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Numbers and Neighbors (and Why You May See Me Writing Quietly for a While)

Numbers and neighbors matter.
I’ve spent most of my life thinking numbers were for accountants, engineers, and people who enjoy spreadsheets far more than I ever will. But lately—especially in this season of writing—I’m learning that numbers aren’t really about math.


They’re about order.


Numbers tell you where something belongs.
They tell you what comes before and what comes after.
They keep things from floating around unfinished and untethered.


And then there are neighbors.
Neighbors are what give numbers meaning.
Nothing meaningful stands alone—not stories, not seasons, not faith, and not writing. What sits beside something shapes how it’s understood. Context matters. Timing matters. Placement matters.


Right now, my writing life looks a little different. Instead of posting every thought as soon as it forms, I’m learning to sit with them. To ask where they belong. What needs to come before. What needs to follow.
It turns out this is how a book is being built.


Isaiah reminds us:
“The Lord will guide you always… You will be like a well-watered garden.” (Isaiah 58:11)
Gardens grow by placement.
By timing.
By knowing what belongs next to what.


So if my writing shows up a little differently for a while, know this:
Nothing is disappearing.
It’s being ordered.
Numbers and neighbors matter.


Love, Chelle

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On The Subject Of Pink Polka-Dotted Elephants


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.

Hell? In Heaven?

It may not have been one of life’s more teachable or even preachable moments. But it was most certainly a hint at God’s sense of humor.

This past Friday night was one of those rare moments when all bills and obligations were paid and we had a little un-earmarked pocket change.  Having worked so hard, we decided to treat ourselves to a night out at a local seafood restaurant we were hoping to try because the food was supposed to be good and they had jazz on Friday nights.

As our luck would have it, the restaurant  was not quite what we expected (though their spoon bread was to die for) and the jazz band had been replaced by a Beatles cover band.   Determined to make the best of it, we stayed on… singing along, endless choruses from a time gone by.

In the midst of one of the “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs”, I noticed  a waitress bringing a single slice of birthday cake with a lone candle to an elder gentlemen in the corner.  He seemed to have a far away look in his eyes…. enveloped in a weathered face… that spoke volumes of hard work and loneliness.

When I could grab the waitress’ attention, I asked if the birthday boy was truly there alone.  She shared that he had no family or friends in the area and was a regular at that particular booth for single dinners… almost every night.  Moved by compassion and a push from above, I asked for his check.

A short while, and a “Yellow Submarine” later, a smiling face appears to thank me.   I tell him that I am a sucker for birthdays and since mine was a just a few weeks earlier, that this was my way of continuing my celebration.   After a hearty laugh, he asks me if I were a Christian.    I assured him that I was and he proceeded to thank me for letting God use me to bless him.   His exit benediction was “If I don’t see  you again in the this life, I will see you in Heaven’.

I promised to pray for him and proceeded to exchange names when he replies “Hell, John, Hell”.   I guess the look on my face made him explain… “ No really, my name is….John Hell”.    It is an old german name and not as rare in Missouri where he was from as it was in Virginia that night.

Yes… I couldn’t help myself. I had to see his driver’s license.  There it was.. plain as day… John H. Hell.

We shared a good belly laugh as I realized that I had just blessed hell and he exclaims “there is going to be a little Hell with you in Heaven”.