I own a microwave. Nothing earth shattering in that announcement.
It lives near my fancy cooktop and mostly functions as a glorified popcorn popper and an occasional emergency coffee reheater. It’s efficient, dependable, and excellent at handling immediate needs.
But it has never fed my soul.
I grew up in a time when food took time. Things were simmered, stewed, braised, and watched. You didn’t just make dinner—you tended it.
I still carry evidence of that kind of cooking: little cuts on my fingers from dull knives, small burns from forgetting pot holders, and an instinct to hover near the stove because something important is happening here.
That’s the kind of faith formation I recognize. Microwave food is fast. Slow cooking is faithful.
The microwave satisfies a craving. The slow pot answers a hunger.
Scripture reminds us that faith was never meant to be instant. “Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (James 1:4, NIV). Perseverance doesn’t microwave. It simmers. It stays. It waits for the work to be done.
We live in a world that loves microwave spirituality: – quick verses – instant breakthroughs – tidy testimonies – three easy steps and a closing prayer.
And listen—I’m not mad at the microwave. Sometimes popcorn is necessary. But popcorn isn’t dinner.
Faith that matures—faith that holds when life burns, cuts, and bruises—comes from staying near the stove. From paying attention. From trusting the heat even when it’s uncomfortable.
Slow-cooked faith smells different. It fills the house. It draws people in before it’s finished. And yes, it might leave a mark or two. But those marks aren’t failures. They’re proof you stayed long enough for God to finish His work.
So if your faith feels like it’s taking longer than expected… If you’re still simmering when you wanted to be served… If you’ve got a few burns and nicks to show for the journey… Take heart. You’re not being microwaved. You’re being made.
Love,Chelle
Prayer Father, thank You for not rushing what You are forming in me. Help me stay near the heat without growing bitter, impatient, or afraid. Teach me to trust the slow work of Your hands, even when I want instant results. And when I’m tempted to settle for spiritual snacks, remind me that You are preparing something that truly satisfies. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
I wasn’t trying to be deep. I was just trying to bake.
One sweet potato pie for my husband. One for my brother-in-law who has been begging for one like it’s his spiritual gift. I followed the recipe to the letter. Measured. Mixed. Poured.
And somehow… there was a full third pie.
Not a baker’s bite. Not a “let me scrape the bowl and see what happens.” A whole, mind-your-business, respectable third pie.
What makes this even better is this: I hadn’t made a sweet potato pie in almost a year.
Not because I didn’t want to. Not because I forgot how. But because life was lifing — loudly — at almost every holiday when joy normally shows up wrapped in foil and tradition. Some seasons don’t leave room for extra, only endurance.
So when I finally baked again, I wasn’t expecting anything special. Just two pies. Just getting back to myself.
And still — there was extra.
I didn’t stretch the recipe. I didn’t short the pies. I didn’t hustle or improvise.
I simply did what was in front of me.
Later that day, the third pie didn’t wait for a plan. Two of my teenage grandsons devoured it like it was made just for them — laughing, grabbing seconds, completely unaware they were standing in the quiet, perfect timing of God’s provision.
And that’s when it settled in.
Sometimes, provision doesn’t shout. Sometimes grace shows up finished. Sometimes, abundance waits patiently for us to notice.
I planned for two. Grace planned for three.
“The Lord will open for you His good storehouse, the heavens, to bless all the work of your hands.” — Deuteronomy 28:12
And this morning, with coffee in hand and crumbs on the counter, I’m reminded: Even after long pauses, God’s timing is still generous.
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.
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.
SCRIPTURE “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” — John 1:5
There is nothing quite like a Christmas tree to expose the truth about your spiritual maturity. All year long you can love people, show grace, pray faithfully, encourage the saints… but let one strand of lights refuse to light, and suddenly you’re two seconds from throwing the whole tree — and half of your Christianity — out the window.
I stood there staring at a section of lights that worked perfectly last year. This morning? Dead. Dim. Uncooperative. Just like some seasons in my life.
I kept tugging, twisting, tapping, and praying under my breath — the kind of “Jesus help me before I say something” prayer. Because I could feel the frustration rising, not just from the tree, but from everything I’ve been carrying these past few days.
And right in the middle of the chaos, God whispered:
“All light isn’t broken… Some of it just needs to be reconnected.”
It stopped me. Because that’s exactly how I’ve been feeling: Tired in spots. Dim in places. Still trying to shine, but not nearly as bright as I used to.
Sometimes we’re not broken — we’re just overwhelmed. Sometimes we’re not out of faith — we’re out of energy. Sometimes the problem isn’t the whole strand — it’s just one little place that needs a reset.
And here’s the good news: God knows how to find the bulb that’s not bulbing. And He knows how to restore the light.
Even when we don’t have the patience. Even when we want to throw everything back in the box until next Christmas. Even when we’re standing there with tears, peppermint tea, and attitude.
Purpose doesn’t disappear because one section went dark. Your life is still lit. Your calling is still glowing. Your hope is still wired into Him.
And if I need to add a new string of lights on top? God isn’t offended. Sometimes grace looks like “make it easier for yourself, daughter.”
So listen… this morning I’m minding my business, sipping my coffee, scrolling Facebook, and everyone and their Grandma is posting pictures of these big, full, show-off Christmas cactuses blooming like they’re auditioning for The Voice.
And then there’s mine. Sitting in my living room. Looking like it’s thinking about blooming, but hasn’t quite made a decision. One tiny blush of color like, “Don’t rush me, sis. I’m processing.”
I’m looking at this plant like, “Ma’am… it is almost Christmas. I need you to get it together. Shine for the people.”
So I start Googling tips. Because I refuse to be the only one with a cactus that looks like it has low iron. And baby… what I found? A whole WORD. A sermon. A Bible study. A TED Talk.
Apparently, if you want a Christmas cactus to bloom, you have to do something called “darkening to bloom.”
Yes. You literally put that plant in the dark 12–16 hours a day like it’s grounded. Then! You’re supposed to pluck off the long, lazy leaves (but don’t you dare use scissors). Keep it a little colder. Restrict its comfort. Limit its light. Disrupt its cozy routine. And after all that? …It blooms. It blooms brighter because of the dark. Not the light. Not the pampering. Not the perfect conditions. THE DARK.
And I said, “Well God… if You wanted to speak to me directly, you didn’t have to drag my plant into this.” Because sometimes life puts us into a “darkening to bloom” season. Not because we’re failing. Not because we did anything wrong. Not because God forgot us. But because the bloom requires it.
Sometimes He limits our distractions. Sometimes He cuts off excess. Sometimes He cools the room so we stop running and finally rest. Sometimes He hides us away long enough to develop something deep, strong, and beautiful.
And just like that cactus, you won’t even notice the change happening…until a day, somebody walks past you and says: “Oh wow… look at you shining.” And you’ll realize the dark didn’t break you — It prepared you. It strengthened you. It sharpened you. It positioned you. It pushed your bloom right to the edge of the breakthrough. So if you’re in a season that feels cold, quiet, hidden, or clipped… Baby, don’t panic. You’re not dying. You’re developing. And when the time comes? Listen… You’re gonna bloom so hard folks will swear you’re a Christmas cactus on the front page of Facebook. Amen and amen.
It was one of the oddest days of my life. Was sitting at my desk frozen when I got the call from my hometown, sherrif. My brain went into autopilot, and I kept trying to work with tears streaming down my face. My then boss had to force me to breathe and go home. The love my co-workers showed was unmatched. Could not have made it through the coming days and the funeral without them.
He was a complicated man that I did not get to know until he was an old man in need of redemption and forgiveness. In the beginning, I was an abandoned child, looking for answers, who only served him out of obedience to my God, and the Word said to honor thy father. In the end, I became the child thru whom he wanted to give answers and ask forgiveness from his other children thru.
We didn’t have time to become father/daughter in the traditional sense. What we did have was card games, sweet potato pies, road trips, old Navy stories, testaments of the grandparents I didn’t get to meet, and a soft spot for healing to begin. He became my Pop, and I became his church mother. LOL and inside joke between us.
I figure sometimes that I was the “Moses” baby. … shipped off with no knowledge of him…so I could return and become a path to his need for freedom. Though I 💯 validate it, I am blessed to never quite have known the anger my sisters and brothers felt for him. I suppose my heart was kept in reserve for the old man and young child of God he would become.
Still missing you, Pop. I thank you for the gift of the crazy brood of sisters and brothers I inherited 9 years ago.
I hope amongst the milk and honey that there is strong coffee and sweet potato pie!!
Edgar Jerome “Jerry” Franklin-Bradshaw March 1, 1944 – February 5, 2015
Yesterday, I had an elderly woman who had been raising her son alone for 42 years call seeking to place a help wanted ad. Her son is extreme on the spectrum, non-verbal, rigid and combative. She was desperately in need of help but kept saying nobody will want this job. Her husband had even left her 30 years ago when she would not institutionalize the son. I let her talk and took notes as I went.
After she composed herself, she apologized and I let her know that no apologies were necessary. I then proceeded to read to her the ad copy I crafted while I had been listening. She was surprised and asked me how I could possibly read her mind like that. ” Was I a magician?”
After my chuckle, I explained to her that though my situation is not as extreme as hers, I have two special needs adult sons in my home and I have understood the challenges, the fears, the isolations, but also the hopes, loves and joys.
We went on to talk about an hour for what should have taken 5 minutes. But I knew this customer was going to be the most important one of the day. As, we finally got to the conclusion, she tells me that her son gives her one bright spot everyday, he refuses to go to bed without giving her a gentle kiss on the cheek. She then told me that God had sent me to be her extra bright spot for the day.
It took me an extra 5 minutes after we hung up to pull myself together. She has no clue that God sent her to remind me that I am more than just a worker bee or a hamster on a wheel. I needed to know at that very moment that I have purpose beyond the bottom line.
The day my mother died is the day I really knew she loved me. A strange thing to say, I know, but my truth nevertheless. The understanding of all things from the beginning came with the ending.
I had crawled in bed with her waiting for her last organic breath in a sterile room. My nose irritated by the scents of alcohol and i.v. Her nose bloody from forcing oxygen. I tried to clean her face. Lotion even but tears would fall from her left eye. My strong mother didn’t cry. She “leaked” as we would call it. I didn’t want to take it away from her. Truth is, I didn’t want to lose them myself. If I wiped them, I would never again see the strength of her womanhood again.
She hadn’t spoken for 3 days. Not since she had given me some rather poetic instructions. Even now I laugh that she and I could never have a straight conversation. Always a movie script of some kind. Meaningful now, drama back then.
When the silence came, her heart monitor spoke for her. The number of beats would rise and fall as different voices entered the room and addressed her all with the same tone. “Sister?” “Ma’cia?” “Mama? Mama? MAMA!!”
I knew her 3 day rule. If she didn’t rise in the three days like Jesus did, then she didn’t want to be hooked to nothing that would change that. She was adamant about not being trapped in weakness.
But I punked out. I sang “He’s sweet I know” as if that were going to change her mind. She waved a few times. I never knew if she was raising her hands in worship or telling me to shut up.
I have always felt I failed my younger sister by allowing her to sign those dreaded papers. I remember the mix of sadness and anger in her eyes as she penned her name and then literally ran from the room. It would be days before I saw her again
I’m was not quite cognitive of where my older sister was in that moment. I knew she was there. I suspect she was no longer the Big Sister at that moment but too was again the child with the single pocahontas ponytail praying for Mama not to go. She, like Mama, would try hard to not show it, but vulnerability reveals itself even in stone.
I only found out today that they had their private moment at some point that I must have slipped away. There was a forgiveness time involved and a phone conversation with her best friend. I pray she will tell you all about that someday.
The youngest was barely a preteen. Sheltered in the room with the grandchildren. The “adults ” always feeling the need to protect them from the inevitable.
I too made that mistake. I had sent my two youngest kids to school that Monday. Not sure if I was shielding them from death or from seeing me in a child like desperation. Children need to know that their parents are human too.
The treatment of my eldest, I regret the most. I had him when I was 15. He was her baby. Her son that I birthed. She would laugh and say that I was just the “egg bearer.”
Through well meaning “it’s going to be okay” I neglected to talk to him about God’s Will and how a person’s will outweighs our tears. At the moment of her death, he comes flying in with a bouquet of get well balloons, not realizing that her version of getting well meant leaving us behind.
Let me correct that. She didn’t leave us behind. She left this world behind and we just happened to be still in it.
The room was full though. Sister’s sisters and Sister’s brothers (one on the phone was in New York). There were so many, 10 of them total. Being on the oldest end, she was a second caregiver to most of them. Missing completely was the youngest brother. He was her original baby boy and had been murdered by a robber a few short years before. Honestly, I believe that was the day she really died. Her broken heart never quite recovered and affected her body from that point forward.
Her mother, the rock of our family, had been in and out, wheeled in a chair. But I still can’t picture her in the room at that moment. I was told later how she drew close to her daughter and gently rubbed her forehead. A silent expression of love that is the hallmark for much of my family. This was the second child she had lost at too young of an age. The baby boy, Ronnie at 33 and my mom not quite 54. Her soul was hurting in ways I cannot and will not try to imagine.
Slowing beeps and tubes being removed, counting each deep draw and release. Five. The number of grace. A number I now have a love / hate relationship with. On Valentine’s Day no less. A day she has previously disliked and one I still avoid 21 years later.
I remember my pastor/godmother trying to pull me away and I screamed at her “she brought me in this world, I can go with her out.” I don’t think I ever apologized to Cat for that. Not sure I should, that pull almost took my mother’s love from me.
In that moment, holding fiercely to my mother’s arm, I felt her. Not just a shockingly strange amount of energy that only those who have held on to a transitioning person know.
But I felt her.
It should have been a peaceful moment. But I was 31 years old and wasn’t ready for her to go yet. I had questions only she could answer. I screamed. I cried. I prayed in tongues so strong and loud that Cat asked the nurse to give me a sedative.. Even now I believe my comical mother got a chuckle out of that.
But I felt her.
She was free. She was seeing her Savior. She saw that Ronnie was okay.. Everything that ever burdened her was being released.
But I felt her.
Though it was only mere minutes it felt like hours. Holding on to her arm, that ironically had no more strength or warmth, I believe I was selfishly trying to hold on to her. Hold on to her because I still needed her. I still wanted her.
But I felt her. And she was finally fierce.
Her love was intense. It was given. It was written. It was unspoken. It was taken for granted. It was appreciated. It was too much and not enough all at once. It hurt her. It hurt others. It healed her and she healed others.
And in that moment, I felt her. I felt her love and I didn’t cry for her again for one full year. My mother showed me she loved me when she let me feel her.
November 8, 2021. An excerpt from “My Mama’s Love Is Like …”
I was out in the Carytown area yesterday. One of the worst places to be when you know that you can’t have solid food for 36 hours before a medical test. But I was looking to pick up my last meal for a few days and wanted something special.
However my husband and I ran across homeless people near the trash cans of so many of these trendy restaurants . I began to weep when I saw them because this is America….the land of excess…and yet so many are living like this. Carytown flows with cash. Most times I can afford nothing there. It was heartbreaking seeing people of all ages and colors hoping for some wasteful person’s scraps.
This situation is only exasperated by Covid closing so many churches and shelter resources. It is also created by a ” I got mine. You get yours” attitude so many financially secure people have.
We don’t have a lot in our house but we are blessed. My husband and pooled what we had and bought as many sandwiches and fries we could handle. Thank you to the Carytown McDonald’s for asking what we were doing and donating a matching amount of bottled water.
I was shook so much by one married couple out on the corner with what seemed to be all of their possessions huddled against the cold. I freaked when I noticed a baby stroller but was relieved to find it was a very old dog wrapped in a blanket. I’m not a pet lover but I had to feed it. The poor thing was so tired looking he barely lifted his head at the smell of food. The young husband was so grateful he started to cry.
In the age of Covid you can’t touch, get too close or even see smiles anymore. But I was struck by all the emotions in his eyes and they spoke the volume of the problems in the human experience. His eyes were a golden brown color that I have never seen before and pierced right through me as a reminder to be grateful in all things. Even under the dirt and behind a make shift mask his face glowed.
I also noticed that they still wore their wedding bands. Tells me that they have not been out there too long. Most folks would have pawned for a room. Also tells me that they are determined to stay a family.
My husband and I made one last pass thru the street to make sure we hadn’t missed anybody we saw. Thought I had gone crazy because the couple and that old dog were suddenly gone. No way they could have moved that fast. We had just circled the block.
All I can do is wonder if we had been visited and tested. I pray we passed. My own food is still in the fridge. No need for it. My heart filled me.
defygravitywithoutwings.com 