Category: Hobbies

📫 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. 🌅❤️‍🔥

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!

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

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

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…

IT ME!

Beloveds,

Before there was a blog, there was me.

I need to start there. Because if I’m going to introduce myself—really introduce myself—I don’t want to begin with a website.

I don’t want to begin with something that happened to me. I don’t want to begin with a list of things I have survived, things I have accomplished, or things somebody else might use to explain who I am.

I was me looooooong before I was a blog.

I was a little girl who loved words. I remember sitting in doctors’ offices reading Reader’s Digest. And no, I wasn’t just some bored little kid grabbing whatever happened to be sitting on the table. I was drawn to it.

I loved the motivational things. The encouraging things. The words that could make somebody think differently, laugh unexpectedly, or feel a little better than they did before they read them.

I loved Quotable Quotes. I loved Life in These United States. I loved Laughter, the Best Medicine.

Long before I had a blog, I was collecting words. Long before I had readers, I was reading.

Long before I knew exactly what I would do with my voice, I was listening for voices that made life a little lighter, a little wiser, a little more hopeful.

And somewhere along the way, I started writing too. I’ve written all my life.

Writing wasn’t invented for me by a website. It wasn’t something I suddenly discovered because life became difficult and I needed somewhere to put my thoughts.

Words were already mine. Encouragement was already mine.

For a long time, I have tried to READ something, WRITE something, and LISTEN to something positive every day.

Feed your mind something worth carrying. Put something worthwhile back into the world. Listen for something that reminds you there is still goodness here.

That rhythm did not suddenly become meaningful because my circumstances changed.

It was already mine.

And then there was another dream.

I wanted to be a motivational speaker.

There was just one teeny-tiny problem: I was terrified of public speaking. 🤣 Apparently my heart had ambitions my nerves had not approved.

But I wanted the microphone anyway. 🎤

I wanted words to do out loud what I already knew they could do on a page. I wanted to encourage people. I wanted to speak into somebody’s life and leave something there that might help them keep going.

Eventually, I did speak. I had to give a speech to graduate. A teacher helped teach me about the written word and the spoken word. Later, I joined a speaking group. I volunteered helping abused children. I gave presentations.

I was scared.

And I enjoyed it anyway.

Somewhere in all those years—the reading, the writing, the listening, the speaking, the serving—there was one ridiculously simple thing underneath everything.

I wanted to love the world. 🌎

That’s it.

I wanted somebody who felt alone to feel less alone. I wanted somebody who was ready to stop to take one more step. I wanted somebody who had forgotten their worth to encounter a few words that might remind them:

Your life matters.

Eventually, there was a blog.

Why Can’t I Be Loud?!

But please understand the order.

The blog didn’t make the woman.

The woman made the blog.

The blog simply gave something that was already living inside me another place to go. Another microphone. Another page. Another doorway. Another way to reach toward somebody I may never meet and say:

Come here. Sit with me awhile.

And if I’m really introducing myself, I can’t skip one particular word.

Ugly.

There. I said it.

I was called ugly.

I’m not going to pretty that part up now. Words matter, especially when they find you young. Ugly informed my world. It affected beauty. Belonging. Being seen. Being wanted. Being included. Being looked at—and being looked past.

But there is something I refuse to give that word:

My love.

Ugly informed my world.

Ugly did NOT inform my love.

Cruelty does not get to come back years later and collect credit for the woman I became. I will not hand it that trophy.

I did not learn to love the world because somebody taught me what cruelty felt like. The people who hurt me do not get authorship credit for my heart.

That heart was mine.

And God loved me as I was. Not some someday version of me. Not the version somebody else might find prettier, quieter, easier, more acceptable, or more convenient.

Me.

And somewhere along this life, I learned something else too:

I love me.

This face is mine. This laughter is mine. This faith is mine. These questions are mine. These words are mine. This heart is mine.

This voice is mine.

And then—the stroke came.

I will not introduce the woman I am today and pretend it didn’t happen.

But listen carefully:

My story does not begin with my stroke.

The stroke did not give me my purpose. It did not make me a writer. It did not teach me to love words. It did not put encouragement in my heart. It did not give me my desire to speak. It did not create my love for the world.

I brought all of that INTO the stroke.

And that distinction matters.

Because the stroke came for some of the very things I had spent my life using:

My voice.

My words.

My hands.

The little girl who loved words grew into a woman who wrote them—and now sometimes I have to fight just to get those words where I want them to go. The woman who dreamed about microphones grew into a woman who found her voice—and now sometimes I have to fight for that voice.

The writer has words inside her—and sometimes her own hands fight her over putting them onto the page.

There is something almost unspeakably cruel about that.

But I am speaking it anyway. 🎤

Because I’m still here.

And maybe Why Can’t I Be Loud?! means something even deeper to me now. I asked a question about voice.

Then life came for my literal voice.

And I am still answering.

I. AM. HERE.

My voice may be different. It is still mine. My words may take longer to reach you. They are still mine. My hands may fight me while I try to put those words into the world.

They are still mine.

And I am still writing. Still speaking. Still laughing. Still questioning. Still believing. Still learning. Still loving.

Still I rise.

Not because suffering made me extraordinary. Not because every painful thing needs a pretty lesson attached to it. Not because I am interested in performing strength for anybody.

I rise because I am still here.

And Beloveds, here is the part I desperately want you to understand:

I am fighting for these words because I still want to give them to you.

For you, Beloveds.

That little girl picked up words because something in them called to her. This grown woman keeps fighting to put words into the world because somewhere out there is another human being who may need one.

Maybe you need to hear that your life is not finished. Maybe you need somebody to sit beside you without demanding that you clean yourself up first. Maybe you need permission to laugh while you’re hurting. Maybe you need to be angry. Maybe you need to grieve. Maybe you need to begin again.

Maybe you just need somebody somewhere on this great big planet to say:

I see you.

You matter to me.

You are not alone.

Then come sit with me.

Bring yourself. Bring the beautiful and the ugly. Bring the questions and the mess. Bring the faith and the doubt. Bring the laughter that shows up at absolutely inappropriate times. 🤣 Bring whatever voice you have today.

You don’t have to sound like me. You don’t have to believe everything I believe. You don’t have to live where I live, look like I look, love like I love, speak like I speak, move like I move, or understand the world exactly the way I do.

There is still a chair here for you.

Because this was never about making the whole world Cassandra. Good grief. One is plenty. 🤣

This is about loving the whole world while letting people remain themselves.

So let me introduce myself.

I am Cassandra.

I am the little girl who loved words. I am the woman who kept writing them. I am the scared woman who wanted the microphone anyway. I am the woman who was called ugly and refused to surrender her love.

I am the woman God loved then and loves now. I am the woman who learned to love herself. I am the woman whose body now sometimes fights her for her voice, her words, and her hands.

And I am the woman who keeps reaching for the microphone anyway. 🎤

Same heart. Same mission. Different settings.

ALL OF ME.

I am still writing.

I am not done.

And neither are you.

So take the step. Then take another one. And another. 🥾

One step. One step. One step.

However long I have a voice, I intend to use it. However long I have words, I intend to give them. However I have to get those words from my heart into this world, I intend to try.

Still I rise.

For you, Beloveds.

For love.

For this great big messy, hurting, beautiful world. 🌎

And because after all this, somebody is inevitably still going to ask:

Why can’t I be loud?!

Well…

Who said I can’t? 🎤

Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra

#YourLifeMattersToMe

Note: One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!

IT IS FINISHED. BUT BELOVEDS, WE ARE NOT. ❤️‍🩹🌎

IT IS FINISHED. BUT BELOVEDS, WE ARE NOT. ❤️‍🩹🌎

For Mom.
For Wombie.
For every person in this world carrying the name of somebody they love who is no longer here.

Beloveds,

Before I say anything else, I need to say two names that don’t belong to a sermon.

Mom.

Wombie.

Before there was Why Can’t I Be Loud?!

Before there were Beloveds.

Before #YourLifeMattersToMe.

Before the chairs. 🪑🪑

Before the fishing poles. 🎣🎣

Before I started asking you to come love this whole great big world with me—

there was family.

There was Mom.

There were her daughters.

There was ordinary life.

And then there was grief.

❤️‍🩹

My mother died on Christmas morning 2016.

We had plans.

We were supposed to take a vacation in March.

She was supposed to see my new car.

I thought we had time.

I was so sure we had time.

But March never came for us.

And I have learned something about grief:

Sometimes we don’t only lose a person.

We lose future tense.

“We’re going to…”

“Next time…”

“When you come over…”

“Wait until you see…”

“Next Christmas…”

“March.”

Then one day, without our permission, we will becomes we were going to.

😭❤️‍🩹

Maybe you have a March too.

Maybe yours wasn’t a vacation.

Maybe it was a phone call you thought you still had time to make.

A conversation.

A birthday.

A wedding.

An apology.

A meal.

A trip.

An ordinary Tuesday.

Maybe there was something you were absolutely certain the two of you would still get to do.

And then later didn’t come.

I won’t tell you what that loss is supposed to mean.

I won’t tell you everything happens for a reason.

I won’t tell you not to cry.

I won’t tell you that you should be “over it” by now.

I won’t tell you that because you believe God, grief shouldn’t hurt.

Nah, fam.

Sometimes faith cries.

Sometimes faith has questions.

Sometimes faith worships with tears running down its face.

Sometimes faith simply says:

God, I still miss them.

🙏🏿❤️‍🩹

Jesus wept.

Knowing what He knew, Jesus still wept.

So I will never ask you to anesthetize your grief to prove your faith.

Faith does not require anesthesia.

You can trust God and miss somebody terribly.

You can praise and ache.

You can laugh at a memory and cry thirty seconds later.

You can have a wonderful day without betraying the person who died.

You can keep living without leaving them behind.

Healing is not erasure.

❤️‍🩹

And Beloved, sometimes grief is complicated.

Maybe the person you lost loved you beautifully.

Maybe they didn’t.

Maybe you loved each other and hurt each other.

Maybe there were things left unresolved.

Maybe you’re grieving with gratitude.

Maybe you’re grieving with anger.

Maybe grief came mixed with relief, guilt, confusion, tenderness or questions you still cannot answer.

There is a chair for you too.

🪑

I am not going to rank anybody’s grief.

I am not going to tell you how yours is supposed to look.

I will simply sit beside you.

Because sometimes love doesn’t need an explanation.

Sometimes love says:

Tell me about them.

Sometimes love says:

Say their name.

Sometimes love doesn’t say anything at all.

Sometimes love just stays.

🪑❤️‍🩹🪑

And that brings me back to Mom.

My mother was more than the day she died.

She was more than Christmas morning.

More than my grief.

More than my memories.

More than what I learned after losing her.

Before she was Mom, she was a whole human being.

She had a life.

A personality.

Dreams.

Preferences.

Stories.

Joy.

Disappointments.

Things I knew.

Things I probably never knew.

She belonged to herself before she belonged to anybody else.

But Wombie and I still get to call her:

Mom.

🧸❤️

And I don’t want death to become louder than her life.

Because death does something strange when we remember people.

One date can become so enormous that it begins swallowing everything that came before it.

The hospital gets louder than the kitchen.

The funeral gets louder than the laughter.

The final breath gets louder than every breath before it.

Nah, fam.

DEATH GETS ONE DATE.

LOVE GETS THE WHOLE LIFE.

❤️‍🔥

Look at a headstone sometime.

Two dates.

A little dash between them.

That tiny dash can hold an entire world.

Birthdays.

Breakfasts.

Arguments.

Songs.

Inside jokes.

Work.

Children.

Bad decisions.

Second chances.

Car rides.

Christmases.

Recipes.

Mistakes.

Apologies.

Laughter.

Ordinary Tuesdays.

Love.

A whole human life compressed into one tiny line.

The world may see a dash.

The people who loved them know that dash was a world.

🌎❤️‍🩹

That’s why losing one person can feel like losing an entire world.

And somewhere tonight, somebody understands exactly what I mean.

Somebody just got the call.

Somebody is planning a funeral.

Somebody is cleaning out a closet.

Somebody cannot bring themselves to clean out the closet.

Somebody reached for the phone before remembering.

Somebody heard their song.

Somebody cooked their recipe.

Somebody smelled a familiar perfume.

Somebody dreamed about them and woke up happy for three beautiful seconds before remembering.

Somebody lost their person yesterday.

Somebody lost theirs fifty years ago.

And suddenly today—

it hurts again.

Beloved,

bring their name.

🌎❤️‍🩹

You don’t have to leave them outside to sit with us.

Bring Mom.

Bring Daddy.

Bring your sister.

Bring your brother.

Bring your child.

Bring your spouse.

Bring your friend.

Bring the person whose relationship to you doesn’t fit neatly into a box.

Bring the person whose name still catches somewhere between your heart and your throat.

There is room.

🪑🪑

And while we’re sitting here, I need to say something to Wombie too.

We lost the same mother.

But that doesn’t mean we have the same grief.

Same Mom.

Different daughters.

Different memories.

Different relationships.

Different places where her absence lives.

Neither grief has to compete with the other.

There is room for both.

❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

Maybe that’s something all of us can remember.

Two people can stand at the same funeral and go home carrying entirely different losses.

Love doesn’t require us to compare them.

Love makes room.

And memory makes room too.

One person remembers something another forgot.

Somebody remembers the laugh.

Somebody remembers the recipe.

Somebody remembers the phrase they always used.

Somebody remembers a story differently.

Piece by piece, we remind one another:

They were here.

🧩

Not:

Their death was here.

THEY were here.

That distinction matters to me.

Because my mother’s death is part of her story.

It is not her whole story.

And my grief is part of mine.

It is not my whole story either.

I am still here.

Wombie is still here.

You are still here.

🌎

And that brings me to Jesus.

There are three words Christians know well:

IT IS FINISHED.

Jesus said them.

Not me.

Not you.

Jesus.

And I need to be careful here because I don’t want to borrow His sentence for something He never assigned to it.

Jesus’ job is done.

Our job is not done.

That does NOT mean Jesus completed part of salvation and left the rest for us.

Nah, fam.

We are not finishing Calvary.

We are not completing Christ.

We are not anybody’s Messiah.

What belonged to Jesus to finish, Jesus finished.

🙏🏿❤️‍🔥

His work is completion.

Our work is response.

We don’t love the world to finish what Jesus couldn’t.

We love because we have been loved.

We don’t have to become saviors.

We can become neighbors.

And neighbors can do ordinary things.

Call.

Listen.

Visit.

Feed somebody.

Remember.

Protect.

Apologize.

Forgive where forgiveness is possible and healthy.

Hold a hand.

Say a name.

Pull up another chair.

Stay.

Love.

❤️

That’s our work.

And Beloveds—

there are still people here.

That’s why I’m not finished.

That’s why you’re not finished.

That’s why we aren’t finished.

Not because death is stalking us and we should live terrified of every goodbye.

No.

I don’t want fear to teach us how to love.

Life is happening now.

That’s enough reason.

The last ordinary day usually looks ordinary while we’re living it.

Nobody announces:

This is the last phone call.

This is the last Christmas.

This is the last ridiculous joke.

This is the last hug.

So don’t spend your life terrified that everything might be the last thing.

Instead:

Let ordinary love count while it is still ordinary.

❤️‍🔥

Tell people they matter while they can hear you.

Sit with them.

Laugh with them.

Listen.

Be present.

Don’t wait for a funeral to discover somebody was precious.

Don’t wait for March.

And if your March has already disappeared—

come sit with me.

I know something about missing a March.

❤️‍🩹🪑

Mom’s love did not make her immortal.

But her death did not make her love meaningless.

Some of what she gave reached her daughters.

And love moves.

Person to person.

Life to life.

❤️➡️❤️➡️❤️➡️❤️➡️🌎

Somebody may receive kindness tomorrow that began partly with a person whose name they will never know.

That’s an extraordinary kind of legacy.

Love that no longer needs your name attached to it.

But let me be clear:

Legacy is not reimbursement for loss.

Nothing beautiful that comes afterward makes losing somebody “worth it.”

Nothing replaces Mom.

Nothing gives us March.

Nothing balances some cosmic ledger and makes everything even.

I can be grateful for what love produced and still say:

I miss my mother.

Both are true.

❤️‍🩹

And maybe that’s why I keep coming back to the whole world.

🌎

Every stranger you pass contains a history you cannot see.

Somebody is carrying an empty chair.

Somebody is carrying a name.

Somebody is carrying a March.

Somebody is carrying joy and grief in the same body.

We don’t know everybody’s story.

Maybe we don’t need to.

Maybe we can begin somewhere simpler:

Beloved.

Before I know your race.

Beloved.

Before I know your country.

Beloved.

Before I know your politics.

Beloved.

Before I know whether you worship like me—or worship at all.

Beloved.

Before I know your story.

You are a human being standing here with me in this world.

And your life matters.

🌎❤️

I cannot love eight billion people individually.

Neither can you.

That’s why I don’t ask you to save the world.

I ask something human-sized.

One step.

Love somebody within your reach.

Then another person does the same.

Then another.

Then another.

One chair.

One phone call.

One meal.

One name remembered.

One person seen.

One act of love.

One step. One step. One step.

That’s how a human-sized heart approaches a world-sized command.

❤️➡️🌎

Mom,

I wish we had gotten March.

I wish you had seen what I wanted you to see.

I wish there had been more ordinary days.

But there weren’t.

So I will not pretend I understand everything.

I will not pretend missing you doesn’t hurt.

And I will not allow the day you died to become bigger than all the days you lived.

You were here.

You loved.

You mattered.

You still matter to your daughters.

🧸❤️‍🩹

Wombie,

there is room for your grief too.

Always.

❤️‍🩹

And Beloveds—

there is room for yours.

Bring the names.

Bring the memories.

Bring the questions.

Bring the laughter.

Bring the tears.

Bring the complicated parts.

Bring the whole messy human thing.

🪑🪑🌎

We don’t have to resolve before we belong.

And when we’re ready, we’ll stand—or sit, or roll—from that table and turn again toward the living.

Because there are still people here.

There is still kindness to give.

There is still loneliness to interrupt.

There is still injustice to confront.

There are still hands to hold.

There are still voices to hear.

There are still people who need another chair.

There is still a whole world full of human beings who need love.

So yes:

JESUS’ JOB IS DONE.

OUR JOB IS NOT DONE.

His:

IT IS FINISHED.

Ours:

KEEP LOVING.

Again tomorrow.

And the day after that.

For however many tomorrows we are given.

Mom was here.

Your person was here.

You are here.

And while we’re both still here—

LET’S LOVE THE WORLD TOGETHER.

🌎❤️‍🩹❤️‍🔥

Your life matters to me.

One step.

One step.

One step.

You are loved.

You are NOT alone.

Keep on being…YOU!

Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra

#YourLifeMattersToMe

DON’T GIVE UP YET!

💙📫 A POSTCARD FOR YOU: DON’T GIVE UP YET

Beloveds,

DON’T GIVE UP YET!



I don’t know who needs this little postcard today, but I’m sending it anyway.

Don’t give up yet.

Not because I can promise you everything is about to become easy. I can’t.

Not because I know exactly what you’re carrying. I don’t.

But because sometimes we make permanent decisions while standing inside temporary pain. Sometimes exhaustion starts talking like it knows the future.

It doesn’t.

So before you decide there is nothing left ahead of you, give tomorrow a chance to introduce itself.

Rest if you need to.

Cry if you need to.

Be quiet if you need to.

Ask somebody to sit beside you if you need to.

Take one tiny step if that’s all you’ve got.

But please—

Don’t give up yet.

There are people you haven’t met yet.

There is laughter you haven’t laughed yet.

There are mornings you haven’t seen yet.

There are songs you haven’t danced badly to yet. 💃🏿😂

There is love you haven’t received yet—and love only you can give.

You do not have to figure out the rest of your life today.

Just stay for this step.

Then the next one.

One step. One step. One step.

I’m rooting for you from my little corner of this great big world.

🌎💙

Your life matters to me.

You are loved.

You are NOT alone.

Please don’t give up yet.

Keep on being…YOU! ❤️‍🔥

Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra

#YourLifeMattersToMe

AFTER MIDNIGHT — WHAT ALL OF THIS WAS ABOUT 🌎❤️‍🔥

AFTER MIDNIGHT — WHAT ALL OF THIS WAS ABOUT 🌎❤️‍🔥

Beloveds,

Tonight we went a long way around to arrive at something that has actually been here all along.

Why Can’t I Be Loud? was never simply about being loud. It was about having a voice.

It was about refusing to let this world decide whose voice deserves room, whose story deserves to be heard, whose difference makes them inconvenient, or whose pain should be made quiet so everybody else can remain comfortable.



And somewhere in all of tonight’s music, memories, laughter, hurt, photographs, fishing poles, empty chairs, chains and rebirth, the message became clearer.

I see you.

Not the version of you somebody else decided you ought to become. Not only the polished you. Not only the healed you. Not only the easy-to-love you.

You.

I know something about what it feels like to believe you are the one nobody will choose. I know what it means to carry words spoken over you long after the people who said them have gone home. I know what being called ugly can do to a heart.

But I also know this:

God loved me then.

God loves me now.

And I learned to love me, too.

So when I tell you that your life matters to me, those are not decorative words at the bottom of a post. That is the work. That is the reason I keep opening the door. That is why there are two chairs instead of one and two fishing poles waiting beside them.

🎣🪑  🪑🎣

Come sit with me.

Bring your story.

Bring your laughter. Bring your questions. Bring your faith or your uncertainty. Bring your scars, your accent, your anger, your joy, your difference, your whole complicated self.

You do not have to become somebody else before there is a chair for you.

Maybe that is what all these playlists and stories and conversations have been doing. They have been fishing for something bigger than any one song, movie, photograph, country, race, body, language or life.

Fishing for love.

Fishing for one another.

Fishing for a world where seeing somebody different does not make us retreat, but makes us curious enough to pull up another chair.

Because I don’t want to love only the people who look like me.

I want us to love the whole world together.

🌎

That is why I keep saying:

One step. One step. One step.

Because changing the world sounds impossible.

Loving the human being sitting in the other chair does not.

And maybe enough of those little acts of love eventually become something enormous.

A chain transformed.

A life reborn.

A voice recovered.

A lonely table with another chair pulled up beside it.

A world remembering that we belong to one another.

So after everything tonight, I think the summary may actually be very simple:

You matter to me.

I see you.

You are loved.

You are not alone.

And whatever tried to convince you that you had to disappear in order to belong—

Nah, fam.

There is room here for your voice.

Keep on being…YOU!

🌎❤️‍🔥🪑🪑🎣🎣

Asking for A Friend,
Cassandra

#YourLifeMattersToMe

Note: One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are NOT alone. Keep on being…YOU!

🤣😂🥰😍

😂🎤 SOMETIMES I JUST WANT TO LAUGH

Beloveds,

Listen.

Sometimes there is a lesson.

Sometimes there is a testimony.

Sometimes there is something that makes me stop, think, pray, cry, or look at the world a little differently.

And sometimes?

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

IT’S JUST FUNNY.

That’s it.

That’s the post. 😂

I love comedy.

I love laughing.

I love those moments when somebody says something so ridiculous that you weren’t prepared for it and the laugh just FALLS OUT. 🤣

Everything does not need a dissertation.

Everything does not need twelve footnotes.

Everything does not need Robie standing in the corner with a clipboard trying to determine:

🤓📝 “But what does the laughter represent?”

SIR.

SIT DOWN.

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Sometimes joy gets to be joy.

Sometimes funny gets to be FUNNY.

And sometimes I just want to laugh.

So come laugh with me. 😂❤️

🎤 You’re Up Next Clean Comedy Competition:

https://youtu.be/trxTFRo0DHw?is=93fMmi2_dUfB6pOs

And if you’re wondering what all these seemingly different things have to do with each other, come over here:

❤️🌎 A-B-B-A — WHAT DOES LOVE DO?

https://whycantibeloud.wordpress.com/2026/08/28/22490/

But first?

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

LAUGH.

One step. One step. One step.

You are loved.

You are NOT alone.

Keep on being…YOU!

❤️🌎