you thought was secure…
Take heart.
The cover can be restored.


Help may already be on the way.
And what God planted in you was made to survive more than you think.
“The wind blew my cover, but it didn’t get my roots.”
“The Lord will keep you from all harm—
He will watch over your life.”
— Psalms 121:7
Sometimes grace doesn’t look like calm skies—
it looks like protection returning just in time.


Love,  Chelle

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The Muddy Jesus

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“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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Fourteen Ounces

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My kitchen cabinet is full of mugs.
Tall ones.
Short ones.
Skinny ones and fat ones.
Plain white. Red ones (my fav).

Loud sayings. Funny ones. Spiritual ones that make visitors pause mid-sip.


Some are glass. Some ceramic. Some insulated steel meant to keep things hot long past my capacity to remember when I made its contents.


Every day—sometimes several times a day—I reach in and choose one. Not based on worth, but on need. Coffee when I need courage. Cocoa when I need comfort. Tea when I need calm.


Over the years, some of them have lost their tops.
Okay… I lost their tops.
And without those lids, the heat doesn’t last as long. But here’s what I noticed one quiet morning while waiting for the kettle to whistle:
Almost every single one of them holds fourteen ounces.
Despite the differences.
Despite the wear.
Despite the missing pieces.
Same capacity.
No mug holds more because it’s taller.
No mug holds less because it’s chipped.
No mug is disqualified because it doesn’t match the rest.
They were all made to receive.


And I wondered when the Church forgot that.
Somewhere along the way, we started ranking the mugs.
Preferring certain shapes.
Deciding which ones looked “right” on the shelf.
We forgot that Jesus never measured vessels by appearance.
He poured Himself out freely—into fishermen, skeptics, women with reputations, men with questions, people missing lids.


“But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.”
— 2 Corinthians 4:7


That’s muddy ministry.
Muddy ministry is faith that doesn’t stay clean.
It’s Jesus kneeling in the dirt.
Touching the untouchable.
Lingering with grief.
Showing up before fixing anything.
Muddy ministry doesn’t inspect the vessel.
It just pours.
It understands that people—like mugs—come in different shapes, carry different scars, and hold warmth differently, yet bear the same image of God and the same capacity for grace.


Religion becomes abusive when it starts inspecting mugs instead of filling them.
When it withholds the pour because the vessel doesn’t look familiar.
When it mistakes uniformity for holiness.
But Jesus?
Jesus keeps pouring.
Fourteen ounces of mercy.
Fourteen ounces of patience.
Fourteen ounces of love.
Enough for each of us.


And the mugs without lids?
They know to drink while it’s hot.
They don’t waste the moment.
Maybe that’s the real lesson.
Not to become a “better mug.”
Not to match the cabinet.
Just to stay open…
and let Him pour.


And maybe that’s why this truth found me so suddenly.
Because once upon a time, fourteen ounces wasn’t just a measurement in my kitchen.
It was my grandson, Emmanuel Langston Gillison.
Barely more than fourteen ounces at birth, his life gathered hundreds into prayer—family, friends, strangers—hoping for a miracle.
We prayed boldly.
We hoped desperately.
We trusted God with everything we had.
And when the miracle didn’t come the way we longed for, Emmanuel’s life still poured out.
His brief presence became muddy ministry in its purest form—
a ministry of grief, honesty, and learning to trust God when faith doesn’t get what it hoped for.


Fourteen ounces was enough.
Enough to draw people together.
Enough to change us.
Enough to teach us that capacity is not measured by size or by how long something lasts.
Some vessels are filled fully…
even if they are held only briefly.

Dedication
In loving memory of my grandson,
Emmanuel Langston Gillison—
Fourteen ounces of life,
and a lifetime of grace.                                  Some children grow old in years.
Some grow old in impact.

Loving you always Nama Chelle

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The Cheerful Misfit

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When nothing seems to fit — and that’s okay

“On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable.” — 1 Corinthians 12:22

Some of us move through life with the quiet sense that we’re slightly out of step — not broken, not rebellious, just never quite fitting the mold we were handed. We show up, we work hard, we love deeply… and still feel like we’re standing just off to the side of the picture.


I’ve been thinking about the quiet ones lately. The ones who don’t quite fit the mold. The ones who try to blend in, not because they lack light, but because standing out feels risky — or exhausting — or simply unnecessary.


Somewhere along the way, we were taught that faith, success, and even joy had to be loud. That if you weren’t noticed, applauded, or affirmed publicly, you must be doing something wrong. But that’s not how God works. And that’s not how growth usually happens.


There’s an old song that keeps playing in my head: “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.” It isn’t an upbeat song. It isn’t even particularly spiritual. It’s about a man walking through life wondering why things don’t seem to line up for him the way they do for everyone else. No matter how hard he tries, the rain keeps falling — and there’s a moment where he admits, almost with a shrug, that nothing seems to fit quite right.


That feeling isn’t failure. It’s often the first sign that you were never meant to squeeze yourself into someone else’s shape.


Scripture is full of people who didn’t stand out at first glance. Shepherds. Younger siblings. Widows. Servants. People whose names were whispered before they were ever written down. God didn’t choose them because they were impressive. He chose them because they were available — willing to show up, willing to listen, willing to stay.


Sometimes the calling isn’t to stand out — it’s to stand firm.
To keep doing good when no one is clapping.
To keep loving when you’re taken for granted.
To keep believing when you feel like a misfit in the room.


If you’ve ever felt like you don’t quite belong — not in your family, not at work, not even in church — hear this gently:
You are not overlooked.
You are being shaped.


Raindrops may keep falling. Life may feel a little off-key. But God has a way of using the steady, the faithful, and the quietly obedient to water the very ground where others will one day find shelter.


You don’t have to force yourself to stand out.
You were already set apart.


Prayer
God, it’s me again — the one who sometimes trips over her own feet while trying to do the right thing. Help me remember that even when I feel out of place, I am not out of Your care. Let me stop auditioning for rooms I was never meant to impress. Teach me to walk faithfully, laugh freely, and rest in the truth that You see me — not as a joke, not as an afterthought, but as Your very worthy clown. Amen.

Now Breathe!
Inhale grace. Exhale comparison.
We may not fit every room — and that’s okay.
We belong to God. Now, come walk  forward with God and me as a cheerful misfit.

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