My Boudreaux's Boy
I googled two things today: First, “Ok to use ground beef left out all night?” Some of you are cringing. In my whirlwind of putting away groceries I left the ground beef out in the garage on top of the fridge. Darn. Don’t worry, thew it away. Apparently others had asked the same question, so I found just the answer I needed.
The second item that I googled was: “How to clean butt paste off walls.” Yielded no useful results whatsoever. Apparently I am the first woman to ask this question.
Right after I wrote my last post, I close my laptop feeling comtemplative and peaceful. I sit down on the couch to read my Bible when I hear Dutch playing with his little toy garage while he should be napping. For a second I thought I’d just ignore it and let him be, then thought better of it. “I better be consistent,” I tell myself and crack open his door for quick chiding. As open the door I notice it smells like Boudreaux’s butt paste. Hm. I look closer and narrow my eyes trying to register what I see. My son is white. I mean, he’s always been caucasian, but my son is WHITE. Covered in WHITE. His face, his hair, his clothes. COVERED. I look closer and my mouth drops open. The WALLS are white, his quilt is white, his dresser is white. Closer look–books, toys, pillow, carpet–EVERYTHING is covered in oily, thick, creamy white butt paste. My heart sinks as I look down and see the enormous was-full tub of diaper cream…empty.
Mind you, we live with Dombrows…in their brand new house…with brand new walls…which are now covered in diaper cream!
I was so horrified I didn’t even know how to respond. I turned around, closed the door, and stood like a buffoon. Finally I dialed my mom and told her what happened. “What do I do?!” There was nothing else to do but go back in, discipline him, then have him go downstairs and tell Joy what he did. I carried him downstairs, not wanting him to touch anything, and told Joy.
To make a long story short, we experienced grace today. Joy laughed. Laughed, and assured me it was ok. Not only that, she came in and helped me clean. I washed DUtch’s hair five times and still couldn’t get the paste out. Tomorrow I’m going to try dish soap (cuts grease, right?). We wiped down the walls, dresser, gathered up all the linens and toys…and now that task awaits me as we speak.
Two little nuggets from the situation. One was the beauty of grace. Later, after spending our afternoon scrubbing the smelly oily mess, Joy got down on the floor and played trucks with Dutch. Later this evening Nathan (their son and Dutch’s hero), made a powerpoint slideshow talking about all the fun things about Dutch, even including a picture of him. He gathered us all up, both families, to sit in the office and watch the special presentation about his little miniature friend. That is grace. When he least deserved it, Joy and Nathan both chose to bless my little son…despite his naughty curiosity.
And a little merciful kiss from God. Though everything was covered, including all of Dutch’s books, the only book without a speck of paste on it was the book we’d checked out from the library. God somehow kept the libarary book without a spot. Though truly a mess, thank you Jesus that at least I don’t have to buy that stupid book! Little mercies along the crazy journey of mommyhood. 🙂
If you’re curious, you can see pics here. I better sign off now…I have some cleaning to do…
The Warrior is a Child
Have you ever had to be brave and strong and courageous for an intense period of time, and then when the moment was finally over you just crumbled into a heap of tears? I remember in Brasil, when Tom Jones and I were leading a team in Rio de Janiero, one of the most dangerous cities in Brasil. Earlier in the day Tom warded off a guy who was stalking me down the street, and then that night there was a murder shooting right outside our front door. The girls on the team were scared and hysterical, and we had to jump to attention and get everyone calmed down, figure out safety precautions, talk through things with people. It was intense and it was critical that we carried the team through the emotion of it all. That night, when everyone was asleep and calmed down, I finally crumbled and quietly cried myself to sleep.
I remember during the first Spring Drama, which I wrote about in When God Broke My Heart (right, under Featured), it was several months of incredible intensity. Rehearsals, prayer times, planning, fundraising, planning the alter call after the event. I remember in one of our church prayer meetings they were laying hands on me and Kristen Wilson, our director, and praying for us, and afterwards one of the elders said God had laid a song on his heart to share with me. Later he emailed me the words, The Warrior is a Child. They stuck with me ever since. And when that event was over, having fought and strove and worked and prayed and given, I too lay at home and cried. Over. Done. Blessed by God’s word but unspeakably overwhelmed with the enormity of it all.
I would hardly consider myself a warrior, but let’s face it–life as a woman called to serve our God with reckless abandon, as well as serve and love our husbands, care for our children, and fulfill the myriad responsibilities that come with womanhood–this life requires us to be warriors. And the truth of the matter is that we are warriors. We fool ourselves when we whine and complain and insist that it’s too hard or that we can’t do it. We can do it because God has called us to. But inside, don’t we all feel like the secret truth is that we’re nothing but scared little girls?
Sunday night I finished my last seminary assignment. Last. Four long amazing stressful wonderful miraculous years. Two children. Four moves. Living with people, working, serving, balancing. God’s faithfulness has been so amazing that as I sat in my mentor’s office for the last time last night I wept. I wept because I’m tired. I wept because I’ve poured my life into this for four years and now i”m done. I wept because God is so good and has shown Himself so miraculously in my life that it brought me to my knees. I wept because I feel like God has called me to a warrior life, and the truth is I’m nothing but a child. I’ma little girl. Weak. Scared. Tired. And yet my blessed mentor, in her amazing way, reminded me of the call of a warrior. That we are called to be warriors. That though it might feel like we can’t hold on one more moment in whatever we’re called to. We can. We can hold on a little longer. We can do it. We can be faithful to whatever God has called us to. Even though the warrior is a child. In fact, because the warrior is a child.
Lately I've been winning battles left and right But even winners can get wounded in the fight People say that I'm amazing Strong beyond my years But they don't see inside of me I'm hiding all the tears They don't know that I go running home when I fall down They don't know who picks me up when no one is around I drop my sword and cry for just a while 'Cause deep inside this armor The warrior is a child Unafraid because His armor is the best But even soldiers need a quiet place to rest People say that I'm amazing Never face retreat But they don't see the enemies That lay me at His feet They don't know that I go running home when I fall down They don't know who picks me up when no one is around I drop my sword and and cry for just a while 'Cause deep inside this armor the warrior is a child They don't know that I go running home when I fall down They don't know who picks me up when no one is around I drop my sword and look up for a smile 'Cause deep inside this armor Deep inside this armor Deep inside this armor The Warrior is a Child
Do you ever feel like this? We are blessed, dear women, to be both warrior and child. I pray you’re encouraged today to be both.