Tag: Jesus

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Faith With Cream

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If you know me well, you know this:
there is a Do Not Disturb sign on my whole being before my first cup of coffee.


Not because I’m mean — because I’m unfinished. Conversations are risky. Decisions are suspect. Eye contact is optional and not encouraged.

Coffee is not a luxury in my house.
It’s a transition ritual — the bridge between sleep and sanity.

I’ve tried drinking it black.
I respect the people who do.
But I am not one of them.

I also refuse to pay six dollars for a cup of bean water served with foam, a wooden stir stick, and a side of financial regret.

So I do what most of us do in real life:
I work with what I have.

A splash of cream. Sometimes thickened milk.
Sometimes eggnog (non-alcoholic, of course).
Always grace.

And somewhere between the mug and the quiet, God meets me.

Faith works the same way.

There’s a version of spirituality that insists you drink life black —
no softness, no comfort, no pause.
Just endure. Prove you’re strong. Push through.

There’s another version that says peace only comes if you buy it, chase it, or overspend your way into it.

But Scripture gives us a wiser prayer — not for excess, not for deprivation,
but for enough:

“Give me neither poverty nor riches;
feed me with the food that I need.”
— Proverbs 30:8 (NRSV)

That is provision without punishment.
Sufficiency without suffering.

Faith with cream doesn’t erase the bitterness —
it makes it bearable.
It doesn’t deny reality —
it softens it enough to receive joy.

God has always provided daily bread —
not to test us, but to sustain us.

So this morning, if you’re like me —
still warming up, still waiting for the cream you forgot at the store to arrive —
know this:

God is not offended by your need for gentleness.
He honors prayers for enough.

Drink the coffee.
Delay the noise.
Let faith be tender today.

Faith with cream still counts.

Love, Chelle

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Eviction Notices ( Without the Panic)

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As I pack up the end of one year to experience the wonders of the next, I was reminded of how many times I was evicted. Not in the natural sense but by God.


I’ve learned that God’s eviction notices don’t come with flashing lights or raised voices.
They don’t sound like “You’re fired.”
They don’t arrive with chaos or fear.
They feel like stability that no longer fits.


I call it an eviction notice when God begins to unsecure me in a place He never intended to be my final address. Provision is present. The lights are on. The ground is steady. And yet—peace quietly taps me on the shoulder and whispers, “This isn’t home.”


For people like me—faithful to a fault, a true “Stable Mabel”—dependable, steady, the one who shows up no matter what—God doesn’t shove.
He anchors.
He makes sure the floor doesn’t drop out.
He removes the threat of free-fall.
He rearranges just enough, so survival is no longer the distraction.
And that’s when it gets confusing.
Because when panic leaves, clarity arrives.
And clarity is harder to ignore.
An eviction notice from God doesn’t say leave now.
It gently says, don’t give this place your last.
It shows up as: – security without satisfaction
– provision without peace
– competence without calling
It feels like gratitude… mixed with restlessness.
I used to think eviction meant loss.
But I’m learning it often means permission.
Permission to stop confusing loyalty with assignment.
Permission to admit that faithfulness has a future—and it doesn’t always look like staying.


Scripture gives me a different picture of how God moves His children:
“Like an eagle that stirs up its nest
and hovers over its young,
that spreads its wings to catch them
and carries them aloft…”
(Deuteronomy 32:11)


When I think of God’s eviction notices now, I don’t picture being thrown out.
I picture a nest that has grown too comfortable—warm feathers, familiar edges.
God stirs the nest not to harm, but to wake.
There is a push, yes—but there is also hovering.
There is a letting go, but never abandonment.
Before the feathers can be too ruffled,
before fear turns into free fall,
the same wings that nudged are the wings that catch.
That’s what this season feels like.
Not panic.
Not loss.
But the unsettling grace of being lifted by a God who refuses to let me stay small—and refuses to let me crash while I learn.
Here is the grounding truth I’m holding close:
God is not asking me to burn down my life.
He is inviting me to build the next one alongside it—until it’s strong enough to stand.
No rushing.
No scorched earth.
No fear-driven decisions.
Just a quiet understanding that a holding pen is not a home—and that noticing the gate is unlocked is already movement.
If this is an eviction notice, it isn’t cruel.
It’s merciful.
Because God doesn’t evict His children into the cold.
He prepares the next place before He asks us to pack.
And peace—real peace—always goes with us.
— Love. Chelle

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Watch Night Reflection: Auld Lang Syne in a Colder World

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“Auld Lang Syne” (yes… I had to look up how to spell it) is often sung on nights like this, though many of us don’t quite know what we’re saying. The phrase comes from old Scots and simply means “times long past” or “old long since.”


It’s really a question—Should old acquaintance be forgot?


Tonight, we know the answer is no.
Some traditions look different now.
Watch Night doesn’t stretch to midnight anymore.
Candles burn a little shorter.
Doors close earlier than they used to—not because faith has failed, but because the world has grown colder, louder, and less safe.
And yet… here we are.


We gather not to mourn what’s changed, but to remember what still matters.


“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is Your faithfulness.”
— Lamentations 3:22–23 (NIV)


“Auld Lang Syne” isn’t about nostalgia—it’s about honoring the bonds that carried us through. It invites us to pause, look back, and say: We made it. Together.
So tonight, before we step into a new year, let us do a few holy things:
• Give thanks for the days behind us—both joyful and hard
• Release what no longer serves our spirit
• Recommit to the people God placed in our care
• Check on family, even the ones who don’t answer right away
• And if you really love me… bake the baker  a pineapple upside-down cake, because my birthday is in a few days (amen and thank you in advance)


Because in a world that feels colder, connection is resistance.
Community is courage.
And faith—quiet, steady faith—still keeps watch.
So even if we leave before midnight,
even if the song fades early,
we carry the meaning with us:


Old times remembered.
New mercies ahead.
God still with us.
Amen.

Loving you right into our next adventure,  Chelle


Michelle Gillison-Robinson

defygravitywithoutwings.com

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New Year’s Eve Eve – When I woke up, but my brain did not.

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Every writer’s fully awake nightmare: a block.
A brain fart.
Nothing profound to say.
Nothing book-worthy for the new year.

For a brief moment, panic tried to convince me that silence meant failure.
But even this—this momentary panic—became permission.

Permission to pause.
Permission to breathe.
Permission to simply exhale.

Truth be told, I sat there staring at the blinking cursor, waiting for something deep, prophetic, and Watch Night-worthy to appear.
Nothing came.
Not a sermon. Not a quote. Not even a clever churchy acronym.
Just me… and the cursor… judging each other.

This morning I woke up—but my brain did not.
And I’m choosing not to wrestle it into submission.

It’s New Year’s Eve Eve.
There’s still much to do.
Watch Night services to prepare for.
Lives to show up for.
And the familiar hum of New Year’s resolutions floating around everywhere.

Everywhere I turn, people are declaring what they’re going to do in the new year.
Gym memberships. Journals. Green smoothies.
And while I applaud the optimism, I already know February is coming… with receipts.

I’ve come to call them Reso-lies—
because so many of them don’t survive past February 1st.

Yes, I have goals.
Yes, I will aim.
But no, I will not condemn myself or pressure myself into a failure complex when things don’t go according to plan.

This year, I’m elevating two truths instead of a checklist:

“Let the Lord be magnified,
who takes pleasure in the prosperity of His servant.”
— Psalm 35:27

“Delight yourself also in the Lord,
and He shall give you the desires of your heart.”
— Psalm 37:4

I wave both scriptures like a banner—
not as entitlement,
but as alignment.

I wish I could tell you this message came together neatly—
that I woke up inspired, organized, and spiritually glowing.
But the truth is, this word came together the same way my life usually does:
honest, a little tired, and fully dependent on grace.

My prayer for the upcoming stroke of midnight is simple and surrendered:

Lord, take pleasure in this servant
as I magnify You.
Give me the desires of my heart
that line up with the delights of Yours.

Resting is not failing.
Pausing is not quitting.
And waking up—even when my brain didn’t
still counts as showing up.

May the Lord Find You In A Delightful Place!!!!

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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When Christmas Doesn’t Recognize Itself

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I’ll admit it—I chuckled at first.
I saw a video of a broke Hispanic father joking with his young son that ICE had taken Santa. It was meant to be humorous, a dark joke wrapped in the language of survival. I laughed… and then I stopped.


Because once the laughter faded, the weight of it settled in.


How awful to place that kind of fear on a child. How heartbreaking that this joke even works in our current climate. And then it hit me—harder than I expected.


Under the prevailing American mindset of 2025, the very figures we celebrate at Christmas wouldn’t be welcome here.
Santa would be questioned.
Mary and Joseph would be detained.
Jesus would be born into a system already suspicious of Him.
The wise men would be asked to self-deport.
The angels would be accused of violating airspace.
And the shepherds—unhoused, roaming, living off the land—would likely be jailed for existing outside the rules.


Yes, I know—it sounds like a stretch.


And yes, there must be laws. There must be order. There must be boundaries and systems and responsibility. Scripture never denies that.


But Scripture also never allows us to weaponize law against love.
Because the story of Christmas—the real one—is not clean, controlled, or credentialed. It is a story of displacement. Of vulnerability. Of outsiders. Of God choosing to arrive without papers, privilege, or protection.


Mary wasn’t prepared.
Joseph wasn’t powerful.
Jesus wasn’t safe.
And none of them fit the mold of who society typically makes room for.


Yet this is the story we retell every year with lights and carols and nativity scenes that have grown far too tidy.
Somewhere along the way, we learned to celebrate the symbols of Christmas while quietly opposing everything they stand for.
We sing about peace while nurturing fear.
We speak of joy while guarding our comfort.
We proclaim love while questioning who deserves it.


And that should sober us.
Because Jesus Himself said,
“I was a stranger, and you invited me in.”
Not you vetted me.
Not you verified my worth.
Not you made sure I belonged first.
He didn’t ask us to solve immigration policy.
He asked us to recognize people.


The question Christmas asks us—every year, relentlessly—is not whether we believe in Christ, but whether we resemble Him.
Would we make room for Him now?
Or would we ask Him to prove He belongs?
If the answer makes us uncomfortable, maybe that discomfort is holy. Maybe it’s an invitation to return—not to tradition, but to truth.
Because Christmas has always been about God crossing borders.
And love, by nature, refuses to stay contained.

Love Chelle

Love 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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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