Of a Natural Beauty

Just the other day, I pinned my hair up quickly before heading out the door. While hurrying to catch a glimpse of the back, just to be sure all was in place, I snatched an old compact, opened to view the reflection of my reflection and noticed the flesh-colored powder pressed in the bottom, suddenly remembering the feeling of swiping this material over the skin of my face.  It's been two years this month since I first stepped past that drawer, forever cutting the task from my daily routine.

I didn't realize, at the time, my simple motion of rebellion against the lies of my culture, the lies that God's beauty was not enough, would forever change how I saw myself.  

It was just a step.

And sometimes that's all it takes.

At the time I took that small step, made the small decision once a day to not open that drawer and defile my face, it was strange. I looked in the mirror and saw a girl not quite up to par. I didn't match the beautiful pictures I'd previously seen of myself. My lashes were too light, my pores too noticeable, my skin too marred by the past. I didn't feel this unpainted face was the best version of myself, it wasn't normal to be simply me.

Yet, this past week, as I recalled the sensation of powder on my skin, this is now what felt strange. It was almost unimaginable to consider picking up that compact to coat my face with a foreign substance again. It wasn't normal. The walking past of my drawer is no longer a conscious thought - it simply doesn't even register.

Two years later, I see beauty in the mirror - a beauty that comes from no effort of my own, a recognition of God's handiwork. My old way of life has gone and feels strange to myself.

And if He can do this on the outside, how much more can He do this on the inside. 

I long for the day when an angry word feels foreign on my tongue. The thought of lashing out will seem so abnormal. The drawers holding jealousy, bitterness and fear will remain closed as I march past, choosing, instead, the true beauty of a character of Christ.

Because there is beauty in there, a beauty I have too long ignored and covered over.  Lord, let the clothing of myself in your love be the most important part of my daily routine until it's not even a conscious thought, it will simply be me becoming who You have made me to be.

Of Her Prayers

I am going to tell you right now (in case you had not yet picked up on it) - I am not one of those moms who has it all together.  I feel I get it wrong so much more than I get it right.

I'm the mom that hears other parents telling stories of their kids pointing to the church steeple and talking about how Jesus died on that cross and realizes maybe I need to be a little more intentional about sharing my Savior on my own personal mission field at home.

Or, rather, that's how it was about a year ago.  In that time I have made much more of an effort.  We read Bible Stories at breakfast - when I remember.  We pray at bedtime - but sometimes in a hurry, and sometimes with repetition.  We take advantage of teachable moments - occasionally, but not as often as we should.

More often I'm ordering the kids to finish their oatmeal so we can get on with the day's activities.  We're rushing to pray so we can turn out the light and enjoy child-free time before bed.  We're too busy scolding to remember to correct with love.

Again, we fail more often than not.

My children are not very familiar with the idea of praying for people because, while I do that in my personal time, I forget to invite them to join me.  We do ask if they would like to pray before bedtime but, while Emmett enjoys repeating, neither are very eager to venture on their own and Micaiah rarely mouths a prayer at all - she's more of a listener.  And we're fine with that, because prayer is not something to be forced.

So, this morning, as we headed to another morning of VBS - no, I'm not teaching because, again, I'm just not that mom; I'm just in the "Moms" class and I drag the kids with me - I was anticipating another Emmett melt-down, which has become his specialty when being deposited into the church nursery.  Its new, really, this separation anxiety, and I'm still learning to deal with being the mother of that kid.  Thus, in a moment only inspired by the Holy Spirit, I actually remembered to make the most of the opportunity and I offered to pray for him as we pulled into the parking lot.

Just as I began, what to my wondering ears did I hear, but a tiny, feminine voice announcing, "No, I'll do it!"

"Okay, Micaiah, you do it," I answered encouragingly, I did not want to break this magic moment, but I also wondered what she would come up with, since I had not exactly announced how I planned to pray for her brother.

"Dear Lord," she began, "Thank you for Emmett."  I smiled and strained to hear because her little voice only seems to be quiet when talking to her Heavenly Father.  After a couple of other mumblings, of which I gathered nothing, I heard her stage whisper, "And what else?"

"Pray that he won't be scared," I urged.

"And please help Emmett not to be scared. - What else?"

"Pray that he would have fun playing."

"And please help him to have fun . . ."

"In Jesus' name we pray," I provided.

"In Jesus' name we pray.  Amen!"


My heart and my face were beaming.  One of the proudest Mommy moments I can imagine - my dear sweet daughter, praying for her terrified little brother (who, by the way, allowed me to leave him with the childcare workers without so much as squeal - he stood cautiously by the wall, of course, but did not verbalize any form of fear).

And as I sat in Bible Study, less than twenty minutes later, listening to Gungor's lyrics, "You make beautiful things out of the dust. You make beautiful things out of us," I was humbled, knowing this beautiful thing - my precious little one speaking words of strength over her brother - could not come from me - I have done very little to build this heart in her.  And, yet, somehow, God has been glorified.  He has made His way into her speech, into her few but wonderful prayers.  I am but dust, and, yet, He has made something beautiful.

Always humbled by His love and grace.




1,000 Gifts:
695. Her prayers for him
696. Wanting to hold her baby brother
697. Spinning with them in my arms
698. Rolling thunder in the afternoon
699. A severe weather warning lacking the name of my town
700. Not breaching 100 in over three days.
701. Being packed - before the day of
702. Packing
703. Her wiping my kisses - the game lets me offer more to replace those erased
704. Dirt earned from playing hard
705. Welcoming home a weary world traveler


Yesterday: 
Yeah, they're pretty much the greatest.

Story time with Aunt Dia.  Glad she's home!

Today:
Riding on the horsey, who is, apparently, otherwise distracted.

Micaiah's turn to ride the motionless horsey, while Emmett spanks him into submission.

After a friend's birthday party, playing with their "Old MacDonald" puzzles.