A Holy Aroma

Usually I hate the smell of cigarette smoke. Especially when it is covered by way too much perfume. But yesterday was different. I had arrived that morning at church expecting nothing much to happen. Because that's what we Christians do. We invite everyone to church telling them how great it is, but we go in ourselves, plop down in a seat and start thinking about what to fix for dinner. So, there I was in Sunday School wondering who would be there and if I would get a chance to pass out all the Christmas play parts to the kids. The door opened and in walked a friend of mine and his guest. This man had been to church last week, but now he was here at Sunday School. A lot of people come visit our church, but if you come to Sunday School, you're serious! We all moved around a little so they would have room, and our guest sat down right next to me. That's when I noticed it - the strong scent of stale smoke covered by a plethora of musky cologne.  As I said earlier, usually this scent would turn my stomach, but for some reason, this time it was such a sweet smell. A smell of a person with some life behind him. A smell of a person different than me. A smell of a person coming to God just as he was. I know it was a holy aroma to God.

That morning, I had taken a nice long shower with my lavender body wash. I'd worn pants so I wouldn't be too dressy, a jacket so I wouldn't complain about how cold our church is, and I even threw on my Uganda beads so I could feel good about helping those poor mamas in need. Finally, I used a little of my new perfume a church member had gotten me for pastor appreciation month. I was looking and smelling pretty good, right? That morning sitting in a Sunday School class filled with the scent of yesterday's cigarettes, He opened my eyes. I was clothed in self-righteousness and sprayed with a little arrogance for good measure.  God didn't smell my new perfume. He smelled my bitterness, my lack of self-control, my pride. I was stinking up the place!


I pray He helps me to remember to be more concerned with His view, His way, and His name. When I come to Him, I cannot hide behind flowery perfume. My scent comes flowing through each pore of my being. Let it be a scent of grace, mercy, love, and thankfulness. A holy aroma to Him.

Blue Lip Confessions

Yesterday, my sweet Grace came into the kitchen ready for supper. As she walked by, I noticed something a little different about her. As she came closer, I noticed her entire lips, teeth, and most of her chin were completely blue. We're not talking she just ate a ring pop blue. More of a she's been sucking on a sharpie all day kind of blue. Of course, my first question was, "Grace, what did you put in your mouth?" She wasn't in trouble, I was just concerned with the nature of the source of the blueness. My youngest has quite the oral fixation. Grace quickly piped up, "Nothing. I didn't have nothing in my mouth!" Here is where the most difficult part of mothering comes. You might think it's changing diapers, nursing continually, or existing on about three hours of sleep a night. Nope. The hardest part of being a mother is the fine line between knowing you need to discipline your children while at the same time trying your hardest not to crack up at their inconceivable cuteness. Trying my hardest to hold in my laughter, I said, "Grace, I know you are lying and it is important for Mommy to know what you put in your mouth." Again through her navy blue stained lips, she pleaded her innocence. Luckily, my husband was there to save me. As I ducked out among bubbling laughter with my oldest who had witnessed the entire hilarious episode, Mark took Grace into the bathroom to look in the mirror. After she realized she had no other course of action left, she admitted to getting a little too friendly with a dry erase marker.

Later that night, my husband and I were laughing about the incident. Sweet Grace there proclaiming to the world nothing had touched her lips while everyone knew she was lying through her little blue teeth. She was completely unaware the consequence of her actions were literally written all over her face. There I was just laughing at how silly the whole scene was. Right about then, God started nudging me and leading me to a memory of I time I was just as silly. I hate it when He does that! Can't I just laugh at my kid without it getting all spiritual and convicting up in here? Obviously not.

I was reminded of a time a while back when I listened to a sermon about placing things before God and holding on to parts of one's life. I remember actually saying to my husband, "I know I am a sinner saved by grace and I know I'm not perfect, but I just can't think of something that is holding me back or that I am really struggling with that I need to turn over to God." Those words just make me shake my head and wonder if my Heavenly Father was also walking that fine line between discipline and just wanting to crack up at me. You see at that time I weighed 250 lbs and wore a size 20W. But I didn't have any issues. Who me? I'm fine. Doesn't everyone hide cookies under a napkin so no one sees how many she eats? Walking into a room and scanning to make sure you are not the fattest person there is perfectly normal right? Having a closet full of clothes I can't wear because they won't stretch enough or fasten just goes along with getting older. At least that's what I told myself for years. If I don't think about it, it will go away. Only I did think about it all the time. Every minute. Every bite. Every pound. But gosh, what in the world in my life should I turn over to God? I just can't think of anything. I can just picture Him up there. Chuckling at me. "No I'm fine. I've got everything under control. I don't need your help with anything." My lips may not of been covered with blue marker, but I'm sure there were a few cookies crumbs clinging on.

Since then, I've lost some weight and come down a few sizes. I've come a long way, and I have a long way to go. Practically speaking, I'm learning how to eat healthy and move more. It's pretty simple. But the true lessons I'm learning go much deeper than my waistline. His knowing smile has penetrated my soul and the innermost part of who I am. Or at least who I though I was. I'm a mess. I filled my spirit and my body with what I wanted with no thought to the consequences. He is teaching me to look at everything I allow enter my world whether it be my body, mind, or soul. I am learning to be intentional about my choices. It's a long road, but one I now know I need to walk. I'm so thankful I found freedom through letting my Daddy lead me to the mirror and lovingly point out my blue lips.

All or Nothing

A while back, our family was sitting at the kitchen table enjoying supper together. Immediately, after my 12 year old daughter, Eve, stretched her arms up, her little brother yelled, "Look at all that hair under your arms!" I've been denying for awhile that Eve is in the full throws of puberty, but this was a wake up call. With a summer full of swimming coming, I knew it was time to teach my little girl how to shave. I took her in my bathroom, gave her a new razor and a quick lesson on proper shaving techniques. I sent her up to her shower with the promise of coming to check on her after I finished cleaning up the supper dishes. A few minutes later, Luke came running down the stairs screaming, "Mom! Eve is bleeding everywhere! She's going to die!" Being the heartfelt mother I am, I told him she was just going to have to wait to die until I finished the dishes. In my defense, Luke can be a little dramatic, and I hadn't even heard Eve's shower turn on, so I didn't think things could be too bad yet. Unfortunately, I was very wrong. The image that came down the stairs took a while to process. It looked like my daughter, but there was something red smeared all over her. "Mama, I tried to shave like you said, but it really hurt!" That's when I realized the red smears were blood. After a sob filled conversation, the facts finally became clear. Eve thought since she was told she could shave her underarms, she might as well go all out. She had tried to shave her entire body. Legs, arms, fingers, toes, face . . . fortunately she skipped the eyebrows! My shaving lesson had not included the importance of using soap and water or maneuvering around bony knees. I never thought to include the dangers razors can bring to elbows and knuckles. Once I got her all cleaned up, she came out with the true source of her agony. "Mama, you said once somebody starts shaving, her hair grows back thicker, right? How am I going to go to middle school looking like a big fuzzy bear?" That was it - I could take it no more. I started laughing so hard I could barely breath. Eve stared at me at first and then joined in. After falling on the couch and wiping away our tears, all I could think about is how much I loved my little girl.

One of the many things I love about my daughter is her exuberance. She always jumps into everything she does with everything she has. One never has to wonder what she is thinking - she'll let you know. If she is happy, she's dancing around the room. If she's mad, she's slamming doors and making plans to move to Turkey. Some would say she needs to tone things down a bit, think things through. But I see her as living out God's plan for her. Reminds me of one of Jesus' close friends. When Peter saw Jesus walking on water, what did he do? Jumped right in. When a Roman guard was trying to hurt Jesus, what did Peter do? Chop off his ear. In harder times, when people recognized Peter as a Christ follower, what did he do? Completely denied knowing him. I'm sure there were those that told Peter to tone it down a bit. Work on his internal filter. But God used him as a powerful force in bringing His kingdom to Earth. Does Pentecost ring a bell?

So even though she might come out nicked up, embarrass me a bit with her lack of filter, and scare me to death with her impulsiveness, I choose to be amazed by the young woman God is turning her into. I choose to sit back and watch the roller coaster of life God is going to take us on. But I might hold on to the razors for awhile.

Learning to Fly

Luke shot down the stairs with a grin and twinkle in his eye. “Mom, I really, really, really need my bicycle helmet and the video camera!” Although questions like this are common in our house, I always have the same response. “Where is your sister?” At only 17 months apart, my two youngest children spend their days planning elaborate adventures in their playroom fittingly named “The Lab.” Luke, at age seven, is the mastermind while Grace, age six, very willingly plays the role of his guinea pig.


On this day, after following Luke up to his room, I walked in to find Grace sitting calmly in the top bunk of Luke’s bed, one end of a jump rope tied around her waist while the other was looped through a blade on the ceiling fan. She pushed up her safety goggles as she asked Luke if he had found his bicycle helmet. Knowing the nature of most of their escapades, I inquired of my little engineer concerning his plan. “Well, Mom you know how we’ve been trying to get Grace to fly? (A fact I was most certainly and frightfully aware of.) I thought since the ceiling fan goes so fast, we could tie Grace to it and she could fly around the room!”


There are moments in life when one has a choice. These choices could likely affect the rest of one’s life. Taking in the scene, I realized I had three options: 1) I could run to my bed, crawl under the covers and lament to the gods for giving me such crazy children and find the nearest candy man (aka psychiatrist) to drug me, my children, or possibly both until they go to college. 2) I could begin an hour long lecture on safety and consequences with a possible call to the proper authorities. 3) I could just go with it. Aware of the fact our insurance did not currently have a prescription plan and appreciating their use of safety goggles and helmet, I chose to just go with it.


Not wanting to squelch my children’s creativity, I decided to ask about their planning process. That is when Grace showed me her baby doll. Luke went on to explain how they had first tested the ceiling fan idea with the doll. Seeing the extreme weight different between Baby Cinderella and my sweet Grace, I came across a major flaw. They both were looking at me with such excited expressions, determined their plan would work. Who am I to crush their dreams? I just threw down a few more pillows under the fan and prayed for no broken bones.


Really, isn’t that our job as parents – to help our children learn to fly? They are each given specific abilities and passions that steer their hearts. It is our duty to provide the environment for them to plan, imagine, and create. Unfortunately, we also need to let them fail. So we just offer some comfort and protection and watch them soar.


Thankfully, my son is not the most skillful knot-tier in the world, so Grace’s jump rope came loose from the fan as soon as she jumped fearlessly, faithful of her brother’s abilities. A few days later, I just watched as Luke led Grace outside with a handful of balloons and a roll of yarn. After a few moments, Grace tiptoed back inside and whispered, “Mama, if I fly away too far and get stuck in a tree, will you come get me?” Of course baby; I’ll always give you a safe place to land.

Mommy Porn

So, I wasn't going to weigh in on this whole issue, but I just can't hold back anymore. I just keep hearing the phrase "Mommy Porn" thrown around and it's starting to drive me a little crazy. To clarify, I haven't seen Magic Mike or read Fifty Shades of Grey and don't plan on doing either. Throughout my own spirit and journey this year, the idea of only filling my heart and mind with things that are pure and lovely has been a guiding force. As a Christian woman, Magic Mike and Fifty Shades of Grey don't fit into the category of pure and lovely. That's it for me. There is not much debate. But for some reason, both this movie and book series have seemed to stir up quite a controversy. I have heard many refer to them as mommy porn. While I don't believe either of these are entertainment Christian women need to be a part of, calling them mommy porn gives them a power they just don't have. Pornography is a disease that infects the heart of the righteous, destroys relationships, and oppresses both those in the industry and those who access it. One of the primary sources of porn's power is the control it has over those that use it. It creates an atmosphere of shame and regret which then leads to secrecy and deceit. While Magic Mike and the Shades series are destructive in their own ways, they do not lead to the same end as pornography. The women that are reading and watching are certainly not being secretive. Women are really more interested in having fun whooping and hollering with their friends than actually seeing Channing Tatum's booty. Okay, well most woman. Again, I do not want to be misunderstood and lead anyone to believe these are appropriate for those of us who are living a holy, set apart life. But to put it in the same category as pornography is a gross injustice. If we want to see mommy porn in action, go to my kitchen. Snacks hidden away, eaten in secret. Fast food wrappers thrown in the trash outside so no one will know what I ate. Guilt when I look at the scale knowing with each bite I'm giving my kids a little less time with their mama. That's mommy porn in all its glory.

Mama's Hope

I love to hold my daughter's hand. I rub each finger and think of all she will do with these hands.  When will she get her first manicure getting ready for a special night? Who will be the first special someone to hold her hand? Will she later need to use the same fingers I now stroke to wipe away the tears he causes or cover her mouth as she laughs for joy? As her mind matures and her fingers stretch, will they be used to create magical paintings, play music that soothes the soul, delicately stitch the heart tissue of a trusting patient, or scrub dishes in the backroom of a New York greasy spoon? Will she cradle her child's head in her hands or cover her face as she weeps over her empty womb? Whose ring will grace her finger? Will it be worn with love or become a constant reminder of the source of bitterness she carries? As her hands begin to show the scars and callouses of life, who will be there to keep them warm? As age spots come, will she look down at them and be content with a life well lived or will she see tight clinched fists twisted with regret and disappointment? My hope for her is to live with her hands stretched open, palms to the sky, receiving God's blessing, letting it flow through her and passing on to others. In my brokenness, I rest in the faith it is not me alone who is responsible for her future. Though it is a daily sacrifice, I fold my own hands and put my hope in the One who created her chubby fingers and is continually knitting her tomorrows. Such is the hope of a mama.