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His April Faithfulness

Posted in cancer, cancer, faith, God, health, inspiration, love, moneyTagged , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Even though today is April Fool’s Day…
for me, it marks something completely different.

Twenty-one years ago, I went from being a near-homeless divorcee with three kids in tow to becoming a homeowner in 90 days.

And I still smile when I think about it. Because I was so careful not to say anything that might disrupt what God was doing, that every time someone asked me, “Chelle, what are you going to do?” I would simply say, “I’ll tell you on Wednesday.”

There was nothing special about Wednesdays… except that it gave me somewhere to place my expectation.

And sure enough—every Wednesday—
God gave me something to say.
A step. A shift. A provision. A testimony.

So I kept showing up to Wednesdays. And when I finally walked into that house, on April Fools Day,  I found a Bible waiting for me.

Inside was a note from the selling  realtor that said: “Your bid was not the highest, but in 1955 this house was built for you. God has blessed it. Enjoy”

Confirmation of what I already knew.
This wasn’t luck.
This wasn’t timing.
This was God.

And here I am, twenty-one years later…
on another Wednesday.
Still standing.
Still provided for.
Still carried.

And if I’m being honest… at 2 a.m. this morning, life tried to get loud again.
Decisions. Pressure. Finances.
The kind of weight that makes your head hurt and your chest feel tight.

But somewhere between the worry and the whisper,  I found my footing again.

And this is what I stood on:
Lord, I trust You more than this situation.
Lord, I trust You more than what this situation is trying to tell me.
Lord, I trust You more than how I feel right now.
Lord, I trust You more than my need to control how this turns out.
Lord, I trust You to take care of me… no matter what this becomes.

Because I’ve seen this before.

Different details… same God.

So no… I don’t really do April Fool’s. Because I’ve lived long enough to know that God doesn’t play about His promises.

This isn’t April Fool’s to me. This is “His April Faithfulness.” A reminder that no matter what I face, God has always had my back.

Not always my way.
Not always my timing.
But always… faithfully.



Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Flowers Don’t Apologize

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

This prayer is for those who need to realize…
you can’t have flowers without the dirt… and some rain.

I know… we love the bloom.
We love the part people can see.
We love the color, the beauty, the evidence that something worked.

But real growth?
It doesn’t happen in the spotlight.

It happens down in the dirt.
In the messy places.
In the seasons that don’t look like anything is happening at all.

And if we’re being honest…
some of us have been side-eyeing the dirt in our lives.

Questioning it.
Trying to rush out of it.
Asking God why it had to be this way.

But this morning… let me remind you gently…

“His mercies are new every morning.”
— Lamentations 3:23

That means yesterday’s mess didn’t disqualify you. It didn’t ruin the process.
It didn’t cancel what God is growing in you.

It watered something.

Even the hard conversations. Even the tears.
Even the moments you wish you could redo.

God used it.

So yes… there may be some mud in your life right now. Yes… it may feel uncomfortable.
Yes… it may not look like growth yet.

But that doesn’t mean nothing is happening.
It means something is forming beneath the surface.

So today… we make a choice.
We choose to rejoice.
Not because everything feels good…
but because we trust what God is doing.

We rejoice in all things…
because we understand that dirt and rain
are part of the process of becoming.

And when it’s time to bloom…
You won’t have to explain a thing.

Flowers don’t apologize for the dirt it took to grow them.

Dear God,
Thank You for not wasting the dirt in our lives. Even the parts we didn’t choose…
even the seasons that felt heavy, messy, and unclear. 

Help us to trust You in the middle of it. When we don’t see growth…
when all we feel is the weight of the soil…
remind us that You are still working beneath the surface.


Teach us to stop resisting what You are using.
Give us the grace to endure the rain and the patience to wait for what is being formed.
And when it’s hard… help us to rejoice anyway. Not because everything feels good,
but because You are good in everything.

Grow us in the places we tried to escape.
Strengthen what we thought was breaking.
And when it’s time to bloom…
let it be undeniable that it was You.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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When You Finally Deal With the Root

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


I’ve been out there in the yard, minding my business, working on my garden. And while I was planning what I could grow…
I kept looking over at this little tree behind the garage.

Now let me tell you this thing has been cut down more times than I can count.
And every time I thought we were done?
Here it come again.
Fresh. Bold. Unbothered. Like it pays a light bill back there.

And what really got me?

I realized I would have a whole lot more room
to grow something good…if that little joker would just go on and leave.**

But it won’t.
Because it’s not gone.
It’s rooted.

As frustrating as it is, I’m not losing. I’m just not dealing with the part that matters.
Because clearly…
cutting it ain’t killing it.

Some of us living like that. We trimming behavior. Fixing attitudes—for a week. Saying “this time I mean it” with our whole chest.

Meanwhile the root sitting underground like:
“I’ll be back.”

See, we like surface work. It’s quicker. It’s cleaner. It lets us feel productive without being uncomfortable.

But roots?
Roots require honesty.
Roots require time.
Roots require letting God get into places we’ve been managing real well on our own.

And God, in all His love, will look at something we keep trimming and say: We not doing this again. Not because He’s harsh. But because He’s not interested in your exhaustion becoming your lifestyle.


“See, I have set you this day over the nations and over the kingdoms, to pluck up and to break down, to destroy and to overthrow,
to build and to plant.” Jeremiah 1:10

Did you catch that order?
Pluck up first.
Then build.

Because God is not about to plant something new on top of something that keeps coming back.

Let me say it plain: Some of us don’t lack space for growth. We just haven’t removed what’s taking up room.

And I know… we get attached to our coping mechanisms. We get used to our patterns. We learn how to function with things that were never meant to stay.

But there comes a moment when you get tired enough to say: “Okay God…we not cutting this again. We removing it.”

Dear God, I see now that some things haven’t left because I haven’t let You deal with the root. Give me the courage to stop managing what You’re trying to remove. Clear out what’s taking up space in me so something better can grow. And help me trust that what You uproot is making room for something good.
Amen.

—

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Step Off Now!

Posted in faith, God, health, inspiration, love, relationships, selfhelp, Uncategorized, women's history monthTagged , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

I walked out of the hospital holding back tears.

Not the kind that fall freely…
the kind that sit right behind your eyes
because your heart is full and heavy at the same time.

I had poured in. Tears. Prayers. Words of life. And I meant every bit of it.

Before I even made it off the elevator,
my mind had already started moving ahead of me…Who can I call?
What resources can I connect?
What can I put in place to help carry this?

By the time those automatic doors opened,
I had a plan forming. I was ready to do more.
Be more. Help more.

And right there,  as I stepped outside… I heard it in my spirit:

“Step off now.”

Not later.
Not after one more call.
Not after I “just check on one thing.”

Now.

And it didn’t match what I felt. Because everything in me wanted to stay involved.
To keep my hands in it. To make sure it would be okay.

But I’ve learned something… both in the garden and in life:

There are moments when the worst thing you can do is touch it.

When the soil is too wet even good hands make mud. You can have the best intentions.
The purest heart. The right tools. And still…do damage by stepping in too soon.


“In quietness and trust is your strength…” — Isaiah 30:15

Because sometimes strength doesn’t look like movement. Sometimes it looks like restraint.

In the garden, wet soil means wait.
Let it settle. Let the excess drain. Let the roots breathe again.

And here’s what took me time to learn…Not every plant needs constant tending.Some plants actually thrive when they are allowed to grow without being handled every day.

Too much touching…
too much adjusting…
too much checking… can stunt what was already trying to grow.

In life, in ministry… it’s the same.

I must trust God to show me which seeds I am assigned to plant… and which ones I am not meant to cultivate.

Because every seed I sow is not mine to steward long-term.

Some will be watered by others.
Some will be strengthened in places I will never see.
Some will grow best when I am no longer standing over them.

Doing nothing can feel like neglect. But sometimes it’s obedience.

That day, standing outside those hospital doors, I had to make a decision : Trust what I heard or trust what I felt.

And what I felt said: “Stay. Help. Fix it.”

But what I heard said:

“Step off.”

So I did.

Not because I didn’t care.

But because I trusted that God was already working in ways I could not see… and without making it muddier.

Truth:

Everything that’s messy is not mine to fix.

Some soil needs to settle before anything can grow. And some seeds need space to become
what God intended without my constant touch.


Dear Lord, teach me the difference
between when to step in and when to step back. When my heart wants to help,
but Your Spirit says wait…give me the strength to listen.

Help me trust that You are working even when my hands are still. Show me which seeds are mine to plant… and which ones I must release into Your care and the care of others.


Help me with trusting You with what I have  planted, even when I am not the one called to stay.

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Before The Final Hour

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There is a moment before everything becomes real.

Before the doors open.
Before the voices gather.
Before the weight of it settles in your chest.

A quiet hour. The kind where time pauses just long enough for memory to walk in unannounced and sit beside you.

I went to prepare myself to show up for someone else’s loss… and found myself standing in the doorway of my own.

Because grief does not stay in its lane.
It recognizes itself.
It echoes across years.
It gently taps your shoulder and whispers,
“You remember this.”

And in that quiet hour…before the final hour… when a casket tries to close a chapter in a well read life…. I remembered something sacred:

My mother never really left.

I see her… in the mirror when my face catches the light just right.

I hear her in my voice when I’m talking to my children and don’t even realize it at first.

And lately… I feel her in the way I beam at my grandchildren. That deep, undeniable joy
that doesn’t ask permission to show up on your face. The kind that says,
“This love didn’t start with me.”

She shows up in the kitchen. In the way I don’t reach for measuring cups…but trust a palm and a pinch of two fingers to decide what salt and sugar ought to do. Somewhere along the way, her tongue for spices became mine.

She shows up in the way I clean. Because a house is not clean unless there’s a cap of bleach poured into a small tub basin in the sink… and oh the smell of Pine-Sol rising up like proof. That sharp, honest scent that says,
“Now it’s done right.”

She shows up in my music. Because cleaning without music? That’s just work. But cleaning with Aretha Franklin? That turns into a whole moment.

And somehow… the dance is not right unless it happens in the living room.  Not the kitchen. Not the hallway. The living room. Like joy has a location memory.

She shows up in my mornings. In a cup that’s more cream than coffee.


In quiet writing hours before any rooster thinks about waking up. Discipline that looks like devotion. Routine that feels like inheritance.

And every now and then… when something stirs my spirit the wrong way, I catch myself standing with my hand on my hip, leaning just a little to one side, squinting my eyes like I can hold the tears back if I narrow the view.

It was intimidating on her six-foot frame.
Not quite the same on my five-foot-three one… But I try. Oh, I still try

And now I realize  what I thought was loss…
started to look a lot like continuation.

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you.” — Isaiah 66:13

Because God, in His mercy, doesn’t just take people home…
He lets them leave themselves behind in us.
In our habits. In our preferences. In our voice. In our love for the next generation.

So yes… there is a final earthly hour. A moment where everything becomes real.

But there is also this quiet, sacred truth:
She is still here.
In the mirror.
In the movement.
In the memory that turned into muscle.


In the love that keeps reaching forward.

Dear Lord, meet us in that quiet hour before everything becomes real. When memory rises and grief feels close enough to touch, let it carry comfort with it. Remind us that love does not end… it continues in us. In what we do without thinking. In what we carry without trying.


Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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The Things I Didn’t Throw Away

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All my life, I’ve collected broken things.

Toys missing pieces.
Tools that didn’t quite work right anymore.
People… especially people.

Not because I didn’t notice what was wrong.
But because I could still see what was there.

I think my favorite rescue was a Christmas ornament—
a little elf on skis… missing one leg.

He couldn’t glide like he was made to.
Couldn’t balance like the others on the tree.
But I kept him anyway.

Hung him where he could still be seen.

Then there was that little robot suncatcher.
The one that doesn’t dance anymore
because his color panel is worn down.

He just… stands there now.
Still catching light, just differently.

And just this week, I stood in a nursery
while someone said, “Don’t buy those.
They’ll only last a week.”

Tulips on the clearance rack.
Already on their way out.
And I thought, a week of beauty is still beauty.


So I bought what I could afford.
Not to save them forever…
just to enjoy them while they’re here.

I’ve never been drawn to perfect things.
Perfect things don’t need you.

But worn things? They need a little time.
A little patience. A little belief that they’re not finished yet.

And somewhere along the way, I decided this:
Just because something doesn’t work the way it used to… doesn’t mean it has no use at all.

Sometimes it just needs a different kind of care.
A slower hand.
A softer place to land.
Someone willing to stay a little longer than is convenient.

Because even the smallest things,
a crooked ornament,
a quiet presence,
a short-lived bloom,
can still add something to the world.

I’ve always believed there is a kind of invisible ledger… a quiet tally being kept.
Not of perfection. Not of productivity.

But of smiles.

And if something—anything—can still add to the smile quota of the world… then it still has value.

I’ve seen what happens when you don’t give up too quickly. I’ve ve seen people who were overlooked become the very ones who light up a room.

I’ve seen what love can do when it doesn’t rush off at the first sign of difficulty.

So if you’re feeling worn today…
set aside…
like maybe people have decided you’re too much or not enough,

Hear me:

You are not something to be discarded.
You are still capable of adding something good to this world. Even if it looks different than it used to. Even if it’s quieter than before.

Even if it’s just one smile.

And that counts more than you think.

Matthew 5:7
“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.”

I see you — still adding to the world in quiet ways that matter more than you know.

Love, Chelle
defygravitywithoutwings.com

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Sister Rosetta Tharpe — Godmother of Rock And Roll

Posted in Black History Month, faith, God, inspiration, women's history monthTagged , , , , , Leave a comment

Before rock & roll had a king… there was a woman with a guitar in church. Before They Called It Rock
Sister Rosetta Tharpe was born in 1915 in Cotton Plant, Arkansas. By 6 years old she was already traveling with her mother, performing in churches across the country. A little girl with a guitar and something on her life that didn’t wait for permission.
By the 1930s, she had moved to Chicago and New York, recording gospel music that didn’t sound like what people expected. Her 1938 recording of “Rock Me” carried gospel into spaces folks said it didn’t belong.
Sometimes God will let you sound different before the world catches up.
She played electric guitar. Loud. Joyful. Unapologetic. Too church for the world. Too worldly for the church. But she didn’t split herself to make others comfortable. She carried both.
By the 1940s she was touring, recording hits, and drawing crowds.
In 1951, she turned her wedding into a concert at a baseball stadium in Washington, D.C., with over 20,000 people in attendance.
She was not standing on the front lines of a march, but make no mistake, Sister Rosetta Tharpe was pushing against every line drawn around her. In a time when Black women were expected to be quiet, when stages were dominated by men, and when gospel music was supposed to stay inside church walls, she stepped forward with an electric guitar and refused to shrink. She played to integrated audiences, carried Black gospel into mainstream spaces, and stood fully in her calling without asking permission to belong. She didn’t organize protests, but every note she played disrupted something that said she should not be there.
“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed…” — Romans 12:2
Her guitar style helped shape what became rock & roll. Artists like Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and Elvis Presley drew from that sound. But her name was not always given its place.
Because sometimes history doesn’t forget. Sometimes it just misplaces.
“For nothing is hidden that will not be revealed.” — Luke 8:17
She  later settled in Richmond, Virginia and lived in the  Barton Avenue area. No spotlight. Just legacy waiting. But Heaven Kept the Records. In March 2026, the city council of Richmond, Virginia voted to rename a portion of Barton Avenue in her honor, recognizing her contributions to music and culture.
She didn’t wait to be understood. She played anyway. And maybe what feels unseen in you is not buried — just early.
“In due season we shall reap, if we do not lose heart.” — Galatians 6:9
In her later years, Sister Rosetta Tharpe carried both the weight of her health and the quiet of a life that had already poured so much out. She passed in 1973 in Philadelphia after complications from a stroke, having lived a life that did not follow straight lines—married three times, with no children to carry her name forward in the traditional sense.
And yet, her legacy did not fade. It waited. Thirty-four years after her death, she was finally inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, a long-overdue recognition for a sound she helped birth. Even Johnny Cash once recalled hearing her records in shops, noting how her music left an imprint before many even understood what they were hearing.
What About You? Maybe what you’ve poured out feels unseen. Maybe it feels like it didn’t matter. But what if it’s not gone just waiting what heaven records earth will eventually recognize.
Breadcrumbs From Our Sisters Who Marched Before Us.
— Love, Chelle
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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They Grow While You’re Gone

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It’s 5:30 a.m.
I’m sipping my coffee, staring out the window into the darkness… somehow convinced I can see trouble in my garden from 100 feet away.

Don’t judge me… but I really considered stepping out there in my robe in 35 degrees to go check on my plant babies.

And somewhere between that first sip and the silence… I caught myself.

This isn’t about seeds.

This is about how easily my mind will grab hold of something—anything—and worry it to death.

Work stress that doesn’t clock out when I do.
Money questions that don’t always have quick answers.
A newborn I just prayed over in the hospital,
with whispers of concern about her ability to thrive.
Friends walking through the slow, sacred heartbreak of losing their parents…
and me carrying pieces of that with them.

All real things. All things that matter. All things experienced before.
And yet…

Look how quickly my heart starts hovering over them, like it’s my job to make sure everything turns out alright. Like if I think about it enough, check it enough, replay it enough…

I can help God along.

But I can’t.

Because even when I am doing the work of God, it is still God who is working.
I am not the outcome.
I am not the fixer.
I am not the one holding it all together.

I am just… hands in the soil.
Faithful to plant.
Faithful to water.
Faithful to show up.

But the growing?
The healing?
The sustaining?

That was never mine.

And if I’m not careful, I will let the weight of what I care about pull me out of the very places God is calling me to be present.

Sitting here with my coffee, trying to manage what He already has in His hands…
while He’s already prepared a seat for me somewhere else today.

There is a time to plant.
A time to water.
And then… a time to trust.
Not anxious trust.
Not hovering trust.
Real trust.

The kind that finishes the coffee,
gets dressed, and walks into the day
without carrying what God never assigned me to hold.

So I’m going where I’m supposed to be.
And I’m leaving the garden…
and everything it represents…
right where it is.

Because what God has already taken responsibility for does not need my worry added to it.

Even the good things don’t get to compete
with obedience.

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:1

Love, Chelle

DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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Reaching Beyond the Sky – Mae Jemison

Posted in Black History Month, God, health, inspiration, love, relationships, women's history monthTagged , , , , , , Leave a comment

Sometimes the dream is bigger than the sky.

Mae Jemison grew up in Chicago at a time when few girls were encouraged to pursue careers in science. But curiosity has a way of ignoring limits. From a young age, Jemison loved science, space, and the endless possibilities of the universe.

She studied chemical engineering at Stanford University and later earned her medical degree from Cornell University. Her talents stretched across science, medicine, and international humanitarian work.

But one dream remained constant. Space.

In 1987, Mae Jemison was selected by NASA to join its astronaut program. Five years later, in 1992, she made history aboard the space shuttle Endeavour, becoming the first Black woman to travel into space.

As she orbited the Earth, Jemison carried not only scientific experiments but also the hopes of countless young people who had never imagined someone who looked like them reaching the stars.

Jeremiah 29 reminds us, “For I know the plans I have for you… plans to give you hope and a future.”

Mae Jemison’s journey reminds us that sometimes the future God imagines for us stretches far beyond the horizon we can see.

She once said something beautifully simple:

“Never limit yourself because of others’ limited imagination.”

And by refusing those limits, she helped expand the dreams of generations.

Sometimes the sky is not the limit.

Sometimes it is only the beginning.

Mae Jemison looked up at the stars and believed she belonged there. And through courage, education, and determination, she proved that dreams often grow larger when we refuse to shrink them.

The path to the future begins with one person believing that the horizon can move.

Steps From Our Sisters
Honoring the Women Who Marched Before Us

Curated by
Michelle Gillison-Robinson
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com

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Bishop Mariann Edgar BuddeShe Brought Mercy Into a Room Built for Power

Posted in cancer, faith, God, inspiration, law, love, relationships, war, women's history monthTagged , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Some women do not raise their voices.
They raise the standard.

She was born in Summit, New Jersey, in 1959, and grew up in the Flanders section of Mount Olive Township, carrying both small-town roots and a wider view of the world.


After her parents’ divorce, she spent time living with her father in Colorado before returning to New Jersey and graduating from West Morris Mount Olive High School, a path that suggests early lessons in change, resilience, and finding your footing more than once.


Before she became known as an Episcopal bishop, she was shaped by an evangelical Christian upbringing, a background that helps explain the clear moral language and steady conviction people would one day hear from her in public life.

Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde became the first woman elected bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington in 2011 after serving 18 years as rector of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Minneapolis.

In January 2025, during a prayer service at Washington National Cathedral attended by President Donald Trump, she spoke directly about mercy for immigrants, LGBTQ people, and others living in fear. What made the moment powerful was not volume. It was clarity. She stood in a sacred place, looked power in the face, and made room for compassion anyway.

That kind of courage belongs in Women’s History Month.

Not only the courage of women who marched with signs or shattered ceilings with applause behind them, but also the courage of women who held their ground in rooms built to intimidate. Women who spoke with steadiness when spectacle would have been easier. Women who understood that conviction does not have to be cruel to be strong.

Mariann Edgar Budde reminded the country that mercy is not frail. Mercy is not timid. Mercy is not a soft substitute for truth. Real mercy has a backbone. It knows exactly what it is doing. It steps into hard places and refuses to surrender its humanity.

She did not need rage to make history.
She did not need performance to make her point.
She did not need to wound anyone to be unforgettable.

She stood there as a woman, a leader, and a witness. Calm, clear, and unwilling to let fear have the final word.

That is how some women leave footprints.
Not by shouting over the room.
But by changing the temperature in it.

Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves,
for the rights of all who are destitute.”
Proverbs 31:8

May we remember Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde not simply as the woman who unsettled a president, but as a woman who stood before power and still chose mercy. In a world that too often mistakes cruelty for strength, that witness matters.

We see you.

Steps From Our Sisters
Honoring the Women Who Marched Before Us

Curated by
Michelle Gillison-Robinson
DefyGravityWithoutWings.com
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