Tag: Hope

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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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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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The Fragrance of Basil

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

My hands smelled like basil this morning.

I don’t particularly enjoy eating basil by itself. In fact, I’ll probably never snack on a handful of basil leaves. But every time I walk through my little garden, I find myself rubbing a leaf between my fingers.

Hours later, the fragrance is still there.

It made me think about a dream I had years ago. In the dream, I was ushering at a funeral. I spent the service helping everyone else find their seats, passing tissues, comforting grieving families, and doing what ushers do. By the time I finally approached the casket to pay my own respects, something impossible happened.

The deceased sat up.

Looking directly at me, they smiled and said,
“It was your perfume that made me rise.”
I woke up before they explained what they meant, but I never forgot the dream.

Years later, I found myself saying something to another minister that surprised even me.
“I can smell your anointing.”

Now…before rumors started another church meeting, let me explain. 😄 I wasn’t saying the man needed a shower. In fact, the congregation looked at me like I had just announced, “Pastor, you stink.” It took a minute to convince everyone I wasn’t talking about body odor at all.

I wasn’t talking about cologne. I wasn’t talking about lotion.I was trying to describe something words struggle to explain.

There are people whose lives have spent so much time in the presence of God that you sense His peace before they ever open their mouths. Their words aren’t louder. Their personalities aren’t bigger. Yet somehow, they leave behind hope, peace, and life wherever they go.

The Apostle Paul wrote that we are “the aroma of Christ.”

Not because we wear the right fragrance. But because we’ve been close enough to Him that His presence lingers on us.

This morning, while rubbing a basil leaf between my fingers, I realized that basil never has to announce itself or introduce itself. It simply becomes what God created it to be, and everyone who brushes against it leaves carrying its fragrance.

We spend so much time announcing ourselves.
“I’m a minister.”
“I’m an elder.”
“I’m a worship leader.”
“I’m a Christian.”
“Blah, blah, blah” And so on.

There’s nothing wrong with those titles. They describe our calling and our service. But titles were never meant to substitute for transformation.

Basil never says a word. It doesn’t have to convince you it’s basil. It doesn’t wear a name tag. It doesn’t introduce itself before releasing its fragrance.

It simply becomes what God created it to be, and everyone who brushes against it knows they have encountered something different.

Maybe our greatest witness isn’t what we announce about ourselves… Maybe it’s the fragrance people carry away after they’ve encountered us.

Maybe our words comfort. Maybe our patience calms. Maybe our generosity feeds. Maybe our forgiveness heals. Maybe our presence reminds someone that God has not forgotten them.

Long after we’ve left the room…

…the fragrance remains.

This morning, I walked back into my house with basil on my hands. My prayer is that I walk into every room carrying Christ in my spirit.

So today I’m asking myself a different question.

Not…

“What perfume am I wearing?”

But…

“What fragrance am I leaving behind?”

Because if a simple basil plant can leave its scent on my hands with just the slightest touch…

How much more should a life touched by Christ leave behind His love, His peace, and His hope?

May those who brush against our lives leave carrying the fragrance of Christ.

Love, Chelle

“For we are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing.”
— 2 Corinthians 2:15

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When “This” Doesn’t Look Like Increase

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Some seasons sneak in quietly.

Not with one catastrophic moment.
Not with one dramatic phone call or one giant storm.
Just a hundred little things.

One thing goes sideways.
Then another.
Then a few more.

Health hiccups.
Emotional exhaustion.
Too much on the plate.
Things changing faster than you can catch your breath.
Prayers that feel unanswered.
Dreams that feel delayed.
People you love walking through their own battles.
And the constant pressure to keep showing up like everything is fine.

Lately, I have felt the weight of that kind of season.

Not panic exactly.
Just heavy.

The kind of heavy that sits quietly on your shoulders while you continue answering emails, paying bills, checking on people, watering plants, going to church, making dinner, and trying to convince yourself you are not as tired as you really are.

You look around at your life and think:

“This doesn’t look like increase.”

But yesterday, a friend said something to me that has been sitting deep in my spirit ever since:

“What if God makes our decrease become our increase?”

I have been sitting with that.

Because maybe increase is not always louder.
Maybe sometimes it is lighter.

Maybe God is not only found in what grows bigger.
Maybe He is also found in what He lovingly cuts away.

Gardeners understand this better than most people. Sometimes a plant looks smaller after pruning while actually becoming healthier. Dead weight is removed. Energy gets redirected. Air and light finally reach hidden places.

The cutting is not cruelty.
It is care.

And maybe some of us are in seasons where God is lovingly removing things we were never meant to carry forever.

Old pressures.
False responsibilities.
Performance-based identities.
The need to rescue everyone.
The need to prove our worth by how much we can survive.

Some seasons don’t feel like increase at all.
They feel like God quietly taking His hands off things you were never supposed to hold forever.

I know that can feel frightening. Especially for those of us who have built entire lives around being dependable. Around holding things together. Around making sure everyone else is okay.

But what if releasing is not failure?

What if the decrease is making room for breath again?

What if God is teaching us that our value was never supposed to be measured only by how much weight we could carry?

John the Baptist once said of Jesus, “He must increase, but I must decrease.” (John 3:30)

Maybe decrease was never meant to destroy us.
Maybe sometimes it is the very thing that brings us closer to what matters most.

So if your life feels quieter right now…
smaller right now…
lighter in some places and emptier in others…

Do not assume God has abandoned you there.

Some decreases are not punishment.
Some are pruning.
Some are protection.
Some are mercy.

And some are the first sign that new growth is finally about to begin.

Love, Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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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 💛

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His April Faithfulness

Posted in cancer, cancer, faith, God, health, inspiration, love, moneyTagged , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Even though today is April Fool’s Day…
for me, it marks something completely different.

Twenty-one years ago, I went from being a near-homeless divorcee with three kids in tow to becoming a homeowner in 90 days.

And I still smile when I think about it. Because I was so careful not to say anything that might disrupt what God was doing, that every time someone asked me, “Chelle, what are you going to do?” I would simply say, “I’ll tell you on Wednesday.”

There was nothing special about Wednesdays… except that it gave me somewhere to place my expectation.

And sure enough—every Wednesday—
God gave me something to say.
A step. A shift. A provision. A testimony.

So I kept showing up to Wednesdays. And when I finally walked into that house, on April Fools Day,  I found a Bible waiting for me.

Inside was a note from the selling  realtor that said: “Your bid was not the highest, but in 1955 this house was built for you. God has blessed it. Enjoy”

Confirmation of what I already knew.
This wasn’t luck.
This wasn’t timing.
This was God.

And here I am, twenty-one years later…
on another Wednesday.
Still standing.
Still provided for.
Still carried.

And if I’m being honest… at 2 a.m. this morning, life tried to get loud again.
Decisions. Pressure. Finances.
The kind of weight that makes your head hurt and your chest feel tight.

But somewhere between the worry and the whisper,  I found my footing again.

And this is what I stood on:
Lord, I trust You more than this situation.
Lord, I trust You more than what this situation is trying to tell me.
Lord, I trust You more than how I feel right now.
Lord, I trust You more than my need to control how this turns out.
Lord, I trust You to take care of me… no matter what this becomes.

Because I’ve seen this before.

Different details… same God.

So no… I don’t really do April Fool’s. Because I’ve lived long enough to know that God doesn’t play about His promises.

This isn’t April Fool’s to me. This is “His April Faithfulness.” A reminder that no matter what I face, God has always had my back.

Not always my way.
Not always my timing.
But always… faithfully.



Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Step Off Now!

Posted in faith, God, health, inspiration, love, relationships, selfhelp, Uncategorized, women's history monthTagged , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

I walked out of the hospital holding back tears.

Not the kind that fall freely…
the kind that sit right behind your eyes
because your heart is full and heavy at the same time.

I had poured in. Tears. Prayers. Words of life. And I meant every bit of it.

Before I even made it off the elevator,
my mind had already started moving ahead of me…Who can I call?
What resources can I connect?
What can I put in place to help carry this?

By the time those automatic doors opened,
I had a plan forming. I was ready to do more.
Be more. Help more.

And right there,  as I stepped outside… I heard it in my spirit:

“Step off now.”

Not later.
Not after one more call.
Not after I “just check on one thing.”

Now.

And it didn’t match what I felt. Because everything in me wanted to stay involved.
To keep my hands in it. To make sure it would be okay.

But I’ve learned something… both in the garden and in life:

There are moments when the worst thing you can do is touch it.

When the soil is too wet even good hands make mud. You can have the best intentions.
The purest heart. The right tools. And still…do damage by stepping in too soon.


“In quietness and trust is your strength…” — Isaiah 30:15

Because sometimes strength doesn’t look like movement. Sometimes it looks like restraint.

In the garden, wet soil means wait.
Let it settle. Let the excess drain. Let the roots breathe again.

And here’s what took me time to learn…Not every plant needs constant tending.Some plants actually thrive when they are allowed to grow without being handled every day.

Too much touching…
too much adjusting…
too much checking… can stunt what was already trying to grow.

In life, in ministry… it’s the same.

I must trust God to show me which seeds I am assigned to plant… and which ones I am not meant to cultivate.

Because every seed I sow is not mine to steward long-term.

Some will be watered by others.
Some will be strengthened in places I will never see.
Some will grow best when I am no longer standing over them.

Doing nothing can feel like neglect. But sometimes it’s obedience.

That day, standing outside those hospital doors, I had to make a decision : Trust what I heard or trust what I felt.

And what I felt said: “Stay. Help. Fix it.”

But what I heard said:

“Step off.”

So I did.

Not because I didn’t care.

But because I trusted that God was already working in ways I could not see… and without making it muddier.

Truth:

Everything that’s messy is not mine to fix.

Some soil needs to settle before anything can grow. And some seeds need space to become
what God intended without my constant touch.


Dear Lord, teach me the difference
between when to step in and when to step back. When my heart wants to help,
but Your Spirit says wait…give me the strength to listen.

Help me trust that You are working even when my hands are still. Show me which seeds are mine to plant… and which ones I must release into Your care and the care of others.


Help me with trusting You with what I have  planted, even when I am not the one called to stay.

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Reaching Beyond the Sky – Mae Jemison

Posted in Black History Month, God, health, inspiration, love, relationships, women's history monthTagged , , , , , , Leave a comment

Sometimes the dream is bigger than the sky.

Mae Jemison grew up in Chicago at a time when few girls were encouraged to pursue careers in science. But curiosity has a way of ignoring limits. From a young age, Jemison loved science, space, and the endless possibilities of the universe.

She studied chemical engineering at Stanford University and later earned her medical degree from Cornell University. Her talents stretched across science, medicine, and international humanitarian work.

But one dream remained constant. Space.

In 1987, Mae Jemison was selected by NASA to join its astronaut program. Five years later, in 1992, she made history aboard the space shuttle Endeavour, becoming the first Black woman to travel into space.

As she orbited the Earth, Jemison carried not only scientific experiments but also the hopes of countless young people who had never imagined someone who looked like them reaching the stars.

Jeremiah 29 reminds us, “For I know the plans I have for you… plans to give you hope and a future.”

Mae Jemison’s journey reminds us that sometimes the future God imagines for us stretches far beyond the horizon we can see.

She once said something beautifully simple:

“Never limit yourself because of others’ limited imagination.”

And by refusing those limits, she helped expand the dreams of generations.

Sometimes the sky is not the limit.

Sometimes it is only the beginning.

Mae Jemison looked up at the stars and believed she belonged there. And through courage, education, and determination, she proved that dreams often grow larger when we refuse to shrink them.

The path to the future begins with one person believing that the horizon can move.

Steps From Our Sisters
Honoring the Women Who Marched Before Us

Curated by
Michelle Gillison-Robinson
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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From Braces to Gold – Wilma Rudolph

Posted in Black History Month, God, health, inspiration, selfhelp, women's history monthTagged , , , , Leave a comment


(June 23, 1940 – November 12, 1994)
Sometimes history runs faster than doubt.
Wilma Rudolph was born prematurely in Tennessee and spent much of her early childhood battling illnesses, including polio. Doctors warned that she might never walk normally again.
For years she wore a leg brace.
But Rudolph’s family refused to surrender to that prediction. With determination, therapy, and relentless support from her mother, Wilma eventually began walking without assistance.
Soon she began running. And she did not stop.
There is a verse in Philippians that says, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” For Wilma Rudolph, those words would come to life in the most extraordinary way.
By the time she reached the 1960 Olympic Games in Rome, Rudolph had become one of the fastest women in the world. There she made history, winning three gold medals in track and field, becoming the first American woman to achieve that feat in a single Olympic Games.
Her victories were not only athletic triumphs. They were symbols.
At a time when segregation still divided much of America, Rudolph returned home to Tennessee and insisted that her hometown parade honoring her victory be integrated. It became the first racially integrated public celebration in Clarksville’s history.
Wilma Rudolph ran past more than competitors. She ran past expectations. And in doing so, she reminded the world that sometimes faith, courage, and persistence can carry us farther than anyone ever imagined.
Sometimes the world writes a story about what you cannot do.
Wilma Rudolph once wore a leg brace and was told she might never walk normally again. Later, she became the fastest woman in the world.
The miracle is not always that the path is easy. Sometimes the miracle is that you keep moving forward anyway.


Steps From Our Sisters
Honoring the Women Who Marched Before Us
Curated by
Michelle Gillison-Robinson
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com