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A few years ago, a friend of mine tried to talk me into the deodorant stone as an alternative to aluminum-laden antiperspirants.
It didn’t work.
I’m not a particularly crunchy girl unless we’re talking fried chicken.
But I did start thinking, praying, and reading about the “stuff” in antiperspirants. My mother was adamant that I use only a deodorant until my senior year in high school; I could remember some of what she told me about the inherent yick of aluminum and other unnaturalness in antiperspirants, but I’d never cared to look for myself.
And I will spare you the lecture; Google it for yourself and you’ll see *plenty* of information on why antiperspirants are cause for concern.
Suddenly, I felt very crunchy.
So I started with what I knew and what I had on hand. I have a new deodorant approach that seems to work out well practically and limits the amount of antiperspirant yick my body must deal with.
I use baby powder (preferably the kind with added corn starch) under my arms when I wake up or get out of the shower. When we leave to do something, I reapply generously and occasionally I use my husband’s Gold Bond powder. According to my favorite Uncle who doubles as my favorite chemist, either option is significantly safer than antiperspirant.
Baby powder works wonderfully in the winter (when I’m not likely to be perspiring in the first place) but it does work ok in the summer too; I do have to reapply, but it will keep me dry. In the line of full disclosure, yes, there are days when something more might have been easier; occasionally I do need to “air” a shirt before I put it in the dirties, but it’s been very worth it to know I’m not loading my body in metals. Also honestly, I do use Dove antiperspirant on Sundays and special occasions — there are still those times I just need to *not think* about that particular need, you know?
Baby powder definitely works for me. Head over to Shannon’s to see what else is working!
We have 2 days.
And I’m in denial. It’s a good place. The food of frivolous thoughts is good; it’s like eating Cool Whip when you know you need the Bread. The chair of comfort faces away from the door and the fragrance of sugar-coated memories overshadows the stench of “ought-to’s” and “should have’s.” The lights are low, and I like them that way, thank you. I can’t see the obvious when I’m squinting.
But the walls are bare. You can’t hang pictures in the pit, Beth Moore says. The walls aren’t real; whatever substance exists is generally rubbish to be tossed rather than clutched. But today, in the dim light of my own thinking, denial’s a decent place.
I won’t lie; I don’t want him to go. I want him home with us a little while longer. I *don’t* want to fly solo for two weeks and then deal with the in-and-out that will be the next few months. The logistics make me nauseous — childcare while he’s gone, trying to sleep in our bed alone, fighting off fear with *everything* in me, finding something to do o-u-t-s-i-d-e the house, marking off cities on a map to complete a web of travel that we won’t actually see.
Blech.
See? Denial looks good. It nicely harbors my selfish inconveniences and jealousies; it invites procrastination and confusion, so within moments, there’s a flesh party complete with background music (violins, of course).
But the Truth… ah, the Truth.
The Truth is that in just under 48 hours, my husband will begin again the work he’s called to for this season. It will not be easy; but he works hard and is committed. I will “flying solo” as a friend put it; life won’t so much “settle in” as “rev up” — there are girls I need to meet with, tutoring I’ve been missing, appointments to be made, a retreat to plan. All the things that take time away from us as a family will start, wide open, in just a few hours. We will laugh at silly things, try to sleep in every morning, watch Food Network, homeschool, bake bread, have company, hang out with other “left at home’s,” make messes, take naps, go to the dentist, cry when we miss him, pray every night, and mark off days. It won’t be easy; but we work hard and we’re committed.
And He is with me like a Mighty Warrior.
He who has called us will not slumber nor sleep.
He who began this good work will be *FAITHFUL* to complete it and He will fulfill His purposes for us.
There is a time for everything and in this season under Heaven, we will not fear the terror of the night nor the arrow that flies by day.
And when we face trials of many kinds, we can rejoice because we know the fruit they produce and the Hand who holds us steady; though the rivers rage around us, they will not sweep over us. We will overcome.
In repentance and rest is our salvation; in quietness and trust is our strength. We will rise on the wings of eagles and find Him still there, at the edge of our unknown; when we awake, we are still with Him.
So, for us, our house, we will serve the LORD. And that means we can’t hang pictures on walls that don’t exist. We will write His Name on our doorframes and talk about Him when we are within and without. And as my husband walks along the road and we sit in our home, we will still be united one to the other in the bond of peace.
I’m turning to the Light of Life and letting Him sweep away the vain imaginations so that our 2 days will be spent in delight. This is me, leaving denial.
We were in the car when LittleBit was about 18 months old and I was thinking about how confused my then 6yo niece was about which was side was right and which was left. And then God gave me a FABULOUS idea I’d never have come up with on my own: Teach right and left in the CAR!
Because we’re all facing the same way, we all have the same right and left — at home, when we’re looking at each other, our lefts and rights look like they’re on different sides. Or, if we’re trying to stand beside each other, little ones can’t see which side is which without leaning around.
We actually started that day — at 18mos because I’m a nerd — doing the “Raise your right hand!d You can touch the window with your right hand! Now raise you left hand! You can touch the baby’s seat with your left hand!” We’ve played that game for years now to keep reinforcing the concept. Selfishly, I cannot tell you how much *easier* life at church was with coats, Bibles, and papers in hand when I could say, “Ok, now turn right!” and they knew which way to go!
That sure did work for me! Head over to Shannon’s for more amazing ideas!
I’m a nightowl. A 3- or 4-am nightowl. Given the opportunity (i.e.: children are asleep or, dare to imagine, I’m home alone, I will stay up as late as 5- or 6-am, drink some coffee, and go crash until noon.
That rarely happens.
The ubiquitous second wind kicks in around 10:30 or 11pm; I’m back in full swing about midnight.
Have I mentioned midnight is my husband’s usual bedtime?
What I *need* to do, as I’ve prayed about these things, is go to bed around 10pm. There, I said it. And I’m embarrassed over it, but it’s the truth. But too often I stay up (under the guise of “spending time with him” when in reality we’re sitting beside each other with laptops on) and then I’m a mess.
A mess — as in, my body’s overtired so it thinks it should eat to feel better (oh, and brain agrees because it’s b-o-r-e-d), and then I start feeling depressed about what I’m eating so late and then I start thinking of the mountain of work I didn’t do that day or need to do the next and I remember something dumb I said or did and I think that really, I’m dumb and then I think, ‘No, I’m not dumb! I’m smart!’ and then I wrestle with how very quick my pride is to defend me and then I wonder what I’m going to teach my Bible class next time and ….
A mess. I’m a hot mess by the time I go to sleep.
And I think *that’s* the biggest lesson God is teaching me right now in my battle for my thoughts: without rest, I’m fighting Goliath with a sling and no rock. The “whoosh” sound is still there, but there’s no permanent effect on the Enemy.
I have a hard time going to sleep anyway; I love to take naps during the day primarily because I fall asleep naturally — I’m tired, I lay down, I drift down into restful, peaceful, refreshing sleep.
So I’ve studied Scripture on sleep: “He grants sleep to those that He loves,” “I will lie down and sleep in peace, for You alone, O LORD, make me to dwell in safety.”
Scripture makes it clear that my sleep is in His hands — if I will trust Him to “lead me beside quiet waters” and in “paths of righteousness,” then I *will* sleep well. The waters are quiet by 10pm at our house; little ones are soundly asleep and (realistically) no more “productive endeavors” are going to be finished. The path to righteousness is very clear when I’m in my dark room on a silent bed speaking to a Sovereign LORD.
And when I don’t chafe at His very easy yoke, but take it up and go lay down, I wake up SO rested. But as Isaiah says, “In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength; but you would have none of it.” Too often, I have none of it. I practice the definition of insanity — the same thing, over and over, expecting a different result.
Here’s the thing, D leaves again very soon. It will be a longer run. And I have to decide *now* that I’m going to receive the rest God has promised. It will be far more beneficial if I “choose life” tonight, tomorrow night, and each night before he leaves and am rested going into it.
LORD, You grant sleep to those whom You love.
I know You love me, so I’m trusting that I can lie down and sleep in peace. And I’m trusting that You have to power to *change me* so that I delight in Your yoke and in Your decrees. Thank You for forgiveness for rebellion — and stupidity. Thank You that You *are* changing me and tomorrow’s joy will dawn brighter because I’ve walked in Your Truth tonight.
I am humbled and amazed by Your love, O Sovereign One. You spoke the world into existence and tonight You’re singing me a lullaby.
Oh, God! I do not deserve You, but I love You so!
I see the smiling face of a pastor whose name I’ve forgotten, and I imagine that face panicked and strained at the explosion of fire and shots down his street; he has three girls, I remember that, and a son. How will he protect them? His wife? Their church?
I see the one Muslim girl in the classroom of the last school in which K and I led worship and singing. She listened so attentively, sang so strongly, shone so brightly, lowered her scarf as we talked. Where is she now?
And oh… oh my heart beats quicker… the babies… O Holy God! The babies! All fourteen of them in the tin-shack orphanage, and the forty day students they had. Are they far enough outside of town to escape harm? What about our beautiful little girl? The one with the sterling voice and sparkling eyes? And the three year old — now five — who was left on the bus for a whole day before she was discovered — silent, crying, bewildered — by the harried bus driver. Is she scared of the shouting? Does she shrink from the unnatural flashes of light?
My heart is *heavy* tonight.
The land I love nearly as I do my own is in turmoil. The formerly growing and stabilizing nation of Kenya is inflamed tonight — or tomorrow, as they are eight hours ahead of us. This is the first time I have ever watched international news without breathing. We have friends there — friends, not just the faces above that trouble me tonight, but people with whom we’ve worked, sweated, laughed, prayed. One of whom was stateside for a few weeks around Christmas. He was with us at our Christmas party where we celebrated the birthday of the Prince of Peace together; today, we are crying out together for Him to speak His Name over our friend’s home.
We left our hearts in Kenyan dust in July 2006. Had our own children been with us, I’m not sure we’d have ever returned. God is Sovereign and ordained that our friends would live there and we would live here; He was generous beyond measure to allow us to live in a time where travel back and forth is possible and easy. Though we long to be there, we are here, praying and waiting in expectation.
Would you join us in praying this week for the beautiful nation of Kenya? And for our friends? God is working even — especially — now as the idols of pride fail to provide what they need to survive. He is a Refuge in time of trouble; He is close to those in need; He is near to the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. This battle is not against flesh and blood, but against rulers and powers and authorities and spiritual forces in high places, but blessed be the Name of the Lord who is seated at the right hand of God the Father making intercession for all the saints! Greater is He who is in us than he who is in the world, so this battle belongs to the LORD!
Asante sana, friends.
Saturday afternoon I had to clean out our truck. HAD to clean out our truck. It hadn’t been touched since before Christmas, so “hot mess” might best apply. As I chucked trash and quarantined toys I thought about the “stuff” we’re working on with our kids:
LittleBit is struggling *not* to be bossy. Girl has got a mouth (huh, who’da thought, right?) and for the most part, she knows how to handle it; but sometimes it’s just easier to be in charge.
LittleMan is working on l-i-s-t-e-n-i-n-g. The first time. “I wisten to da firs time, I wisten to da firs time…” Slow-bedience is his current issue, and I’m running out of ideas because I catch myself very naturally telling him twice because “I have to.”
And I wondered, “LORD, how *do* I change these things? And who could I ask about this?”
It strikes me how much mothering has changed in our culture; motherhood today is shockingly different from generations past. We’ve shifted from assumed interdependence to absolute independence; as mothers, we’re no longer in community, we’re in competition.
I can see why growing up in a big family would be a *huge* asset: to have been mothered and observed the mothering of different ages — from birth to young adult — would likely shape a girl’s perspective on motherhood and in later years, her practice thereof.
My grandmother was the youngest girl of 12 and watched not only my great-grand raising her older siblings, but stayed summers with her older sisters helping care for their growing families. My grandmother married with about 5 solid years of “practice mothering” under her belt which, I’d guess, made her far more at-ease when her girls were born. And even when she was overwhelmed — when my aunt had surgery at 2yrs old, when my mother had appendicitis — she could easily call on her siblings, the “ladies of the church” (friends she’d grown up with), the next door neighbor.
Today it surprises me how lonely motherhood can be. It shocks me that even in our homeschool group, moms speak softly and reluctantly of their struggles with their children. A lady sat with our small group one night and was blown away that we were very openly discussing our failures as moms. “It is SO HARD to admit these things! I always feel so much pressure to either be perfect or look like it!” It broke my heart.
There have been some strange moments in my own journey, too. LittleBit wasn’t a year old when I went to the bank and had a conversation with the teller who’d been expecting her first the same time we were expecting LittleBit. I mentioned something about how LittleBit loved her carseat because it had the over-the-head piece that made a kind of tabletop for her to bat her toys about. The teller quickly informed, “WE bought the same brand, but it’s the newer model with a five-point harness instead of the bar.” Ummm, ok. I didn’t know this was a peeing contest about carseats, but CONGRATS! You WIN!
I digress a bit. My point is simple: the way other cultures — and formerly our own — relate as fellow mothers is far healthier. It makes sense that moms — women — who can be transparent with each other would be more confident. It makes sense that when a mother knows that asking for help is not just an acceptable service trade-off but an encouraged ministry, she’s going to ask for help.
I’m not suggesting… well, frankly, I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just thinking that at a time when we are most vulnerable to worry — we’re mothers! we’re literally changing history by the choices we make with our children — it would be nice to have each other’s encouragement and support rather than comparison and “personal space.” Isn’t it important that we “bear one another’s burdens” both on our knees and with our hands?
Ok… I’m just thinking out loud. Or in keystrokes. Or whatever. But I would seriously LOVE to hear your thoughts on any of this.
Gravy Impaired.
That’s right. And it pains me to admit because I was raised in the Proper South and my Grandma and my Mama were Proper Southern ladies and there is, in their words, “Just NO excuse, just NO excuse” for me not knowing how to make gravy.
I don’t even know what I’m doing wrong to tell you that’s where things go wrong. I just know that I either wind up with a too-liquidy oily looking mess or something akin to meatloaf consistency.
It’s sad, really.
And now my sweet husband has requested that we add biscuits and gravy to our morning repertoire. Ugh… The man *never* asks for stuff, so I know he’d really like this.
Can somebody PLEASE help me??? I mainly need sausage gravy per hub’s request, but feel free to point me ANYWHERE in gravy land and hopefully I can start there.
All links, advice, recipes appreciated; all gasps from other Raised-Rights and snickers humbly ignored. Pop over to Shannon’s to share burning questions or bits of wisdom — today is Backwards Day at Works for Me Wednesday!
Wayward Belle signing off…
Here in The South, when something isn’t up to par, it’s “Bo-bo.” Other areas term it “ghetto” “short bus” or the vintage, “lame.”
So this is my bo-bo toy storage idea, I save yogurt containers and spreadable butter containers and use them to:
1. Store Play-dough (maybe it’s only my kids who lose the lids or possibly my floors just eat them, but I get tired of crusted-over salty goodness)
2. Separate Polly-Pocket sets (all Polly-Pocket-like Disney clothes in one little tub, all beach-going Polly clothes in another, etc)
3. Create car-friendly sets of Magnetix (we LOVE these things!), Legos, K’Nex, etc.
4. As impromptu sand/dirt toys
5. Hold Marbles. Enough said.
6. Give each child some foam art thingys (you know, the peel & stick letters & shapes) because they’re light and get strewn about easily (and at our house, it’s hard to share these sometimes)
7. Make old fashioned play telephones (yarn through the bottom of each)
8. As paint containers; it’s so much cheaper to buy the BIG bottles of paint at the teacher supply store and then throw them in the disposable cups. We used to use the plastic baby food containers since they were clear with lids; now, our store brand of yogurt comes with clear lids.
So, you see, these little containers come in TREMENDOUSLY handy for toys. And yes, it’s a little bo-bo/ghetto/short bus/lame when my kids friends come over and their rooms look like a Y2K stashing ground for Parkay, but hey, it Works for Me.
Pop on over to Shannon’s to see what else Works.
And Happy New Year! 
Go HERE. Seriously. Just go. It’s GREAT! You will laugh ’til tears and and then give the ubiquitous forward to all the hs’rs you know (just like I did).
We love Tim Hawkins; great guy, serious God-chaser, amazing husband and dad, and undoubtedly one of the greatest comics in Christian-tainment (because, you know the Kingdom isn’t complete ’til we have our own brand of everything… how else do you explain the Bud-wise-up shirt?)
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