The Hair Confessional

~ Emily ~ 6 Comments

Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be a priest, sitting behind that grate, hearing people expose the darkness inside their souls? Well, you’re about to find out because this post is as good as me stepping behind that curtain and confessing a rather embarrassing sin. (Can you tell I’ve never actually participated in a legit confessional session?)

I’ve always had a thing about my hair. A thing I now know is pride. Aside from a misstep in seventh grade that involved uneven bangs and short layers, I’ve always had long locks. And those locks have always been a light shade of yellow.

I grew up in Southern California, where the seemingly endless Summer helped me retain my natural blonde, with a smattering of sun bleached highlights. The two things most people noted about my appearance were my height and my hair. Over the years I began to link my hair with any good vibes I felt about my physical features. In a sea of girls with blonde from a box, I also loved that my golden hue was natural.

Life post high school found me in the Midwest, where four distinct seasons meant less sun exposure and a slowly darkening mane. I still had summers in SoCal to help maintain my blonde, but it had made a distinct turn for towards the dark side. Those days were my first indication I may have put too much stock in my long, blonde locks.

As the years went by, and my geographical location changed from England to Missouri, California to Idaho, my hair has continued to change too. There were brief periods of time when I thought I could hang on to the sun bleached blonde of my youth, but our move to Idaho solidified my current honey hue.

In isolation, I don’t mind the color of my hair, but in comparison, I long for the straw instead of wheat. Tim has heard me bemoan my darkened strands more times that I’d like to admit. Multiple hairdressers have volunteered to add some highlights but I’ve always resisted the artificial solution.

Until last Friday. I got my hair colored for the first time.

The Hair Confessional

It’s been four days and I’m still not completely sold on the result, but I’m glad I did it. Why? Because the decision and process of highlighting my hair (which I realize is almost second nature to some folks, who are probably reading this thinking I’m a weirdo…) has shown a bright light into a dusty place in my heart that needs some cleaning.

Some observations:

  • I had let my hair become a source of pride. Part of the reason I resisted dying my hair was my inability to say I was a natural blonde – something I had previously worn like a badge of honor.
  • I had let my hair become part of my identity. Sure, hair color is listed on your driver’s license, but it doesn’t define your worth. I had attributed personal value to my hair color and, by association, where I grew up. I love Southern California and my hair had always been a reminder to me and others that I came from the Golden State. But my worth is not dependent on my hair or my hometown. I need to always remember that my identity is in Christ.
  • I had let my hair dictate my approval rating. This process was just further evidence that I care too much about what others think. Track with me here… I was always afraid that if I got compliments about my highlighted hair it would mean those people liked it better the that way which would mean they liked me better or thought I was prettier in an unnatural state. I didn’t want anyone’s approval to be based on something that wasn’t intrinsic to me. Convoluted, I know. And, even if they did, it shouldn’t matter. Again, my identity and value come from Christ, not my hair or getting other people’s approval.

“‘Go!’ God tells us. “Your heart has been untangled from the false distortions of love. You are no longer tied down by fears of rejection or disapproval or popular opinion. If you forget how much I love you, which you probably will, do not lose heart. Turn back to Me, and I will send you out again with a command: Love your neighbors as yourselves.”

Jennifer Dukes Lee in Love Idol

I don’t want to be tied down by a fear of rejection or disapproval or popular opinion. If highlighting my hair taught me anything, it taught me this: I don’t want a small thing like blonde hair to get in the way of experiencing the true love and acceptance of my Savior.

To learn more about “letting go of your need for approval and seeing yourself through God’s eyes,” pop over to Kindred Grace and read my full review of Love Idol by Jennifer Dukes Lee. (There’s only two more days to enter the giveaway for your chance to win one of three copies of Love Idol!)

Rolling Pins and Learning Curves

~ Emily ~ 6 Comments

Rolling Pins and Learning Curves

There is comfort in mastery. I love when something becomes familiar and easy, like I’ve been doing it all my life – when you can finally say, “I’ve got this. I don’t need any help.”

Using a rolling pin was one of those tasks I was pleased to master. I spent many hours in the kitchen with my mom growing up and I always (and still do) admired her skill with that wooden cylinder. It was like an extension of her arm as she smoothed out pie dough, creating a perfect round.

Our rolling pin was of the short, sturdy variety. It had two curvy handles connected by a metal rod running through middle of the base. It actually was a rolling pin. While your hands remained static on the handles, the base rolled this way and that around the metal rod. I learned to push the edges with my thumbs while holding it hovering over flour to make the surface non-stick. I learned to start from the middle and gently arch outward to create an even thickness. I learned reposition my body as well as the pin when rolling so the dough spread from every angle.

That rolling pin has been my standard for rolling pins ever since because that’s the one I learned on. It’s the one I mastered and feel comfortable handling. But, it’s my mom’s rolling pin, so when I got married and moved out, I no longer had access to my favorite rolling pin. I was forced to use a rolling pin I had gotten as a wedding gift.

This pin was long and skinny, a professional looking rolling device I’d seen chefs use on The Food Network. I was intimidated by the narrow shaft that didn’t have handles and seemed much too lengthy. It felt awkward in my hands. I dreaded making sugar cookies or pie dough because I’d have to use what I didn’t feel comfortable using.

It’s been almost two years since I received that rolling pin. I was making calzones earlier this week and caught myself wielding that rolling pin with ease. The small lumps of pizza dough became flat discs in seconds as I maneuvered the wooden cylinder like it was an extension of my arms.

After months and months of it feeling cumbersome and foreign, I had mastered that rolling pin. And I loved this new pin just as much as the one I learned on.

I haven’t been able to escape the similarities between rolling pins and the curveballs life throws our way. When God’s plan differs from my own or my circumstances change, I want to through my hands up in protest. Everything that had felt so natural quickly becomes uncomfortable and ungainly. I avoid engaging with the new and unfamiliar. I constantly compare it to the old ways I had mastered.

But, just like that rolling pin, I need to give the unexpected a chance. Even if it takes weeks, months, or years, the new will become standard, the uncomfortable will become familiar. There may be a learning curve, but I think God allows for us to take our time adjusting. And, eventually, that new rolling pin may become your favorite.

In Celebration of Wailing

~ Emily ~ 7 Comments

in Celebration of WailingThe weather here in Northern Idaho was still bouncing between Winter frost and Spring thaw while Tim and I were on our little staycation a couple weeks back. So, after a
depressingly chilly day or two when I was thankful for the condo’s powerful heater, I did the happy dance around our borrowed living room as the sun rose brightly one morning. This called for fresh air so I opened all the windows, enjoying the cool breeze as I folded laundry and washed dishes.

Not only was I afforded a constant flow of Spring air, but because the condo was on the ground floor, a few feet from the sidewalk, I had a steady soundtrack from the day unfurling outside our windows. Several people shuffled by with dogs on jingling leashes. The mailman rattled keys against metal as he delivered envelopes and packages to the group of mailboxes between buildings. Construction workers a couple blocks away shouted instructions over the scrape of bulldozers ripping up concrete.

The noise trade was not one sided. Passersby could also hear the soundtrack coming from inside our open windows. This included the clanking of dishes I was scrubbing clean, the lilting melodies of worship music streaming from my iPad, and the piercing cries of baby James.

Our son is not colicky and generally only fusses when he’s hungry or tired. But on this particular day, James decided to test his pipes. I looked up from the dishes just in time to see our peaceful sleeper go rigid, all appendages stuck straight out from his body. From his mouth erupted a most piercing scream that quickly transitioned to rhythmic wailing.  I hustled with dripping hands from behind the sink to console our crying child.

Normally, crying doesn’t bother me. I hold, rock, whisper, bounce, and shush for however long it takes for James to settle down. But this episode got my heart rate up as I frantically tried to quiet our screaming son. It dawned on me as I furtively glanced to the open windows that I was embarrassed by James’ outburst.

I could hear the neighbors thinking, “Ugh, there goes that baby again. I hope they leave soon.” I could imagine a person out for a stroll wondering if they should call the police for fear a baby was getting abused. What if James was disturbing someone? What if people thought I was a bad parent because my son wouldn’t stop crying?

I looked to the open windows and wished I had kept them closed.

in Celebration of Wailing (2)

The open windows provided a peak into our reality – James isn’t a perfectly peaceful baby and I’m not a perfectly calm mother.  Had I kept the windows closed, I may have been able to mask our imperfections but I would have perpetuated a lie.

There’s something to be said for throwing open the windows of our lives, allowing others to glimpse the imperfections in our hearts, minds, and souls. Vulnerability is an important part of building community, but it’s also scary and embarrassing at times. It’s much easier to keep our windows closed, to muffle our crying, and let passersby walk past thinking everything is hunky-dory.

God’s desire is to work through human vulnerability rather than overcome it.

Mike Erre in Astonished (a fantastic book!)

I think vulnerability is valuable enough for us to not only open our windows, but open our doors – invite people into our messes and our brokenness.

To borrow words from a popular song:

Don’t let them in, don’t let them see. Be the good [person] you always have to be. Conceal don’t feel, don’t let them know. Well, now they know.

Let it go, let it go. Can’t hold it back anymore.

Let It Go from Frozen

Oftentimes my tendency is to conceal, to not let people see the true nature of my heart. Let’s not be people who conceal the imperfections, who hold back for the sake of appearances. God shows up powerfully when we let it go. Let’s open our windows, open our doors, and celebrate wailing.

 

I Hope He Takes After You

~ Emily ~ 2 Comments

I hope he takes after YouI already know he has your long, dark eyelashes

and the dimples that compress those precious cheeks are just like yours.

I already know he has the same notch missing from his right ear

and a length that hints at a tall frame just like yours.

But, I hope he takes after you.

I hope he inherits your subtle strength and quiet leadership.

I hope he possesses the same respect for women.

I hope he shares your love of coffee, the outdoors, and family.

I hope he has the same caring, sensitive spirit.

I hope he takes after you.

I already know he bares Your image

formed so perfectly and wonderfully in my womb.

I already know he is built for Your unique purpose

equipped with gifts and passions the likes of which only You could supply.

But, I hope he takes after You.

I hope he lives selflessly and sacrificially.

I hope he seeks out and serves the least.

I hope he pursues community and prioritizes relationship.

I hope he values vulnerability over comfort.

I hope he gives grace freely to himself and others.

I hope he loves abundantly.

I hope he takes after You. 

Rosemary Lemonade

~ Emily ~ 2 Comments

Rosemary Lemonade

Rosemary Lemonade 4

One of the houses I grew up in had a massive lemon tree in the backyard. It wasn’t until we moved that I realized it wasn’t normal to have freshly squeezed lemon juice at the ready whenever we wanted. My sister now has the same citrusy fortune at her own house. She sent me a little care package the other day with granola (she makes the best granola!), homemade jam, and lemons. After a cold, snowy winter, the lemons put an instant smile on my face. The cheery color and fresh scent of lemons always reminds me of sunshine and long summer days.

Normally when I receive a lemon windfall I zest and juice every last one and freeze the spoils. This time around I left the lemons in a bowl on our coffee table as a reminder that Spring is coming.

While reading a post on Modern Mrs. Darcy, I saw mention of rosemary lemonade which immediately piqued my interest. We happened to have fresh rosemary AND a bowl full of those beautiful lemons. The weekend fates of good eats were with us! The post didn’t have a recipe, so I Googled it to get some how-to inspiration. I ended up combining two methods (this and this) to create a refreshing, festive drink perfect for warm afternoons in the sun.

Rosemary Lemonade 3

Rosemary Lemonade 2

Rosemary Lemonade

THE drink for sipping in the afternoon sun on the back porch. A great compliment to grilled meats. I think, though I haven’t tested my theory, that a little splash of limoncello would make this a wonderful lemonade cocktail.

  • 1 large rosemary sprig
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 6 cups water
  • 1 1/2 – 2 cups freshly squeezed lemon juice

Combine rosemary sprig, sugar, and water in a large sauce pot. Bring to boil. Remove pot from heat and let steep for 30 minutes.

Add lemon juice to taste. My lemon juice sweet spot was 1 3/4 cups, but I like my lemonade a little on the tart side. Keep in mind the lemonade will dilute a bit when you add ice.

Chill lemonade for at least four hours before serving.

Serve over ice with rosemary sprig and lemon slices for garnish.