Fragrance of Christ

The power of scent is amazing to me.

To this day, I can catch a whiff of the slightly-bug-spray-esque Eternity for Men, and I am seventeen again... (sort of) dating this boy named Jonathan (for about a week). Riding in his big, ridiculous (awesome.sauce) jacked-up Dodge late at night. Don't get me wrong-- no regrets here. What I perceived to be heartbreak was actually the tender compassion of God. Last I heard, Jonathan has been married (and divorced) twice and is currently finalizing the paperwork to bring a mail-order bride home from Russia. And is still wearing Eternity for Men. So I am not sad. But I pass a man wearing this cologne, I smell it as I walk through the cosmetic department of Kohl's... and I remember.

It's tanning oil. I am laying out on the beach, my bathing suit straps pulled down so I don't have tan lines for prom. Remember?

It's Dream by the Gap. I am eighteen and achingly homesick at Fire School in Pensacola. I am wearing a lavender sweater. Remember?

It's Bounce fabric softener. I am chasing foxes on the moonlit beach with my friend Cameron. Remember?

Last night, I walked downtown with the girls, where they were having a block party and hosting an artist carving ice sculptures. Through the crushing throngs of people (and trying to keep track of three kids by myself), we saw very few ice sculptures. We did, however, manage to stop at one of the camp-fires, where the Boy Scouts were giving out free marshmallows to roast. The girls enjoyed their gooey treat, we wandered around a little more, saw some friends... headed home.

Later, after I put my little flock to bed, I turned my head and happened to get a whiff of my hair. It smelled like the boy scouts' campfire. And I was transported back to the Creation Festival, a Christian music event that I have been attending since I took up residence in my mom's belly.

I was three and roasting marshmallows on my mom's knee.

I was thirteen and had just met my future husband (but didn't know it yet).

I was sixteen, singing Indigo Girls songs while my sister played her guitar.

I was nineteen and had just smoked my first joint and lost my virginity in K-field.

(I'm kidding about that last part. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention.)

Regardless, even after I showered the smoke out of my hair, I found my thoughts wandering back to Creation. It was bittersweet-- as we had, after many pain-staking decisions, cut ties with the ministry last year. But still, I remembered. I think that, until the day I die, every time I smell a campfire, I will think of Creation.

As I pondered this, I was reminded of the Scripture about the fragrance of Christ:

"...thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumphal procession in Christ and through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him. For we are to God the aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing." (2 Corinthians 2:14,15)

... through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him...

How beautiful. How terrifying.

I can see why society is largely disdainful of Christians and their Savior.

We stink of bigotry, self-righteousness, exclusion.

But oh, how I long for this to be different! In my life, in the small circle that God has given me, I want to spread the fragrance of the knowledge of Christ. When I am old and gray and my granddaughter pauses to think of me, I want her to remember that smell. The fragrance of Him. Remember?

When the waitress at the restaurant is flustered and weeded, I want to be the one with a kind word. A smile. A generous tip. I want her to remember that smell.

When my husband has had a long day at work, and is feeling discouraged and worn-down, I want to be ready with a timely word of encouragement. A kiss. A steadfast belief in my husband. I want him to remember that smell.

When my girls are naughty and bickering and making me crazy, I want to slow down. To love them. To cuddle them. To let them be kids. I want them to remember that smell. The fragrance of Him.

Remember?

Kid Funny

Alternate title: Why We Might All Be Going to Hell

I bought some new bras today. Which is actually a blog-worthy event. Really. I have been using the same ratty old nursing bras since Evie was born almost five years ago. It was time.

Of course, I brought my entourage with me. Also known as my three whining children. I bribed them with suckers to be good. Except the baby. I bribed her with breastmilk.

As we're rifling through the endless assortment of lady apparel, Evie pulls out a black, lacy, uber-padded bra.

"Hey, Mom! Look!!!! It's a MENNONITE BRA!!!!"

You know. Cause it was lacy and black, like their head coverings.

God bless those Mennonites. They are (apparently) into some kinky stuff underneath that modest denim. ;)

Getting it

This past December, I did Advent with the girls. Can I be honest? While there were some sweet moments of reflection, it was not something that I looked forward to every night. Now, I know that I should embrace the childishness of my children... but in my head, it was so much more solemn. Contemplative. Holy.

In reality, it was chaotic. The big girls fighting over who got to blow out the candles. Cana wanting to sing the ABC's instead of O Come, O Come Emanuel. Ruby, who I had just gotten to sleep in the other room, waking and crying for mama to come cuddle with her. I am embarrassed to admit that I lost my cool and snapped at my kids... more than once.

The Christmas season is over. We have packed up our Advent wreath for next year, me-- perhaps a little more cynical and world-wise about what to expect for Advent with three small children. And truly, it was a bit discouraging. We left the season without my girls having attained any Biblical truths, or any spiritual renewal. I left the season without gaining any Biblical truths, or any spiritual renewal. We didn't get it.

But God is merciful, and He showed me a glimpse of His kindness the other day.

Continuing a tradition that my parents began, every night at Advent we pray individually for the families who sent us cards and letters. This, too, usually dissolved into fits of tears (theirs and mine), as Evie and Cana fought over who got to hold the picture of the baby... and a cross reprimand from me, "Girls! We are PRAYING to JESUS! BE QUIET!!" (I know, I am an amazing mother. Don't hate.)

The cards, which were displayed on the post in our dining room, have long since been taken down and discarded. (Can I say that without offending? Yes, I throw them out recycle them eventually.) One must have slipped out of the trash pile recycling bin and wound up in some dark corner of the house which never sees a broom.

My sweet Cana found it. The other day, I stopped what I was doing and looked over at my wee girl. She was seated at her little art table, the card in front of her. Her eyes were closed and her little babyish brow furrowed deeply.

"Jesus," she prayed, "please keep them safe. Oh, Lord, please help them to love You more! Be close to them, Jesus."

What a tender mercy for me to hear this!!

I long for the salvation of my children. I long for them to love mercy and to seek justice and to be passionate about the things that Jesus is passionate about. I long for them to love each other, to serve each other. I long for them to have wisdom.

And I beat on Heaven's doors with these requests-- but I know, despite any kind of good parenting or bad parenting on my part-- it is only the Lord's mercy that can save my children. And so I beg for it.

But I also want to be diligent-- Oh, God! help me be diligent! To love these girls, to plant seeds of kindness and compassion and service-- seeds that only Jesus can make grow.

Jesus, I cast my children on You.

I cast myself on You, failures and cross words and impatience- You know them all.

Help us to get it.

Makeover Midnight Monday

I thought having a weekly post on here would make me more inclined to blog regularly, and keep track of the quiet little happenings in our quiet little life. It doesn't. It stresses me out. And really... My mom is pretty much the only one who reads this, and I can just call her and say, "Hey, mom! Guess what I decoupaged today?!" And she'll be all sweet and tell me how brilliant I am and how pretty I am and how perfect I am. And it's just much easier and less stressful.

But my sister Gwenn asked for a Makeover Monday post. And here's the thing: Gwenn is a missionary in Haiti, where she spends her time ministering to the downtrodden and disease-stricken impoverished masses. And gets lots of tattoos. But that's neither here nor there. The point is-- I know that, in the scope of her encounters with cholera and earthquakes, she doesn't really care about how Hobby Lobby is having a special on Mod Podge. But she was sweet enough to ask, and for that alone: Gwenn, this one's for you.

A couple of summers ago, an Amish family had a gigantic yard sale in their barn. They had all sorts of amazing crap vintage treasures for cheap. Blue mason jars for a dime, an antique metal lunch pail for twenty-five cents (which now houses the girls' "tools" thankyouverymuch). It was a pack rat's dream come true.

I found this for fifty cents:

I felt a little nostalgic when I saw it, as I am pretty sure that we have a photo of my pint-sized dad in a similar chair. Only his might have been red. Also, I might have made that up. I can't remember. Regardless, it was 50 cents, and it made me happy, and it came home with me (after I somehow managed to cram it into the backseat of my ex-car, our Mazda Scrotege. Yes, that's really what we called it. As in, Evie would say, "Hey, Mom! Are we taking Dad's truck or your Scrot to the grocery store today?" Parents.of.the.year, I tell you.)

Normally, I like to leave vintage stuff the way that it is. But this was looking kinda craptastic in my house, and Chris would give me the Stink-Eye whenever he happened to look at it. He doesn't share my love of... you know... rust.

So I took her apart.

That, folks, is 50 years worth of smashed up bananas and toddler goop. Blech.

I covered up her lady-parts:

What does that even mean? I am not sure why I just typed that.

And sprayed her down.

Because I couldn't find any vinyl fabric in a pattern I liked, I used iron-on vinyl and some fabric I had laying around to make the chair cover, and also replaced the rotting-asbestos-black-mold-of-death padding.

Voila!

And there you have it. A cute little vintage-ish high chair that is mostly useless because I didn't put the screws back correctly when I was reattaching the seat. And Chris hates it too much to fix it for me. So there you have it. A cute little vintage-ish death trap.

Is it bad that I still let Cana sit in it?

Poor middle child.

Makeover Monday: nursery before and after

I hope everybody had an amazing Christmas! Ours was super low-key and relaxing. And by relaxing, of course I mean imbibing a ridiculous number of Christmas cookies, picking up bits of Moon Sand smashed into the carpet (what part of me thought that was a good idea?!), and playing with my new (old) 1918 paper cutter (my husband knows me so well). I thought about doing a Christmas post on some of the gifts/crafts that I made this year. But then Chris told me (truthfully) that one of the gifts, a unicorn costume for my eerily unicorn obsessed daughter, looked more like a pig in a party hat. So I decided that perhaps it wasn't worth a post. But I definitely am going to be adding some cute pictures of my adorable little lovies enjoying their Christmas! So grab a cup of cocoa and stay tuned. Organic cocoa made with local, raw, grass-fed cow milk, of course. 'Cause I am crunchy like that. Really.

When we moved in to the Crack House, we planned to make the smallest bedroom into the nursery. It didn't seem horrible at first glance, but there had been some water damage that had to be repaired. The previous tenants, when they realized that water was coming into the room from the exterior, lifted up the corner of the carpet and coated the seam with spray foam. Great idea for keeping out moisture. (Did you catch that? That was sarcasm. Using spray foam to seal a leak = water coming into the house elsewhere. Truth.)

While it wasn't cosmetically the worst part of the house, it did need some work to waterproof it and repair the water damage.

We painted, and replaced the ceiling tiles and carpet.

It's an itty-bitty room, so it's hard to photograph...

but I think it's sweet and cute. For a sweet and cute little baby.

Not that she has ever actually slept in her crib. In fact, I am currently petitioning the Household Manager to let me turn the nursey into a playroom. So far it's a no-go.

I like decorating baby rooms-- but I am not really into "cutesy" nurseries. I'd rather something that can last for a while. Unless you decide to turn it into a playroom, of course. What about you? Are you into Winnie the Pooh and pastels? Pretty pinks and boyish blues? How did you decorate your nursery for your babies?

Thrifty Thursday: vintage pulley-- what would you make?

I know I said I wasn't going to make T.T. regular, and I'm not... but this is one of my thriftiest finds yet. 'Cause it was F-R-E-E!

I understand that some girls want fancy jewelry and electronics this Christmas.

Not me.

I am perfectly happy rummaging though shelves at Goodwill and rifling through other people's curbside trash (you think I jest?). So you can imagine my excitement when Chris got me a "present" (ie, found this super cool vintage pulley in the rafters of our barn). He was all excited to give it to me, which is how I know that he secretly loves my dumpster diving habit, and can't wait to see what I pick up next on the side of the road. Right, honey?

I already had an idea when he gave it to me, as I had seen this photo in Dwell magazine months ago:

But a quick pinterest search yielded some other fun stuff (sorry, I couldn't relocate some of them and can't give credit to their owners):

I am kinda partial to the first hanging pendant lamp-- maybe beside my bed in lieu of a lamp? Or maybe the globe light in a future homeschooling space? Somehow I feel as though the pulley bookends wouldn't have the same aesthetic affect when propping up my stack of smutty Sophie Kinsella novels. But the possibilities are endless! What's your favorite? Any other brilliant pulley ideas for me? Anyone else like crapping up beautifying their homes with other people's castoffs?! Tell me about it!

Advent--welcoming the Savior

Oh, yes. Oh my word! Yes, come in! Please. Welcome!

I am so sorry... I was really hoping to be better prepared for You.

Wait, hold on a sec. Shoot, yeah. That's the baby crying... lemme grab her. My apologies.

Ummm, wow. Where are my manners? Have a seat. (Cana, hush! We have company!)

I'm really embarrassed. I had hoped to have the house cleaned up more.

See, I had it all planned out in my head. Candles, music, clean and well-behaved children.

Sorry, I'm so tired. Frazzled. And oh, my kids are making me crazy tonight.

(Evie, stop kicking your sister! He's here--He said he would come and He is here!!)

Yeah, sorry. I know this is totally not ideal... I was really hoping that we could sit and chat. It's been so long since we've really talked.

How can You get a word in edgewise amidst all this din?

But oh. Please don't go.

What I am trying to say is, I need You here. I desperately need You to stay. And yes, I am going to have to interrupt You sixty times so I can change a diaper or wipe a nose or kiss a boo-boo.

But I've invited You here. And I've been waiting for so long.

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Oh, yes. Wait, what? Is that You? Really?

We're so sorry-- You'd think we'd be better prepared for You.

Wait, hold on a sec. Are you serious? A baby crying in a manger? My apologies that we didn't have room.

Wow, where are my manners? Have our treasures.

Here's our incense, our myrrh.

We're really embarrassed; we were hoping to have our hearts cleaned up more.

See, we had it all planned out in our heads. A military coup, a prosperous society, well-nourished children. We are so tired.

You're really here. You said You would come and You are here.

Sorry. I know this is totally not ideal. I can't believe that we can sit and chat... the face that Moses was forbidden to see, the face he longed to see... we can really talk.

How can You get a word in edgewise amidst all this din?

But oh. Please don't go.

What we are trying to say is, we need You here. We desperately need You to stay. And yes, we will spit on Your face. And yes, we will deny You three times. Yes, we will mock You and hang You on a tree and kill You.

But we've invited You here. And we've been waiting for so long.