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Trying New Things (Even When They Wiggle”

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Funny how fears can rule you!
All my life I have refused to eat any food that moves, jiggles, or looks like it might still be breathing. Jell-O? Absolutely not. Pudding? Hard pass. Runny eggs? Never. I don’t know why, but something about the texture has always made my stomach flip like an Olympic gymnast with no spotter.


This morning, I found myself in a situation at work  where I either had to eat… or be rude and not eat at all. And tempted as I was to decline, I figured I’d at least try the little thing they called a *Croque*—thick toast, fancy cheeses, tomato jam, and right on top… a sunny side–up egg. You already know what part scared me.


To make matters worse, I had just talked in Bible study the night before  about embracing all that life has to offer and not letting fear write the rules. After fighting cancer , everything else *should* seem easy, right? Right…
Well I’ll be dern. 
It was delicious. Movement and all. I wanted another. 


What I learned from this  was as fattening as the menu;
*Psalm 34:4
“I sought the Lord, and He answered me; He delivered me from all my fears.” 
→ Fear looks small until you’re the one staring down a wiggly egg.
Isaiah 41:10
“Fear not, for I am with you…” 
→ Even at the breakfast table.
2 Timothy 1:7
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear…” 
→ Fear is borrowed—not owned. It’s time to return it
John 10:10
“…I have come that they may have life and have it more abundantly.” 
→ Abundant life sometimes starts with a bite.


Sometimes, it isn’t the “big things” that grow us—sometimes it’s the tiny choices that stretch us beyond our comfort zones. Fear sneaks into the smallest corners: decisions, relationships, opportunities, and yes… even breakfast.
But growth isn’t always loud. 
Sometimes it’s as simple as saying, 
“Lord, help me try something new today.”
And when we do, God gently proves—again and again—that He meets us in the smallest acts of courage.

Sometimes, the thing we feared ends up blessing us. Sometimes, it just ends up being a funny story. Either way, we survive… and grow.
Here’s to trying new things. 
Here’s to facing old fears. 
And here’s to trusting God with both the big leaps and the wiggly eggs.
P.s.  I need more deliverance and prayer time for Jello. LOL
With Love,  Chelle

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ME TOO HONESTY

Posted in cancer, christmas, faith, God, inspiration, love, relationships, selfhelp, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment


For we have not a high priest which can not be touched with the feeling of our infirmities… 
— Hebrews 4:15 KJV 
The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. 
— Psalm 34:18 NIV 


I always joke that I’d never make a good politician because I tell everything about myself—there’d be no dirt left to dig up… unless you checked under the carpet. I’ve always believed wearing my heart on my sleeve comes from having a testimony I can’t keep quiet. God has been too good to me. So yes, I live like an open book… or so I thought.


My ministry has often been wrapped in neat and tidy encouragement: 
• Be joyful in troubled times. 
• Trust God no matter what. 
• He will restore everything. 


Beautiful words. True words. But they were missing one major detail: my honesty about the moments that weren’t neat. Maybe it was pride. Maybe fear. Maybe I didn’t want to hear myself say the things I still hadn’t fully dealt with.


But then came three people—a trio God hand‑picked to “out” me.
One was fighting to hold onto faith when medicine said “no way.” 
One wondered how God could ever love her after the mistakes she’d made. 
One had lost her home under the weight of medical and legal battles.
And each of them assumed their fear, hurt, or shame made them “less faithful.”


That’s when God nudged me—actually, shoved me—to pull out what I kept hidden under my own rug. The thing I didn’t think qualified as a testimony. The thing I didn’t want to admit even to myself. And when I finally said it, each of them responded the same way:
“Why didn’t you tell me?” 
“You hid that well.” 
“I needed that… I’m normal.”
My secret?
“Me too.”


For nearly 14 years, my son battled severe illness — sudden deafness, countless surgeries, relentless pain, and thrice‑weekly dialysis. Many of you know those parts. What I never shared was the day I got mad at God.


After years of waiting, a perfect donor match was found. We went into preparation mode:  cleaning the house for infection control, saving every dime, canceling vacations, even turning down a huge career opportunity. We tip‑toed around loved ones because we wanted to surprise everyone after the transplant.


Then, one morning during devotion, God whispered something odd:
“Forget the Back‑Up Plan.”


I didn’t know what it meant. I assumed it was about finances or job security. Anything except what came next.


Just days before hospital check‑in, a nurse called—cold, flat‑voiced, emotionless.
“No go.” 
No explanation. 
No compassion. 
Just… no.


The ground shifted under me. How was I supposed to tell my son, who was finally hopeful again? I was furious. Was God playing with me like a cat with a string?


I slipped away from everyone. My spirit knew God had a plan, but my heart and my head were wrestling in opposite corners.

Angry,  I reminded God of everything we had endured—the nights I stood by the door listening for his breathing, the extreme pain, the surgeries, the exhaustion, the faithfulness. And if my faith wasn’t enough, surely someone out of all the people who prayed for us had at least one mustard seed to spare!


All I heard back was:
“Forget the Back‑Up Plan.”


Later, we learned the donor had developed a condition that would’ve caused the kidney to fail quickly. If my son had received it, we would have ended up in a bigger storm.


God wasn’t teasing us—He was protecting us.
Just like Jeremiah 29 reminds us, His plans include a future, a hope, and a good end… even when the journey makes absolutely no sense.


And then, in God’s timing—not mine—my son received the kidney he needed. 
That was seven years ago, and today, he is living proof that long journeys still have victorious endings.


I will be honest: I still jump a little when the phone rings at night. Healing from trauma doesn’t come on schedule. Writing this took years because every now and then, the tears still fall.


But I share this so you know:
Whatever you’re going through — you are normal.
Faith does not erase fear. 
Belief does not cancel tears. 
Even rejoicing takes reminders (Phil. 4:4 says it *twice*, so clearly God knows us well).


God is not distant. He feels your pain. He welcomes your honesty. 
He will not strike you down for asking questions.
Just remember:
It is faith that moves mountains, not the absence of emotion.
Cry if you must. 
Hurt if you must. 
Question if you must.
But whatever you do… 
Keep pushing. God isn’t finished.


With love, Chelle

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A Clown Called Worthy

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

2500 people.

A hot, humid Virginia night.

And me—standing on the Dogwood Dell stage, smelling like I bathed in a designer fragrance called “Eau de OFF!”

Listen… I wasn’t just wearing bug spray.

I was marinated in it.

If any mosquito came for me, they would’ve turned around and filed a complaint.

Five minutes.

That’s all the time they gave me to stand there with all my 55 years, all my stories, all my scars, all my holy sass… and share an original piece only about three people were truly going to “get.”

And honestly? I prayed most folks wouldn’t understand it too well — because it was raw, personal, and inspired by that sad little clown inside me who finally decided she deserved some joy, too.

People laughed.

People cried.

People tilted their heads like confused puppies trying to interpret my metaphors.

And yes… one person came strictly to see me fail.(Satan always sends somebody. It’s in his job description.)

And then it happened…

Not my feet—

but my tongue betrayed me.

See, when I get nervous, my words tango.

Between my stutter, my little childhood speech lisp, and this post cancer chemo brain that sometimes takes a coffee break without warning, a few words just packed their bags and left me mid-sentence.

But here’s the funny part:

Most in the audience thought that pause was intentional.

They thought I was giving them deep drama, spoken-word artistry, pregnant silence, poetic tension—

Nope.

Sis just forgot her line.

But God used it anyway.

Because that “mistake” was actually the unveiling of something old—

the little girl who tried her whole life to fit into rooms she was never built for.

The child who once thought her voice was “less than.”

The woman who learned the hard way that the things we try to hide are the things God loves to spotlight.

And on that stage, with my tongue tripping but my spirit standing tall, something broke—and something healed.

I spoke about differences…

disabilities…

heartbreak…

grief…

love lost and breath stolen…

but also about reclaiming my right to be seen, to be heard, to be honored, to be treated with softness, and to outgrow every lie my past tried to tattoo onto my identity.

The applause was loud, beautiful…

but the loudest thing was inside me—

my heartbeat finally syncing with God’s truth:

I am worthy.

Not because I performed.

Not because I impressed anybody.

But because God never once asked me to be flawless—

He only asked me to be faithful.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.”

— 2 Corinthians 12:9

My weakness didn’t disqualify me.

It qualified me for grace.

It made the moment real.

It made it mine.

Sometimes God lets you trip over your tongue so you stop tripping over your past.

Sometimes He lets your words fall so your truth can rise.

Sometimes your “mistake” is just Heaven’s way of proving that you don’t need perfection to be powerful…

you just need courage.

And if a five-minute performance in “OFF!” perfume taught me anything, it’s this:

If God says you’re worthy, no stumble, no lisp, no past, no hater, and no missing word can argue Him down.

Love, Chelle

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Red Light, Green Light

Posted in faith, God, health, inspiration, love, relationships, selfhelp, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

Lately, I’ve been stretched thin — the kind of thin where coffee starts looking like an emotional support beverage, and my bed feels like a distant memory. With relatives going in and out of hospitals, caretaking shifts, family worry, and decision fatigue (add a side of job and regular life), I’ve been functioning on autopilot. And not the smooth, first-class autopilot. More like the “Lord, please fly this plane because I’m tired” version.
Then, yesterday, on the way to yet another appointment, I found myself sitting at a stoplight. I thought it was red, so I just sat there… waiting, replaying the last few weeks in my head. My shoulders were tight, my eyelids heavy, and my spirit stretched. Then suddenly — BEEP! An irritated horn behind me snapped me back to reality.

And that’s when I realized:
I wasn’t sitting at a red light at all.
It wasn’t even green.
It was yellow — a caution light telling me, “Proceed when safe.”

🌟 Misreading the Signals
That moment hit me deeper than I expected. Because stress will have you out here misreading life’s signals.
When you’re tired enough, everything looks like a stop.
A closed door feels like punishment.
A pause feels like abandonment.
A delay feels like failure.
A quiet season feels like rejection.
A yellow light looks red.
But exhaustion is a lens that lies to us.
Sometimes, God isn’t saying “STOP.”
He’s saying, “Chelle, slow down, breathe, look around… and move forward with Me.”

God Uses Yellow Seasons Too
We love the green-light seasons — when everything flows, doors open, blessings drop, and strength is high.
And we understand the red-light seasons — when God lovingly tells us to wait, rest, or retract.
But that yellow light?
That in-between, not-quite-here, not-quite-there space?
We treat it like an inconvenience.
God treats it as instruction.
A yellow season says:
“Be cautious, but don’t freeze.”
“Use wisdom, but don’t quit.”
“Move forward, but stay alert.”
“Pay attention, but don’t be afraid.”
A yellow light is still movement — just intentional movement.

The dig into  this moment wrapped itself around one of my Uncle/Pastor Ron’s favorite scriptures:
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;
in all your ways acknowledge Him,
and He shall direct your paths.”
— Proverbs 3:5–6

My scripturally adjacent version:
When we’re exhausted, our understanding gets cloudy.
When we’re overwhelmed, our perspective gets foggy.
But when we trust God, He clears the road even when our vision is blurry.

Honk Honk,  if you feel like you’ve been waiting at a red light for too long…
Ask yourself gently:
“Is this really a red light…
or am I just too weary to see that God is saying, ‘Proceed — just proceed wisely’?”
Look again.
Take a breath.
Lift your head.
Reset your spirit.
Ask for fresh strength.
Sometimes, the miracle is not the light changing…
it’s your clarity returning.

So before I pick up my keys again and cause some other signal light saints to lose their religion, pray with me:

Lord
I am tired. My mind is overloaded, and sometimes I misread what You’re trying to show me.
Help me see clearly today.
Help me not confuse exhaustion with direction or fear with caution.
Give me discernment to know when to rest, when to wait, and when to move forward.
Thank You for being patient with me when I stall at yellow lights.
Guide my steps. Strengthen my spirit.
And help me proceed wisely, safely, and confidently with You.
Amen.

With Love Chelle

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Bloom Baby Bloom A Christmas Cactus Sermon I Didn’t Ask For

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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.

With Love Chelle

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Tears In My Back Pocket

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Yesterday, I laughed with her  and talked with her the way sisters do. No need to focus on anything.  She seemed stronger than the day before but kept reaching for the ceiling.  I wanted to believe she was just stretching, but the nurse and  I both heard her say “angels” . She smiled a lot, so I asked questions.  According to her nods and nos, they are dressed in white, grown and not babies,  male and are ethnically diverse (except she said no to chinese for some reason.)  We sang a little, we prayed, we did our usual affirmations of God’s power and ours.   She was a little mad because the nurse wouldn’t let me give her the lemon cake she asked for.
  I walked away last night not wanting to leave her, but she pointed me out.  Since I got no calls last night, I fully expect her to be stronger today and be the comeback kid she always is.  Putting together a play list of her favs before I head back up. I’m just  hoping rocking out will bring her joy.
Pushing aside my own feelings, but still hoping for a miracle. It’s God’s will and hers. My job is to just be her sister and put my tears in my back pocket.

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Women With

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They called it an issue, like giving it a polite name would make it, well, more polite.

Untouchable, unapproachable, unlovable.
Lifeforce hemorrhaging from the place of intimacy.  Touch denied, Touch prohibited, Touch blocked.

Trampled , hidden, gossiped.
Deactivated, demeaned, devalued
Thing she couldn’t control. Didn’t do. Couldn’t help.

Covenants with charlatans, witch doctors, healers. Other supposed lovers and brothers. Sisters with cupped ears.
Still drawing from the well alone

Promises broken. Spirit torn. Heart pounded to dust. Body begging to become ashes

Penniless, pointless, purposeless

Dragging the contents of her belly  through the dust deemed for the devil, perfected by the devil, designed by the devil.

Decided. Determined. Devoted.
Above the crush of sandals
Amongst the unwashed and unchanged delivering unclean verdicts

She heard of One in need of one
who would find virtue in just one
Hope, Healing, Whole .
A touch
to be touched
to release the touched
to touch the untouched.




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Stout

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When I describe my baby sis in her formative years, mean is not quite my word.  Mine was always stout.  Even in the few years, I was taller than her (we switched places when I was 15 and she was 8), she just seemed stout.  Feet always planted solidly.   Always ready to do battle.  Stubborn and determined to have her way.

I have come to know over 47 years that her stance was a defense mechanism designed to cover pain, fear, and rejection. Great effort to reveal her layers gave a bird’s eye view of someone kind, giving and comical….albeit mainly with strangers and outsiders. There is safety in relationships with people who can’t bruise your heart.

My first fight with, over and for my baby sis came all on the same day! Incredibly while she was still in utero. I think I was the one who branded her for life or at least set it in motion.

I was 8 going on 9, and though separated from my mom during the school year, I would spend summers with her at the house of horrors on 28th. I called it that because there were  mostly ratcheted kids in the neighborhood.  Country kids like me didn’t understand city kids. Then also because of the  “vision” issues my stepparent had.  He couldn’t clearly distinguish between my mother and her vulnerable daughters.

That particular summer day, I was bored enough to join in a round of jump rope with some neighborhood weird girls.  All was in fun until my mistep stopped the rope.  Apparently, the 8th deadly sin to preteen girls.

The toughest of the bunch ( who ironically later became my ex-sister-in-law) started the taunts in rhythm. “Ya mama is a ho. He ain’t yo daddy though.  She good and pregnant now and you got to go”

My country bumpkin ignorance was showing. I was not sure which part to be upset about.

I knew that man wasn’t my daddy. I was still waiting for mine to manifest and rescue me like in the little Orphan Annie movies.

The “ho” part didn’t phase me because I had heard him call her that a gazillion times. He had called my older sister this. He had called me that. I only realized it was something wrong when he bestowed the moniker on my grandmother, and I watched her turn her back, never to return, to 1616 N. 28th Street.

It was the “she’s good and pregnant now and you got to go” part that gave me the strength to overcome the bully.  I was blinded in rage. I didn’t know why. But the word felt nasty. Demeaning. Evil. 

I had no clue where babies came from. Well meaning but fearful elders had surmised that keeping a young, physically overdeveloped girl ignorant would somehow spare her.  Worked until I realized in my 9th grade biology class what the weird butterflies in my stomach were.

But back to Nessa and the fight of the century. She still has the barely noticeable scar on her chin from my weapon of choice. A rock from the gravel parking lot of the bus dock across from the house

Snitches brought the adults in to pull us apart. 2 bloody she-gladiators determined to win. I was too angry to take the score, and she, too embarrassed that the runt of the litter had bested her.

I had some regrets that day.  Her alcoholic mother stormed out of the house and gave her a public beating that I didn’t wish for. There is a shame in being overcome by a little one.

And mine. Silently took me home, cleaned me up, and never uttered a word. No questions. No answers.  Summer would end soon, and I would be safely back in my country school forgetting.

But my mother had betrayed me. I would not be going to 28th for Christmas break.  She needed 6 weeks for the stork to finish. Like that was a good explanation to a confused child.  All I could remember was the last of the taunt “and you got to go”

12/12/78 brought a stout 12 pounder with her fist up in her first baby mug shot.

Easter break would come before I met Stout. Only then would I see Nessa again. In Mike’s corner store, I bought Apple Uglies for my mom  and offered my nemesis one as an apology. It would be some 25 years later that she admitted she didn’t know where babies came from that day either.

Go figure!!!



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Day 3. Webs, Spiders and Other Creepy Things

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Today I did a thing I am quite proud of. I pushed past my fear of webs and spiders and other creepy things and spent an exhausting amount of hours cleaning and tossing out stuff in the garage.

 Tired,sore,  itchy and most likely washing my hair for several days,  but it feels good to decide what goes, what stays, and what’s going to be sold to the highest bidder. 

This day was this kind of work…. in the natural and in my spirit. Going beyond the fears, doubts, and physical limitations to see what I am really made of. Decluttering and releasing that which no longer serves a purpose to me.    Finding strength and courage to let go. 

The closets and things hiding in the shadows are next.  22 years of junk and 56 years of secrets and faith killers being exposed.  

Finally screaming I AM WORTHY