tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2066341835867133922024-02-20T22:23:25.529-05:00confessions of a soggy mama('cause life isn't always crunchy granola)Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.comBlogger131125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-56260292503191579782015-10-05T10:50:00.002-04:002015-10-05T13:07:06.740-04:00When God is an AssholeA few weeks ago, I posted something on Facebook about the belief in a benevolent God colliding with the reality of a sick and fallen world. I haven't been able to stop thinking about this. Some dear, dear friends are stumbling through the impossibly shitty situation of child abuse within their family-- and it just feels so damn wrong and raw and unjust. These people love Jesus, they have devoted their lives to His service, and "hey, here's your thank you gift-- a giant steaming serving of child abuse!" Freaking CHILD ABUSE. <br />
<br />
And you know these people, too. You've met them. Hell, you ARE them:<br />
<br />
Maybe it's child abuse. <br />
<br />
Maybe it's rape.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's infertility.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's a natural disaster.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's a failed adoption.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's a drug addiction.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's a car accident that kills your child.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's cancer that kills your wife.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's infidelity that kills your spirit.<br />
<br />
<br />
And it's tough, isn't it? When you grow up in a cute little Baptist church, and you kissed dating goodbye, and you saved your pennies for the missionaries on the bulletin board, and wielded your purity ring like a shiny trophy straight from the Lord Jesus Christ directly to your sanctified loins. You have this weird works-based faith, this unspoken rhetoric of "You scratch my back, I'll scratch Yours", this whole twisted idea of repaying God; "You show up for me, I promise I won't go past 2nd base until I am wedded in holy, God-ordained matrimony. And maybe I'll do a puppet show for some orphans in Haiti." God is like your personal life plastic surgeon-- shaving off the parts you don't like and highlighting the parts that you do.<br />
<br />
But then your spouse cheats. Your partner dies. Your child is broken by sexual abuse. The baby that you have loved and planned for and was supposed to be yours, is gone. And all of a sudden, it's like the big JC doesn't seem to be holding up His end of the bargain. What happened to our DEAL here, God?!<br />
<br />
That's where I am at right now, if I am really honest with you. I see so much brokenness, so much hurt, so much wrongdoing. <br />
<br />
Of course I fall back on what I have always been taught: <i>Jesus loves me this I know</i>. <br />
<br />
But Jesus...I sorta feel like you're being an <i>asshole</i> right now.<br />
<br />
Now hear me- the holiness of God is legit. Scripture admonishes us to fear His name. So I understand why some of you might think I am being too glib here, too casual with the name of the Lord. You're probably right.<br />
<br />
But here's the conclusion I have drawn: I think Jesus can take our questions. I think He can take our doubts and our anger and our fear and our accusations and our confusion and our lack of of faith. He's not threatened by our humanity. Our intellect was designed BY HIM, and He is not afraid of it. <br />
<br />
I think he sees my rage at this injustice, and I think He gets it. He is far more broken by child abuse and rape and infertility and natural disasters and failed adoptions and drug addiction and car accidents and cancer and infidelity than I am. He weeps for these things. I truly believe He does. <br />
<br />
Someone skilled in hermeneutics could argue the theology of this far more clearly and effectively than I ever could. The world is fallen--but it wasn't one single, solitary little stumble that required a band aid and some kisses. The fall is active. The fall is still falling.<br />
<br />
And that really, super sucks.<br />
<br />
Somewhere along the line, I adopted this precious Western view of the Gospel. Oh, how I love the parts about joy and peace and the ever-present help of God! But I forget that He is not just an ever-present help; He is an ever-present help <i>in trouble.</i> I forget that contrary to what my pretty ideologies attest, Jesus promised that there would be suffering. He promised that we would be HATED because of Him. You'll understand why I would be shocked and offended by this, but it would seem that the purpose of Jesus saving me isn't only to make me beautiful, rich, and comfortable. <br />
<br />
Bummer.<br />
<br />
The purpose of Jesus saving me is that He would be glorified. And sometimes that glory shines brightest in the fire.<br />
<br />
Remember the story from Sunday School about Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego? They refused to bow down to Nebuchadnezzar's idols, even after the threat of death. So Nebuchadnezzar infamously throws them into a fiery furnace, to be burned alive. (The Bible- not all love and rainbows, folks.) Remember what they said? "Our God will save us from this fire, but even if He does not, we will never bow to your idol."<br />
<br />
EVEN IF HE DOES NOT. <br />
<br />
This is where I have landed for now. I see all this devastation, the cracks and holes in the people I love, the pain in my own life. And oh, God! I wish You'd save us from this. I wish You would intervene. I wish You would send Your angels and make things right and fix this injustice and pull us out of this fire. I know You <i>could</i>.<br />
<br />
But even if You do not.<br />
<br />
We have seen the affliction.<br />
We have walked in darkness rather than light. <br />
We have been besieged and surrounded with bitterness and hardship. <br />
We have dwelled in darkness.<br />
We have been weighed down with chains. <br />
Our paths have been crooked and barred with stone.<br />
Our hearts have been pierced. <br />
Our soul is downcast within us. <br />
<br />
"Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Y<strike></strike>our faithfulness. The Lord is good to those whose hope is in Him, to the one who seeks Him. No one is cast off by the Lord forever. Though He brings grief, He will show compassion, so great is His unfailing love. For He does not willingly bring affliction or grief to anyone."<br />
<br />
(Lamentations 3)<br />
<br />
I'm Yours, God. I believe that You are good. <i>Even if You do not.</i><br />
<br />
May we suffer well, and may our heartache ever drive us into Your arms, and never away from them.<br />
<br />
And sorry about that time I called You an asshole. I'm still trying to figure this all out.<br />
<br />
<br />
Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-62259023006366722102015-09-26T08:13:00.000-04:002015-10-02T11:32:17.328-04:00Beauty full Yesterday I bought the cutest waterfall vanity set for my bedroom. I typically get ready in the only bathroom in our little home, but since we have more people getting out the door in the morning these days, I needed to find another space to<strike> pluck the rogue chin hairs that keep cropping up since I turned 30.</strike> Errr, I mean... do my makeup. <br />
<br />
I was excited about this vanity. I love old stuff. I love the nicks and bruises and imperfections, and I love to think about the stories they tell. I can imagine another woman sitting in front of the mirror and setting her pin curls or dabbing the insides of her wrists with the Chanel her husband gifted her for their 15th anniversary. Old stuff has history, and it makes me smile to welcome it into my home.<br />
<br />
So you can imagine my disappointment when I sat down at my sweet vanity this morning, and was immediately and utterly disgusted. The bench seat is low, and the mirror is huge-- so it forces my body into the most unflattering position imaginable. AND IT’S ALL REFLECTED. Over my jeans, my muffin top puffed out past my saggy boobs. My thighs spread out like softened butter on a slice of toast and filled the bench and the mirror with their sheer girth.<br />
<br />
<i>Come, Lord Jesus.</i> <br />
<br />
I was immediately filled with a sense of shame and regret. How have I let myself go so much? Why am I so fat? I am only 32; why do I have wrinkles? Um, hello. Rogue chin hairs. <br />
<br />
Let me just be honest here. Usually when I start to have these thoughts, it’s a giant rabbit hole. Pretty soon, I am convinced that not only am I fat and wrinkly, I am also a horrible, impatient mom... a nagging, unsupportive wife, a bad homemaker, a wretched Christian, a self-absorbed, narcisscistic friend. Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, let me go eat some worms.<br />
<br />
But something stopped me from falling down that rabbit hole today. Maybe it was the Holy Spirit. Maybe it was the sweet grace of confidence that maturity brings. Maybe it was the coffee in the cute cup on my cute vanity. I don’t really know. But I was immediately convicted of the lies I was entertaining in my morning-haired head.<br />
<br />
As women, as moms, we always feel the need to perform, to be beautiful, to be ENOUGH.<br />
<br />
But hear me--what if we don’t have to BE enough, what if we just ARE enough? <br />
<br />
I’ve decided all the women in the kindergarten drop off lines are actually supermodels. As in, they drop off their kids (Titan, Jeweleona, or Pandora-- these are actual real live kids in the kindergarten class), and then immediately go and strip down to a metallic bikini and pose for Victoria’s Secret. They are tan, toned, trim, and their highlights are impeccable. As if I didn’t already feel fragile about depositing the fruit of my loins into the gaping, ravenous mouth of public education, now I have to stare at your perfect body while I am doing it. Thanks for that.<br />
<br />
I also follow this amazingly talented designer on social media. She’s creative, cute, Christian-- the whole package of adorableness. But then she started doing Crossfit. Oh, Crossfit. How quickly you make me hate myself! You guys, this girl is BUFF. She goes to all these Crossfit competitions and can contort her body into odd shapes and do walking handstands across the length of 16 football fields. <br />
<br />
Or, you know, <i>something like that.<br />
</i><br />
And I see these images, and I am quickly convinced that I am doing life all wrong. I need to join Crossfit. I need to look like that. I need to do a walking handstand (ha) and compete in Crossfit games (ha ha) and have a six pack like this girl (HA HA HA HA HA!!!). <br />
<br />
But what if that’s not the point? What if God makes us all uniquely ON PURPOSE and we aren’t all supposed to do the same things and look the same way and have the same abilities? Who gets to decide that their beauty or their abilities are superior to mine? Who decides what’s valuable in a woman? Society? Well hey, listen. Society is about to elect Donald Trump as the next president of the United States. It’s made shrines to Kim Kardashian’s ass, and it’s murdered 60 million babies in the last 30 years. It once spent like four weeks dedicating media time to a deflated football. It’s not a reputable source. Society is full of shit.<br />
<br />
I am reading the book “For the Love” by Jen Hatmaker with my book club. Ok fine, it’s not really a book club. I mean, we bring our books with us. But mostly we just eat ice cream and bitch about our children. We’re working on it. Progressive sanctification, y’all.<br />
<br />
One of the things I am taking away from this book is this sweet, glorious freedom to JUST BE WHO GOD MADE ME. “God created an entire package. It all counts. There are no throwaway qualities. You are good at something for a reason. God designed you this way, on purpose. It isn’t fake or a fluke or small. These are the mind and heart and hands and voice you’ve been given, so use them.”<br />
<br />
The mind and heart and hands and voice I’VE been given. Not someone else. Trying to fit into someone else’s “entire package” is exhausting, depressing, and completely pointless. There are the crafty, Pinteresty moms, the dedicated PTO moms, the badass working moms, the Crossfit moms, and yes...the hot moms at kindergarten dropoff. None of us is all of these, and none is intrinsically more valuable than the other. We are all cast in different roles in this messy story of redemption, but nobody can follow the plot when we are all stepping over each other's lines. Someone else’s beauty or accomplishments or intelligence does not mitigate my own. We all have a place at the table. <br />
<br />
But just so we're clear, I'm gonna eat more at that table than the Crossfit mom. Because OBVIOUSLY.<br />
<br />
Can I encourage you today to pursue truth? In general, but specifically in how it applies to how you feel about your body and your worth? Cause here’s the thing, friend. You wouldn’t be really pretty only if you lost 20 pounds. You are really pretty now. You are not worthy because of what you have accomplished, because of how much you weigh, or how you look in a bikini. When your muffin top squeezes past your saggy boobs, when your thighs spread out like butter, and your chin hairs need to be WEED WHACKED, you are beautiful. <br />
<br />
You can spend your life comparing, and wishing you had the body/job/husband/abilities of some hipster woman you follow on Instagram, but just so you know-- it’s all filtered. As for me, I will celebrate what other women accomplish and admire their hot bods and be their biggest cheerleaders. But I am not going to waste my life anymore trying to be them. I am making a decision to love MY body/MY job/MY husband/MY abilities. <br />
<br />
We are worthy because we are human beings, fearfully and wonderfully made, and TREASURED by our Creator. There is no thigh dimple or fat roll that can make us less worthy. None. These are our nicks and bruises and imperfections that make us interesting stories to read; I will smile as I welcome them into my home. We are not arbitrary. Our abilities are legitimate, and we are valuable. We are full of beauty, of grace, of wonder.<br />
<br />
Really. We are.Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-33153746838261323532014-07-11T21:05:00.000-04:002014-07-11T21:05:18.982-04:00when drowning looks like swimming<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HvcGZQr31vjCRFsy8IPpgFi13_t5sQ1HY_V7kr70NdjirbyYW_TLmBx-fA37WYz5WtmDk5qcLt4RPlYey6mOkkBKijA-psLtq3jrupxn2mS3VQcNwDhc-uBycxhg_L-nQhhIGlS1TUU/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HvcGZQr31vjCRFsy8IPpgFi13_t5sQ1HY_V7kr70NdjirbyYW_TLmBx-fA37WYz5WtmDk5qcLt4RPlYey6mOkkBKijA-psLtq3jrupxn2mS3VQcNwDhc-uBycxhg_L-nQhhIGlS1TUU/s320/photo.JPG" /></a></div>My kids have spent literally 932 hours in their swimming pool this summer. Well, technically, it's a stock tank, not a swimming pool. Like for cows. And maybe goats. It works for tiny humans, too. We're fancy. <br />
<br />
Several weeks ago, I was out running some errands and Chris was working beside the pool while the kids played in it. At one point, Cana started jumping up and down excitedly, "Dad! Dad! Look! RUBY RAE KNOWS HOW TO SWIM!!!" Chris stopped what he was doing and scrambled over to grab the gasping and frantic girl from beneath the surface of the water. What Cana had mistaken for an ability to hold her breath and kick her feet, was actually Ruby desperately trying to avoid sinking, after her tiny foot had slipped on the bottom of the pool. "No, Cana," Chris replied. "Ruby Rae was drowning." Later on that week, I saw a report on the news about how it's often difficult to tell if someone is in distress in the water. Sometimes the shrieks and splashes just look like a mighty good time.<br />
<br />
And oh my word, isn't that how it works when we are grown-ups, too? <br />
<br />
This past year has been bad. Can I use the word shitty even? This past year has been shitty. We've been walking through some non-fun stuff in our marriage, and this past winter, I dealt with pretty debilitating depression. I was unable to function. Unable to get off the couch. Unable to deal with the needs of my children and my home. I tried all sorts of alternative treatments--essential oils and niacin and exercise and blah blah-- and in the end, went to the doctor and got some antidepressants.<br />
<br />
Ugh. This is the part where I decide that I am probably just going to write this all out and then delete it. Just like in junior high youth group when you wrote a letter to the people who had wronged you, then nailed it to the cross and let the sweet baby Jesus have all your bitterness. Writing in a somewhat public forum is the social equivalent of me walking into the Starbucks and asking a complete stranger to assess the severity of the cellulite situation on my thighs. Vulnerable and hopeful that maybe people will still like me after they see all my jubbily bits.<br />
<br />
I stopped taking the antidepressants about a month ago. They were ok, and took the edge off a little bit. But I gained 20 lbs in 2 months. And for someone who is constantly struggling to keep my weight in check, this is for sure a no-go. I slowly weaned myself off them and felt great! I was all, "See! It was just seasonal depression! I don't need that poison in my body anymore! I just needed sunshine!" <br />
<br />
Except that things feel shitty again. I feel like I can't get off the couch or deal with the needs of my children or my home. <br />
<br />
I kind of feel like I am drowning. But you wouldn't know it, would you? I have got some fancy moves and some pretty words that make you think that I am doing some kind of impressive backstroke. But the reality is, just like Ruby Rae, I am gasping for air and trying to come up from under the surface. And all of you just think I am a mighty good swimmer.<br />
<br />
The funny thing about the pool is that at any point, Ruby Rae could have just put her feet down and stood up. I feel like I should just be able to pull myself up and be OK. I wish someone would just be able to yank my bathing suit straps and say, "Melody, you're being ridiculous. Put your feet down." But it somehow doesn't feel that easy.<br />
<br />
I am not sure where to go from here. The thought of going back on medicine and gaining more weight makes me seriously want to cry. I know it's superficial. Shut up. <br />
<br />
I am trying to remind myself of truth. <br />
<br />
"He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand."<br />
<br />
Just like Chris was present to rescue Ruby Rae, I know that Jesus will rescue me. I know this is just a season and that I will know peace and joy and hope and skinny jeans again.<br />
<br />
But for now, it just feels sucky.<br />
<br />
I don't know why I am writing this. I am not asking for help or advice... maybe I am just trying not to drown so silently. Maybe I am writing it to encourage YOU not to drown so silently. Whatever the crap you're dealing with, whatever the loss, or the betrayal, or the misunderstanding-- don't put a brave face and try to convince the world that you've got it all together. <br />
<br />
The filthy rag, the cracked jar of clay-- merely a vessel for redemption.<br />
<br />
I will boast in my weaknesses-- what is my strength compared to the strong arm of my Savior?<br />
<br />
Jesus only becomes greater when we become less.<br />
<br />
I am waiting for new mercies in the morning, and trusting that tomorrow will maybe suck a little less.Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-45195504869458813372014-06-23T11:52:00.000-04:002014-06-23T11:52:26.229-04:00someone to watch over me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsyJ2uUxklj4txIVIPaI9PZ81yLiYFG0NkB3qGVmqqjacCl2Urq19S7JafIDaTzRpOquUTYlEo-N5Kom2h5I_Q3p-FgYNDmkhhPZ74BKnHXaQmys3wUhIeERGS3ISEvJXlGUqJicTAo-8/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsyJ2uUxklj4txIVIPaI9PZ81yLiYFG0NkB3qGVmqqjacCl2Urq19S7JafIDaTzRpOquUTYlEo-N5Kom2h5I_Q3p-FgYNDmkhhPZ74BKnHXaQmys3wUhIeERGS3ISEvJXlGUqJicTAo-8/s320/photo.JPG" /></a></div><br />
I remember when I was single, I once got a flat on the highway. I sobbed and I sobbed like the world was ending. Or I would get an unexpected bill and flip out and have heart palpitations and feel like "OHMYGOSHMYLIFESUCKS!!! I might as well DIE right now!!!!" Everything was such a BIG, HORRIFIC, GIANT DEAL. <br />
<br />
Once when Chris and I were dating, he drove me to the Philly airport after I had flown up for a visit. We arrived and found out that all the flights were delayed for hours and hours because of some sort of catastrophic computer glitch. I automatically started hyperventilating because, "I HAVE TO WORK TOMORROW!! THIS AIRPORT IS HUGE!!!!!! ALL THESE PEEEEEEOOOOPPPPPLLLLEEEE!!!!!" And Chris very matter-of-factly grabbed his cell phone, called the airline and informed them that they would be rescheduling my flight for tomorrow, but change the airport to Harrisburg instead of Philly thankyouverymuch. (He didn't ASK. He INFORMED. My 20 year old self didn't even know this was a thing.) And then he called my boss (HE CALLED MY BOSS, PEOPLE!) and calmly explained the situation and informed her that I wouldn't be into work the next day. (He didn't ASK. He INFORMED. My 20 year old self didn't know this was a thing.)<br />
<br />
I think this was the first time that I knew that I really really loved Chris Strayer. Call me repressed, but it feels pretty stinking good to have someone take care of me. 10 years into this thing, and he's been there when the bills flood our mailbox, and when the ceiling opens up at 1 am and floods our bedroom. He's been there when my mom had cancer, and when we stood peering over the metal sides of our daughter's hospital bed, terrified at what the future would bring. And it wasn't quite so scary, because there was someone else to buffer life before it slammed into me.<br />
<br />
Isn't this why the Bible says that marriage is an illustration of Christ and the Church? You're never alone. There is always someone with you to navigate it. Crap still happens, but it's first filtered through the hand of a loving God. And then filtered through the hand of a loving husband, who deals with the brunt of it as he covers his wife with his body, protecting her. We have these shade-cloths over the girls' little pool outside. They are triangular strips of fabric meant to give relief from the sun, but not completely block it. Because of the cloths, the sun is no longer hot and scorching and dangerous to the girls. It is warm and comfortable and fun. Chris is like our family's shade cloth-- he protects us from the worst of the elements, absorbing them onto his own back. He is our covering.<br />
<br />
We have been through a lot of crap, Chris and I. Some of it has been my fault, some of it has been his. In fact, sometimes he's been a downright douche bag. But he's been HERE. He's been fielding the calls, and putting out fires before I even knew they had ignited. He faithfully goes out and battles the big world everyday, so that his girls can nestle into our safe little world at home. <br />
<br />
Sometimes love looks like roses and champagne and romantic trips. But sometimes? Sometimes love looks an awful lot like someone calling the airline and rescheduling your flight for you. Don't miss it just because it doesn't look the way you expected it to.Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-70395401602115927812014-05-08T07:39:00.001-04:002014-05-08T08:17:19.452-04:00An Open Letter to the Woman who Filmed her Abortion on YoutubeDear Emily,<br />
<br />
You don't know me, but after your story popped up several times in my largely-Conservative-Christian Facebook feed, I feel compelled to add another voice of dissension to the mounting outcry.<br />
<br />
I am sickened and saddened by what you have done. I grieve not only for your sweet baby, but for the myriad of babies who will die because you posted this on Youtube. You've created an avenue for scared young women to google the abortion procedure, see that you've made it look less painful than a dentist appointment, and choose death for their child instead of considering the other options. I'm glad it wasn't painful for you, Emily. But the same cannot be said for the average 16 week old baby, for whom it has been documented that the vaccuums and curettes and forceps ARE painful, and a much bigger deal than the root canal or mole removal that you make this out to be. You have said that this is a "positive" abortion story, that you feel super great about it. Awesome. But you're only half of the equation, Emily. You're not the only one who matters, you just happen to be the only one who has a voice. You also don't have the benefit of retrospect. You have not had to walk through the consequences of your decision long term; it's unfair and prejudicial for you to say that your abortion was a positive experience, when you don't know how you will feel about it in five years, or ten years, or when you're 90.<br />
<br />
But here's the thing, Emily. You and me, we are cut of the same cloth. You see, I murdered my children this morning. All three of them, with little thought of consequence. They were irritating me and disobeying me and crippling me with all their needs and whimpers and stories and "watch me, Mommy!"'s. And just like your abortion doctor wielded his curette, I blindly slashed at my children with the sharpened sword of my words. And I mercilessly slaughtered them all.<br />
<br />
"You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, 'Do not murder, and anyone who murders will be subject to judgement.' But I tell you that anyone who is angry with his brother will be subject to judgement." (Matthew 5:21-22)<br />
<br />
Here's the thing, Emily. I can accuse you of murder, and be right. But you can also accuse me of murder, and you would also be right. Anger, murder-- to-may-to, to-mah-to, according to Jesus. We Christians are supremely good at compartmentalizing sin. But the truth is, we are all on level playing ground. We ALL have sinned, we ALL have fallen short of the glory of God. None of us is good. NOT EVEN ONE.<br />
<br />
But that's not what we would have you believe, as we flood your inbox with hate mail and calls for repentance. We will call you a "slutty cunt", as you described in a recent interview. Because oh my word, Emily, if there's something that we Christians are good at, it is boycotts and judgements and throwing rocks. We will get on facebook and link to articles of "filthy baby-killers" like you, but we won't volunteer at the local teen pregnancy shelter. We will express how heartbroken we are about children stolen in Nigeria, but our heartbreak doesn't extend to any concrete actions to prevent future social injustices. We will copy and paste "if you're not ashamed of Jesus, repost!" status updates, but we are too ashamed to evangelize our neighbors. We see the hungry and homeless, and we slam the door in their faces, while smiling and encouraging them to keep warm and well-fed. With great humility, I soberly and whole-heartedly include myself in this group of well-intentioned Pharisees. Heck, I could be their leader. <br />
<br />
You murdered your baby, Emily. And now we will turn around and murder you, all in the name of Jesus.<br />
<br />
We have missed it.<br />
<br />
It sounds almost too glib to post... but Jesus loves you, Emily. He really, desperately loves you. You could have ten more abortions, and Jesus would love you still. There is nothing that you can do that would make Him love you less. He is your creator, and He chose to give you life, in all your frailty and humanity. I am heartbroken by the followers of Christ that would have you believe anything less.<br />
<br />
We have different view points on this. But I want you to know that your baby has worth. And Emily, you have worth. You are not defined by the worst of your actions. (This is a huge relief to me; if I was defined by the worst of my actions, I would have been burning in hell long ago.) I fervently hope that you come to realize the sanctity of life, that you come to realize how precious these little ones are to Jesus. He loves your baby, Emily. And though you only saw the "potential for life", I am confident that your baby IS alive, and is being held in the arms of Jesus. <br />
<br />
Love,<br />
MelodyMelody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-47556136174196470602013-05-14T23:55:00.000-04:002013-05-14T23:55:09.141-04:00Today I effed upToday I effed up.<br />
<br />
The day started out benignly enough, with coffee and my ritual early morning facebook perusal. I fed the kids and folded some laundry while listening to snippets of the Today show in the background (Angelina Jolie is getting a double masectomy?! What?!). I even had a bra on before 8 am. Today was going to be a good day.<br />
<br />
But somewhere between my bowl of breakfast quinoa and 10 am, things derailed. Maybe it was the dawdling five year old who <i>just wouldn't finish her fact sheet</i>. Maybe it was the nixie one-year-old, who screamed bloody murder at the market because I wouldn't let her get out of the stroller and walk, while sampling a bite out of each apple in the end-cap display.<br />
<br />
But people, I lost my crap.<br />
<br />
I yelled at my kids. And not just talking-loudly-yelling. Like mean, scary-lady yelling.<br />
<br />
I ignored my daughter's cries when she had legitimately hurt herself, just because I was tired of whining. <br />
<br />
I was cranky with my husband, who-- bless his heart-- was sick and worked all day long. <br />
<br />
I fed my kids frozen pizza for dinner, and other than the raisins they had with breakfast, I am pretty sure they didn't have any fruits or vegetables all day. <br />
<br />
There's still a load of partially washed/partially-crapped-upon diapers in the washing machine that I have yet to deal with.<br />
<br />
There are three basketfuls of clean and folded laundry sitting on the treadmill, waiting to be put away. This also means that the treadmill is not being used.<br />
<br />
They have been there for a week.<br />
<br />
At least.<br />
<br />
I stood in front of the open freezer today, spoon in hand, and scooped the "sweet spot" (the part of the ice cream that has an extra swirl of cookie crumbs or other chocolate-y goodness) directly into my mouth while my kids fought and fought and fought in the the other room.<br />
<br />
Then asked for snacks.<br />
<br />
Then told me they were bored.<br />
<br />
Then fought some more.<br />
<br />
Then asked for more snacks.<br />
<br />
Today I felt dreadfully ill-equipped to walk in the role of Mama/wife/lover of Jesus. <br />
<br />
I was unkind to the ones I love the most.<br />
<br />
Today I effed up.<br />
<br />
But I serve a Savior who doesn't define me by my worst behavior. Actually, who doesn't define me by my best behavior, either. <br />
<br />
My best days, my best deeds, my best moments as a mother-- when my kids eat kale at all three meals and read for entertainment and use their imaginations and not their fists with their siblings-- even those are filthy rags. I can't purchase a pardon with good parenting or a positive attitude. I can't absolve myself with a clean house or well-behaved children.<br />
<br />
I need Jesus. I desperately, critically need Jesus. <br />
<br />
I effed up today, but I will rejoice in this day that reminds me of my dependence on my God. I will boast in my weaknesses, my failures, my shortcomings-- and crave the strength of the Master. I will beg for His help to love these little ones, to turn my heart toward my home with joy, and to serve my family cheerfully.<br />
<br />
Today I effed up, but the morning breaks with new mercies.Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-87692591271920309302013-02-26T10:45:00.001-05:002013-02-26T10:45:43.858-05:00Kids are gross.Or at least mine are. I am going to describe three different scenarios in which my point is proven. You vote for which one actually happened. Because they certainly couldn't have ALL happened in my house. Within the span of 24 hours. Ahem.<br />
<br />
A) Ruby sometimes wears disposable diapers overnight. Since she sometimes... um... moves her bowels (eek, am I my Grandma? Did I just say that?) first thing in the morning, I had changed her when she woke up and DOUBLE-BAGGED the offending dirty diaper before putting in the trash. So, remember that time she went in the trash, tore the TWO bags open, un-rolled the diaper, and proceeded to smear herself and her clothes with... um... excrement?! And then brought it to me and said, "That's gross, Mom, right? Right, mom?" Uh, yeah, Ruby. For sure.<br />
<br />
B) Chris and I went to Sharp Shopper last night, and Ruby and Cana came along, where they wandered the aisles dumping boxes of spaghetti on the ground and trying to smuggle bags of candy in their back pockets. At one point, I notice Ruby is eating something. "Ruby, what are you eating?" My one year old had stealthily snatched someone's discarded Already Been Chewed bubble gum that had been stashed underneath a grocery shelf. And was going to town on it. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.<br />
<br />
C) I gave the little girls a bath yesterday morning, which is somewhat atypical since they usually have baths right before bed. Because of the aforementioned early morning moving of the bowels, I put a cloth swim diaper on Ruby, justincase. Cana looks over. "Mama, do I need a swim diaper?" I reply, "No, Cana-- you don't poop in the bath, silly girl!" "Well, yeah," she responded. "But I pee in it all the time." <br />
<br />
I mean, I'd always had my suspicions, but I didn't need a full confession.<br />
<br />
Oy.Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-75795730604782393342013-01-26T15:06:00.001-05:002013-01-26T15:55:06.739-05:00Faithless heartOne of my favorite albums of all time is Amy Grant's "Lead Me On". I know, I know. Tease all you want. It's totally old-school, with an above average dose of circa 1988 synthesizer. But it is brutally honest.<br />
<br />
Some lyrics from the song "Faithless Heart":<br />
<br />
"At times the woman deep inside me wanders far from home<br />
And in my mind I live a life that chills me to the bone<br />
A heart running for arms out of reach<br />
But who is the stranger my longing seeks? I don't know.<br />
But it scares me through and through,<br />
Cause I've a man at home, who needs me to be true.<br />
Oh faithless heart, be far away from me<br />
Playing games inside my head that nobody else can see<br />
Oh faithless heart, you tempt me to the core,<br />
But you can't have ahold of me, so don't come around anymore."<br />
<br />
Now before you think that this is some kind of a public confession regarding unfaithfulness in my marriage, it's not that. That's not even on my radar.<br />
<br />
But here is my public confession:<br />
<br />
I struggle every.single.day with the ins and outs, the ho and hum of the life of a stay-at-home-mama. I am all too familiar with that buzz of restlessness, that sigh of dissatisfaction. I want to be sensitive here: I am mindful of the women who desperately long to hold a baby in their empty arms, I am mindful of the mamas whose babies are with Jesus. I am mindful of the single mamas who would love nothing more than to stay home with her children. I conceived three healthy children, carried them mostly to term, and they are bright, robust, amazing children. <b>I have unspeakably more than I deserve.</b> I know this.<br />
<br />
But to make myself out to be a Pinterest-y perfect mom who has alphabetized CDs with chronological pictures of each of her children since birth, stored in a weather-proof Sterilite tub in her dust-free attic? The mom who <i>cheerfully</i> makes living room forts and builds snowmen in subzero temperatures? That's not me, folks. Believe what you will based on the highlight reel of my Facebook page, but mommy-hood is a serious struggle for me. Joy is often elusive, lost while I am bogged down in the daily grind of meal preparation, bill paying, and the ineffable pain of stepping on a lego.<br />
<br />
We have had sickness in our family for more than a month. I am weary of snotty noses and puke. My kids fight all the time. Over everything. Over nothing. My extended family is far away, and I feel like I am "on" all the time. My baby--who by all accounts is pretty much the sweetest thing ever-- is also a royal terror. She doesn't sleep through the night (not even close), and I-- the firmly attached mama who staunchly believes in baby-led weaning-- am growing resentful of her near-constant demands of "I want more boo-boo! I want nurse!!" Approximately 92483948 times a day. My children might actually have a tape-worm, because all I hear all day long (besides "I want boo-boo!") is "I'm HUUUUNNNNNGGGRRRYYYYY!!!!!!!!" 7 seconds after they finished lunch. Oh wait, there is another thing I hear all day long: (Hit, punch, smack!) "MOMMMMMY, Cana hit me!!!!!" "Mom, Evie took my toy!!" And rounding out the top 40, "Mommy, can you wipe me?!?"<br />
<br />
My children are my life. I love them more than I can express.<br />
<br />
But I (daily?) fantasize about leaving.<br />
<br />
There, I said it. <br />
<br />
Go ahead and judge me all you want, but there it is.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I want to leave.<br />
<br />
Let me first make this disclaimer: I never would. I never <i>could.</i><br />
<br />
But dammit, I just want to put a tampon in without 3 kids asking me what I am doing. I want to drink a cup of coffee without having to microwave it six times because I was interrupted to wipe asses or referee fights. I want to sleep all night long, and get up in the morning when I want to, not when little birdy mouths are opening and closing, chirping for nourishment. I want to be appreciated and recognized for the sacrifices I make, instead of constantly being asked to make more. <br />
<br />
The greatest blessings of my life-- the ones for whom I have longed with all my being... in the darkest corners of my heart, <i>I sometimes wish them away</i>. I selfishly long for my own time, my own space, my own stuff (that isn't broken, or colored on, or otherwise marred with sticky fingers). <br />
<br />
It is into this climate of stress and selfishness that Satan whispers his sweet lies. "Did God really say...?" "If God loved you..." "You know, this is really your husband's fault. If he didn't work so much..." "I know that you are trying to eat healthfully, but that's just a small cookie and it would make you feel so much better..." "What's this about a 'budget'? Just go ahead and buy that purse on Etsy. You deserve it. It will make you happy." "You know, if you <i>followed your heart</i>..."<br />
<br />
And oh, it's so easy to listen. It's so easy to justify and to agree and to believe-- "You're right, I DO deserve that!" "Yes, it's not a big deal!" "I SHOULD follow my heart!"<br />
<br />
But into this divided, broken being, Jesus reminds me:<br />
<br />
"The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?"<br />
(Jeremiah 17v9)<br />
<br />
Using my heart as a litmus test for the direction of my actions is despairingly foolish. It will lie to me every time. My heart is desperately sick, and will deceive me at each turn. I don't need its falsehoods and exaggerations.<br />
<br />
I need <b>truth</b>.<br />
<br />
The Lord my God goes with me.<br />
He goes before me.<br />
He is able to sympathize with my weaknesses, because He has been tempted in every way.<br />
He is mighty to save.<br />
When my heart is overwhelmed, He will lead me to the rock that is higher than I am.<br />
He has not left me without a helper.<br />
I can approach the throne of grace with confidence that I will find mercy.<br />
He knows what I need.<br />
He will strengthen me and help me.<br />
I can come to Him and have rest.<br />
There are new mercies every morning.<br />
All these <i>things</i> that I need will be added to me.<br />
He loves me with an everlasting love.<br />
<br />
This is an intense season for me, fraught with difficulties both real and perceived. I have been counseled so many times to enjoy these times, to delight in them. There are moments of that, but can I be honest? I am mostly just trying to get through them. <br />
<br />
But emotions aside, today I am taking a stand for truth. Because you see, the promise is only as valuable as the one who makes it. I know that Satan is a liar, and his promises are worthless. I know that he does not want to see me prosper. I know that he does not love me. I know that Jesus loves me more than I can conceive. I know that Jesus has good plans for me, plans to prosper and not to harm me. I know that He has much to teach me in this season, and I want to sit at His feet and listen. <br />
<br />
So I will obediently walk on, though sometimes it feels more like trudging. I will lace up snow boots and build a snowman and I will clothespin sheets into the most epic fort ever. I will fold endless piles of laundry, and thank Jesus that we have clothes to wear. I will nurse my baby for the 40th time today, and thank my Heavenly Father for the miracle of her life. I will reread a board book for the 60th time, and thank God for the gift of language. With God's grace, I will choose a gentle answer instead of a harsh reply. I will choose a smile instead of a furrowed brow. I will pray for my children when I want to curse them. I will choose truth instead of a lie. I will choose love. I will choose hope. I will choose joy.<br />
<br />
Faithless heart, be far away from me. You can't have ahold of me, so don't come around anymore.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-72306648091668630102013-01-22T15:41:00.000-05:002013-01-22T15:41:13.230-05:00I don't hate my bodyI was just chatting with some dear friends about our body issues. One quipped, "Why can't chubby thighs be adorable on adults? I could just EAT my baby's thighs." <br />
<br />
It's true. We're born covered with sweet little rolls. We delight in our children's double chins and dimpled elbows, and-- if I am completely candid-- laugh over their quad-ginas. (Don't know what that is? Use some imagination; chubby baby legs + little bitty girl parts all smooshed together. Awesome.)<br />
<br />
And then somewhere around puberty, it starts all going downhill. We get boobs too early, and that's embarrassing. We get boobs too late, and that's even more embarrassing. All of a sudden, we deal with stinky armpits and periods and acne and frizzy hair-- and it's just all <i>wrong</i>. And unfortunately, for many women (most women?), we never really grow out of that awkward-comparing-ourselves-to-other-ladies-stage. We want to raise confident daughters who see their bodies as a beautiful gift from their Creator, but how? How can we tell them that God created them good, when all we see in our own bodies is cellulite, stretch marks, and crow's feet? <br />
<br />
I am right there with these self-loathing women. Or, I should say, I was. But two formative things happened in the last couple of years that changed my perspective dramatically. <br />
<br />
The first was Ruby's birth. Now, let me first say-- the births of all of my children were amazing experiences. There is nothing like it. But Ruby's was different. It was magical. For Evie and Cana, my births were in the hospital, flat on my back, while a team of nurses and an obstetrician screamed at me to "hold your breath and PUSH!!" I was hooked up to monitors that told me whether my contractions were "sufficient", and someone else told me when my body was ready to have my baby. Because of complications with my pregnancy, I had to have Ruby in a hospital, too. But it was a completely different experience for me. I had chosen a group of like-minded women to assist me, midwives who intrinsically believed in the power of my body, of the rightness of natural birth. No one told me when I was ready to have my baby, no one told me when to push. It was quiet and dark, and for the first time in my life, my body was <i>right</i>. Sure, it was chubby and distended with stretch marks, but it was right. It was strong and capable. A year and a half later, I still haven't lost the euphoria and empowerment of Ruby's birth.<br />
<br />
The second thing that changed my perspective was this past November, when my awesome friend Stacey and I ran the Outer Banks Half Marathon. It wasn't what it could have been for me, as a previous injury had sidelined much of my training and preparation. But it was 13.1 sweaty, hard miles of heady "I am woman, hear me roar" power. We finished, sore and completely depleted-- but completely on top of the world. For a woman who, six years ago literally couldn't run <b>A</b> mile (much less many), I felt unstoppable.<br />
<br />
Now, don't get me wrong. There are things about my body that I'd kill to change. I am in the process of losing the pounds that have been progressively packed on with each pregnancy. If someone offered me a boob job to shore up the shriveled little sand bags hanging from my chest, I would take it in a heart beat. Microdermabrasion to remove that chicken pock scar from when I was 5? Yes, please. <br />
<br />
But the point is-- those things no longer define me. I can rejoice in my body, for while I don't love the extra pounds, I love the fact that my body was a safe haven for each of my babies; they were protected and tenderly grown inside my belly. I can't hate my stretch marks when they foretold the most precious of blessings. My boobs may hang precariously close to my navel, but they have nourished each of my girls; saggy-ness is a small price to pay for the immeasurable joy of being the sole-sustainer for my children's first year of life. My body is not perfect-- but it is the body God designed for me, to complete the tasks that He has given ME to complete. It is strong and it is capable. Next year, I plan to run the 1/2 marathon with a little less chub-rub in the thigh area... but if not, I will simply rejoice that my legs are able to run at all.<br />
<br />
Friend-- you are wonderfully and fearfully made. God has plans for you, that only you can complete. He knit you together inside of your mother's womb (and I thought <i>I</i> was crafty!) and His works are wonderful. <br />
<br />
When you are tempted to despair at your snug jeans, or at the gray hair that cropped up overnight-- remember that the Savior of the world rejoices over you with singing. He has called you by name, and you are His.<br />
<br />
I'd call that beautiful.Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-44017626535218776622012-11-21T08:06:00.000-05:002012-11-21T08:56:10.111-05:00Cooking with Aunt SueThis past weekend, we attended the Memorial Service for my Aunt Susanne. Although I didn't see her as much as I would have liked as an adult, I have sweet memories of her as a quiet, permanent fixture in my childhood. I remember snuggling with her in the old hammock at Nana's house at Two Tulip. On one occasion, in which I felt very grown-up indeed, she took me on a trip to New York City. Having lived there for a large portion of her life, the smells and sounds and busyness were probably just like breathing to her. But to a ten-year-old, (very) sheltered little girl, it was a head-buzzing adventure that left me wide-eyed for two weeks afterward.<br />
<br />
The details of her Memorial Service were thoughtfully and personally planned, just how I would like my eventual send-off to be. Her niece and nephew sang an old family song, her relatives and friends remembered her quiet gentleness that often belied an amazingly sharp mind. Her grandchildren crafted dozens and dozens of peace cranes, reflecting on how Grammy Sue had an earnest and long-standing hope for peace on earth. A larger crane, on which we all penned a single word in remembrance of Aunt Sue, was set sail on the river beside the church... a river that Sue had explored with her grandchildren, whose rhythmic cadence could be heard as she rested in the backyard hammock in the months that she was sick. Sue's crane slowly and gently circled for a few minutes before disembarking. Her son Max was beside me, and remarked something like, "How just like my mom. Gentle and un-rushed even in the end."<br />
<br />
After the service, we descended on Max and Denise's house. It's worth mentioning that the way that Denise served her mother-in-law in her illness was a thing of beauty. She slept for months with a baby monitor beside her bed, and snuck over to Sue's adjoining apartment if there was any sign of trouble in the night. Max and Denise graciously opened Aunt Sue's home, and invited guests to pick a few books from her vast library. Admittedly, most of the literature was beyond my college-dropout intellect, but it was stunning to see the vast array of topics that interested Sue... everything from politics to Buddha to oil drilling to Jesus. It was calming to walk through her little domain, and the great loves of her life were obvious as I did so: books...and her family. Paintings by her grandchildren and candid photos of them laughing in the woods papered the walls and were wedged in among her stacks of books.<br />
<br />
I was delighted to find Moosewood Cookbook among the stacks, a recipe collection that I had long coveted but could never justify buying. I am not sure if it was one of her favorites, or if it was a gift given just before she got ill... maybe she had hopeful culinary aspirations as she leafed through it, only to become so sick that she depended on charity casseroles and cans of Campbell's soup. There were no tell-tale grease spatterings or finger smudges that are so prevalent in my own cookbooks. But as I cooked my first recipe from the book last night, an (amazing!) Swiss and Mushroom Quiche, I liked to imagine Aunt Sue in her little kitchen.<br />
<br />
I could see her chopping the onions, pausing and removing her glasses for a moment as she wiped her tearing eyes. She would lean back to the fridge, so close she probably didn't have to leave her spot at the stove, and grab the butter, and plop a bit into the pan. It would sizzle and foam. She would stand at the counter and grate the cheese, possibly with a small grandchild at her side, begging for a sample. She would cut the butter into the flour with two forks crisscrossing each other, and add a little more water so it would stick together. As she rolled it out on the floured counter, maybe she would upset her glass of water and it would run down the side of the sink and onto her skirt. Possibly she cursed under her breath softly, before catching herself and quickly glancing over to see if her small grandson, who was busy creating animals out of colored duct tape at the table, had noticed. He hadn't (or didn't care), so she would mop up the spill with the corner of her sleeve and refill her glass. After sliding the glass pie plate into the oven, perhaps she would sit with Stephen and read a book. Or, as she was by all accounts a "play-slave", maybe they would mold something out of clay or create a fort on the living room floor.<br />
<br />
Of course I don't know all these things. As I mentioned, I didn't often see Aunt Sue after I became an adult. Was she a cook? I don't know. Possibly her busy metropolitan life had left her more apt to phone in a take-out order or stop by the local delicatessen on her way home from work. But I had fun imagining. And as my hands rolled out the dough on the counter, I felt a kinship with her... really, with all the women in my family who have gone before me. An age old-ritual... flour, butter, a little water... we women have been doing it for centuries-- the rote, mechanical, mundane chores-- all with the end purpose of nourishing our families and creating a home. We are a calvary of mothers, of aunts, of Nanas, of sisters, of daughters (and daughters-in-law)... with flour smudged on our cheeks and a sink full of dishes. And though Aunt Sue has set sail down the river... across the Jordan, really... we carry on the rhythm of her days. Cooking, reading, learning, loving, playing. <br />
<br />
My Moosewood Cookbook sits wedged among a stack of others on the counter in my kitchen. And I have a feeling that every time I reach for it (which will be often), I will pause and think of Aunt Sue, with her quiet and gentle presence, and invite her memory to come and cook with me. Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-14487190952904579012012-09-17T07:22:00.002-04:002012-09-17T07:22:47.343-04:00giving God good advice"Giving God good advice and abusing the devil isn't praying."- L.M. Montgomery.<br />
<br />
My prayers of yesteryear were a lot more eloquent and verbose than they are now. Years ago, my prayers might have sounded something like this:<br />
<br />
"Jesus, You know this election is coming up soon. May you slay those liberal, self-seeking Democrats [tongue firmly in cheek] and uphold the Holy Agenda of the Chosen, Righteous Republican Party and may they ever lead our country back to You. This is our only hope."<br />
<br />
or perhaps this:<br />
<br />
"Righteous and omnipotent Heavenly Father, make my home function with Holy Spirit Power and the blessed Shekinah glory of the Almighty Lord. Give us what we <strike>want</strike> need [insert exhaustive list of material goods] so that we can serve You better and make a difference in this world. We name it and claim it in the name of Jesus Christ! World without end, amen and amen."<br />
<br />
My prayers are simpler now, borne out of tiredness and busyness and (hopefully) a bit more humility-- the kind of humility that can only come from being a wife and mom and realizing that I fail 3483984 times every.single.day and that I have <i>no business</i> instructing the Maker of the universe on what He should or shouldn't do for me. Out of the knowledge that <i>I have no knowledge</i>, and I am most often winging it from moment to moment.<br />
<br />
Most often, it is just this:<br />
<br />
"Father-- in all this mess we have created, Your will be done."<br />
<br />
or<br />
<br />
"Oh, Jesus. <i>Help me</i>. Help me to love these children when I'd so much rather scream at them. Help me to love my husband when I'd so much rather be throw a boot at him." (This is, for the record, an indication of my own failures and my sinful heart, not a reflection on my husband-- whom I typically adore, and just occasionally want to throw a boot at.)<br />
<br />
How smug I must sound to God, when I pray to Him about what He <i>must</i> do. Or even what He <i>should</i> do. How self-important I must sound when I tell Him what is best for our country, or even what is best for my family. I see dimly, in part. He sees the whole. <br />
<br />
May my prayers be sincere, humble, and come from a heart that desires the glory of God, not merely ease of circumstances.<br />
Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-27049246029573600392012-09-02T12:57:00.000-04:002012-09-02T12:59:06.558-04:00My pantry is having an identity crisis<br />
See all these "righteous" foods?? <br />
<img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuYk2IJLan641tsFMVotFEd8yrrehSjqfRAFZQMG6JmCImhNUShQsVUBSw7vON4nCuiskMpRR01CgLscdYxR8mhLA09sG7Zt0nqiQl6bqaU6oKpocVW7sJtun68-Z3IYjuBNjjpSrv47M/' /></div><br />
I know it's a small picture, but can you see what we've got going on here?? Chia seeds, hemp hearts, organic non-dairy coconut milk?<br />
<br />
I am a clean eater like that.<br />
<br />
I only buy local, sustainably produced groceries. <br />
<br />
Except for when I stock up on Crystal Light and Crisco, of course.<br />
<br />
<img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnBW8Z1nchIFAECyR2UJ96tNZwKg9J3J_D43_f7YpZZQ8I_RLgyw6_4UUN3RKsANbIyUt6gLXq3whjixmt-NAUuQdJvxtm99hLpF5K8TFWFBt0QJ1LJC22PwHg28fM4DxNJZhjxppFyJY/' /><br />
<br />
Around these parts, we may eat organically grown kale and other 'bunny food', but we fry it up in a generous dose of partially hydrogenated animal fat. <br />
<br />
Alongside an ice cold glass of powdered red dye #5.<br />
<br />
Mmmm, mmmm, good.Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-1961088069586725712012-08-26T08:10:00.000-04:002012-08-26T08:14:05.288-04:00Joy in the morningLast night, Chris and I totally broke the law.<br />
Or, at least one of the rules typed on the sheet of paper hanging on the hospital bathroom door:<br />
<br />
"Only one parent/guardian may spend the night."<br />
<br />
We're usually pretty decent, upstanding citizens. But Chris and I went all rogue up in here and both spent the night. We're rebels like that. He let me have the cot, the blankets and the pillows, and insisted that he could sleep just fine on the non-reclining vinyl chair. <i>He's dreamy like that.</i><br />
<br />
Speaking of the law, we called them last night. Or, Chris did, around 11 pm... when I was home for a few hours with the kids. I texted him because I was fairly certain that someone was trying to break into the front door. I kept hearing these weird noises and bangs... <i>I was freaking out.</i><br />
<br />
He texted me back:<br />
Chris: Do you want me to call the police and have them come check it out?<br />
Me: No.<br />
(a second later.)<br />
Me: I don't know.<br />
(another second later.)<br />
Me: Yeah, maybe. <br />
<br />
The valiant Lititz Borough police officers arrived in record time, parked at the street and crept stealthily through the shadows... and wrestled to the ground and finally apprehended...<br />
<br />
<i>My WREATH!</i> <br />
<br />
My homemade, Pinterest inspired, ruffly burlap bandit of a wreath!<br />
<br />
Banging on the door in the wind.<br />
<br />
(He's serving 2-4 for criminal mischief.)<br />
<br />
Seriously. <i>Can you imagine my mortification??</i><br />
<br />
Although now that I consider it, I would rather be mortified than DEAD at the hands of some creepy door-banging serial killer.<br />
<br />
After that drama, Evie took a turn for the worse and I headed back to join Chris at the hospital, with a serious RULES-BE-DAMNED! attitude; I was ready to <i>lay into</i> the first person who questioned my right to be with my girl overnight. (Incidentally, no one did. All the better for them.)<br />
<br />
A couple of minutes after I got here, Evie woke up in intense pain. She was screaming and crying and sweating and her whole body was convulsing. I have been through natural childbirth, and I can confidently say that what she was feeling was akin to those sensations, at least insomuch as those pains translate to a five year old. I had a moment where I considered telling her to "moooooo" like a cow, a la <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ina_May_Gaskin">Ina May Gaskin,</a> but in the end, decided she would probably give me the stink-eye and clock me over the head with her board-and-IV clad arm.<br />
<br />
After those pains passed, she went back to sleep and the nurse came in to give her some kind of anti-cramping medicine. I am not sure if it was the meds, or prayers, or the sickness running its course, or <i>what</i>. But Evie has been sleeping peacefully for the last SEVEN+ hours (unheard of since she's been sick!) and only woke up once to pee. I am hoping and praying that this trend continues and my girl is back to her crazy, fun self soon. We are meeting with the specialist at 11, I guess to see how we move forward from here.<br />
<br />
I am confident that Jesus has been very close to us in all of this. I am confident that there is a purpose in this. I am confident that He chose this specific set of circumstances because it is the very best for our souls, and because He loves us. I am confident that He will be glorified in this.<br />
<br />
I am confident that my friends are waaaay better cooks than I am. I could write a book about how kind and generous and thoughtful people have been with us over the course of Evie's illness. <br />
<br />
Maybe I will.<br />
<br />
Or you know, <i>at least a blog post.</i>Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-61162808626829817322012-08-24T08:50:00.000-04:002012-08-24T08:50:18.725-04:00More Ramblings...--Tom's of Maine deodorant is not made for the hospital. I mean, it's natural and doesn't have aluminum, and probably won't give me cancer, so that's a perk. But truly. I am gross.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8M8qfBB_qx6cAdqj3OEQNDMF61ipAzFi_t01ZGtmqtvBMW9x3DaVqBRoS7OnLbc7LWgtLg88c3rjBn6WTOmRIaeqWPH2GSPgdZG3li5qIGUSQwv8vz1oksUk8dCym6zzkioHaSQL9y3o/s1600/toms-of-maine-deodorant.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="268" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8M8qfBB_qx6cAdqj3OEQNDMF61ipAzFi_t01ZGtmqtvBMW9x3DaVqBRoS7OnLbc7LWgtLg88c3rjBn6WTOmRIaeqWPH2GSPgdZG3li5qIGUSQwv8vz1oksUk8dCym6zzkioHaSQL9y3o/s400/toms-of-maine-deodorant.png" /></a></div><br />
<br />
--Speaking of gross (and cancer), I have had a little cold sore/blister thingy in the same spot underneath my tongue for the last couple of weeks. Is this just from stress, or do I have herpes? Or mouth cancer?<br />
<br />
--No, seriously. Do I?<br />
<br />
--When we get out of the hospital, can someone come watch my kids for <strike>three days</strike> an hour so I can weed my garden? <strike>I have totally neglected it all summer, and it's a nasty weed pit of despair, not unlike my Tom's-of-Maine-clad armpits.</strike> It's gotten a couple of weeds here and there while Evie has been in the hospital this past week.<br />
<br />
--I appreciate everyone's comments suggesting transferring to another hospital. No, really, I do. This is something that we are considering, and should it become necessary, we will not hesitate to do it. At this point, we feel that-- while Evie is feeling nasty, and her condition is somewhat perplexing-- she is not in grave danger. We need to get her better, but this is not... like, you know, a <i>fatal</i> condition. Ack. I don't even like typing that word. We are, however, considering transferring to Hershey just because there's a Starbucks there. For reals.<br />
<br />
--Hey Doctor/Nurse/Housekeeping/Person-coming-to-take-an-order-for-some-disgusting-hospital-food-that-Evie-won't-touch: my kid is SLEEPING. <i>Could you possibly turn it down a few notches??</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Ntz2FhlBpPjd8V7jTthcW-qFJGM2RUfzt9VxjWlSkKgYahRlazIaA8d8KGyzwg6YDQ99zX2oJ4kWaEccuwWUQy7miz4FUwjJfWuxPHLMQ73ZaP-WQLM8vWrywzdBkTQlNuogstf3x7c/s1600/IMG184.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Ntz2FhlBpPjd8V7jTthcW-qFJGM2RUfzt9VxjWlSkKgYahRlazIaA8d8KGyzwg6YDQ99zX2oJ4kWaEccuwWUQy7miz4FUwjJfWuxPHLMQ73ZaP-WQLM8vWrywzdBkTQlNuogstf3x7c/s400/IMG184.jpg" /></a></div><br />
--I am 100% overwhelmed by the massive support and prayers that have been coming our way. Many have asked me if there is something that you can do to help. Would you consider sending a little note to Cana, my middle daughter?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8VEjMxw4YjNfgwQoPtwKdWKbvJd3wFjD47mBZys9WXIKfn4AuMpD83VbSwQjrSGzqx_jOFmB7FmkQC8imfCB8RRiewe_je9sx69ajWAQBQgFJy2ZgYkjvEafmHGbXlC9J3ADbqHaLrjE/s1600/IMG171.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8VEjMxw4YjNfgwQoPtwKdWKbvJd3wFjD47mBZys9WXIKfn4AuMpD83VbSwQjrSGzqx_jOFmB7FmkQC8imfCB8RRiewe_je9sx69ajWAQBQgFJy2ZgYkjvEafmHGbXlC9J3ADbqHaLrjE/s400/IMG171.jpg" /></a></div>She just turned three, and she doesn't really understand what is going on, just that she misses Evie. She has been a trooper, but I am sure it is hard to see Evie getting spoiled like crazy with attention and surprises and special treats. I am <i>not</i> asking that you send her a toy or a treat (in fact, I would prefer that you didn't). Don't even go buy a card! She would love a picture that your kid drew, or even a note scrawled on the back of a receipt, like this d-bag:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZ4Xj_bF8cc8wCXjfbrEa7BLJo5hqNJ_3Rw_Mj5xmf_sDbFXjml3srf_5JTefFdmgYL_qC-KDiZqKOUoekKvJlk4Dy1aYWTPNftm8zodB7kvLbjixnPFm-s6TT3SF0cSCrXycob12ro8/s1600/IMG186.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZ4Xj_bF8cc8wCXjfbrEa7BLJo5hqNJ_3Rw_Mj5xmf_sDbFXjml3srf_5JTefFdmgYL_qC-KDiZqKOUoekKvJlk4Dy1aYWTPNftm8zodB7kvLbjixnPFm-s6TT3SF0cSCrXycob12ro8/s400/IMG186.jpg" /></a></div><br />
--But really, if you'd consider sending her a little note or a drawing, contact me and I will give you our address. Unless you're some crazy psychopath stalker. <i>In which case, I will most definitely NOT give you our address.</i> I know Cana would love to get mail.<br />
<br />
--I miss my little kids. Ruby is still nursing, and I would like her to continue for quite a while yet. I had a moment of panic yesterday, thinking that being away from me during the day will make her want to wean. Luckily, she seems just as <strike>obsessed</strike> interested in <strike>the boob</strike> breastfeeding as ever.<br />
<br />
--Also, I am a sinner... but who did this to Evie's new little stuffies? Seriously. Friggin' perv nurses.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX2Zr2BMvj0nIjg2PKc0Ip7aIiNBCRrsxWOAwzqeYOvG1bsE2SecGI8mFShnhJTwaCc9cAAwKV572OKhZh52_PjExXTucMDkTlSZqMilnsytq7AJ0gnb2v5YU3xnwZRYPkY6Xz-lRnbzQ/s1600/IMG190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX2Zr2BMvj0nIjg2PKc0Ip7aIiNBCRrsxWOAwzqeYOvG1bsE2SecGI8mFShnhJTwaCc9cAAwKV572OKhZh52_PjExXTucMDkTlSZqMilnsytq7AJ0gnb2v5YU3xnwZRYPkY6Xz-lRnbzQ/s400/IMG190.jpg" /></a></div><br />
--Cana's big news-- she (finally!) conquered potty-training!!-- was somewhat eclipsed by this whole kid-in-the-hospital-scenario, but I am super proud of her. We celebrated with new Dora panties and a grown-up "coffee". I am also super glad to not be<a href="http://www.soggymama.blogspot.com/2012/07/and-then-i-had-kids.html"> scooping toddler poop out of panties. </a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtRnPT6CfoY8qJ-4fE_2wXJE5yEbyV0Rq2nK_OjRxTgCWGDhq8Ztis1bMziblfS4Mdhf-yMqh7E63TNpnQnYwhR8J3kWY4AVEDO2CEe7aJebLChMU45nW4RBdIXnLa7YZTDuLB59VwZn8/s1600/IMG156.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtRnPT6CfoY8qJ-4fE_2wXJE5yEbyV0Rq2nK_OjRxTgCWGDhq8Ztis1bMziblfS4Mdhf-yMqh7E63TNpnQnYwhR8J3kWY4AVEDO2CEe7aJebLChMU45nW4RBdIXnLa7YZTDuLB59VwZn8/s400/IMG156.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
--For the first time since I was six, I am sporting a disgusting, oozing stye in my left eye. Just kidding, it's not really oozing. But it IS kind of disgusting. Between this and my Tom's of Maine fail and my gangrenous mouth sores, and the fact that I am pretty sure I have worn these pants for a couple of days in a row, I.am.hawt. <br />
<br />
--Don't you want to come visit and give me a great big hug????<br />
<br />
Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-20108989306855284022012-08-20T18:50:00.001-04:002012-08-20T18:50:10.939-04:00Ramblings-My biggest baby is in the hospital. She's gonna be ok, but she's not ok. And that makes me sad.<br />
<br />
-My husband is a very tender daddy. Seeing him with my girls makes me love him more.<br />
<br />
-It's <i>totally humbling</i> to have someone do your laundry for you. It goes without saying that it's totally a blessing, too. <br />
<br />
-People truly want to help my family. It's truly hard for me to accept help.<br />
<br />
-My three year old is finally potty-trained. I am too tired to fully elaborate on how wonderful this is.<br />
<br />
-I am really, really, really tired.<br />
<br />
-Stacey Gagne is one of the most faithful, consistent, thoughtful friends I have ever had. As I was driving back to the hospital today, I was thinking over various life events in the last eight years... births, deaths, and all the barbecues in between, and I am hard pressed to think of too many that Stacey was not a part of. A true friend. I want to be like her when I grow up. And I want to kick her butt in the OBX 1/2 marathon. <br />
<br />
-I may have stress-eaten my way through <strike>two</strike> three pumpkin cream cheese cupcakes for lunch yesterday.<br />
<br />
-This will not help me kick Stacey's butt in the OBX 1/2 marathon.<br />
<br />
- Sometimes you just want your mom.<br />
<br />
-Evie likes to collect cicada shells. I keep startling myself when I come upon a pile of dead, crunchy bug shells in a corner. Not an infestation, just a collection.<br />
<br />
-Ruby Rae has mad talking skills. My favorites are "bummer!" and <strike>"shit!"</strike> Ahem, "sit". <i>I think.</i><br />
<br />
-Tim and Alyssa are some of the most faithful, consistent, thoughtful family members that I have ever had. I can't wait to meet their baby, and hopefully love him or her half as well as they have loved my girls. <br />
<br />
-Evie is moaning in her sleep beside me. As much as I would like to stay the night, only one parent is permitted overnight, and given the choice, Evie would always, always choose Chris. <br />
<br />
-This doesn't hurt my feelings.<br />
<br />
-I am really, really, really tired. Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-16744771540530411202012-08-13T09:34:00.000-04:002012-08-13T09:37:52.610-04:00Maybe a Makeover MondayIt's a semi-annual post around these parts, folks. The <strike>ignoring my kids so I can mod podge a map</strike><i> crafting</i> hasn't stopped. The blogging about it has. But Chris just got me a new MacBook (love him!) so now I can be in the same room with my kids and <strike>ignore them while I blog</strike> dash off a quick post or two. <br />
<br />
Just kidding. <br />
<br />
I don't really ignore my kids.<br />
<br />
<strike>Much.</strike><br />
<br />
My table used to look like this (can you see it past the gigantic headless prego?)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHyx-OZKNqjy4rWBzXbmvBnYww3DSH4edJj_sGhKroMfxBqx_AnAkFEwmmZRT8IuOnf7DqvjMWXbcaBMagzFPdQdTU5Zz-Zk59Bs3BBW8UySNCXqygCEnlvqVWtRB7eC6gtzf3dxczNZk/s1600/251056_10150196609463717_1357359_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHyx-OZKNqjy4rWBzXbmvBnYww3DSH4edJj_sGhKroMfxBqx_AnAkFEwmmZRT8IuOnf7DqvjMWXbcaBMagzFPdQdTU5Zz-Zk59Bs3BBW8UySNCXqygCEnlvqVWtRB7eC6gtzf3dxczNZk/s400/251056_10150196609463717_1357359_n.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Nothing wrong with it. If you're into ugly two tone wood and stuff. Which I clearly was in 2004 when I bought it. <br />
<br />
Then it looked like this:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAwuQjYne-abEE1jJfhSZXe6r84ufPKRNyyuC92c8Kqx8-5hQgSw5bfw9c9UfegYJJcg9yN7QlWQCg3Re0b0ieVha42ukOFjfkF2TTBO9SaVO6x95qQUUA8Q1bCuOMKHgoCyK924Cet_4/s1600/305115_10150292909723717_925106385_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAwuQjYne-abEE1jJfhSZXe6r84ufPKRNyyuC92c8Kqx8-5hQgSw5bfw9c9UfegYJJcg9yN7QlWQCg3Re0b0ieVha42ukOFjfkF2TTBO9SaVO6x95qQUUA8Q1bCuOMKHgoCyK924Cet_4/s400/305115_10150292909723717_925106385_n.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Chalkboard table and cool vintage school chairs. I told you I have a thing for <a href="http://soggymama.blogspot.com/search?q=fetish">school paraphernalia. </a><br />
<br />
I love these little chairs, despite the fact that they were made for skinny 16 year olds and not, um, post-3-babies-mamas. Regardless, we definitely did not split three of the seats down the middle. <i>Ahem.</i><br />
<br />
But then I saw these little guys on the side of the road.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhicI8n-iu9YARXKNhHZ5TWj5YvvA5o9cwYoYjMbOc1dFjvza0KPvGjGmY1-tKvaeU2lr9JlV5IEWSuDbF9xx5VQvZ3vqyUX5Jjsxl5nNzvfBrWfW0LoVMgQVWe7DuCXqZKwghUTyVaiPw/s1600/527323_10150991678913717_1647187362_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhicI8n-iu9YARXKNhHZ5TWj5YvvA5o9cwYoYjMbOc1dFjvza0KPvGjGmY1-tKvaeU2lr9JlV5IEWSuDbF9xx5VQvZ3vqyUX5Jjsxl5nNzvfBrWfW0LoVMgQVWe7DuCXqZKwghUTyVaiPw/s400/527323_10150991678913717_1647187362_n.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
More accurately, I saw them at a yard sale. I wasn't willing to spend $3 each, so I waited an hour and circled around after the yard sale was over. Sure enough, they were sitting on the curb with a free sign. I am like a Stealthy Ninja Trash-Picking Superhero like that. <br />
<br />
Possibly they may live in a homeschool room someday, but for now, they are living around my dining room table.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaK9wfzeF5-BxfOtvInEI5mcUC8MNsHdzgWaGx0okKcmznJ_G7Jolzfw94Ql-LcaUBsoIbQD1Dg9wQ3BPnxwZQnYyFYBMhMvGjfhAfngg8E_FpzmvRg8UWeFNE6sDS3r51qdbXEtM-tK4/s1600/IMG_2496.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaK9wfzeF5-BxfOtvInEI5mcUC8MNsHdzgWaGx0okKcmznJ_G7Jolzfw94Ql-LcaUBsoIbQD1Dg9wQ3BPnxwZQnYyFYBMhMvGjfhAfngg8E_FpzmvRg8UWeFNE6sDS3r51qdbXEtM-tK4/s400/IMG_2496.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Leftover paint and a few stenciled numbers = free.<br />
<br />
You know, just in case I ever need to count my chairs in a hurry. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgys4GQX3ty5Y6gLZnJm4hEED2c8nfPkEpm86UzfsZBcwDg0YS8sZQvDr7YSow-_jh6pTaYNK7QcjYiNk58oTuiHFcuLIwKtZ86mwnMrUeCZ49fY0qtoMffngRZmNPczCAR58oOfO9fBQk/s1600/IMG_2499.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgys4GQX3ty5Y6gLZnJm4hEED2c8nfPkEpm86UzfsZBcwDg0YS8sZQvDr7YSow-_jh6pTaYNK7QcjYiNk58oTuiHFcuLIwKtZ86mwnMrUeCZ49fY0qtoMffngRZmNPczCAR58oOfO9fBQk/s400/IMG_2499.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I totally get that bright red + stencils might not be your cup of tea. That's absolutely fine if you don't want to be <i>awesome.</i><br />
<br />
They're going to look even better when Chris makes me this farmhouse table for my 30th birthday:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEDeEUgjwnVkK2wmPWldysHrEj0UKMP8u0cblMetdKzrEw2vD7_8S7QrPhiF7CcVaZjyYzMQeSh-aSqhe033agKAmxZrMHCEUPwMSN0n3LYdXF0tv6B9T9l6olozmxO5S__O5R8HJSKpY/s1600/3377768441023029_G0fRwyD3_f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEDeEUgjwnVkK2wmPWldysHrEj0UKMP8u0cblMetdKzrEw2vD7_8S7QrPhiF7CcVaZjyYzMQeSh-aSqhe033agKAmxZrMHCEUPwMSN0n3LYdXF0tv6B9T9l6olozmxO5S__O5R8HJSKpY/s400/3377768441023029_G0fRwyD3_f.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Oh, hey, Chris? Will you make me this farmhouse table for my 30th birthday?<br />
<br />
These chairs are heavy, solid wood. <br />
<br />
So if my ass cracks one of these bad boys, we are in biiiig trouble.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-46300943433027148292012-08-03T14:17:00.000-04:002012-08-03T14:40:52.253-04:00Do not despise the seasonThis past week, a dear friend, her husband, and her sweet little boy came to spend the night with us. I have always felt a special kinship with Kristi; I so value the ability to laugh at oneself, and Kristi is kind and thoughtful and funny, and she is very careful to not take herself too seriously. <br />
<br />
Kristi is passionate about a natural lifestyle; we were a stop on the way to their final destination, so she temporarily unloaded all her organic morsels from her cooler into my fridge for the night. She had thought of everything-- organic milk for her son, organic coffee creamer (hopefully not for her son, or I am totally judging her), organic kiwis (Evie ate 3), some kumbucha tea and homemade sprouted grain bread. I am not sure about the last two, but you know... probably.<br />
<br />
She is an <i>extremely</i> gracious person, so be assured when you read this next part: I was TOTALLY putting this on myself, not her.<br />
<br />
As she placed her groceries beside mine, I began to feel self-conscious and squirmy. I used to be somewhat passionate about natural food; I still definitely see the value in it, and try to feed my family relatively healthfully and purposefully. But budget and time and lack of energy intercepted my best intentions somewhere between kid #1 and kid #3. And as she nestled her hormone-free milk beside my cans of Diet Dr. Pepper, as she described her tv-free toddler, I started to feel guilty. <br />
<br />
Because, you know...<br />
<br />
My kids had watched Sid the Science Kid that morning practically until their eyes got red and pus-y.<br />
<br />
I had an important meeting with someone a few nights ago, and my husband was working... so I totally told my kids that if they played nice in the other room and let me finish my meeting without interruption, we would take a bike ride to the local Turkey Hill and they could get a small cup of <strike>red dye #5</strike> Cherry slushie.<br />
<br />
And of course, it's not just TV and nutrition:<br />
<br />
I see other <strike>stupid, annoying</strike> moms post pictures on pinterest of their alphabetized DVD collection (oh, wait, they don't watch TV), or their color-coordinated dry erase memo board that plans their meals for the next 37 months (and they only spent $1.73 on all those groceries because they COUPON!), or their list of 674 FUN, EDUCATIONAL, TV-FREE THINGS TO DO WITH YOUR KIDS THIS SUMMER... and I just want to cry. I am trying to get dinner on the table for <i>tonight</i>. Sure I would coupon, IF I COULD FIND WHERE I PUT THE EFFIN' SUNDAY CIRCULAR. <br />
<br />
And we see all this amazing (good!) stuff, and we think--"This is what I have to do! This is what I have to be!!"<br />
<br />
But here's the thing. I am just not in that season right now. <br />
<br />
I remember a conversation I had with a friend several years ago. We were discussing another friend, one who buys raw milk from a local farm and uses the cream to churn her own butter. Self-contempt crept into my voice as I said, "Wow. I really need to be like that." <br />
<br />
I will never forget what my friend said, "Melody... there's a difference between practice and principle. The Biblical principle is that you are to care for your family and your home. That is going to look different for everyone; everyone will have different practices to make that principle come to fruition in their lives. You have to decide what serves your family best." For one friend, serving her family best means churning butter. Another's family is best served by picking it up at the market: the end result is the same. Neither is more or less.<br />
<br />
But oh, I can be so discontent in the here-and-now. I want my kids to be more self-sufficient, I want our home to be more orderly, I want life to be less chaotic and loud.<br />
<br />
But that's not the season I am in. <br />
<br />
God made me wife to Chris. He chose ME, with all my manic insecurities and sloppiness-- to be Mama to Evie, Cana, and Ruby. <br />
<br />
He did this in His perfect wisdom.<br />
<br />
He knew that they would be close in age, and in His kindness, He promised that He would equip me with sufficient grace for today.<br />
<br />
AndohasmuchasIhateitsometimes, this is the season I am in. The season of Target brand non-organic milk and socks under couch cushions and playdoh ground into the carpet of the minivan (how did <i>that</i> happen?!).<br />
<br />
God put me in this beautiful, terrifying, maddening, amazing season because it is the very best thing for my soul. He's teaching me to be like Him--one board book, one band-aid application, one wiped nose at a time.<br />
<br />
Help me to roll with it, God. Help me to delight in it, God. In the spilled milk and the overdue library books and the piles of laundry. Help me to delight in it.<br />
<br />
Help me to not despise this season.Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-20695625363198211762012-07-30T09:43:00.002-04:002012-07-30T09:43:18.591-04:00PromisesThis week, we received the stunning news that our dear friends had lost their son/grandson to suicide. <br />
<br />
He was 12.<br />
<br />
My brain shut off; it was too much to comprehend. Even now, a few days out, I keep remembering this sweet boy and thinking, "Surely not, Lord. Surely not."<br />
<br />
Chris went up to be with our friends for a bit. I stayed home with the girls and struggled to come up with words to put in a card.<br />
<br />
We Christians are full our our trite little tidbits, aren't we? <br />
<br />
"He's in a better place now. He's not hurting anymore."<br />
<br />
"He's an angel now..."<br />
<br />
"We'll all be reunited one day."<br />
<br />
"God works in mysterious ways."<br />
<br />
Etc. Etc. Ad nauseum.<br />
<br />
I am not begrudging Christians their religious trifles. Because really... what do you say? "Sorry about your kid. Here's some ziti; it freezes well"??<br />
<br />
This situation 150% sucks. There is nothing that I can do or say, no amount of sympathy or ziti that will change the fact that this 150% sucks.<br />
<br />
I was not close to this small man, but I still find my faith shaken, my mind whirring with thoughts about the sovereignty of God. About the kindness of God. About heaven. About the fall of man and the curse of death. <br />
<br />
And here's what I have come up with:<br />
<br />
Nothing.<br />
<br />
I don't know why God allows tragedies like this to happen. I don't know how He will redeem this to glorify Himself. I don't know how a family can begin to move ahead after something like this. I don't know about free will and predestination and lights at the end of tunnels. <br />
<br />
Here's what I do know to be true:<br />
<br />
We are not forsaken. (Deut. 31v6)<br />
We are not forgotten. (Isa. 49v15)<br />
We are helped. (Isa. 41v10)<br />
We are heard. (Psalms 86v7)<br />
God is near. (Deut. 4v7)<br />
<br />
For right now, I cling to this... as I cry out for mercy for this family.<br />
For right now, I trust the one who stores our tears in a bottle.<br />
For right now, it's enough. It's gonna have to be.Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-3238932311227582152012-07-24T15:34:00.000-04:002012-07-24T15:47:31.481-04:00Rosey's Ice CreamSo for those of you who have been to to our house, you know that it has had many incarnations over the years. From repair shop, to screen printing business, and most recently, to <a href="http://soggymama.blogspot.com/search?q=crack+house">crack house</a>. But before all those various tenants had paraded their way through my little home, it was Rosey's Ice Cream, a small factory owned by the Rosenberg family. Originally, it was a home delivery service started in the 1920's, satisfying Lititz homeowners with their delicious concoctions conveniently dropped at their front doors (add home delivery diet coke, and this is my idea of heaven). Later, it became the Scoop Shop, and kids would run over after school and choose their favorite selection from the wooden sign on the wall. <br />
<br />
Chris and I are both enchanted by this story. <strike>Mostly because we are obsessed with ice cream.</strike> Little Girl #3 was almost named Rosey, and I think Chris still regrets that she wasn't. Next time, babe. (Ha.) I love homes with history; it's fun to imagine what life was like for the various people who lived and worked and scooped cherry vanilla in our home. Since we bought the place two years ago, we have casually been searching for "Rosey's" memorabilia. We have even met some of the Rosenberg family, who kindly shared copies of some of their collection with us.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh8Tmt9Shbpl5fjMwe0XCdwmUNGpjrF6ZO0tPSJX9JccQUPsa8ykSoeFnjmojidHQQtO0cWmyzNNVqXRB2TRBl9UoXgPBIlOvKHQFni4Y8T9R0ilta8tCWRKAIo250tMHyY_L5DoebOv4/s1600/calendar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh8Tmt9Shbpl5fjMwe0XCdwmUNGpjrF6ZO0tPSJX9JccQUPsa8ykSoeFnjmojidHQQtO0cWmyzNNVqXRB2TRBl9UoXgPBIlOvKHQFni4Y8T9R0ilta8tCWRKAIo250tMHyY_L5DoebOv4/s400/calendar.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I found this ad from 1951 online:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL7pRriEAf8nSDlJzohmgIiReItgxGqUJ-TnHqcVV1c3oxnr59fvlRmkPSTKGZjBRUUlySwjW-BcuvjncE5XxrpYeVjshTr2grg_NbDQjT1krQcRkyg3xpmU15bQ4_WC2UeqRxYlH0lrE/s1600/ad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL7pRriEAf8nSDlJzohmgIiReItgxGqUJ-TnHqcVV1c3oxnr59fvlRmkPSTKGZjBRUUlySwjW-BcuvjncE5XxrpYeVjshTr2grg_NbDQjT1krQcRkyg3xpmU15bQ4_WC2UeqRxYlH0lrE/s400/ad.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
We didn't want to go overboard or anything and install 5 gallon buckets into our kitchen counters (or maybe we did), but a healthy dose of kitsch never hurt anybody. So since the Rosenbergs didn't want to part with their original Rosey's signs, I felt like I had to make a little cheater until I could sweet talk them into changing their minds. <br />
<br />
It was always on the back burner, and I even added it to my "Summer Projects" memo board in my cloffice (closet+office).<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZg3A3PqQ6HlTdaTJPQMZ1k8L2e8NoOxi0BQMTtngCxVUAz6gw2gGE9wG00WXo4K3JVmyjAN9ErdSEjvpT1q_bC0CdTythuXSsNljgx_rmSp5J3OoLNgT0yt0-eo5mufwZKZhRfh8-EZI/s1600/list.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZg3A3PqQ6HlTdaTJPQMZ1k8L2e8NoOxi0BQMTtngCxVUAz6gw2gGE9wG00WXo4K3JVmyjAN9ErdSEjvpT1q_bC0CdTythuXSsNljgx_rmSp5J3OoLNgT0yt0-eo5mufwZKZhRfh8-EZI/s400/list.JPG" /></a></div><br />
See that-- "train for 1/2"? I start officially training for the OBX 1/2 marathon <i>next week</i>. The thought both nauseates and exhilarates me. Mostly nauseates, if I am gonna be honest.<br />
<br />
So I killed a couple of projects with one proverbial stone, and made my wee little Rosey's sign, and a few yarn ball book page thingamabobs. My house is where old books come to die. For reals.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAn7NdLihyphenhyphenenJO5jgYCmmtGfKjSHWEAEZk9_n9GJU-HdXEw4BHBAHJcCbz755uHlhcdA9arQe-EjTNC8BAtrYlMqh2VTYtWM7QlbsPlR0fv0v_EIV2enzCUqYbWKZNKRVoyleJZPhkW7E/s1600/roseys+front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAn7NdLihyphenhyphenenJO5jgYCmmtGfKjSHWEAEZk9_n9GJU-HdXEw4BHBAHJcCbz755uHlhcdA9arQe-EjTNC8BAtrYlMqh2VTYtWM7QlbsPlR0fv0v_EIV2enzCUqYbWKZNKRVoyleJZPhkW7E/s400/roseys+front.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVRcwjIZs5OG_ztGDm6AYLiIds602gdQMbS-EfqS6pwS7LvPxMbqw1bqNPdRmtmgGNr8CMg5silQScrT1ERN1ocve4SMlp8rYwTIjxIbaVAya3vQTs6ftlTCxMY7nPtVrwQbZp2FikKY/s1600/roseys+side.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVRcwjIZs5OG_ztGDm6AYLiIds602gdQMbS-EfqS6pwS7LvPxMbqw1bqNPdRmtmgGNr8CMg5silQScrT1ERN1ocve4SMlp8rYwTIjxIbaVAya3vQTs6ftlTCxMY7nPtVrwQbZp2FikKY/s400/roseys+side.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
It'll do until <strike>I pry the real one out of the Rosenberg's cold, dead hands</strike> I get the real one. <br />
<br />Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-27245331036962037502012-07-22T14:47:00.000-04:002012-07-22T14:50:01.163-04:00And then I had kids...Pre-kid Sundays live in a place of charmed, idyllic memories for me. Chris and I would wake up on our own, snuggle in bed, maybe fall back asleep for awhile. I would make breakfast and then shower-- actually shower!-- and dress in moderately stylish clothes that (gasp!) actually fit me! Though our church at the time was 45 minutes away, we often still had time (and money) to swing through Starbucks and pick up a tall nonfat vanilla latte. We would casually stroll into church with 15 minutes to spare. We'd chat with friends, scope out the best seat, and settle in for the service. Afterwards, we'd often go out to lunch and then home to--ah! Nap!! I am getting teary-eyed just thinking about it.<br />
<br />
And then I had kids.<br />
<br />
This morning, Chris had to work. I was up around 7:30 or so... still plenty of time to get our little girls ready for the 10:30 service. I defrosted some strawberries that I had frozen from our garden earlier in the summer, threw them on top of some waffles, and prepared for a casual, relaxing beginning to our Sunday.<br />
<br />
That's when the sh@# hit the fan. Well, not actually the fan. But there was actual sh@# involved, as Little Girl #2 announced that she had just crapped in her panties. (Feel free to judge me for the fact that my three year old still craps her pants.) Have you ever changed panties full of preschooler crap? Exponentially worse than the garden variety of baby crap in a diaper, its disgustingness compounded by the fact that there is no velcro or snaps to undo, and preschooler must step out of said crap-panties. I've probably said enough about this, but you can go ahead and assume the worst and, suffice it to say, there was a bath involved. A bath that wasn't planned for and wasn't a part of my casual, relaxing Sunday.<br />
<br />
Out of the bath and we are doing hair. Little Girl #3 is still in her high chair and is now throwing bits of defrosted, smashed up strawberries into the rug and laughing. I corral a kid closer and admonish LG#3 to stop throwing her berries. LG#2 has something in her hair. Toothpaste? I can't venture a guess, but it's going to have to stay there for now. <br />
<br />
I get the girls dressed with little mishap, except that I can't find any of LG#2's dresses. I put one of LG#1's dresses on her, but it's three sizes too big and drags on the floor. I briefly contemplate letting her wear it anyway, but eventually change her into a pair of sparkly capris and decide that it's gonna have to be godly enough. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, LG#1 is corralling shoes. Let me stop here for a moment to mention that-- among the girls, they probably own 344 pairs of shoes. Literally, 344 pairs. And.I.cannot.find.a.single.matching.pair. Zero. I frantically dig through piles. Nothing. I look through bins in closets. Where are the other shoes? Do my children eat them? Are they using them for nesting boxes for our chickens? I may never know. Eventually, I come up with 2 pairs for LGs#1&2, and decide that LG#3 is still sort of a baby, so she doesn't really need shoes. (I pause now to thank God that it isn't winter.)<br />
<br />
I send LG#1&2 out to the playhouse where they amuse themselves by going down the slide on top of a boogie board. I have seven minutes until I have to be out the door, and I am not dressed. I dig through my closet and the pile of clean laundry that has been sitting in a basket on the floor of my bedroom for three weeks. Where are all my clothes? And when did I lose the ability to put together some sort of stylish-ish outfit? I find a skirt with an elastic waist (cause goodness knows I am not fitting into my pre-kid denim), throw on some flip flops, <strike>douse </strike> mist myself with Bath and Body Works Sweet Pea that I bought in 2002 (cause of course I haven't SHOWERED) and pronounce myself Good Enough. Out the door and I realize that both LGs #1&2 have removed their shoes. LG#2 can't find hers. We should have left 6 minutes ago. I locate the shoes, put them back on their wayward feet, and strap my LGs into their respective carseats, but not before I pick up a pile of change off of the pavement that was earmarked for children's church donations.<br />
<br />
I crank up the air conditioning in the car because I am sweating at this point. I can't remember if I wore deodorant on or not. We are about 1/4 of a mile away from the house when I hear a rattle and a bang. And of course, it is the boogie board falling off the roof racks of my minivan. Because somehow my kids managed to get a boogie board on top of my van without me noticing. I would curse under my breath at this point, but it's Sunday and I don't do that on Sundays. "Sorry, girls. We are just going to have to look for it later." Many loud shrieks, crying, and gnashing of teeth ensues. I decide I'd rather be late to church than listen to this nonsense for the 10 more minutes it will take to get to church. I turn the van around, and the boogie board is nowhere to be seen. I have a terrifying vision of it flying off the car and impaling some poor bicyclist, but push it from my mind, try to console my kids, and head back toward church. It is 10:23.<br />
<br />
I pull into a spot at church, and gather our bags. A bag for LG#3, a just-in-case bag for LG#2, and my purse. I can't get out of the car because I am minivan-parking-disabled and I have parked too close to the car beside me. I finally corral all my kids, and head inside. The greeters have abandoned their posts; they can't be bothered with tardy riffraff the likes of me. LG#3 Screams Bloody Murder and claws at my chest as I try to drop her off at nursery. The nursery worker frowns disapprovingly and hands me a child pager. I drop off LG #1, and am almost to LG #2's class when she announces that she has to go potty. I turn around and head back down the hall to the bathroom and wait <strike>patiently</strike> while she pees, (byherselfthankyouverymuch) washes her hands and wrangles her slightly ungodly sparkly capris on. I look in the mirror and notice that I have toothpaste all over my shirt.<br />
<br />
I finally drop off LG #2, and sprint to the service (I most definitely am NOT wearing deodorant), just in time for the last 1/2 of the last worship song. I drop in my offering check (just so the Powers that Be know that <i>I actually was here</i>) and sit down to open to Daniel 2 just as my child pager starts to vibrate and light up like a Christmas tree. <br />
<br />
Sigh. At least there's (usually) still naps on Sundays.Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-53976010415987090832012-02-18T14:41:00.000-05:002012-02-18T14:41:38.176-05:00Fragrance of ChristThe power of scent is amazing to me.<br />
<br />
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 (<i>awesome.sauce</i>) 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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
It's Dream by the Gap. I am eighteen and achingly homesick at Fire School in Pensacola. I am wearing a lavender sweater. Remember?<br />
<br />
It's Bounce fabric softener. I am chasing foxes on the moonlit beach with my friend Cameron. Remember?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I was three and roasting marshmallows on my mom's knee.<br />
<br />
I was thirteen and had just met my future husband (but didn't know it yet).<br />
<br />
I was sixteen, singing Indigo Girls songs while my sister played her guitar.<br />
<br />
I was nineteen and had just smoked my first joint and lost my virginity in K-field.<br />
<br />
(I'm kidding about that last part. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention.)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
As I pondered this, I was reminded of the Scripture about the fragrance of Christ:<br />
<br />
"...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)<br />
<br />
<i>... through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him...</i><br />
<br />
How beautiful. How terrifying. <br />
<br />
I can see why society is largely disdainful of Christians and their Savior.<br />
<br />
We stink of bigotry, self-righteousness, exclusion.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Remember?Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-60922748575103335812012-02-06T14:44:00.001-05:002012-02-06T14:44:03.567-05:00Kid FunnyAlternate title: Why We Might All Be Going to Hell<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
As we're rifling through the endless assortment of lady apparel, Evie pulls out a black, lacy, uber-padded bra. <br />
<br />
"Hey, Mom! Look!!!! It's a MENNONITE BRA!!!!"<br />
<br />
You know. Cause it was lacy and black, like their head coverings. <br />
<br />
God bless those Mennonites. They are (apparently) into some kinky stuff underneath that modest denim. ;)Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-60380315709009232252012-02-02T08:12:00.000-05:002012-02-02T08:12:00.642-05:00Getting itThis 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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>I</i> left the season without gaining any Biblical truths, or any spiritual renewal. We didn't <i>get it</i>.<br />
<br />
But God is merciful, and He showed me a glimpse of His kindness the other day.<br />
<br />
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.)<br />
<br />
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 <strike>throw them</strike> <strike>out</strike> recycle them eventually.) One must have slipped out of the <strike>trash pile</strike> recycling bin and wound up in some dark corner of the house which never sees a broom.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
"Jesus," she prayed, "please keep them safe. Oh, Lord, please help them to love You more! Be close to them, Jesus."<br />
<br />
What a tender mercy for me to hear this!! <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Jesus, I cast my children on You.<br />
<br />
I cast myself on You, failures and cross words and impatience- You know them all.<br />
<br />
Help us to <i>get it</i>.<br />Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-45858448459612411492012-01-30T22:26:00.000-05:002012-01-30T22:26:52.032-05:00Makeover Midnight MondayI 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.<br />
<br />
But my sister <a href="www.mangine.org">Gwenn</a> 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, <i>she doesn't really care about how Hobby Lobby is having a special on Mod Podge.</i> But she was sweet enough to ask, and for that alone: Gwenn, this one's for you. <br />
<br />
A couple of summers ago, an Amish family had a gigantic yard sale in their barn. They had all sorts of amazing <strike>crap</strike> <i>vintage treasures</i> for <b>cheap</b>. 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.<br />
<br />
I found this for fifty cents:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT_3cbICm6iiMCJ_RTUnd3pi3k2yOPUPQhRaQJ1FDZnjoyxWChLTmYNmj8AV_YHLTic-04ymY1HkpGvN1SXfRGTWGiHeSXl1hRwEWA3GNMuCYUSQTfxqlxYXb3u8pn6-J9OCxJlbvswmQ/s1600/IMG_1506.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT_3cbICm6iiMCJ_RTUnd3pi3k2yOPUPQhRaQJ1FDZnjoyxWChLTmYNmj8AV_YHLTic-04ymY1HkpGvN1SXfRGTWGiHeSXl1hRwEWA3GNMuCYUSQTfxqlxYXb3u8pn6-J9OCxJlbvswmQ/s400/IMG_1506.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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.)<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
So I took her apart.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchQR8qam3qZa1CmcwtOWWeSbxvS6he1dNoEn5n9Pgytti-yjdMZnlaZLLela26iSYn1I6LDZvjxRMo2_zyE1ybPSuJSTLXwJdKhbdHPS8QJ_oKC53e8Z5ZRN04u-NDPeuTqOP8EHPblo/s1600/IMG_1510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchQR8qam3qZa1CmcwtOWWeSbxvS6he1dNoEn5n9Pgytti-yjdMZnlaZLLela26iSYn1I6LDZvjxRMo2_zyE1ybPSuJSTLXwJdKhbdHPS8QJ_oKC53e8Z5ZRN04u-NDPeuTqOP8EHPblo/s400/IMG_1510.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
That, folks, is 50 years worth of smashed up bananas and toddler goop. Blech.<br />
<br />
I covered up her lady-parts:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4B-6AnW_mC6kOMpq8ShZp3N8oYJTLoPqKWciY7Xg76tXURhdrRU8qvGIIFhgc77Ga129IGAVosW4Zs_U0-EghYV4nQEAP-kjyJITCifngnijFtl9TewW_AKIpypXNL8a1mJ3MjxsYOc/s1600/IMG_1511.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4B-6AnW_mC6kOMpq8ShZp3N8oYJTLoPqKWciY7Xg76tXURhdrRU8qvGIIFhgc77Ga129IGAVosW4Zs_U0-EghYV4nQEAP-kjyJITCifngnijFtl9TewW_AKIpypXNL8a1mJ3MjxsYOc/s400/IMG_1511.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
What does that even mean? I am not sure why I just typed that.<br />
<br />
And sprayed her down.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Voila!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMd46D-pRKXInAsyGbuX37VMH_Ow2mJbuwK-soEYGmFFNsdSTjeSbYOhcL61zbF9fk9C8qJ4qs6L0PtSVI45w6Vbhb8rgix-OFm8iG0sh5jgh5rT_gTMRelrNcogMsVFGIU-JZOFIGOFM/s1600/IMG_1512.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMd46D-pRKXInAsyGbuX37VMH_Ow2mJbuwK-soEYGmFFNsdSTjeSbYOhcL61zbF9fk9C8qJ4qs6L0PtSVI45w6Vbhb8rgix-OFm8iG0sh5jgh5rT_gTMRelrNcogMsVFGIU-JZOFIGOFM/s400/IMG_1512.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Is it bad that I still let Cana sit in it? <br />
<br />
Poor middle child.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-206634183586713392.post-54665212939739496442011-12-25T23:17:00.000-05:002011-12-26T08:42:11.515-05:00Makeover Monday: nursery before and afterI 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 <i>(what part of me thought that was a good idea?!</i>), 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. <i>Really.</i><br />
<br />
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.)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhMEIZsuNLicr_eHDAVBtgY4oHjEMJuIJaiAXsrdj_EQuZt0jbbyax-pE2VyfGEPCQ7QFkGoEACoU0g3fIMf-qdUnv5LrQ0SkwPs_mw0fGCLecIGrzpgEbtAIlpkjlvubKCIBvBubHqE/s1600/yuck+carpet.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhMEIZsuNLicr_eHDAVBtgY4oHjEMJuIJaiAXsrdj_EQuZt0jbbyax-pE2VyfGEPCQ7QFkGoEACoU0g3fIMf-qdUnv5LrQ0SkwPs_mw0fGCLecIGrzpgEbtAIlpkjlvubKCIBvBubHqE/s400/yuck+carpet.JPG" /></a></div><br />
While it wasn't cosmetically the worst part of the house, it did need some work to waterproof it and repair the water damage. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNopXqt5lOcA27vkZRFoFaKNBh7Ix1z2U6VKF42UxQ5BET8BqYaYOOSJTF3_AMmtCj5aR7Jwx9E3ukIs18-73JyqS9qZ3GsyE4nUjqMFQ9oBsCRPzneCcke_-KMeY4L8PfHF6HsU-j3WU/s1600/IMG_0621.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNopXqt5lOcA27vkZRFoFaKNBh7Ix1z2U6VKF42UxQ5BET8BqYaYOOSJTF3_AMmtCj5aR7Jwx9E3ukIs18-73JyqS9qZ3GsyE4nUjqMFQ9oBsCRPzneCcke_-KMeY4L8PfHF6HsU-j3WU/s400/IMG_0621.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVf9sd7LkKrnoDhGQJssuiafxe-Ry3x1cngT5EJtIMDcz7ZB7aTAZs9E5cwMGKR2cmZo-p6zo8kDXWhOFre7tc6Za7V5d9QMt2kWoLnQtm0Zgq4gbLRjgDyMz2sNOCn2oGbItTwLjt8Xk/s1600/IMG_0622.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVf9sd7LkKrnoDhGQJssuiafxe-Ry3x1cngT5EJtIMDcz7ZB7aTAZs9E5cwMGKR2cmZo-p6zo8kDXWhOFre7tc6Za7V5d9QMt2kWoLnQtm0Zgq4gbLRjgDyMz2sNOCn2oGbItTwLjt8Xk/s400/IMG_0622.JPG" /></a></div><br />
We painted, and replaced the ceiling tiles and carpet. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNm9xywWCG1xhyHQtIdsz4sFuw0ajEq1FBjCiz8ESkcp1D-u1FL2Comc-Jn3etPXN2BbUBbV5tP2_F7oDIsgUISJ81snIV_q6S_KXDSdU5X8VjLo4_Yk3tV3OBobRru3DGLN4qb4Nxi0/s1600/nursery+progress.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNm9xywWCG1xhyHQtIdsz4sFuw0ajEq1FBjCiz8ESkcp1D-u1FL2Comc-Jn3etPXN2BbUBbV5tP2_F7oDIsgUISJ81snIV_q6S_KXDSdU5X8VjLo4_Yk3tV3OBobRru3DGLN4qb4Nxi0/s400/nursery+progress.JPG" /></a></div><br />
It's an itty-bitty room, so it's hard to photograph...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT-MB052r265EkwoljDdR7fofxvWY0SNIHdlayAVv3OUbitZ6g2dXQx2_bNHQbcW4_ghX02QUJou0h7qdalXhSi5B3Fe9YwTQHV_5eJ5VRO7NwZK5EG3IQRIxHY4DMkIJXeefqu-enhyphenhyphenM/s1600/nursery+after+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT-MB052r265EkwoljDdR7fofxvWY0SNIHdlayAVv3OUbitZ6g2dXQx2_bNHQbcW4_ghX02QUJou0h7qdalXhSi5B3Fe9YwTQHV_5eJ5VRO7NwZK5EG3IQRIxHY4DMkIJXeefqu-enhyphenhyphenM/s400/nursery+after+1.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzzFCXJfkMqR1HWhvqjxjZOZuLx7FUMigcJ7DFPqJGKki-05lzijk73P0XD5LvC4LzwrPtYwImaXDNcmo2YBP-CiPt35tlYi6xSVA5vWkOjsw7TDqlcMD922j3NyufRGggpzgHTbBWCJw/s1600/nursery+after+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzzFCXJfkMqR1HWhvqjxjZOZuLx7FUMigcJ7DFPqJGKki-05lzijk73P0XD5LvC4LzwrPtYwImaXDNcmo2YBP-CiPt35tlYi6xSVA5vWkOjsw7TDqlcMD922j3NyufRGggpzgHTbBWCJw/s400/nursery+after+2.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55JiHAMfB-R9S75naWwZ85-73SbM0MdKjw65fXRd6WhCFnbvaQ8PI0maotFfbcVUqktdr-lIbRq8oY-Aiv5WbLM-X-j-WhqPRM5QTx44lv1OkbeTH_aGNnnQKTr0IMsQU5Oknn8aDBS4/s1600/nursery+after+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55JiHAMfB-R9S75naWwZ85-73SbM0MdKjw65fXRd6WhCFnbvaQ8PI0maotFfbcVUqktdr-lIbRq8oY-Aiv5WbLM-X-j-WhqPRM5QTx44lv1OkbeTH_aGNnnQKTr0IMsQU5Oknn8aDBS4/s400/nursery+after+3.JPG" /></a></div><br />
but I think it's sweet and cute. For a sweet and cute little baby. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS8hf1HpKYzp8mCnthb3fHBh6koRp6uqm6E6A0U02Gnd2mHv3GzwSXcMRMcaH-7T8RL9WOPPqdTn-BRNRVbscmBS3mkbVdhJXEnQgc-Ms84j3re6d-oJNJzo4VPigPsxbbUnG8EqLy930/s1600/nursery+rocker.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS8hf1HpKYzp8mCnthb3fHBh6koRp6uqm6E6A0U02Gnd2mHv3GzwSXcMRMcaH-7T8RL9WOPPqdTn-BRNRVbscmBS3mkbVdhJXEnQgc-Ms84j3re6d-oJNJzo4VPigPsxbbUnG8EqLy930/s400/nursery+rocker.JPG" /></a></div>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.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu5JhbsqhGggHCCuuTmPCB3GgdBXEFz-S-koEo4uIJEkn2Gh3whDHKFyw-VO1JDp50SmMd9bBT_Vahx2r8sqHIt1tDTtIkjs5ewzlk0sWR8RkQVztlrRpEmTK8b9YnjnEFbMAgPb6dAAU/s1600/IMG_2239.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu5JhbsqhGggHCCuuTmPCB3GgdBXEFz-S-koEo4uIJEkn2Gh3whDHKFyw-VO1JDp50SmMd9bBT_Vahx2r8sqHIt1tDTtIkjs5ewzlk0sWR8RkQVztlrRpEmTK8b9YnjnEFbMAgPb6dAAU/s400/IMG_2239.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJtxe6PYT1dlNxSd-anZcO24ET0uI3BP5PsGPAssLhE_fLzIgY7qWWs7ON7SR92xeB2yORk9wwBlD91VXrRehbyr89PEGuE6F-_HW4FT0xOC-ZZqxdUi4hwUUpb6UIZguZxIwcDmi_0a8/s1600/IMG_2240.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJtxe6PYT1dlNxSd-anZcO24ET0uI3BP5PsGPAssLhE_fLzIgY7qWWs7ON7SR92xeB2yORk9wwBlD91VXrRehbyr89PEGuE6F-_HW4FT0xOC-ZZqxdUi4hwUUpb6UIZguZxIwcDmi_0a8/s400/IMG_2240.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
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?Melody Strayerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00942098306539357507noreply@blogger.com3