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.
Every time the forecast whispers snow, Virginia loses its mind.
Milk disappears first. Bread follows. Eggs become currency. And suddenly people who haven’t cooked since 2014 are preparing for Snowmageddon: The Reckoning.
This morning, listening to the low-grade panic hum through social media, I thought of my grandma.
No emergency rations. No twelve-step preparedness plan. No frantic news watching.
Just quiet confidence.
Flour meant I can make something. Butter and sugar meant comfort is still allowed. Coffee meant sit down, we’re talking. Milk meant somebody might need care. Eggs meant breakfast feeds more than hunger. Salt meant wisdom — because everything needs seasoning. Tea bags meant there’s time to slow down. And bacon? Bacon meant joy is practical.
Grandma didn’t fear snow. She respected it. And if it wasn’t the first snow, she’d be outside making snow cream like it was just another blessing falling from the sky.
She lived what Scripture later put into words: “She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.” (Proverbs 31:25)
She knew storms came — and went. She knew how to stretch what she had. She knew a warm kitchen calmed cold nerves better than any headline ever could.
What strikes me most now is this: Her list wasn’t about survival. It was about presence.
Enough on hand to feed whoever showed up. Enough calm to keep the house steady. Enough wisdom not to confuse inconvenience with catastrophe.
We live in a time where every storm is framed like the end of the world. But some of us were raised by women who understood that preparation doesn’t require panic — and peace doesn’t require abundance.
So if snow comes this week, let it snow. Well… I’m no snow lover — even if I was born in January — but I trust the kind of wisdom that keeps coffee brewing, tea steeping, and bacon sizzling.
I’ll be thinking about grandma. Her list. Her calm. And the quiet strength of knowing that love, when prepared, is never caught off guard.
“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 didn’t wake up asking for a lesson. I woke up asking a question.
When, Lord? When will things be different? When will healing finally arrive?
A year has passed since surgery. By my own calendar, I decided I should be past this. Past the restrictions. Past the tenderness. Past the reminders that my body has its own pace.
But today, my belly disagrees with my timeline.
If I’m being honest, it may also disagree with my choices. Perhaps the third cup of coffee was ambitious. Perhaps chocolate and I — though still emotionally attached — are currently not on speaking terms. And perhaps I should have remembered the boatload of readily available internet wisdom that calmly, repeatedly explains the very misery I have managed to create for myself.
Still, I find myself asking God the same question Scripture has echoed for generations.
“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?” (Psalm 13)
That cry reminds me that impatience is not a lack of faith. It is often proof that we believe God hears us well enough to answer.
What if healing is not only about what is removed, but about what is relearned?
Without a gallbladder, my body asks for gentleness. Without certainty, my heart does the same.
Maybe the invitation today is not to rush healing, but to remember that restrictions are not punishment — they are protection still at work.
And maybe God isn’t offended by my when. Maybe He meets it with mercy.
“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning.” (Lamentations 3:22–23)
That promise doesn’t say mercy arrives when I finally get it right — only that it shows up faithfully, even when I don’t.
So today, I loosen my self-imposed deadlines. I stop arguing with my body. I release the belief that progress must look linear to be real.
I may not control the timeline, but I can choose attentiveness over impatience.
And instead of asking, When will this be over? I ask a better question:
Lord, how do You want to meet me here?
Because even here — especially here — He is present.
There are days when the world feels too loud for jokes.
The headlines carry war, division, fear, and the slow erosion of freedoms we once assumed were permanent. The ground feels less steady. The future feels less certain.
And the little clown in me—the one who usually believes laughter can soften almost anything—finds herself mourning.
Not because hope is gone. But because peace matters too much to pretend this doesn’t hurt.
Psalm 91 doesn’t ask us to deny danger. It invites us to dwell. “Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” (Psalm 91:1)
Protection, here, is not earned. It is not performed. It is not proven by volume, certainty, or strength. It is positional. To dwell is to stay. To remain. To practice presence when the world feels unrecognizable.
This is protection without performance. Not faith that shouts. Not hope that rushes to fix. Not peace that pretends everything is fine. Just presence—steady, near, covering.
The promise of Psalm 91 is not that trouble will disappear, but that God does not. The shadow does not move. The refuge does not close. The shelter does not require us to be unafraid—only willing to come close.
So today, the clown in me removes her red shoes. She sits on holy ground— trusting the same God who once said, “Stay.” Trusting that what marks the door also guards the dwelling. She mourns for peace honestly. And still—quietly—she dwells in hope.
Today’s practice is simple: not fixing, not proving, not performing— just dwelling in His Presence.
—- God of refuge and nearness, When the world feels unstable and peace feels fragile, help me to dwell rather than strive. Teach me to trust Your presence more than my ability to understand what is happening around me. Let Your covering be enough today. Amen.
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.
When I think of the most important birthdays, I don’t start with cake or candles. I start with life.
I think of the 37th birthday when I helped deliver my grandson, Jayon — my eldest son’s first child. On that day, I didn’t just celebrate another year of my own life; I welcomed new life, new hopes, and new dreams into the world. In a way, our birthdays became twins. His arrival was proof that God was still creating, still trusting the future to fragile hands. And year after year, Jayon has never disappointed — not because he’s perfect, but because he has lived into the promise of that moment.
I think of my 50th birthday — the day I was scheduled to start chemotherapy for breast cancer. Fear tried to claim that day, but my husband gave me a birthday slumber party instead with the ladies in my crew.. Laughter showed up before dread could unpack its bags. It felt like God whispering through cupcakes and pajamas: Fight. Fight. You are not done.
On my 55th birthday, the fear shifted again. Instead of waiting anxiously for scan results, I stood on a stage wearing a crown and a “Drive 55” shirt — a playful, holy reminder to pace myself and keep going. Sometimes courage looks regal. Sometimes it looks ridiculous. Both can preach.
But my favorite birthdays are always the next one.
Whether they arrive loud and celebratory or quiet and reflective like today, they carry the same invitation. I call January 5th my second New Year — a moment to pause, look back at all that happened since last year, the good and the not-so-good. To thank God for the joys He brought us into, and for the things He delivered us out of.
“This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” — Psalm 118:24
Not the perfect day. Not the painless day. Just this one.
And today includes crumbs. Crumbs from a Kentucky Butter Cake I made with more butter than I’m fairly certain a woman of my age should publicly admit to.
But here’s the truth: butter makes things richer. Grace does too. And neither one asks permission before doing its work.
“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning.” — Lamentations 3:22–23
Even on birthdays. Especially on birthdays.
These years aren’t measured by candles alone. They’re marked by crumbs of grace — small evidences left behind that say I was fed, I was held, I was carried through
. And if that’s what this year leaves behind — crumbs, butter, joy, survival, and gratitude — then it has been a very good year indeed.
I’m usually the one who finds the humor, the metaphor, the small spark of light tucked inside the ordinary. I believe in joy — deeply. I still do.
But today, joy feels quieter, and sorrow feels closer to the surface . The world feels fractured. Nation against nation. Neighbor against neighbor. Families strained. Friendships reduced to likes, views, and fleeting affirmations.
And somewhere in the middle of all this noise, what seems to be slipping away is our sense of community — the kind where people are known, not curated. Where connection doesn’t require a platform or performance.
Yesterday, as I mourned world events , all of this along with a side of opinions still wrapped with faith, I was told I was hiding behind God and the Bible.
That stayed with me.
Not because it shook my faith, but because it revealed something deeper about the times we’re living in — a world so uncomfortable with lament that even sacred language is suspect when it refuses to harden into arguments or slogans.
But my faith has never been a hiding place. It has always been a meeting place — where grief and hope are allowed to sit together without rushing one another out of the room.
Today, I find myself weeping. Not because faith has failed, but because love is still very much alive. “Jesus wept.” — John 11:35 He stood in the presence of grief and loss and did not rush to fix it, explain it, or weaponize it. He allowed tears to speak where words fell short. If tears were worthy of Him, they are not beneath us. Scripture doesn’t ask us to bypass sorrow — it calls us to enter it together. “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” — Romans 12:15
This isn’t a departure from who I am. It’s a refusal to pretend. I still believe in hope. I still believe in resurrection. I still believe God has not lost the plot. But I also believe sorrow has a place in the story — not as an ending, but as an honest chapter.
So today, I show up softer. Quieter. More tender. Trusting that God can hold my tears just as faithfully as He holds my hope.
And believing that even here — especially here — grace is present. Love Chelle
I wasn’t trying to be deep. I was just trying to bake.
One sweet potato pie for my husband. One for my brother-in-law who has been begging for one like it’s his spiritual gift. I followed the recipe to the letter. Measured. Mixed. Poured.
And somehow… there was a full third pie.
Not a baker’s bite. Not a “let me scrape the bowl and see what happens.” A whole, mind-your-business, respectable third pie.
What makes this even better is this: I hadn’t made a sweet potato pie in almost a year.
Not because I didn’t want to. Not because I forgot how. But because life was lifing — loudly — at almost every holiday when joy normally shows up wrapped in foil and tradition. Some seasons don’t leave room for extra, only endurance.
So when I finally baked again, I wasn’t expecting anything special. Just two pies. Just getting back to myself.
And still — there was extra.
I didn’t stretch the recipe. I didn’t short the pies. I didn’t hustle or improvise.
I simply did what was in front of me.
Later that day, the third pie didn’t wait for a plan. Two of my teenage grandsons devoured it like it was made just for them — laughing, grabbing seconds, completely unaware they were standing in the quiet, perfect timing of God’s provision.
And that’s when it settled in.
Sometimes, provision doesn’t shout. Sometimes grace shows up finished. Sometimes, abundance waits patiently for us to notice.
I planned for two. Grace planned for three.
“The Lord will open for you His good storehouse, the heavens, to bless all the work of your hands.” — Deuteronomy 28:12
And this morning, with coffee in hand and crumbs on the counter, I’m reminded: Even after long pauses, God’s timing is still generous.
defygravitywithoutwings.com 