MOM, WOMBIE, I GOT IT FROM HERE. 🧸💝🥰❤️🩹❤️
Beloveds,
The last two pieces went out into the world.
This one comes home.
No enormous assignment.
No trying to explain grief for everybody.
Just family.
Just love.
Just some things I need to say.
🧸
Mom, thanks for your love.🧸🥰
Thank you.
Not because everything was perfect.
Not because life gave us every day we wanted.
It didn’t.
There was supposed to be a March.
There was supposed to be a vacation.
You were supposed to see my new car.
We didn’t get those things.
But before March didn’t happen—
you happened.
❤️
You were here.
You were my mother.
You loved.
You gave.
We gave away your favorite bears at your funeral.
🧸
Mom left giving love.
I love in her stead.
And here I am, still trying to give love away.
Still trying to tell somebody:
You matter.
I see you.
Don’t give up.
Love somebody.
Love this world.
🌎❤️
Mom,
thanks for your love.🧸🥰
I can’t hand it back to you.
So I’ll keep letting it travel.
❤️➡️🌎
But—
Mom, I’m puzzled.🧩🧸
I am.
About life.
Timing.
Things that happened.
Things that didn’t.
Things I thought I understood.
Things I still don’t.
Pieces that don’t seem to fit.
🧩
And I’ve learned something:
Faith doesn’t require me to pretend the puzzle is complete.
Sometimes:
I don’t know.
That’s my answer.
I believe God.
And I don’t know.
I trust God.
And I’m puzzled.
I miss you.
And God has been good to me.
Those truths can sit beside one another.
🙏🏿❤️🩹
Which brings me here:
Mom, Won’t/didn’t He do it!💝
Mom—
look.
👀
Not because everything happened the way I wanted.
Not because every prayer received the answer I would have chosen.
Not because I haven’t hurt.
Not because every puzzle piece suddenly fits.
But after everything—
I’m here.
❤️🩹
Still loving.
Still believing.
Still questioning.
Still laughing.
Still crying.
Still learning.
Still finding my voice.
Still using it.
Still telling somebody not to give up.
Still looking at this enormous world and saying:
I love you.
🌎❤️
Won’t He do it!
Didn’t He do it!
💝🙏🏿
I’m puzzled.
🧩
And I have testimony.
💝
Both are mine.
Both are true.
Now—
Wombie.
🧸
No translation.
No explanation.
No footnote.
Some words belong inside relationships.
Some names carry histories outsiders weren’t there to witness.
Some language doesn’t need anybody else’s permission.
So:
Wombie.
🧸❤️
You and me.
Mom’s daughters.
Same Mom.
Different daughters.
Different memories.
Different grief.
Different pieces.
🧩🧩
And somewhere inside all those pieces—
Mom.
Not a metaphor.
Not merely somebody we lost.
Mom.
And us.
Still here.
❤️🩹❤️
The world kept moving after Mom died.
Morning came.
People went to work.
Traffic remained traffic.
Bills remained profoundly committed to being bills.
🤣
And somehow we kept moving too.
Not because we forgot.
Not because we stopped loving.
Because we’re alive.
Living after somebody dies is not betrayal.
Mom’s daughters are allowed to live.
Allowed to laugh.
Allowed to love.
Allowed to make memories.
Allowed to change.
Allowed to heal.
Allowed to remember.
Allowed to have joy.
Allowed to keep going.
❤️🩹
And now I need to say something without explaining it afterward.
Wombie, Cassie, sis, friend. I got it from here.🧸💝🥰❤️🩹❤️
Mom,
thanks for your love.🧸🥰
Mom,
I’m puzzled.🧩🧸
Mom,
Won’t/didn’t He do it!💝
And—
Wombie, Cassie, sis, friend. I got it from here.🧸💝🥰❤️🩹❤️
That’s enough.
No sermon after it.
No explanation.
Just—
❤️
Cassandra
Month: August 2026
AUGUST 31, 2026 — NOON SERIES 🕛
🔏🔒🗝️🔓🚪 WHO TOLD YOU THE DOOR WAS CLOSED?
Beloveds,
It’s noon.
Come sit with me for a minute.
Every day at noon, I want us to meet right here—not because I believe twelve o’clock magically fixes whatever happened at 8:00, 9:17, or 11:53 this morning. Sometimes noon arrives and the problem is still sitting there looking at you. The diagnosis hasn’t changed. The grief hasn’t packed its bags. The bills haven’t disappeared. The relationship still hurts. Your body may still refuse to cooperate with the plans your mind made.
But noon means something happened that we sometimes forget to celebrate:
You made it here.
And today, I have a question for you.
Who told you the door was closed?
🔒
I have been thinking about doors.
Some doors really do close. People leave. Opportunities disappear. Bodies change. Plans collapse. People we love die. Life can divide itself so sharply into before and after that we barely recognize the person standing on the other side.
I know something about before and after.
My stroke changed things.
It changed how I move through the world. It changed my speech. It changed what ordinary tasks can require from me. Some days I use my wheelchair. Some days my quad cane enters the story. Things I once did without thinking can now require concentration, adaptation, patience, help, determination—or all five before breakfast.
But somewhere along the way, I had to confront a dangerous assumption:
Changed does not automatically mean closed.
Read that again.
Something can be different without being finished.
Something can be difficult without being impossible.
Something can require another route without meaning there is no destination.
And a life can look nothing like the life you planned while still being a life overflowing with purpose.
🗝️
That is where the key comes in.
Sometimes we spend years carrying locks somebody else handed us.
Too old.
Too young.
Too Black.
Too loud.
Too disabled.
Too different.
Too much.
Not enough.
You missed your chance.
People like you don’t belong here.
After what happened to you, what could possibly come next?
And if we hear those things long enough, something frightening can happen.
We stop needing somebody else to lock the door.
We begin doing it ourselves.
🔏
We start shrinking before anybody asks us to shrink.
We stop knocking before anybody says no.
We decide we cannot belong somewhere before anybody has had the opportunity to welcome us.
We confuse somebody else’s inability to imagine our future with evidence that we don’t have one.
And beloveds, sometimes the hardest lock to recognize is the one we’ve learned to maintain from the inside.
That is why today isn’t simply about finding a cute little inspirational key.
We are digging.
⛏️
I want to know what is underneath the lock.
Maybe underneath anger is hurt.
Maybe underneath perfectionism is fear.
Maybe underneath “I don’t need anybody” is the memory of what happened the last time you needed somebody and they weren’t there.
Maybe underneath silence is the belief that your voice only matters when it comes out perfectly.
Maybe underneath exhaustion is the belief that you have to earn the right to rest.
Maybe underneath being “the strong one” is somebody who desperately needs permission to put the armor down.
Maybe underneath I can’t is something somebody said to you twenty years ago that you accidentally adopted as your own voice.
Dig.
⛏️
Because you cannot unlock what you refuse to name.
And I need to say something else because encouragement can become cruel when we pretend every door can be opened by trying harder.
Some doors require help.
Some require accessibility.
Some require therapy.
Some require medicine.
Some require justice.
Some require community.
Some require somebody standing beside you saying, “I know you’re tired. I’ll hold the door.”
Needing help does not cancel your agency.
Receiving help does not make the victory belong less to you.
And independence is not the only evidence of strength.
Sometimes strength sounds like:
“I need you.”
Sometimes courage looks like accepting the hand.
Sometimes the victory is not kicking the door down.
Sometimes somebody simply holds it open—
and you roll through.
👩🏿🦽
Yes.
Roll through.
Because who decided every meaningful journey had to happen on two feet?
I am not waiting until I walk differently to call my life valuable.
I am not waiting until my speech sounds the way it once sounded to believe I have something worth saying.
I am not waiting for my body to become somebody else’s definition of “better” before I participate in my own life.
My wheelchair is not parked outside the story.
It is already inside it.
And God is here too.
🙏🏿
I believe in Jesus Christ.
I believe Him when He says:
“I am the door.” — John 10:9
And that scripture has been sitting differently with me.
Because I have spent so much time thinking about keys that I almost missed the Door.
Jesus did not merely tell me where an entrance might be.
He said:
I AM.
And if He is the Door, then perhaps I need to be very careful about declaring permanently closed what God has not finished with yet.
I don’t know what every door in my life will look like.
I don’t know which things will be restored.
I don’t know which things will be transformed instead.
I don’t know which prayers will receive the answer I want.
Faith does not require me to pretend I know things God has not told me.
But I know this:
I am still here.
And while I am here, I am going to live.
❤️🔥
Now, if you don’t believe what I believe, you don’t have to pretend for me.
You are welcome here.
If you are an atheist, come sit.
If you are agnostic, come sit.
If you believe differently, come sit.
If you used to believe and don’t anymore, come sit.
If you’re angry with God, confused about God, searching for God, or have absolutely no intention of searching for God—
there is still a chair for you.
My faith does not require your agreement before I can love you.
And your questions do not frighten me away from mine.
We can sit beside one another without pretending we are standing in exactly the same place.
That might be one of the doors our world desperately needs opened.
🚪
So here is today’s key:
🗝️ Do not confuse what happened to you with who you are.
Something happened.
Maybe something enormous.
Maybe something unfair.
Maybe something you would undo immediately if somebody handed you the power.
But what happened does not get automatic ownership of everything that happens next.
Your grief doesn’t own tomorrow.
Your diagnosis doesn’t own your identity.
Your rejection doesn’t own your worth.
Your mistake doesn’t own your name.
Your disability doesn’t own your humanity.
Your fear doesn’t own your feet—or your wheels.
And somebody else’s opinion certainly does not own the key.
🔓
So before we leave each other today, I want you to ask yourself:
What have I been calling locked?
Then ask:
Who told me it was?
And then—
DEEPPPERRRR.
⛏️
What is underneath that lock?
Fear?
Shame?
Grief?
Someone else’s expectations?
An old wound?
A lie you’ve repeated so many times that it started sounding like truth?
Don’t rush the answer.
We are meeting again tomorrow.
This isn’t a race.
Today, maybe all you do is locate the lock.
Tomorrow, perhaps we touch the key.
And eventually—
when the door opens—
we go through it however we need to.
Walking.
Rolling.
Leaning.
Reaching.
Holding somebody’s hand.
One step.
One wheel turn.
One breath.
One word.
One act of courage at a time.
Because, beloveds—
there is still a door.
There is still a key.
There is still time.
And for me, beneath all of it:
There is still God.
🙏🏿🔏🔒🗝️🔓🚪❤️🔥
If something here found you today, tell me about it in the comments. Share this with somebody standing in front of a door they think is closed. Like, subscribe or follow, and come back tomorrow at noon.
We are going to keep digging.
And we are going to keep opening doors.
Together.
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
Note: One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!
Unapologetically His.
Help me be loud:
AUGUST 31, 2026 — NOON SERIES 🕛
AUGUST 31, 2026 — NOON SERIES 🕛
🔏🔒🗝️🔓🚪 WHO TOLD YOU THE DOOR WAS CLOSED?
Beloveds,
It’s noon.
Come sit with me for a minute.
Every day at noon, I want us to meet right here—not because I believe twelve o’clock magically fixes whatever happened at 8:00, 9:17, or 11:53 this morning.
Sometimes noon arrives and the problem is still sitting there looking at you. The diagnosis hasn’t changed. The grief hasn’t packed its bags. The bills haven’t disappeared. The relationship still hurts. Your body may still refuse to cooperate with the plans your mind made.
But noon means something happened that we sometimes forget to celebrate:
You made it here.
And today, I have a question for you.
Who told you the door was closed?
🔒
I have been thinking about doors.
Some doors really do close. People leave. Opportunities disappear. Bodies change. Plans collapse. People we love die. Life can divide itself so sharply into before and after that we barely recognize the person standing on the other side.
I know something about before and after.
My stroke changed things.
It changed how I move through the world. It changed my speech. It changed what ordinary tasks can require from me. Some days I use my wheelchair. Some days my quad cane enters the story. Things I once did without thinking can now require concentration, adaptation, patience, help, determination—or all five before breakfast.
But somewhere along the way, I had to confront a dangerous assumption:
Changed does not automatically mean closed.
Read that again.
Something can be different without being finished.
Something can be difficult without being impossible.
Something can require another route without meaning there is no destination.
And a life can look nothing like the life you planned while still being a life overflowing with purpose.
🗝️
That is where the key comes in.
Sometimes we spend years carrying locks somebody else handed us.
Too old.
Too young.
Too Black.
Too loud.
Too disabled.
Too different.
Too much.
Not enough.
You missed your chance.
People like you don’t belong here.
After what happened to you, what could possibly come next?
And if we hear those things long enough, something frightening can happen.
We stop needing somebody else to lock the door.
We begin doing it ourselves.
🔏
We start shrinking before anybody asks us to shrink.
We stop knocking before anybody says no.
We decide we cannot belong somewhere before anybody has had the opportunity to welcome us.
We confuse somebody else’s inability to imagine our future with evidence that we don’t have one.
And beloveds, sometimes the hardest lock to recognize is the one we’ve learned to maintain from the inside.
That is why today isn’t simply about finding a cute little inspirational key.
We are digging.
⛏️
I want to know what is underneath the lock.
Maybe underneath anger is hurt.
Maybe underneath perfectionism is fear.
Maybe underneath “I don’t need anybody” is the memory of what happened the last time you needed somebody and they weren’t there.
Maybe underneath silence is the belief that your voice only matters when it comes out perfectly.
Maybe underneath exhaustion is the belief that you have to earn the right to rest.
Maybe underneath being “the strong one” is somebody who desperately needs permission to put the armor down.
Maybe underneath I can’t is something somebody said to you twenty years ago that you accidentally adopted as your own voice.
Dig.
⛏️
Because you cannot unlock what you refuse to name.
And I need to say something else because encouragement can become cruel when we pretend every door can be opened by trying harder.
Some doors require help.
Some require accessibility.
Some require therapy.
Some require medicine.
Some require justice.
Some require community.
Some require somebody standing beside you saying, “I know you’re tired. I’ll hold the door.”
Needing help does not cancel your agency.
Receiving help does not make the victory belong less to you.
And independence is not the only evidence of strength.
Sometimes strength sounds like:
“I need you.”
Sometimes courage looks like accepting the hand.
Sometimes the victory is not kicking the door down.
Sometimes somebody simply holds it open—
and you roll through.
👩🏿🦽
Yes.
Roll through.
Because who decided every meaningful journey had to happen on two feet?
I am not waiting until I walk differently to call my life valuable.
I am not waiting until my speech sounds the way it once sounded to believe I have something worth saying.
I am not waiting for my body to become somebody else’s definition of “better” before I participate in my own life.
My wheelchair is not parked outside the story.
It is already inside it.
And God is here too.
🙏🏿
I believe in Jesus Christ.
I believe Him when He says:
“I am the door.” — John 10:9
And that scripture has been sitting differently with me.
Because I have spent so much time thinking about keys that I almost missed the Door.
Jesus did not merely tell me where an entrance might be.
He said:
I AM.
And if He is the Door, then perhaps I need to be very careful about declaring permanently closed what God has not finished with yet.
I don’t know what every door in my life will look like.
I don’t know which things will be restored.
I don’t know which things will be transformed instead.
I don’t know which prayers will receive the answer I want.
Faith does not require me to pretend I know things God has not told me.
But I know this:
I am still here.
And while I am here, I am going to live.
❤️🔥
Now, if you don’t believe what I believe, you don’t have to pretend for me.
You are welcome here.
If you are an atheist, come sit.
If you are agnostic, come sit.
If you believe differently, come sit.
If you used to believe and don’t anymore, come sit.
If you’re angry with God, confused about God, searching for God, or have absolutely no intention of searching for God—
there is still a chair for you.
My faith does not require your agreement before I can love you.
And your questions do not frighten me away from mine.
We can sit beside one another without pretending we are standing in exactly the same place.
That might be one of the doors our world desperately needs opened.
🚪
So here is today’s key:
🗝️ Do not confuse what happened to you with who you are.
Something happened.
Maybe something enormous.
Maybe something unfair.
Maybe something you would undo immediately if somebody handed you the power.
But what happened does not get automatic ownership of everything that happens next.
Your grief doesn’t own tomorrow.
Your diagnosis doesn’t own your identity.
Your rejection doesn’t own your worth.
Your mistake doesn’t own your name.
Your disability doesn’t own your humanity.
Your fear doesn’t own your feet—or your wheels.
And somebody else’s opinion certainly does not own the key.
🔓
So before we leave each other today, I want you to ask yourself:
What have I been calling locked?
Then ask:
Who told me it was?
And then—
DEEPPPERRRR.
⛏️
What is underneath that lock?
Fear?
Shame?
Grief?
Someone else’s expectations?
An old wound?
A lie you’ve repeated so many times that it started sounding like truth?
Don’t rush the answer.
We are meeting again tomorrow.
This isn’t a race.
Today, maybe all you do is locate the lock.
Tomorrow, perhaps we touch the key.
And eventually—
when the door opens—
we go through it however we need to.
Walking.
Rolling.
Leaning.
Reaching.
Holding somebody’s hand.
One step.
One wheel turn.
One breath.
One word.
One act of courage at a time.
Because, beloveds—
there is still a door.
There is still a key.
There is still time.
And for me, beneath all of it:
There is still God.
🙏🏿🔏🔒🗝️🔓🚪❤️🔥
If something here found you today, tell me about it in the comments. Share this with somebody standing in front of a door they think is closed. Like, subscribe or follow, and come back tomorrow at noon.
We are going to keep digging.
And we are going to keep opening doors.
Together.
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
Note: One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!
Unapologetically His.
Help me be loud:
📫 WHEN WORSHIP FINDS YOU 🎧🙏🏿❤️🔥
📫 WHEN WORSHIP FINDS YOU 🎧🙏🏿❤️🔥
Beloveds,
This morning I put on my headphones and listened to Serenade of Grace.
And I stayed.
Sometimes you don’t need somebody yelling at you to keep going.
Sometimes you don’t need another lesson.
Sometimes you don’t need somebody explaining your life back to you.
Sometimes you just need a place to rest your heart for a minute.
🎧
The music was Gospel.
Smooth.
Soulful.
R&B.
Worship that didn’t feel like it was chasing me.
It felt like it was sitting with me.
And then I heard these words:
“I will praise You forever… for the victory.”
Whew.
Victory looks different to me now.
🙏🏿
Sometimes victory is getting out of bed.
Sometimes victory is doing the thing that takes me longer than it used to.
Sometimes victory is resting without turning rest into failure.
Sometimes victory is laughing in the middle of something that absolutely was not funny yesterday.
Sometimes victory is putting on my headphones and allowing somebody else’s song to carry what my own voice cannot carry at that moment.
Sometimes victory is simply:
I. AM. STILL. HERE.
❤️🩹
My relationship with music has always been bigger than background noise.
I listen.
I hear words.
I pull threads.
I find pieces of myself hiding inside somebody else’s testimony.
This morning, I found another thread.
Praise does not have to wait until everything is fixed.
I can praise while becoming.
I can praise while recovering.
I can praise while frustrated.
I can praise while tired.
I can praise while laughing.
I can praise while crying.
I can praise while I am still waiting for answers.
I can praise while some prayers still seem to have question marks hanging from them.
I can praise because victory isn’t only the moment when the battle ends.
Sometimes victory is discovering that the battle did not end you.
🔑❤️🔥
That one got me.
I am learning something about myself:
I kept thinking recovery would show me what I had lost.
There has been loss.
I will never pretend otherwise.
But recovery keeps introducing me to what remains.
My curiosity remains.
My humor remains.
My stubborn little determination remains. 😂
My desire to learn remains.
My desire to encourage somebody else remains.
My ability to find beauty remains.
My faith remains.
And, Beloveds—
my praise remains.
🙏🏿
Maybe that is why this music found me this morning.
Not because I needed another performance.
Because I needed a reminder.
There is still music here.
There is still joy here.
There is still worship here.
There is still life here.
There is still something worth putting the headphones on for.
🎧❤️🔥
And maybe you need that reminder too.
Your victory might not look like anybody else’s.
Please stop measuring it with somebody else’s ruler.
Maybe you got dressed today.
Maybe you answered the phone.
Maybe you finally said no.
Maybe you finally said yes.
Maybe you asked for help.
Maybe you rested.
Maybe you started again.
Maybe you survived something nobody around you even knows you’re carrying.
Maybe today your victory is simply reading these words and deciding:
I am going to give tomorrow a chance to meet me.
That counts.
❤️🩹
And if faith isn’t part of your life, you don’t have to borrow mine to belong here.
You can call it hope.
You can call it resilience.
You can call it love.
You can call it another morning.
You can simply call it one more step.
Sit with us anyway.
There is room.
🌎🫂
But me?
I’m going to call mine what I know it to be.
God has carried me.
And while I still have breath—
I will love.
I will laugh.
I will learn.
I will write.
I will listen.
I will encourage.
I will live.
And yes—
I will praise Him forever for the victory.
🎧🙏🏿❤️🔥
Thank you, Serenade of Grace, for being part of my morning.
Beloveds, put on your headphones today.
Find something that reminds you there is still life inside you.
Then turn it up.
Maybe not too loud.
…
Who am I kidding? 🤣🎧📢
Look at the name of this blog.
WHY CAN’T I BE LOUD?!
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
Note: One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!
Tell me what you’re listening to today.
Comment, share, like, follow or subscribe, and come back for another little bit of encouragement.
There is more morning ahead of us. 🌅❤️🔥
Help me be loud:
MOM, WOMBIE, WE NEVER GOT MARCH. 🧸❤️🩹
MOM, WOMBIE, WE NEVER GOT MARCH. 🧸❤️🩹
Beloveds,
My mother died on Christmas morning.
We had plans.
We were supposed to take a vacation in March. She was supposed to see my new car.
I was so sure we had time.
We never got March.
❤️🩹
I’ve thought about that a lot.
Because sometimes grief isn’t only losing somebody.
Sometimes grief is losing future tense.
“We’re going to…”
“Next time…”
“When I see you…”
“Later…”
“March.”
Then suddenly we’re going to becomes we were going to.
And there are things you didn’t know were memories while you were making them.
The last ordinary conversation doesn’t announce itself.
The last laugh doesn’t say, Remember this one.
The last hug doesn’t come with a countdown.
Life is just life—
until something changes.
Then memory goes back and puts frames around moments that looked completely ordinary when we lived them.
🧸❤️🩹
Maybe you have a March.
Maybe it wasn’t a vacation.
Maybe it was a phone call.
A birthday.
A meal.
An apology.
A conversation.
A Christmas.
A visit.
A ridiculous little thing nobody else would understand.
Maybe you thought:
We have time.
And then you didn’t.
Beloved, I’m not going to tell you what that loss is supposed to mean.
I’m not going to tell you everything happens for a reason.
I’m not going to tell you to stop crying.
And I’m certainly not going to tell you that faith means grief shouldn’t hurt.
Jesus wept.
So can we.
🙏🏿❤️🩹
Faith doesn’t require anesthesia.
You can trust God and miss somebody.
You can praise and hurt.
You can laugh at something they used to say and cry thirty seconds later.
You can have questions.
You can even have complicated grief.
Maybe the person you lost loved you beautifully.
Maybe they hurt you.
Maybe both are true.
Maybe you’re grieving with gratitude.
Maybe anger.
Maybe relief.
Maybe guilt.
Maybe questions.
Bring all of it.
There is a chair for you.
🪑🪑
And there is something else I have learned:
Death gets one date.
Love gets the whole life.
Mom was more than Christmas morning.
She was more than the day she died.
More than my grief.
More than a story I’m telling you.
Before she was Mom, she was a whole woman with a whole life.
And Wombie and I still get to call her:
Mom.
🧸❤️
I don’t want the final day to become louder than every day that came before it.
The funeral doesn’t get to become louder than the laughter.
The goodbye doesn’t get to erase the hello.
Death gets one date.
Love gets everything between the dates.
And everything between those dates can contain an entire world.
🌎
That’s why losing one person can feel like losing a world.
Somebody reading this knows.
Maybe your person died yesterday.
Maybe fifty years ago.
Maybe you’ve been doing fine and something tiny brought everything rushing back.
A song.
A smell.
A recipe.
A photograph.
A phrase.
Bring their name.
They don’t have to stay outside.
❤️🩹
And Wombie—
same Mom.
Different daughters.
Different memories.
Different grief.
Neither one has to compete with the other.
There is room.
🪑❤️🩹🪑
Sometimes one person remembers something another forgot.
Sometimes memory comes back piece by piece.
🧩
And together we can say:
She was here.
Not merely:
Her death happened.
She was here.
She lived.
She loved.
She mattered.
And we are still here.
Which brings me to Jesus.
He said:
“It is finished.”
Jesus’ job is done.
Our job is not done.
We aren’t finishing Calvary.
We aren’t completing Christ’s work.
We aren’t anybody’s Messiah.
What belonged to Jesus to finish, Jesus finished.
🙏🏿
His work is completion.
Our work is response.
Love God.
Love one another.
Be somebody’s neighbor.
Call.
Listen.
Visit.
Feed.
Remember.
Protect.
Make room.
Pull up another chair.
Stay.
Love.
❤️
There are still people here.
So don’t spend your life terrified that every goodbye could be the last one.
That’s not what I’m saying.
I’m saying:
Let ordinary love count while it’s ordinary.
Love somebody while the day is still just Tuesday.
Tell somebody they matter while they can hear you.
Don’t wait for the funeral to discover somebody was precious.
And don’t wait for March.
Because sometimes—
March doesn’t come.
Mom,
I wish we’d gotten ours.
I wish you’d seen my car.
I wish we’d had more ordinary days.
But I won’t allow the day you died to become bigger than all the days you lived.
You were here.
You loved.
You mattered.
You still matter.
🧸❤️🩹
Beloveds,
your person was here too.
Say their name.
Tell their stories.
Laugh when the memories are funny.
Cry when they hurt.
Carry what was good.
And then turn toward somebody who is still here.
Love them.
Not because you’re afraid they’re going to die.
Because they’re alive.
That’s reason enough.
One person.
One chair.
One call.
One kindness.
One step.
One step.
One step.
And while we’re both still here—
let’s love this world together.
🌎❤️
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
You are loved. You are NOT alone.
Keep on being…YOU!
Help me be loud:
THE HAND FROM HEAVEN ✋🏾☁️🧻🤣
THE HAND FROM HEAVEN ✋🏾☁️🧻🤣
What the Potty Wars Taught Me About God, Help, Dignity, Agency—and Joy
Beloveds,
I have an announcement.
I WON THE POTTY WARS.
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Yes.
Me.
👸🏿
And before somebody gets excessively spiritual and turns this into a solemn testimony with organ music playing softly in the background, please understand:
There were buckets.
🪣🪣🪣
There was toilet paper.
🧻
There was laundry.
🧺
There was trash.
🗑️
There was HARD.
There was also FUN.
There was JOY.
There was laughter.
And my faith tells me something else was there too.
God.
❤️
Let me explain.
When I was in the hospital and needed toilet paper, the techs could help me without taking over everything.
They could hand me what I needed, tastefully, from just outside the door.
🧻
Think about that.
They helped me while still giving me privacy.
They provided something I needed without turning my need into humiliation.
They didn’t have to erase my agency in order to assist me.
I still needed them.
And needing them did not make me less me.
That matters.
Then I came home.
There wasn’t a hospital tech standing outside my bathroom door.
But eventually I started thinking about what had happened at home through the eyes of my faith.
And this is the picture that came to me:
God metaphorically handed me the toilet paper.
🧻
That is what I mean.
Not that the ceiling opened.
Not that a gigantic physical hand descended from Heaven.
Not that the angels arrived carrying bathroom supplies.
Although once He put THAT picture in my head…
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Now I can’t unsee it.
☁️☁️☁️
The clouds part.
Light pours down.
✨✨✨
The heavenly choir begins.
🎶🎶🎶
A majestic hand slowly reaches down from Heaven…
✋🏾☁️
And behold:
🧻
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
“My daughter…
you gon’ need this.”
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Not the Red Sea today.
Not manna.
Not water from the rock.
TOILET PAPER.
🧻
And somewhere in the bathroom:
👸🏿 Cassandra: “Thank You, Jesus.”
🪣 Bucket: “We have seen things.”
🧺 Laundry basket: “Please leave me out of this.”
🗑️ Trash: “I know my assignment.”
And the humble roll of toilet paper rises for its moment:
🧻
“I WAS CALLED FOR SUCH A TIME AS THIS.”
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Beloveds, I laughed so hard.
But underneath that laughter is something I genuinely believe.
Sometimes we expect God only in enormous things.
We look for seas to part.
Mountains to move.
Doors to fly open.
Miracles big enough to announce themselves.
But what about the ordinary provision?
What about what is already within reach?
What about the thing you need for this step?
Maybe it isn’t spectacular.
Maybe nobody will write a song about it.
Maybe nobody will put it in stained glass.
Maybe it’s toilet paper.
🧻
My faith allows me to look at an ordinary provision and say:
God, You were here too.
Not because the hard disappeared.
It didn’t.
Not because suddenly I didn’t need help.
I did.
Not because my body suddenly did everything I wanted it to do.
It didn’t.
I got what I needed to take another step.
And then another.
And another.
One step. One step. One step.
👀❤️🩹
There is a difference between rescue and provision.
Sometimes rescue says:
“You will never have to face this.”
Provision can look more like:
“You’re facing it. I’m here. Here’s what you need for the next part.”
🧻
That realization opened something else for me.
🔑
I needed help.
And I still had agency.
Those things can exist together.
I think sometimes we confuse independence with dignity.
If I can do absolutely everything myself, then I’m independent, capable and dignified.
If I need somebody—or something—to help me, somehow we imagine that means I’ve lost something.
Nah fam.
🤣
I needed those hospital techs.
Their help mattered.
At home, I needed tools.
Those tools mattered.
According to my faith, I needed God.
He mattered.
And through all of it…
I mattered.
Needing help didn’t cancel Cassandra.
Receiving help didn’t erase Cassandra.
My body having needs didn’t make Cassandra the problem.
And this may be one of the biggest 🔑s hiding inside our ridiculous Potty Wars:
THERE WAS A MESS.
I WAS NOT THE MESS.
👀
Sit with that one.
There was something difficult happening.
There were things that needed cleaning.
There were things that needed throwing away.
There were tools I needed to use.
But none of those things defined the human being standing—or sitting—in the middle of them.
Me.
👸🏿
The bucket was a tool.
🪣
The toilet paper was a tool.
🧻
The laundry basket was a tool.
🧺
The trash can had a job.
🗑️
And Cassandra?
Cassandra was the person using what she had to live her life.
That is agency.
Agency isn’t always cinematic.
Sometimes nobody kicks down a door.
Sometimes there isn’t dramatic music.
Sometimes agency looks like:
“Okay. This is what my body is doing today. What do I need?”
Need a bucket?
🪣
Apparently we need another bucket.
🪣🪣
GOOD GRIEF, HOW MANY BUCKETS DO WE NEED?
🪣🪣🪣🪣🪣🪣
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Fine.
Bring the bucket department.
Get the toilet paper.
🧻
Get the laundry basket.
🧺
🥽
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Then handle the business.
And afterward?
👏🏾👏🏾👏🏾
APPLAUSE.
Not shame.
Not humiliation.
Not pretending it didn’t happen.
Not deciding my dignity depends upon keeping every difficult bodily experience secret.
Applause.
Because I made it through.
And I laughed.
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
That matters to me too.
Joy was there.
Joy didn’t wait outside the bathroom until everything became pretty.
Joy didn’t say:
“I’ll come back when this looks respectable.”
Joy came right into the mess.
💘🪣💘
LOOK AT THAT.
Love right between the buckets.
🤣❤️
And maybe that is another 🔑:
DIGNITY IS NOT THE ABSENCE OF MESS.
Dignity is the person in the middle of it still being fully human.
Another 🔑:
NEEDING HELP DOES NOT CANCEL AGENCY.
Another:
RECEIVING HELP DOES NOT MAKE YOU LESS YOU.
Another:
JOY DOES NOT REQUIRE PERFECT CIRCUMSTANCES.
Another:
FAITH DOES NOT REQUIRE PRETENDING SOMETHING WASN’T HARD.
And another:
SOMETIMES PROVISION IS ORDINARY ENOUGH TO MISS.
A roll of toilet paper.
A bucket.
A tool.
A tech who preserves your privacy.
Something placed within reach.
Enough strength for the next movement.
A ridiculous joke that makes you laugh until you can hardly stand yourself.
🤣
And maybe that’s why I don’t want to clean this story up so much that we lose the funny.
The funny belongs here.
The joy belongs here.
The hard belongs here.
My body belongs here.
My faith belongs here.
God belongs here.
I belong here.
❤️🩹
And THAT is why I keep saying:
The victory of the Potty Wars was ME.
👸🏿
Not because I needed nobody.
I did.
Not because everything worked perfectly.
It didn’t.
Not because nothing difficult happened.
It did.
The victory was that something difficult happened involving my body…
and I remained the narrator of my own life.
I could decide what it meant.
I could find the tools.
I could receive help.
I could believe God was with me.
I could laugh.
I could learn.
I could keep going.
I could tell the story.
Me.
🫵🏾🔑🚪
Maybe somebody reading this is dealing with something today that doesn’t look inspirational.
Good.
This is for you.
Maybe what you need isn’t a mountain-moving miracle today.
Maybe you need something ordinary.
Maybe you need help.
Maybe you need a tool.
Maybe you need somebody to hand you something from outside the room and give you enough privacy to do the rest yourself.
Maybe you need permission to laugh.
Maybe you need to remember:
There may be a mess.
YOU are not the mess.
And if you’re a person of faith like me, maybe you’ll look around at some ordinary little provision and whisper:
“God, You were here too.”
And if you aren’t a believer, don’t believe in God, don’t believe yet, or never will, there is still a chair for you in this story.
Maybe what you see is human ingenuity.
Help.
Adaptation.
Humor.
Community.
Resilience.
An ordinary object being exactly where somebody needed it.
You don’t have to interpret the experience exactly as I do in order to sit with me.
Bring what you see.
I’ll bring what I see.
Maybe we’ll both notice something we would have missed alone.
👓🥽🔑
Because sometimes life hands us profound lessons.
And sometimes…
apparently…
Heaven’s supply closet is open.
☁️✋🏾🧻
🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Hard was there.
Help was there.
Joy was there.
Fun was there.
Agency was there.
Dignity was there.
Cassandra was there.
And according to my faith…
God was there.
❤️
Beloveds, tell me what you see in this story. What ordinary thing has helped you through something hard? Come laugh with me, share this with somebody who needs the reminder, like it if it gave you some joy, follow/subscribe and come back—we’re finding 🔑s together every day.
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!
💋🧻🪣👸🏿🤣❤️🩹🔑🚪
Help me be loud:
COME SIT AT MY TABLE 🪑❤️🩹
COME SIT AT MY TABLE 🪑❤️🩹
Beloveds,
Come sit at my table.
I don’t care who you are. I don’t care what you look like. I don’t care whether your life looks anything like mine. I don’t need you to explain yourself before you pull out the chair.
Just come sit with me.
I know something about sitting alone.
There was a time when I was the child sitting at the lunch table without somebody beside me. I know what it feels like to wonder whether anybody is coming. I know what loneliness can feel like when you’re surrounded by people and somehow still find yourself by yourself.
So I made a choice.
If I am the only person sitting at the table, I will sit there and wait.
Not because I’m ashamed of who I was.
Not because I am still trying to prove something to the people who called me ugly.
I got my beautiful.
I think I’m beautiful now.
And I am moving on with my life.
But moving on doesn’t require me to forget the child who once sat alone. In fact, maybe one of the beautiful things I can do with what hurt me is make sure there is an empty chair beside me for somebody else.
That’s why I stay at the table.
It has nothing to do with race.
Yes, I am a Black woman. And yes, there are things about living in this Black body and moving through this world that are exhausting. There is also tremendous joy here. Both things are true.
But that isn’t what this table is about.
This table is about the person who is alone.
Black.
White.
Brown.
Gay.
Straight.
Believer.
Atheist.
Disabled.
Nondisabled.
Quiet.
Loud.
Certain.
Confused.
Happy.
Hurting.
Somebody who looks like me.
Somebody who doesn’t.
Somebody whose life I understand immediately.
Somebody whose life I may never completely understand.
You don’t have to qualify for the chair.
You don’t have to convince me that your loneliness is lonely enough.
You don’t have to tell me the right story.
You don’t have to believe what I believe before I’ll sit beside you.
You don’t have to become more like me.
And I don’t have to become more like you.
There is no entrance examination at this table.
You’re alone.
There’s a chair.
Come sit with me.
Maybe we talk.
Maybe we laugh.
Maybe we dance.
Maybe we listen to some music.
Maybe we eat our lunch without saying very much at all.
Maybe you tell me something about your world that I couldn’t possibly have known unless you trusted me enough to let me see it.
And maybe I do the same.
We don’t have to fix one another.
We can simply refuse to leave one another alone.
That matters to me because I remember.
I remember the little girl who was called ugly.
I remember being alone.
And I cannot go backward and put somebody beside that little girl.
But today?
Today I can leave a chair open.
And tomorrow I can do it again.
Maybe somebody who sits with me today will notice somebody standing alone tomorrow.
Maybe they’ll pull out another chair.
Maybe that’s how a table gets longer.
Maybe that’s how loneliness loses a little ground.
Maybe that’s one way we love the world.
So, Beloved, if you’ve been standing there wondering where you’re supposed to sit:
Here.
Sit here.
You don’t have to audition.
You don’t have to qualify.
You don’t have to prove that you belong.
I saved you a seat.
Come sit at my table.
Come sit with me.
You don’t have to eat alone. 🪑❤️🩹🫂
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!
Help me be loud:
BELOVEDS, YOU CAN HAVE MY FLOWERS. I DON’T NEED THEM ANYMORE.
BELOVEDS, YOU CAN HAVE MY FLOWERS. I DON’T NEED THEM ANYMORE.
❣️💟💕💞💓💗💛🧡🖤💙💚🤍🩶🤎💜❤️❤️🩹💖💝💘💘🧩🧸
Beloveds,
You can have MY flowers.
I don’t need them anymore.
🌹🌷🌻
No, really.
Take them.
Take every last one.
Give them to somebody who can smell them.
Give them to somebody who can hold them.
Give them to somebody who needs to know today that somebody thought about them.
Give them to somebody who has been sitting quietly wondering whether anybody sees them.
Give them to somebody who is still here.
❤️
Because I’ve been thinking about flowers.
We give so many of them when somebody dies.
Beautiful arrangements.
Lilies.
Roses.
Cards.
Ribbons.
Rooms filled with color.
People stand beside somebody who can no longer hear them and say some of the most beautiful things they have ever said about that person.
She was wonderful.
He changed my life.
She always made me laugh.
He was there when nobody else was.
I wish I had told her.
I hope he knew.
And Beloveds—
sometimes I want to ask:
Did we tell them while they were here?
👀
Not as condemnation.
Not as guilt.
Because life gets busy.
People get tired.
Relationships get complicated.
Sometimes we assume there will be another opportunity.
Another phone call.
Another Christmas.
Another Tuesday.
Another March.
❤️🩹
I know something about March.
That’s why I’m not interested in shaming anybody for what they didn’t know yesterday.
I’m interested in what we can do today.
And today—
somebody is still here.
🌎
So you can have my flowers.
Give mine away early.
Give them before anybody has to stand at a microphone and explain what somebody meant.
Give them before the obituary.
Before the memorial.
Before everybody suddenly remembers the nicest thing they ever thought about somebody.
If you love somebody—
tell them.
If somebody changed your life—
tell them.
If somebody helped you survive something—
tell them.
If somebody makes this ridiculous world a little easier for you to live in—
tell them.
And don’t only tell the people everybody expects you to tell.
Tell the teacher.
Tell the nurse.
Tell the neighbor.
Tell the friend who answered at 2:00 in the morning.
Tell the person who made you laugh on the day you thought laughter had left you.
Tell the person who quietly made room.
Tell the person who pulled up another chair.
🪑🪑
Tell somebody:
You mattered to me today.
Because flowers don’t have to be flowers.
👀
Maybe somebody’s flowers are:
a phone call.
A sandwich.
A ride.
A handwritten note.
An hour without looking at your phone.
A ridiculous meme.
A prayer.
A meal.
A hug.
An apology.
A boundary respected.
A name remembered.
A seat saved.
A door held open.
A message that simply says:
I thought about you.
💐
Maybe flowers are attention.
Maybe flowers are presence.
Maybe flowers are seeing somebody while they’re still standing in front of you.
And maybe that’s why I don’t need mine anymore.
Because I’ve been getting mine.
❤️
Not necessarily roses.
Not necessarily bouquets.
I’ve received love.
I’ve received kindness.
I’ve received people sitting beside me.
I’ve received laughter.
I’ve received prayers.
I’ve received people who stayed.
I’ve received people who saw me.
I’ve received people who let me be loud.
I’ve received people who let me be quiet.
I’ve received people who loved me when I was strong.
I’ve received people who loved me when strong wasn’t available.
I’ve received flowers that never grew from soil.
💝
And Beloveds—
that’s enough.
So if someday somebody thinks:
I wish I could give Cassandra flowers…
Nah, fam.
Find somebody living.
🌎
Give them mine.
Take that bouquet somewhere else.
Walk into a nursing home.
Visit somebody nobody visits.
Thank somebody who thinks nobody noticed.
Call somebody you’ve been meaning to call.
Tell your sister.
Tell your brother.
Tell your friend.
Tell your Wombie.
Tell somebody who has been carrying everybody else.
Tell somebody whose name rarely gets called unless somebody needs something.
Tell somebody:
I see you.
👀❤️
And don’t wait until they’re extraordinary.
Don’t wait until they accomplish something enormous.
Don’t wait until they survive something terrible.
Don’t wait until the whole world applauds them.
Don’t wait until they’re gone.
Love ordinary people on ordinary Tuesdays.
That’s where life actually happens.
❤️
Maybe we’ve confused flowers with reward.
You don’t have to earn tenderness.
You don’t need a tragedy before somebody checks on you.
You don’t need an accomplishment before somebody celebrates you.
You don’t need to almost disappear before somebody finally notices you’re here.
Beloved—
being here is enough.
😭❤️🩹
That’s one of the things I want us to learn together.
Give people their humanity before their obituary.
Give people their tenderness before their memorial.
Give people their gratitude before their tribute.
Give people their attention before their absence teaches you to pay attention.
And when somebody gives you flowers—
literal or otherwise—
receive them.
Don’t immediately explain why you don’t deserve them.
Don’t swat love away because receiving makes you uncomfortable.
Don’t make somebody argue you into believing you matter.
Sometimes the assignment is not giving.
Sometimes the assignment is:
open your hands.
💐🤲🏿
Receive.
Then when your hands are full—
give some away.
❤️➡️❤️
That’s how love moves.
Not because anybody owes us.
Not because kindness is a transaction.
Not because I loved you, therefore you must love me exactly the way I demand.
No.
Love moves because love has somewhere to go.
We talked about that already.
Love still has somewhere to go.
🌎
And I want mine moving.
Don’t pile it around me someday.
Move it.
Take whatever love you were going to save for later and spend some of it while somebody can still receive it.
Spend it recklessly on kindness.
Spend it wisely on presence.
Spend it courageously on telling the truth.
Spend it gently on somebody grieving.
Spend it quietly on somebody who doesn’t need an audience.
Spend it across lines somebody told you shouldn’t be crossed.
Race.
Country.
Language.
Age.
Ability.
Religion.
No religion.
Whatever.
Human being.
Start there.
❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🖤🤎🤍🩶
And yes, boundaries still matter.
Love does not require returning somewhere unsafe.
Love does not require allowing somebody to harm you.
Love does not mean disappearing yourself.
Sometimes the flower is kindness.
Sometimes the flower is forgiveness.
Sometimes the flower is distance.
Sometimes the flower is:
I love you, and I cannot stay here.
Love doesn’t have to lie in order to call itself love.
❤️🩹
But wherever love can safely go—
send it.
Because there is somebody alive right now who thinks nobody notices.
Somebody who believes they are too much.
Somebody who believes they are not enough.
Somebody sitting alone.
Somebody grieving.
Somebody scared.
Somebody laughing loudly because joy finally came back.
Somebody starting over.
Somebody barely holding on to hope.
Somebody who doesn’t need your solution.
They might just need another human being to say:
Your life matters to me.
💝
That’s the flower.
Not the rose.
Not the ribbon.
Not the arrangement.
The knowing.
Knowing somebody saw you.
Knowing somebody remembered.
Knowing somebody was glad you existed.
Knowing somebody made room.
Knowing somebody didn’t require you to become somebody else before they loved you.
Knowing there was another chair.
🪑🪑
Beloveds,
that’s what I want.
Not more flowers around death.
More flowers around life.
🌻🌎❤️
Flowers at breakfast.
Flowers on random Wednesdays.
Flowers because somebody made it through Tuesday.
Flowers because somebody tried again.
Flowers because somebody finally rested.
Flowers because somebody spoke.
Flowers because somebody survived.
Flowers because somebody laughed.
Flowers because somebody simply woke up this morning and is still here.
No occasion required.
You are the occasion.
👀❤️🔥
And maybe somebody reading this has been waiting for their flowers.
Come here.
🪑
I see you.
I may not know your name.
I may never know your story.
But you’re here.
And for this little moment, we’re sharing the same world.
🌎
So take one of mine.
🌹
Actually—
take the whole bouquet.
💐
I don’t need to hoard love to know I was loved.
I don’t need every flower with my name on it.
I would rather know somebody received one in time.
While they could smell it.
While they could smile.
While they could roll their eyes and say, “What is THIS for?”
While they could put it in some ridiculous vase that doesn’t match anything.
While they could text somebody a picture.
While they could know:
Somebody thought of me today.
🥰
That’s enough for me.
So Beloveds—
you can have MY flowers.
Give them away.
Give them now.
Give them while somebody can receive them.
And when somebody hands you yours—
take them.
💐❤️
We are still here.
Our job is still not done.
Love still has somewhere to go.
So let’s send it.
One person.
One kindness.
One flower.
One step.
One step.
One step.
🌎❤️🔥
You are loved.
You are NOT alone.
Keep on being…YOU!
Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra
#YourLifeMattersToMe
Help me be loud:
Forgive them, Cassandra, God said to me
God: Forgive him.
Me: He said some terribly hurtful words.
God: I know. Do this for me.
Me: He said some blatantly racist things to his supposed friend!!🥾😡
God: I know. Forgive for they know not what they do.
Me: He KNEW. HE CHOSE THOSE AWFUL WORDS!!😠✋️
God: How will he ever learn and grow lest you teach?
Me: I’m tired, God. Tired of having to teach folks how to not treat my black skin as a crime!! Did you know I can’t show anger or any negative emotions with black emojis as they default to the yellow, considered white, color pallet..
I can
💃🏿😠🫵🏾🫴🏿🫶🏿🤲🏿🙆🏿♀️🧏🏿♀️👩🏿🎓👸🏿👩🏿🦼🏃🏿♀️🛀🏿
Yet, I can’t be upset as MY BLACK SELF. I’M NOT ASHAMED TO BE ME. I LOVE ME SOME ME!!
God: I know. Forgiveness is asked by ME. Do I not forgive you?
Me: Wellll …
God: Forgive. My grace IS sufficient for you.
Me:
God: Thank you. Be encouraged.
*sigh*
still hurt,
Cassandra
Help me be loud:
Still In Love
Good morning!
I love my new avatar!! Now I can express me!!!
Two issues:
I’m almost out of free space and will have to upgrade this week.
Secondly, I have been sick enough to have upcoming surgery and to take a full week off to rest. Yet, my heart won’t let me quit you, beloveds. You mean too much to me.
I am aware that I rarely get visitors anymore. No matter. Still, I rise. I’ll be here for whosoeverwill.
Meaning, I got all or none of you. I’ll keep your seat at the table waiting for you.
In the meantime, enjoy “Still in Love….
loving you still,
Cassandra
PSA: Don’t be ashamed to admit when you are wrong. Get some act ✅️right!
Fix what YOU broke/ break. I’m fixing mine! Nah, fam. We do NOT choose to be a clown.🤡🪠🩼🩹⛓️🦯🪣🧻🥽🗑⛑️🧺💃🏿👏
We live. We love. PERIODT!
Asking for A Friend…
