El Stinko

Life literally stinks sometimes. Is that a revelation to you? This past week has been one of the granddaddy stinko weeks of all times for me.

After one of my earlier posts about how average I am, just one of the crowd in so many ways, I must admit one exceptional feature I possess that is not always a blessing. My sense of smell is amazingly acute. This can prove helpful when there is a gas leak or something burning. The family teases that I can predict the milk is going sour two days in advance.

This “gift” is not so welcome when diapers (obviously) need changing and baby’s mother is oblivious or smelling-impaired. My sense of smell is likewise not appreciated when rain dampens the neighbor’s barnyard within spitting distance of our carport, and the breeze sends the odor wafting in my kitchen window.

Being pregnant proved a gagful experience for me living in a foreign land with unfamiliar scents assaulting my nose daily. The worst was walking by certain walls formerly used as a public urinal. Maybe some of you can relate?

Body odors remain a challenge. Now that our hottest month has arrived I struggle to ignore the smelly people I encounter in close quarters like on buses. Sadly I have a reputation among my children’s friends who have been known to purposely shower before coming to my house for a movie night or to practice in the chime choir I direct. I’ve got to work on ignoring my nose.

This week was a nightmare with nasty plumbing disasters galore. You can see photos on my personal blog lest you think I am exaggerating. The worst was when our ecological waterless composting toilet malfunctioned, and the liquid matter had to be drained bucket by bucket. While the hatch was opened, the entire house stank to high heaven (as we say in Texas). We opened windows, turned on fans, lit candles, and sprayed air freshener, but still it was disgustingly rank.

To make matters worse, when we attempted to wash the towels and rugs that had gotten soiled in the process of handling that crisis, the washing machine didn’t drain properly, and instead of going out, somehow got rerouted and nasty water started gurgling up through the bathroom sink and tub. Gray water reeks almost as bad as black water.

Oh, I’m killing myself retelling it. What is my purpose? Partly I am shamelessly begging for sympathy. Say it all together now: “Poor Jamie Jo!” Then again, I have pledged to share the good, the bad, and the ugly here. This week it just happens to be stinky AND ugly.

IRL*Meanwhile my prayer is that my life would be a sweet aroma and not a stench in the nostrils of God.

Party @ Jamie Jo's : Y'all Come!

As some of you have figured out, I live in a location with many missionary colleagues in close proximity. It’s my tradition to throw a big Christmas party every year. One neighbor loves to call me “the hostess with the mostest.” Sometimes I graciously thank her outwardly, while swallowing the ungracious responses that pop into my mouth. “Yeah, the most dishes to wash afterward, the most stains on my furniture, the most migraines the day afterward….”

When we were in Guatemala twenty-some-odd Christmases ago, I remember a certain hostess who fully expected young couples to hire a baby-sitter for parties at her house, which were clearly "for adults only." I used to take offense at her stance, but now I understand. I really do.

Equally clear is the memory of the family-friendly Christmas party I hosted that same year. I was aghast at one mother’s unruffled attitude as her son took a piece of chocolate cake and ground it into my rug with his little foot. She smiled innocently and said, "Boys will be boys" to which I retorted (with a less-than-genuine smile), "And mothers will be mothers and clean up after them!"

It's all well and good that children be allowed to be children as long as parents remain parents and don't leave the poor hostess such a huge disaster to clean up after the party's over. Within the missionary community, I'm afraid that isn't always the case, which is also why, I suspect, some people simply refuse to invite children into their homes. What a shame.

Now that I have no little ones of my own, I hope I have grown less peevish about spills and messes, but I admit I still need to work on my heart that cringes when children come over for parties. Too many memories.

Is it sinful pride that makes me crave a nice orderly house? Is it selfish to not want neighbor children to destroy my house? Or is it simply good stewardship to try to protect my belongings? After all, I know what agony we endured to find each and every piece of furniture and rug, which we carefully selected and brought from the city, and even the support necessary to buy them. I don’t know. There has to be a balance. All I have is a gift from the Lord, and on my good days, I acknowledge that it all belongs to Him. I want to claim none of it as my own.

Nothing challenges this resolve like a good old Christmas party. Next week I’ll have to have my head examined heart checked. Again. I just hope I can be gracious and not just act gracious. I hope the snarky remarks don’t even appear as a thought bubble over my head like in the cartoons.

IRL* The party is set for December 20. If you live close enough to come, you are welcome, kids and all!

A Mess Worth Making

Lest you think too harshly of me after my confession about screaming at my kids during my devotions, let me just say that I LOVE my time alone with Jesus. Since that episode, I’ve learned that I have to get up very early in the morning to be assured an actual “quiet” time free of interruptions.

Daily I am amazed at the contrast between how clean and holy I feel during that precious hour alone with the Lord and the ickiness I feel when the inevitable muck is slung on my heart as the day progresses, and I interact with those around me. Emotional clutter accumulates quickly.

It makes me think of a book sitting on the shelf, which I still haven’t read, titled: Relationships: A Mess Worth Making. It also brings to mind a classic statement once uttered by my dmil* (dear mother-in-law—you see I hate those in-law terms!) who has been single for 34 years now. She was visiting us in Mexico for several weeks, and had become annoyed at how we seemingly bring out the worst in her.

It’s forever etched in my memory the way she blurted out how hard it is to be a Christian when surrounded by Christians. Truer words were never spoken. Hopefully, I didn’t laugh outright. Instead I said something more like, “Okay, let me get this straight. It’s easier to be a good Christian when you live all alone and can do everything when and how you want to do it?”

No duh! I’m a wonderful Christian, too, every morning—at least until the rest of the family wakes up. Then it gets messy.

They say that the number one reason missionaries leave the field is due to interpersonal conflicts. I’m not budging, but this last week was a doozy for me, relationship-wise. Someone sent a rather hostile email to me, copying several other people, making some very unkind and unfounded accusations about me. Wounded and weary (still eating only fruits and vegetables, after all!), I hoped someone besides my husband would vindicate me.

None did. If only we could all walk according to the Spirit, and not the flesh, and get along biblically and in love the way we should. In a perfect world…. *Sigh*

Today my prayer is that all of us will grow in grace, learning to love the very ones who rub us wrong. I am thankful to call my friends some who may consider me difficult and odd, and many others who send me to the dictionary to look up such words as “pugnacious” (don’t you love that word?) and “bellicose” so I can call them something intelligent under my breath.

IRL*It is easier to be a good Christian when you live all alone and can do everything when and how you want to do it...but I think I'd miss the mess.

*please refer to sidebar dictionary [Jamie Jo-speak] for the definitions of starred items!