Hi, I'm Christelle

I didn’t know You. Of that, I was sure. I didn’t know You. But I felt You. When Your blood streamed down my flesh, something in me answered. Before the borrowed words ever reached my lips. “ Forgive me, Jesus, for I am a sinner, You died for, on the Cross .” Mere words from a sinful mouth, but enough for You to step in. Repeating them felt right, so I did. I invited You into the chaos I’ve called home. I offered You a seat somewhere next to Mammon and his companions. Just a v

I dreaded writing this piece, though I felt the nudge to write about Holy Week. How does one speak of the Word made flesh? No descriptor feels strong enough. No words feel right. So I decided the best I could do was write from the heart—and hope it lands. So, there we go. I was disgusting—filthy, gross beyond recognition—and worse, I enjoyed it. I was lost. You knew it. I knew it. Yet the filth didn’t bother me; the pigpen enticed me. I yearned for it. The wind of the world s

Have you ever found yourself in a situation where your righteousness didn’t seem covered by divine protection? Where you felt caught in an impasse—not just questioning why a season was prolonged, but questioning God’s reasoning for allowing it in the first place? I have. Maybe for you, it was something meaningful—a resource, your health, a ministry—something you were faithfully using to serve the Kingdom. And then, in what felt like an instant, it slipped through your fingers