Tag: Ministry

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Unmarked Seeds And  Clearance Rack Faith

Posted in cancer, christmas, faith, food, God, health, inspiration, love, money, relationships, selfhelp, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

I was standing there with a handful of seeds and no idea what any of them were.
No labels. No instructions. No promises.
Just seeds.


Some were round. Some looked like dust. Some looked like… dirt pretending to be something important.

And full confession — I made the executive decision to buy them from a discount house online, which should have been my first clue that clarity was not included in the price.


Because planting unmarked seeds feels risky.
You don’t know what you’re committing to.
You don’t know how long it will take.
You don’t know what kind of care it will need — or if you just planted hope, oregano, and disappointment all in the same row.


And that is where I had to repent of my disgust with not being able to see the seeds’ vision.


God has planted a lot of unmarked seeds in me.
No timeline.
No instruction card.
No neat little packet that says “This will bloom in 90 days if watered weekly and protected from disappointment, other people’s opinions, and your own impatience.”


Just obedience.
Just trust.
Just dirt and hope.
Some seeds He plants look insignificant — almost invisible.
Some feel mislabeled by other people.
Some feel like they were handed to us without explanation at all.


And yet… seeds don’t need labels to know what they are.
They just need soil.
Light.
Time.


And a gardener who doesn’t dig them up every five minutes to check progress — which, for the record, I have learned is frowned upon in both gardening and faith.


I think that’s where I get tripped up.
I keep wanting proof before growth.
Confirmation before commitment.
Fruit before faith.


But the seed already knows what it carries — even when I don’t.


“So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth.”
— 1 Corinthians 3:7


Maybe the confusion isn’t failure.
Maybe it’s faith in its earliest form.
Maybe God is saying:
Plant it anyway.
Water it anyway.
Stop interrogating the soil.
Because unmarked doesn’t mean unintentional.
And unseen doesn’t mean unimportant.
And dormant is not the same thing as dead.

Love, Chelle

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Don’t Miss The Baby Turnip

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I couldn’t sleep, again, so I tuned into one of my favorite comfort-watch movies, Last Holiday (2006), starring Queen Latifah.

I’ve watched it more times than I’ll ever confess, but there is one scene I always slow down for.
It’s the kitchen scene. My favorite one.


When Chef Didier looks at Georgia and gently compares her to the baby turnip — the smallest one in the bin, often overlooked, passed by for something bigger or flashier… yet the most tender, the most flavorful, the one a true chef treasures.


That scene gets me every time.
Because the baby turnip isn’t flawed.
It isn’t unfinished.
It isn’t lacking.
It’s just quiet.
And early.
And easy to miss if you’re in a hurry.


And if I’m being honest — part of why that scene hits so hard is because I’ve felt like that turnip.
Overlooked. Passed by. Sitting there thinking, “Excuse me… I am organic, well-seasoned, and emotionally available.”
But folks keep grabbing the big, loud potatoes.

Meanwhile, God is in the kitchen like a five-star chef saying,
“Leave her. She’s tender. She’s not for everybody. And I don’t rush good ingredients.”


Whew.


That’s the holy pause in the story. Not the luxury. Not the bold declarations. But the moment when someone truly sees her.


And isn’t that what so many of us long for?
We grow underground — faithful, steady, consistent — while the world keeps reaching for whatever looks impressive on the surface. We’re not trying to be flashy. We’re just trying to be faithful.


Still, being overlooked can sting.
Especially when you know you’ve been planted, watered, and patient.


But the baby turnip reminds me of this truth: being passed over by people does not mean being passed by God.
God delights in roots.
He honors slow growth.
He protects what is tender until the right time and the right hands arrive.


Sometimes you’re not hidden because you’re insignificant.
You’re hidden because you’re delicate.
Because you’re reserved.
Because you’re meant for a table that understands flavor.


So yes — I may be under a blanket right now pretending I’m Queen Latifah — but I’m also believing, learning, and internalizing this:
I don’t need to audition for worth.
I don’t need to shout to be seen.
I don’t need to rush my growth just because someone else is loud.
If I’m being missed right now, maybe it’s because I’m being saved.
And when it’s my turn?
They’ll wish they hadn’t rushed past the produce section.


Lord, when I feel unseen, remind me that You see fully. Teach me to trust Your timing, even when I feel overlooked. Help me grow deep roots instead of loud leaves,and rest in the truth that being missed by people does not mean being missed by You.


Amen.
Love, Chelle

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Before Coffee,  Before Control

Posted in cancer, faith, God, health, inspiration, love, money, relationships, selfhelp, Uncategorized, workTagged , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

This wasn’t a quiet, reflective night moment.
This was a stressed 3 a.m. morning, when sleep clocks out early and your brain clocks in loud — with opinions.

I wasn’t trying to hear from God.
I was trying to finish a work  email before coffee, which already tells you I was operating without full emotional supervision.

I kept shortening it.
Not because I didn’t know what I wanted to say — but because I know my boss. I know there may still be a meeting. I know she’ll ultimately direct and take charge. So I trimmed. Simplified. Took out the pre-explaining and the imaginary rebuttals. I said what needed to be said and stopped trying to manage the outcome.

And somewhere between rereading sentences and realizing I was too tired to argue with myself, it landed:

This is exactly how we treat God.

We make plans — good ones — and then we hover.
We explain too much.
We brace for redirection.
We add footnotes to obedience.

Not because we don’t trust Him —
but because we really like being on the steering committee.

Meanwhile, God has already given us the playback in His Word.

He’s already shown us how authority works.
How obedience works.
How trust works.

We do our part.
We speak honestly.
We move wisely.
And then we let go — preferably before caffeine convinces us we should take over.

“In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.” – Proverbs 16:9

Not might.
Not if He agrees.
He does.

This morning reminded me that obedience isn’t about directing God — it’s about participating with Him. Doing what’s mine to do without trying to edit the ending.

I don’t need to manage God the way I manage emails.
I don’t need to anticipate His response.
And I definitely don’t need to rewrite His plan before coffee.

Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is hit send, make the coffee, and trust God with the meeting that follows.

Prayer
Lord, help me do my part without trying to control Yours. Teach me to trust You with the outcome, even before the coffee kicks in.
Order my steps, steady my heart, and remind me that You’re already ahead of me.
Amen.

Love, Chelle

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Will & Grace

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I woke up smiling this morning.
Not because everything is fixed.
Not because the season has suddenly gotten easier.
But because I was reminded—before my feet even hit the floor—that God still speaks.


An old friend texted me a few days ago wanting to send me a birthday gift. A cash offering. She said it might be late and she wasn’t sure how much.


I immediately told her no.


Not because I didn’t need it—but because I know her story. I know her struggles.
I didn’t want her putting herself out for me.
My heart was in the right place… or so I thought.


She gently stopped me and said, “God told me to sow—and I won’t interfere with God talking to me.”


Well then.
Message received. Loud and clear.


Here’s the part I hadn’t said out loud to anyone:
With a season of   illness, deaths, job issues, a roof repair, and the bills that follow close behind, one of the quiet things I let go of was me.
Specifically—my hair.
Long twist locs reduced to a ponytail (which is no small feat), creative parting, strategic styling,
and gray hairs hollering, “Didn’t you just get old?”


I was debating whether to cancel my usual four-hour appointment this weekend—or worse, swipe a credit card while praying over the interest rate.


But look at God.


With exactly what she sent, the Old Lady Rescue will be in full effect.
No debt. No guilt. Just provision—with intention.


But the real miracle wasn’t the money.


“Not by might nor by power, but by my Spirit,” says the Lord Almighty. (Zechariah 4:6 (NIV)


It was confirmation—on both sides—that God still speaks.
And He doesn’t just speak to pastors, prophets, or people with microphones.
He speaks to friends.
To women who listen.
To hearts that say yes before they fully understand why.


I was reminded this morning that God provides for all things.
Even the things we label as “extra.”
Even Saturday-morning self-care.
Even hair.


And I was reminded of something else:
sometimes our well-meaning “no” gets in the way of someone else’s obedience.


I thought I was protecting her.
Instead, I would’ve robbed us both—
her of the joy of obedience,
and me of the grace God had already assigned.


“My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.”  John 10:27 (NIV)


There’s a line from the old sitcom Will & Grace that came rushing back to me this morning.
One character is frustrated, asking why God doesn’t talk anymore.
Another replies:
“When having conversations with God, make sure you’re not doing all the talking.”


Lesson learned.


Sometimes God’s answer sounds like a text message.
Sometimes provision looks like hair being restored before pride is.
And sometimes Grace shows up laughing—right alongside gratitude, when we submit to His Will.


Today, I’m thankful.
Not just for the gift—but for the reminder to listen…
and not interfere when God speaks.


Love, Chelle


PS.
A BIG  thank you to my Christmas music loving,  sugary named, millionaire by multiplication, friend who knows how to hear God !!!

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Crumbs Of Grace, My 2nd New Year.

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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.


Love, Chelle

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Clown Shoes On Holy Ground

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I was born on a Sunday.
The old poem says, “Sunday’s child is full of grace.” I believe that’s true — but grace doesn’t arrive in a vacuum.

I was a Sunday child who learned early about loss.
About poverty that makes you grow up faster than your age.
About grief that shows up uninvited and stays too long.
About loneliness that teaches you how to be self-sufficient
and insecurities that whisper you’d better be useful if you want to be loved.

So I learned to protect myself.

I learned how to make people laugh and have them sing along.
How to lighten rooms before they noticed the weight I was carrying.
How to read emotions faster than words.
How to bring joy without asking for much in return.

What I didn’t know then was that God was watching all of it —
not with disappointment,
but with intention.

Scripture says:
“But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise;
God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.”
— 1 Corinthians 1:27

From that place of self-protection, something holy was being formed.

My ministry didn’t begin in confidence.
It began in clown shoes —
joy worn on holy ground,
humor used as armor,
Melodies offered as a bridge when I didn’t yet have language for my own pain.

For a long time, I thought joy meant I hadn’t been hurt enough.
That if I laughed, my grief must not be legitimate.
That holiness required heaviness.

But holy ground taught me otherwise.

Holy ground can handle pride that cracks, not joy.
God was never offended by my antics.
He was present in it.

Somewhere along the way, God redeemed my survival skills.
What I once used to protect myself,
He began using to comfort others.

I didn’t stop carrying sacred things —
I just learned how to carry them without pretending they weren’t holy.

I still wear the clown shoes.
Not because I don’t know sorrow,
but because I do.

Joy is not denial.
Joy is defiance.
Joy is faith that has survived the night
and still shows up in the morning.

So if you see me smiling, laughing, singing,  softening the room —know this:

I am standing on holy ground.
I am carrying sacred things.
And God has always been in the business
of using what the world dismisses
to do His most meaningful work.

Clown shoes and all.

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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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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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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