Tag: Ministry

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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

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When Life Blows Your Cover

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The wind didn’t check my schedule.
It didn’t ask permission.
It didn’t care that I had already done enough for one week, much less one day.


It just came—
hard, sudden, unapologetic—
and ripped the cover right off my greenhouse.


Which, for a brief and dramatic moment, sent me spiraling into full bad plant mommy theology.
I immediately calculated the money I’ve spent on soil, seeds, trays, covers, optimism, and audacity.
I pictured myself explaining—again—how I tried one more time to grow food like a capable adult.
And somewhere in that panic, I accepted my future fate:
All this effort.
All this chaos.
And next spring… one carrot.
Crooked.
Probably bitter.
Judging me.


That’s when my heart did that drop it does when something precious feels exposed.
My babies.
Tender things.
Things still growing.


That’s the panic, really.
Not the storm itself—
but the fear of exposure.


But then grace slipped in quietly.
My son found the cover.
He put it back on.
And it was secured before the temperature dropped.
That timing matters.


Because sometimes life doesn’t destroy what we love—
it just startles us long enough to remind us how vulnerable we are.


The wind will come.
Covers will lift.
Plans will flap wildly in directions we didn’t approve.


But here’s what this moment taught me:
The roots were already stronger than I realized.
Protection returned before the damage reached what mattered most.
God doesn’t always stop the wind.
Sometimes He just makes sure the cold doesn’t get to the roots.


And when I go out later today to check on my babies,
I already know this truth will meet me there:
They survived not because conditions were perfect—
but because grace showed up in time.
So if life feels a little exposed right now…
If the wind rattled what you thought was secure…
Take heart.
The cover can be restored.


Help may already be on the way.
And what God planted in you was made to survive more than you think.
“The wind blew my cover, but it didn’t get my roots.”
“The Lord will keep you from all harm—
He will watch over your life.”
— Psalms 121:7
Sometimes grace doesn’t look like calm skies—
it looks like protection returning just in time.


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

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The Bottom Half Is Resting In Grace

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Finding God in unfinished rooms, half-lit trees, and early-morning grace

I told myself I wasn’t writing today.
But grace has a way of interrupting plans.

For three mornings in a row, I noticed the time: 5:55 a.m.
Not because I was looking for it.
Not because I set an alarm.
I just happened to glance up — again and again — and there it was.

Triple grace.

It found me in a cluttered living room that still smelled wrong.
In a Christmas tree where the lights didn’t reach the bottom.
In a body asking for gentler care that I had time  to give it.

Nothing about the moment was polished.
Nothing was finished.
And yet, grace showed up anyway.

Grace for what I couldn’t fix.
Grace for what was still uneven.
Grace for the parts of my life that are bright in places and dim in others.

So I will add extra  ornaments where the light falls  short and call it enough.
Because sometimes the bottom half isn’t broken —
it’s just resting in grace.

And maybe that’s what grace does best.
It doesn’t announce itself.
It waits to be noticed.

“Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence,
so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.”
— Hebrews 4:16

So I took my own advice.
I rested my bottom half in the grace of a recliner, wrapped my hands around a cup of fragrant peppermint tea, and closed my eyes long enough to ignore the uneven lights.
I didn’t fix anything else.
I didn’t prove anything.
I just rested.

Sometimes grace doesn’t ask us to finish the job.
Sometimes it invites us to sit down in the middle of it.

Love Chelle

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The Cheerful Misfit

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When nothing seems to fit — and that’s okay

“On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable.” — 1 Corinthians 12:22

Some of us move through life with the quiet sense that we’re slightly out of step — not broken, not rebellious, just never quite fitting the mold we were handed. We show up, we work hard, we love deeply… and still feel like we’re standing just off to the side of the picture.


I’ve been thinking about the quiet ones lately. The ones who don’t quite fit the mold. The ones who try to blend in, not because they lack light, but because standing out feels risky — or exhausting — or simply unnecessary.


Somewhere along the way, we were taught that faith, success, and even joy had to be loud. That if you weren’t noticed, applauded, or affirmed publicly, you must be doing something wrong. But that’s not how God works. And that’s not how growth usually happens.


There’s an old song that keeps playing in my head: “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.” It isn’t an upbeat song. It isn’t even particularly spiritual. It’s about a man walking through life wondering why things don’t seem to line up for him the way they do for everyone else. No matter how hard he tries, the rain keeps falling — and there’s a moment where he admits, almost with a shrug, that nothing seems to fit quite right.


That feeling isn’t failure. It’s often the first sign that you were never meant to squeeze yourself into someone else’s shape.


Scripture is full of people who didn’t stand out at first glance. Shepherds. Younger siblings. Widows. Servants. People whose names were whispered before they were ever written down. God didn’t choose them because they were impressive. He chose them because they were available — willing to show up, willing to listen, willing to stay.


Sometimes the calling isn’t to stand out — it’s to stand firm.
To keep doing good when no one is clapping.
To keep loving when you’re taken for granted.
To keep believing when you feel like a misfit in the room.


If you’ve ever felt like you don’t quite belong — not in your family, not at work, not even in church — hear this gently:
You are not overlooked.
You are being shaped.


Raindrops may keep falling. Life may feel a little off-key. But God has a way of using the steady, the faithful, and the quietly obedient to water the very ground where others will one day find shelter.


You don’t have to force yourself to stand out.
You were already set apart.


Prayer
God, it’s me again — the one who sometimes trips over her own feet while trying to do the right thing. Help me remember that even when I feel out of place, I am not out of Your care. Let me stop auditioning for rooms I was never meant to impress. Teach me to walk faithfully, laugh freely, and rest in the truth that You see me — not as a joke, not as an afterthought, but as Your very worthy clown. Amen.

Now Breathe!
Inhale grace. Exhale comparison.
We may not fit every room — and that’s okay.
We belong to God. Now, come walk  forward with God and me as a cheerful misfit.

Love Chelle

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Dear God- Keep  Digging

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Luke 13:6–9 (NIV)
Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree growing in his vineyard, and he went to look for fruit on it but did not find any.
So he said to the man who took care of the vineyard, ‘For three years now I’ve been coming to look for fruit on this fig tree and haven’t found any. Cut it down! Why should it use up the soil?’
“‘Sir,’ the man replied, ‘leave it alone for one more year, and I’ll dig around it and fertilize it.
If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down.’”
Reflection
Some days, I feel exactly like that fig tree—standing in the middle of life, trying my best, but still wondering if I’m producing anything at all. Not the perfect, fruitful tree everyone expects… just the one hoping nobody notices how bare the branches feel.

And honestly? There are moments I feel inadequate in almost every role I hold:
– As a wife, loving deeply but sometimes running on fumes
– As a mother, praying between grown-child crises, hoping I’m guiding well
– As an employee, juggling tasks with a superhero cape that keeps slipping
– As a minister, pouring out even when my cup feels half-empty
– As a singer, trying to bless God while my voice sometimes protests
– As a writer, full of stories but occasionally stuck between heart and keyboard

And in the middle of all that, I slip into development mode: fix myself, improve myself, upgrade myself—as if I’m a project on a deadline.

But Jesus tells a different story.

In the parable, the owner looks at the tree and says, “Cut it down.” But the Gardener—who knows how roots really work—steps between judgment and mercy and says:
“Give her time. Give her grace. Let Me work with her.”

He doesn’t ask the tree to try harder. He doesn’t shame it. Instead He says:
“Let Me dig around her.”
“Let Me nourish her.”
“Let Me tend to the parts nobody sees.”

While I’m busy trying to perfect myself, Jesus reminds me:
“Growth is My job. Staying connected is yours.”

He is not rushing me. He is not disappointed in me. He is not walking away from me.

He is kneeling in the soil of my life saying:
“Give her another year. I know what she needs. Let Me grow her in My timing.”

And that truth sets my soul at rest.
Prayer
Dear Lord,
Thank You for being the Gardener who refuses to give up on me. Forgive me for the times I rush myself, judge myself, or declare myself fruitless. Teach me to rest in You, to stay rooted in You, and to trust Your timing over my own. Dig around me, nourish me, and grow me in the way only You can. And when I feel inadequate, remind me that Your grace is still at work beneath the surface.

With love,
Chelle

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Dear God – When Caregiving Hurts and Heals

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DEAR GOD… WHEN CAREGIVING HURTS, HEALS, AND LEANS HEAVY ON MY SHOULDERS

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9

Today, I told myself I would wait until the temperature climbed to at least forty degrees before heading out to decorate my sister’s room at the nursing home for Christmas. I’m bringing her a case of pudding and picking up the dirty laundry — the usual “big sister doing what needs to be done” routine.

But before I even put my coat on, a familiar companion showed up… guilt.

Not guilt because I don’t want to help — I do, with all my heart.
But guilt because sometimes… Lord, I am just tired.

Tired from my own responsibilities.
Tired from my job, my husband’s appointments, my grandchildren, my writing, my own body acting up on me.
Tired from being pulled in ten different directions while trying to stay whole myself.

And there’s a special kind of guilt that comes with caregiving when you are exhausted.
A guilt that whispers, “You should be doing more.”
A guilt that berates you for needing a break.
A guilt that makes you feel like resting means failing.

Especially when the person you’re caring for is your younger sister.
Only 48.
Bed bound.
Multiple strokes.
Speech limited.
Taken down by a condition we didn’t even know existed until it barged into our family like a thief in the night.

Sometimes I walk into her room and see her lying there, and my heart squeezes because I remember who she used to be — strong, funny, quick-witted, full of that younger-sister attitude that kept me on my toes.
And then another wave hits:
How dare I complain about being tired when she would give anything to switch places with me for one day?

But Lord… that is not the truth You want me to carry.

Because even with her limitations, she and I still do what sisters do:
trash talk, laugh, joke, roll our eyes, and make the nurses wonder what on earth is going on in Room Whatever-It-Is-This-Week.
She’s still her, and I’m still me, and our sisterhood refuses to die.

And yet, the guilt still shows up when I catch myself sighing too hard, or wishing for one quiet weekend, or resenting the cold weather because caregiving is already heavy enough.

But today, Father, You whispered something to my heart:

“Guilt is not your assignment. Grace is.”

Caregiving is not a competition of strength.
It is not a performance for heaven.
It is not a test You are grading me on.

It is love lived out loud.
It is compassion with skin on it.
It is the ministry nobody sees but You.

Decorating her room today…
It’s not just Christmas décor.
It’s dignity.
It’s joy.
It’s a reminder that she is still here and still loved.
And it is a reminder that I am still allowed to be human.

So Lord, when the guilt rises because life is heavy,
when responsibilities pile up faster than I can carry them,
when I feel torn between caring for her and caring for myself,
remind me:

You never asked me to do this perfectly.
You only asked me to do it with love.
And love, even tired love, is still holy.

With Love,
Chelle

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Growing Through It

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Lessons From My Winter Garden

“As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish…so is My word that goes out from My mouth: It will not return to Me empty.”
— Isaiah 55:10–11 (NIV)

I am making my very first attempt at a winter garden. And let me be clear: I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing. Most of my “training” comes from overly enthusiastic YouTube gardeners who clearly have more time and more sunshine than I do.

I’m pretty sure I’ve already spent more money on soil, seeds, and enthusiasm than I’ll ever get back in vegetables. But honestly? For once… I don’t care.

Because this garden isn’t about vegetables at all. 

It’s a grief-release project. A quiet place to pour the pain instead of pouring it on somebody. A space where my hands can work while my heart finally breathes.

The “easy 30-minute” mini greenhouse?
It took three hours, two episodes of repentance, and one conversation with myself about whether I should have just grown plastic plants and called it a day.

Digging in the dirt made my back hurt, and apparently I thought a cubic foot of topsoil stretched farther than it does, because three trips to the garden center fixed that delusion.
Then came the bugs—whole nations of them—each one convinced they belonged in my hair.

But the moment that froze me was this one:
I realized it had been nineteen years since I actually sat—really sat—in my own backyard.
Nineteen years since I noticed the quiet.
Nineteen years since I gave myself permission just to exist.

So here I am, tending this little winter garden—measuring, digging, seeding, watering.
Not because I’m expecting a miracle harvest,
but because there is healing in putting your fingers in the dirt and hope in watching something grow in a cold season.

And wouldn’t you know it…
Right as the first snow has fallen, my mama-heart has kicked in full force.
I keep peeking out the window like a nervous parent on the first day of school.

“Lord, protect my babies.”
My seedlings.
My fragile green hopes.
My little reminders that even in winter, life is possible.

And here is the ironic blessing of it all:

– The “easy carrots” have not even whispered.
– The “super easy spinach” has barely shown a shy fleck of green.
– But the tough plants?
  The kale and Brussels sprouts—those winter warriors—are popping up like four-leaf clovers.

Of course they are.

Because the things we expect to flourish don’t always flourish first.
And the things we expect to struggle often surprise us with their strength.

Just like us.

Some seasons of our lives are carrots—quiet, hidden, working underground where no one can see.
Some seasons are spinach—delicate, hesitant, unsure.
But some seasons?
We are kale and Brussels sprouts—growing in the cold, thriving in hardship, lifting our heads in weather that would take out weaker
The snowfall isn’t a threat.
It’s a promise.

If God sends snow to water the earth,
He will also watch over the seeds He told me to plant—
the ones in my garden
and the ones in my soul.

And just like these unexpected winter greens,
I believe I’m going to grow through this season