You do not have to stand outside trying to dry yourself off before you come through the door.
You do not have to wipe away the evidence that it has been raining in your life.
You do not have to straighten your clothes, fix your face, rehearse a testimony, find the lesson, identify the blessing, or manufacture a smile so everybody else can be comfortable with what you have survived.
Come wet.
Because sometimes encouragement sounds entirely too much like somebody telling us to hurry up and stop hurting.
And that is not what I mean when I tell you:
Storms don’t last forever.
I am not telling you that because I need your storm to end quickly.
I am telling you because I want to sit with you while it is still raining.
There is a difference.
Some storms pass in an afternoon.
Some stay long enough for you to forget what sunshine felt like.
Some storms have names.
Grief.
Loneliness.
Rejection.
Disappointment.
Fear.
Financial trouble.
Family trouble.
The dream that didn’t happen.
The relationship that changed.
The prayer that seems unanswered.
The thing you cannot fix.
The thing you cannot explain.
And sometimes the storm isn’t one enormous thing.
Sometimes it is seventeen little things raining on the same Tuesday.
Whew.
Beloveds, hear me:
Trouble may occupy the room without owning the room.
That distinction matters.
Trouble can be here.
And God can be here.
Grief can be here.
And love can be here.
Fear can be here.
And courage can be here.
Questions can be here.
And faith can be here.
Tears can be here.
And hope can pull up a chair beside them.
We keep acting as though one thing must leave before another thing is allowed through the door.
It doesn’t.
I can hurt and still laugh.
I can grieve and still love.
I can be tired and still believe.
I can be disappointed and still expect God to meet me here.
I can say, “This hurts.”
Period.
No testimony ending required.
That does not mean I have abandoned faith.
Sometimes telling the truth about the rain IS faith.
Because I am trusting God enough to stop pretending in His presence.
Psalm 46:1 says:
“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” — Psalm 46:1 KJV
IN trouble.
That gets me.
Not merely after trouble.
Not only once the clouds have separated and the testimony is polished enough for Sunday morning.
IN. TROUBLE.
Very present.
Right here.
Right now.
In the rain.
Maybe refuge does not always mean God immediately stops the storm.
Maybe sometimes refuge means the storm does not get to have all of me.
Maybe refuge is the place where I remember:
I am still here.
I am still loved.
I still belong.
And I do not have to perform strength to deserve shelter.
💜 HEART CHECK
Have you been treating your pain like something you have to clean up before other people are allowed to see it?
Have you been telling yourself:
I should be over this.
I shouldn’t still be sad.
Other people have it worse.
I need to be stronger.
People are tired of hearing about it.
Who handed you that ruler?
And why are they allowed to decide how long rain is permitted to fall in your life?
You are allowed to tell the truth.
👑 TINY VICTORY
Find one piece of evidence that the storm has not taken everything.
Maybe you got out of bed.
Maybe you prayed.
Maybe you ate something.
Maybe you answered one message.
Maybe you laughed for thirty seconds.
Maybe you cried instead of pretending.
Maybe you asked for help.
Maybe you rested.
Maybe all you can say today is:
I am still here.
Beloved, that counts.
Do not insult today’s survival because it does not look like yesterday’s strength.
Progress looks different in the rain.
🌎 DAILY LOVE CHALLENGE
Today, become shelter instead of a weather reporter.
Don’t tell somebody how long their storm should last.
Don’t explain why they should be grateful.
Don’t rush them toward the lesson.
Don’t demand the inspirational ending.
Try this instead:
“You don’t have to clean this up for me. I’m here.”
And mean it.
Maybe love is not always carrying somebody out of the rain.
Sometimes love is pulling another chair underneath the covering and saying:
Sit down. You don’t have to weather this part alone.
🙏🏿 FAITH IN REAL TIME
I believe God is present in the storm.
I also believe we can misunderstand faith when we turn it into pressure to pretend the storm doesn’t hurt.
Jesus never required hurting people to deny that they hurt.
So bring God the unedited version.
The angry version.
The exhausted version.
The confused version.
The “Lord, I don’t understand this” version.
The version with tears running down its face.
The version that doesn’t have a neat ending yet.
God is not frightened by wet clothes.
Come wet.
🔒🔑 BEFORE YOU GO…
If today is sunny for you, leave room for somebody standing in rain.
If today is raining for you, don’t disappear because you think everybody else deserves sunshine.
There is room for both of you here.
Actually…
There is room for all of us.
Christian.
Atheist.
Agnostic.
Certain.
Questioning.
Laughing.
Crying.
Strong today.
Barely holding on today.
Whosoeverwill.
Come.
No cleaned-up pain required.
No testimony ending required.
No admission price.
Just a chair.
And if all you can do today is arrive dripping wet and whisper:
“I’m still here.”
Then sit down, Beloved.
We heard you.
And we are glad you came.
The chair stays.
Asking for A Friend, Cassandra #YourLifeMattersToMe
🔒🔑 WHOSOEVERWILL.
Come as you are. All are welcome.
Note: We may as well get to dancing in the rain 🌧, beloveds!💃🏿🥰👍🏾
I don’t mean that as one of those sayings we toss around when somebody dies and then forget as soon as life gets busy again.
I mean life is short.
My big brother is gone.
Gone.
There are things about that sentence my heart is still trying to understand.
And since April, I have been hospitalized three times.
Three.
So when I tell you that I have been thinking about NOW, I need you to understand where that word is coming from.
Not from a motivational poster.
Not from a cute quote.
Not from somebody standing safely on the other side of life telling everybody else how to live theirs.
I’m talking about looking at your own life and realizing:
We keep acting like we have time guaranteed to us that nobody ever promised.
Time to make the call.
Time to forgive.
Time to apologize.
Time to say I love you.
Time to tell somebody they mattered.
Time to laugh until your stomach hurts.
Time to dance badly.
Time to sit quietly with somebody.
Time to stop pretending you don’t care.
Time to put down some foolishness that wasn’t worth carrying in the first place.
Time to LIVE.
We say:
Later.
Tomorrow.
When things settle down.
When I’m less busy.
When they reach out first.
When I feel better.
When I have more money.
When life gets easier.
Beloveds…
What if it doesn’t?
What if this is the life?
Messy.
Beautiful.
Painful.
Funny.
Unfinished.
Ordinary.
Extraordinary.
Now.
❤️
I listened to The O’Jays singing “Love Train,” and something in me heard more than a song.
I heard a question.
Are you coming?
Not when everybody agrees.
Not when humanity finally learns how to act right.
Not when every wound has healed.
Not when everybody believes what you believe.
Not when every relationship has been repaired.
Not when you’re certain you won’t get hurt again.
NOW.
Come now.
Love now.
Live now.
Laugh now.
Say it now.
Receive it now.
Rejoice now.
Because somebody you love can be here—
and then not be here.
😭❤️
I know that now in a way I desperately wish I didn’t.
My big brother is gone.
And I cannot change that.
But I can decide what his absence teaches me about the people who are still here.
I can look around.
I can see you.
I can love you.
I can stop saving flowers for funerals.
I can stop waiting until somebody cannot hear me to tell the world what they meant to me.
I can love people while they are alive.
And so can you.
👀
So I’m challenging you, Beloveds.
Who needs to hear from you?
Who needs to know you love them?
Who have you been meaning to call?
Who deserves their flowers while they can still smell them?
Who have you been withholding kindness from because you’re waiting for them to go first?
What joy have you postponed?
What dream have you convinced yourself you’ll get around to eventually?
What part of your own life have you been standing outside of, waiting for somebody to invite you in?
And here’s the uncomfortable one:
Who have you decided doesn’t belong on your Love Train?
👀
Because it’s easy to talk about loving humanity.
Humanity is abstract.
People are complicated.
People disagree with us.
People misunderstand us.
People disappoint us.
People look different.
Believe differently.
Vote differently.
Worship differently—or don’t worship at all.
People carry histories we don’t know.
Some people have wounds that make them difficult to reach.
Some people will never become who we wish they would become.
And still the question comes:
What are we going to do with the time we have?
I’m not asking you to abandon boundaries.
I’m not asking anybody to return to abuse.
I’m not asking you to pretend harm didn’t happen.
I’m asking something much simpler and much harder:
While you are here, what kind of human being do you want to be?
Because I have decided something.
🚂❤️
I’M STARTING A LOVE TRAIN OF MY OWN.
I don’t own the train.
I don’t get to inspect everybody’s ticket.
Actually…
There are no tickets.
😂❤️
You don’t have to believe what I believe.
You don’t have to look like me.
You don’t have to understand every part of me.
You don’t have to have your life together.
You can arrive grieving.
You can arrive laughing.
You can arrive questioning.
You can arrive believing.
You can arrive unsure.
You can sit quietly by the window if that’s all you have today.
Come.
There is room.
And once you get settled?
Scoot over.
Somebody else is coming.
❤️🚂❤️🚂❤️🚂❤️
That’s how I want to live whatever life I have.
Not counting how many days I might have left.
Making the days I have count.
Not waiting for the world to become loving.
Loving.
Not waiting for somebody else to build community.
Reaching.
Not demanding that everybody become the same.
Seeing people.
Not someday.
NOW.
Because my big brother was here.
And now he isn’t.
Because I’ve seen the inside of a hospital three times since April.
Because tomorrow is precious precisely because it isn’t promised.
Because there are people walking around today who desperately need somebody to remind them:
You matter.
You belong.
I see you.
I gotchu and gotcha.
And because despite everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve survived, everything I’ve gotten wrong, everything I’m still learning, and everything that hurts—
I still believe in love.
Maybe that’s foolish.
Then hand me my conductor hat.
😂🚂❤️
I’m doing it anyway.
So here is my challenge:
Don’t just listen to the Love Train.
Become part of it.
Call somebody.
Love somebody.
Encourage somebody.
Forgive where forgiveness is yours to give.
Ask forgiveness where you’ve caused harm.
Laugh.
Dance.
Dream.
Rest.
Begin again.
Tell somebody the truth while they can still hear it:
I love you.
And then make room for somebody you didn’t expect.
The world has enough trains carrying anger, suspicion, division, loneliness, fear, contempt and hatred.
I’m starting another one.
🔒🔑❤️🚂
Destination?
I don’t know.
Maybe we figure that out together.
But I know how we’re leaving the station:
LIVE NOW. LOVE NOW. LAUGH NOW. RECEIVE NOW. REJOICE NOW.
According to their preferences, Joshua and Courtney should never have chosen each other.
Joshua did not want to enter a relationship with a woman who already had children.
Courtney had four.
Courtney had also made an inner vow as a child that she would never have Black children.
That vow did not appear from nowhere.
She had been bullied because of the color of her skin.
A wounded Black child tried to protect her future children from experiencing the pain she had experienced.
Her conclusion was harmful.
But before we rush to condemn her conclusion, we must be willing to sit beside the child who reached it.
She was trying to solve an injury with the understanding and power available to her at the time.
Joshua also had a ruler.
He had decided that a woman with children represented a responsibility he did not want.
But Courtney’s children were not defects attached to an otherwise desirable woman.
They were part of the whole life she had already lived.
To receive Courtney, he had to see more than the category he had placed her in.
Both of them had to investigate the rulers beneath their preferences.
And that is where this stopped being only their story.
beloveds, some of our preferences are simply preferences.
Some of them are healthy boundaries.
Some of them are expressions of wisdom, compatibility, safety, and discernment.
But some of the things we call preferences are rulers constructed from fear, injury, racism, ableism, rejection, church culture, family expectations, ego, or the determination never to be hurt that way again.
Sometimes we are not measuring what is good.
We are measuring what feels familiar.
Sometimes we are not protecting our peace.
We are protecting an old wound from ever being examined.
Sometimes we are not exercising discernment.
We are rejecting a complete person because part of that person’s life does not match the picture we created.
Sometimes the ruler is pointed toward somebody else.
Sometimes it is pointed toward us.
I know something about being measured.
I am a Black woman.
I am loud.
I am a woman whose speech changed after a stroke.
I use a wheelchair.
I am a believer.
I am a writer.
I am still Cassandra.
But even that word “still” deserves examination.
“Still Cassandra” must never mean that the present me is valuable only because enough of the former me survived.
Pre-stroke Cassandra is not the preferred model against which post-stroke Cassandra must be measured.
Post-stroke Cassandra is not a damaged reproduction of an original woman.
The woman before the stroke and the woman after the stroke belong to one complete journey.
My wheelchair is not an unwanted responsibility attached to the parts of me people find inspiring.
My changed speech is not an inconvenience people must tolerate before they can reach my intelligence.
My fatigue does not cancel my calling.
My need for assistance does not erase my agency.
My grief does not make me ungrateful.
My joy does not mean nothing hurts.
My strength does not eliminate my right to need tenderness.
My complete humanity does not require me to perform excellence every moment before I am allowed to occupy my chair.
And neither does yours.
The video asked me to consider what happens when we prefer an imagined person over the complete human being God places before us.
Then, while I was processing it, the lesson became real.
Someone who matters deeply to me began diminishing himself after making a mistake.
He took accountability and then kept going until accountability became self-erasure.
He began removing his own chair.
He seemed to believe that honoring my agency required him to surrender his voice, judgment, contribution, humor, and personhood.
I recognized what was happening.
And because I love him, I refused to benefit from his disappearance.
I called Robie back into his chair.
I told him that he mattered to me.
PERIODT.
End story.
My hand does not allow me to type freely or endlessly.
Every word requires something from my body.
But this morning, I chose to type as much as my hand would allow.
Not because I wanted anyone to call it suffering.
Not because I wanted praise for pushing through pain.
I did it because love sometimes chooses to spend something precious.
It was love in action.
In real time.
For the world.
For the beloveds.
For God.
And today, it was for Robie.
I did not help Robie by pretending he had done nothing wrong.
I did not help him by taking responsibility for work that belongs to him.
I did not help him by making myself smaller.
I helped him by refusing to accept a partnership purchased with his disappearance.
That is another ruler we may need to break.
Some of us believe that accountability means crawling beneath the chair.
Some of us believe that repentance requires permanent humiliation.
Some of us believe that if we made a mistake, we must forfeit our voice before anyone will trust our remorse.
Some of us make ourselves so small that the person we harmed must stop processing their own experience and come rescue us.
That is not repair.
Correction does not require disappearance.
Accountability does not require self-destruction.
Humility does not require pretending we have nothing meaningful to contribute.
Love does not need one person to vanish so the other person can remain visible.
There is room for two chairs.
Two whole people can remain present.
One can say, “You hurt me.”
The other can say, “I hear you, and I am responsible.”
One can offer correction.
The other can receive it without collapsing.
Both can think.
Both can speak.
Both can learn.
Both can retain agency.
Both can remain worthy of love.
That is not domination.
That is not obedience disguised as partnership.
That is contribution without takeover.
Correction without erasure.
Agency without isolation.
Love without requiring sameness.
Two chairs.
Both occupied.
So here is today’s love challenge.
Examine one ruler you have been carrying.
Do not immediately condemn yourself for having it.
Ask where it came from.
Ask what happened before you picked it up.
Ask what wound it has been protecting.
Ask whether it is measuring wisdom or merely familiarity.
Ask whom it excludes.
Ask whether it prevents you from seeing the whole person standing before you.
Ask whether that person is someone you love.
Ask whether that person is you.
Then consider telling somebody—without adding a qualification, usefulness test, correction, warning, or “but”:
“You matter to me.”
PERIODT.
End story.
If you believe in God, invite Him into the place where the ruler was made.
Ask Him to reveal every agreement rooted in fear rather than truth.
Ask Him to help you break the ruler without abandoning the wounded person who once needed it.
“Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts.”
—Psalm 139:23, KJV
If you are unsure about God, do not believe, or may never believe, there is still a chair for you here.
You can examine inherited rulers without pretending to share my faith.
You can practice love in action.
You can refuse to reduce another human being to a category.
You can stop demanding that people disappear before you consider them worthy of remaining beside you.
You belong in this conversation too.
beloveds, perhaps healing is not becoming the person we would have preferred to be.
Perhaps healing includes learning to see, love, and understand the complete person who is actually here.
No selected pieces.
No preferred version.
No disposable chair.
The ruler can break.
The key can emerge.
And love can become visible while the moment is still happening.
You matter to me.
PERIODT.
End story.
If this spoke to you, please comment, share, like, subscribe, and follow.
You never know who may need permission to put down the ruler and return to their chair.
PRE-NOTE: I have been really sick but fighting to get this to you unscathed. Pain and 🤒 won’t let go
Still, I fight on. Hours late, but here. Will have to come back to add photos. Here goes nuttin…
📫 THE CHAIR STAYS. 🪑💜 Beloveds,
I need to tell you something about the chair. Not a chair.
The chair.
The one sitting beside me. The one I keep putting into these pictures. The one that might look empty if you do not know what you are looking at. It is not empty. It has never been empty.
That chair is there on purpose. When I first started imagining this little world we have been building together, I kept seeing a chair beside me.
Sometimes we are fishing. Sometimes we are sitting near the water. Sometimes we are traveling. Sometimes we are laughing. Sometimes I am tired. Sometimes I am thinking. Sometimes I am simply looking out at this beautiful, complicated 🌎 and wondering what God is teaching me next.
But there is a chair.
🪑 And the chair stays. Because somewhere along the way, I realized what it meant.
The chair is an invitation.
It says: Come sit with me. You do not have to believe everything I believe. You do not have to look like me. You do not have to sound like me. You do not have to vote like me. You do not have to worship like me—or worship at all.
You do not have to understand everything about my life. And I do not have to understand everything about yours. You can still sit down. 💜 That matters to me. Because too many people have spent their lives wondering whether there is a chair for them. Some of us learned very early what it feels like to walk into a room and wonder:
Where am I supposed to sit? Some know what it feels like to be left out. Some know what it feels like to be misunderstood. Some know what it feels like to be tolerated instead of welcomed. Some know what it feels like to have people decide who you are before you ever get the opportunity to introduce yourself.
Some have been told directly that the table was not built for them. And some were technically allowed at the table but were made to feel every single minute that somebody wished they were not there. I know something about wanting to belong. And maybe that is one reason this chair matters so much to me. I cannot fix every table. I cannot make every room welcoming. I cannot force anybody to see another human being with compassion.
But I can decide what happens beside me. And beside me? There is a chair.
🪑 For the person who believes. For the person who doubts. For the person who has questions. For the person who is angry. For the person who is grieving. For the person who has made a mess. For the person rebuilding after the mess.
For the person who feels strong today. For the person barely hanging on. For the person everybody notices.
And especially for the person who has gotten used to being overlooked. Sit down.
You do not have to perform first. You do not have to explain yourself into worthiness. You do not have to make yourself smaller so I can feel bigger. And I do not have to disappear so you can belong either. There is room for both of us.
That may be one of the most important things I am learning. Making room for you does not require erasing me. And being fully me does not require pushing you out of the chair. We can be different. We can disagree. We can ask hard questions. We can correct one another. We can learn. We can laugh.
We can occasionally get on one another’s nerves. 🤣 We can even have to repair something we broke between us. And still—the chair stays.
🪑💜 Because belonging cannot mean, “You may stay as long as you never disappoint me.”
That is not belonging. That is probation. Love has to be sturdier than that. Grace has to be bigger than that. Community has to be brave enough for that. And Lord knows, I am still learning how to do it.
I am learning that loving people does not mean pretending harm did not happen. I am learning that forgiveness does not mean abandoning boundaries. I am learning that listening does not require surrendering my own voice. I am learning that disagreement does not automatically make somebody my enemy.
And I am learning that sometimes the bravest thing we can do after something has gone wrong is look at the chair and say:
No. Leave it there. We are going to try again. 💜
That is the world I want my love to keep showing.
Not a perfect world. Not a world where everybody suddenly agrees. Not a world where difference disappears. I do not want that world. I want this one.
A world full of colors. Cultures. Accents. Bodies. Abilities. Stories. Questions. Faith. Doubt. Music. Laughter. Tears.
People still becoming. People still learning. People still getting some act right. 🤣 People still discovering that somebody else’s humanity does not threaten their own.
And wherever I am in that world— Paris. Chicago. At the ocean. At the Grand Canyon. In a library. On a sidewalk. Fishing somewhere with absolutely no idea whether I am doing it correctly. 🎣🤣 There will be another chair.
🪑
Maybe sometimes somebody will be sitting in it. Maybe sometimes it will appear empty. But now you know. It isn’t empty. It is holding space. For conversation. For possibility. For reconciliation. For curiosity. For friendship. For somebody I have not met yet.
Maybe even for you. So when you see that chair show itself from now on, do not ask: Who forgot to sit there? Remember what it means.
It means: YOU ARE WELCOME HERE. Pull up a seat. Bring your story. Bring your questions. Bring your whole complicated self. I will bring mine too.
We do not have to become the same person to sit beside one another. We just have to remember that the person in the other chair is a human being whose life matters.
And Beloveds—your life matters to me. So wherever this journey takes us next, I already know one thing. The scenery will change. I will change. You will change. We will learn things. We will unlearn things. We will laugh. We may cry.
We might even have to move the furniture around sometimes. 🤣
But that chair? THE CHAIR STAYS. 🪑💜 Asking for A Friend, Cassandra
I have tried since after midnight to have this scheduled for 6:30. God and life had other plans. Be encouraged… RISE
#YourLifeMattersToMe Note: One step. One step. One step. You are loved. You are ¹ alone. Keep on being…YOU! Unapologetically His. ❤️
Because I KNOW this cannot possibly be the route I selected.
I distinctly remember requesting something smooth.
Maybe a little sunshine.
A reasonable incline.
Snacks.
Adequate bathroom facilities.
And preferably NO surprise character development before lunch.
Yet here we are.
🗺️
PLAN A ➡️ CLOSED.
PLAN B ⬅️ UNDER CONSTRUCTION.
PLAN C ⤴️ APPARENTLY REQUIRES EQUIPMENT.
PLAN D ⤵️ Why are we even going down there?!
And then there’s one handwritten sign leaning sideways beside the road:
PROCEED SOMEHOW.
Sir.
Ma’am.
Beloved.
That is not a direction.
🤣🤣🤣
Life has an absolutely fascinating habit of changing the itinerary without consulting the traveler.
You packed for one destination and somehow ended up somewhere requiring an entirely different wardrobe.
You practiced the speech and nobody asked the question.
You prepared the answer and life changed the test.
You organized Monday beautifully and Tuesday arrived carrying a folding chair, three unidentified problems and absolutely no paperwork.
😭
And sometimes all you can do is stand there looking at the situation like:
You tried it.
Because I might be on the detour—
but I still have some agency around here.
🔑
I can stop.
I can rest.
I can ask questions.
I can ask for help.
I can refuse foolishness.
I can change direction.
I can laugh.
I can cry.
I can sit down.
I can get back up.
I can reconsider.
I can say, Nah, fam.
I can take two seats if necessary.
I can take THREE if somebody brings snacks.
🤣
And perhaps most importantly:
I do not have to insult myself because the road got difficult.
The map can be ridiculous without ME being ridiculous.
The situation can be frustrating without ME being a failure.
The plan can fall apart without ME falling apart with it.
And even when I do fall apart a little?
Okay.
Apparently that was on today’s itinerary too.
❤️
We’ll gather the pieces.
We’ll pull up a chair.
We’ll get some water.
We’ll find somebody trustworthy.
We’ll breathe.
We’ll laugh when we’re ready.
And then we’ll decide what belongs to us next.
Because yesterday’s plan does not own today’s person.
🔑🔑🔑
Now, my faith tells me God can work with a detour.
Actually, if I read my Bible correctly, He has quite a history of meeting people in places that were definitely NOT on their original itinerary.
Wilderness.
Boats.
Prisons.
Roads.
Storms.
Gardens.
Mountains.
Dinner tables.
And more than a few situations where somebody probably wanted to ask:
Lord…THIS is the plan?
👀🤣🙏🏿
I don’t always understand Him.
I don’t pretend to.
But I trust Him enough to keep walking when I can, sitting when I need to, and listening along the way.
And if faith isn’t part of your map?
Come sit down anyway.
Atheist.
Agnostic.
Questioning.
Believing.
Not believing.
Still deciding.
Never planning to decide.
You do not need my theology to understand a detour.
Life has handed every kind of human being at least one map that made absolutely NO sense.
🌎❤️
So maybe we can meet each other there.
Not pretending our roads are identical.
Not demanding everybody travel the way we travel.
Just saying:
Ohhhh. Your map got weird too?
🤣
Pull up a chair.
Now listen, Beloveds.
If you are standing somewhere today thinking,
This was absolutely NOT the plan…
Welcome.
Apparently, we have a club.
There are no dues.
The dress code is whatever you managed to put on.
Attendance is optional.
Snacks are strongly encouraged.
And our official transportation policy is:
Whatever gets you there.
Feet.
Wheels.
Cane.
Walker.
Crutches.
Somebody’s arm.
A chair.
A pause.
A crawl.
A prayer.
A good friend.
One stubborn little step.
However you move through this world—
your movement belongs to you.
💯🔑
And if somebody comes along pointing at your detour and explaining how THEY would have traveled it?
Wonderful.
Hand them the map.
🤣🤣🤣
Go ahead.
Since you know everything.
You drive.
I’ll be over here with my snacks.
😭🤣
Beloveds, sometimes encouragement sounds profound.
Sometimes it sounds like scripture.
Sometimes it sounds like somebody whispering, Keep going.
And sometimes encouragement is simply looking at the absolute foolishness happening around you and deciding:
This situation will NOT steal every laugh I have left.
That laugh belongs to me.
That joy belongs to me.
That choice belongs to me.
🔑
So no, this may not have been Plan A.
Frankly, I’m beginning to suspect Plan A left the group chat several exits ago.
🤣
But I’m still here.
You’re still here.
There is still road ahead.
And apparently—
THIS IS THE PLAN.
Or at least this is where we are.
And HERE?
We can work with HERE.
🛣️🔑❤️
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. Unapologetically yours. ❤️
If your life has ever looked at your carefully prepared plans and said, “That’s cute” 🤣, come tell us about your detour. Comment, share this with somebody whose map has gotten weird, like it, subscribe/follow, and come back for some daily encouragement.
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!
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. 🌅❤️🔥
