As Seen in the March Edition of Bella Magazine

The other day, I was at Glazed Bisque-It in Roanoke with my daughter Caroline. She was enjoying an infrequent but much-deserved “Mental Health Day” off from school. She’s getting older, so it’s slightly more challenging, not to mention more expensive, to find an activity she’d enjoy. It used to be a container of bubbles or play dough provided hours of magic. Not anymore. Now she’s asking to get a Mocha at Starbucks or go for a pedicure. This day we decided to go paint our own pottery. It’s fun, you get something cool to use, and it’s great mother-daughter bonding time.

Being noontime on Thursday, there were only a few other women there. Actually, the other occupied table held three generations of women..a grandmom, a mom, and a birthday girl, just turned 2. I could not tear my eyes away from the little one. (I’m sure I made her mom nervous). You see, she was the spitting image of my Caroline ten years prior. The spitting image. I felt like I was in both ends of a Time Machine.

Sweet Caroline was an adorable baby. She had a perfectly round face, gigantic blue eyes, and fluffy white-blonde curls. More than once, people would comment, “She doesn’t even look real.” I joked that she was our mail order baby and that we had paid extra for “sleeps through the night” and a premium for “doesn’t fuss, even when wet, hungry or tired.” After having 3 boys, you can’t imagine how much we paid for the girl features! She looked like a living doll and what’s better, she acted like one.

This little girl, Julie, was just that cute. She was well-behaved and simply precious. Can you imagine bringing a two-year old to a pottery store? In a pink fur vest? And letting her paint? (Pam, the owner, was perfectly relaxed and just lovely. She mentioned having eighteen 5-year-olds painting at once. This demure toddler didn’t even make Pam blink.)

To me, inviting a toddler to a room full of breakables and leaving with everything intact is a fantasy. It’s the definition of well-behaved. Her sweet young mom was painting a lovely plaque for Julie’s room. I remember when I used to be that thoughtful. This was before my kids took markers to the walls. Even precious Caroline drew imaginary friends on the walls of her room. Maybe this little Julie won’t get a hold of the Sharpie markers. Her pretty pink room will stay tidy, and on her door in a place of honor will be a sign announcing that the Princess lives here.

On this day, however, Julie was getting hungry, so Mom wasn’t able to finish the princess plaque. She asked if she could come finish it later, saying,“The Princess is a Work in Progress.”

Truer words were never spoken. Wise, wise words. She was referring to the painted piece. I was thinking of the child. Truly, the Princess is a Work in Progress. That day, I saw my princess at age 2 and age 12, and peered at age 22 down the road. You see, it’s not the pottery project that’s a work in progress. It’s the whole Princess.
It takes a lot to raise these little people. Time, patience, cash money and lots of Mental Health Days for both moms and kids. I adored the February issue of Bella, with all the lovely brides and bridesmaids and gorgeous stuff. It looked good enough to eat. How do we get from 2-year-old painting pottery, through the minefield of teen years, to healthy, vibrant bride? It’s a work in progress.

After four children, my fertile friend Amy is contemplating another baby and she said to me, “It’s just another 9 months.” I kept my mouth shut for about 27 seconds, and then I blurted out, “It’s not 9 months. It’s 21 years and half a million dollars!” But even that is a quick summary. After all, it’s easy to have a baby; it’s hard to raise a child. There are no words in our language to communicate parenting. Work in progress is at least a start.

The Princess is a work in progress. Bless you, my little Caroline, turning big Caroline, with poise and intellect. I see little Julie in you, in your glowing cheeks and still clear skin. I see myself in you, when you sit on your bed, writing in a journal like I did thirty years ago. If I squint my eyes, I can see you on your wedding day. I see that you will not only outlive me, you will out succeed me, and I rejoice. You’re a young teen, an age when you still admire me. I know from experience that will change. I turned against my parents, and your brothers have often turned against me. I ask, Caroline, that you hold off your hormones until your brothers are further down the time machine. Then, continue on through. It’s part of the plan….part of the work in progress. For now, whenever you leave me, I call after you, “Make good choices.” And whisper under my breath…“Princess.”


Martie Smith Byrd lives in Roanoke with King Dave, 3 princes and 2 princesses. When not polishing her crown, she is doing laundry, speaking to groups, and writing. Please consider her for a speaking gig at a local organization or church near you! To read more, log on to martiebyrd.com.

Ok, in the Bible Paul compares our body to a tent. What does this mean? By profession he was a tentmaker, so he would know. A tent is temporary. It's portable. It's cheap.

Above all, it's practical. It keeps the rain off. It keeps the warmth in. But that's about it. It's not permanent; it's not meant to be. It's a shell.

So here's my question. If our body is a tent, why do we spend so much effort to decorate it?


2 Corinthians 5:1
Now we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands.

I'm not pointing fingers. I suffer with my tent. I'm self-absorbed and I admit it. During Bible study last week, I interrupted the discussion to ask if I should get bangs. Can you imagine? (My dear sweet friends even took the time to discuss the bang/no-bang dilemma with me! The conclusion? Side bangs, to show more of my face. My sister Carey concurs...she told me today my face is the size of a penny. Given the chance, I'd talk about my appearance for hours. And so would you.)

Recently someone came up to my car and told me that I was wearing the wrong sweater. December 25th is the Statue of Limitations for a snowman sweater. I evoked the Snow Clause but was shot down. You can't wear snowmen after Christmas...even if it's snowing. My bad.

Bangs are a tent issue. Sweaters are a tent issue.

Why are we consumed with our tent? It's temporary. Disposable, even. Only our inside layer--our soul--survives. So, help me understand. Why do we decorate our tents?

Quick! In case of fire, what would you take from home????

It's a question that was theoretical to me...until Sunday. Driving home from church, we saw huge plumes of smoke filling the sky. The woods behind our house were on fire. Luckily, these woods are separated from our home by a four lane highway. It made me grateful, for once, to live directly on I-81.

The fire was caused by a fallen electrical line. The harsh winds, with gusts up to 60 mph, knocked down the lines and fed the fire. The Fire Department said they'd let us know if we needed to evacuate. Since we experienced evacuation once before, when there was a chemical fire on the highway, I knew that this could happen with only a moment's notice. Therefore, I started to seriously plan what I would take.

What couldn't I live without? Clearly the kids and Dave. But what possessions did I need? What would I regret not having?

I sprung into action. First, I went through the house and took pictures...for memory as well as insurance purposes. It's one of those things you're encouraged to do and never, ever take the time to complete. Shot after shot showed the things that we've lovingly acccumulated and arranged. Even the messy bedrooms had a certain charm when I imagined never seeing them again.

I put on my best jewelry. Costume jewelry didn't make the cut. I made a box with all the famiy videos and a silver pitcher from my parents. In case of evacuation, I would instruct every family member to grab as many photo albums as they could carry. We have about 40, so we'd be okay if everyone made two trips!

Caroline, the planner, filled her backpack with important soft things. Her baby blanket. Some stuffed animals. A change of clothes. Alex, the stoic, went to a friend's house. In case of rapid flight, he requested I grab his cow pillow since "I can't sleep without it." He noted that he put his contact case and solution on the pillow; he would need those in the shelter.

I don't want to give the impression that I was frantic, but I was purposeful. I packed up a bag with my favorite Bibles. 3 of them, special for different reasons. I could never replace them. Also irreplaceable are things I've written over the last years. (With my sieve-like memory, there's no way I could ever recreate!) I realized I could bring my (beloved) laptop and the external hard drive. Phew, what a relief.

What would you take with you? And why? What do you really, really, really need to be content? Yesterday, it was a real blessing to realize that my treasured possessions are few.

The blaze was kept well controlled by local firefighters, but it was allowed to consume much of the ridge behind our home. As we see the charred remains, and see how it burned right down to the road, I pray we're reminded of what's really important. It's true what they say: "You can't take it with you."

But godliness with contentment is great gain.
For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it.
1 Timothy 6:6-7

Lately I've been moving slower, slower, slower. It could be the cold medication I'm taking at night. Last night, I think someone filled my Nyquil bottle with some nasty tasting placebo. Despite what the commercials promise, it didn't stop the coughing-aching-stuffy head-fever...and I DID NOT REST. It just gave me hallucinations and made time crawl as I sucked on cough drops. I finally came to the surface at 4 am, and I'd swear in a court of law that I didn't really sleep a wink all night.

It occurs to me that often we're living life in a similar, semi-conscious state.
We are just rushing at the speed of life to The Next Thing...the next day, the next accomplishment, the next To Do list. We're a bit like hamsters on a wheel. Where do they think they're going, anyway? Or are they trying to whittle down their thunder thighs? They run and run and don't get anywhere. Kind of like...well, you draw the comparision.

Where do Dorothy and the hamster collide? They both think they're getting somewhere. They're both not. Dorothy is lulled to sleep by the Nyquil-esque poppies. If it weren't for her friends, she would have stayed there, sleeping her life away. There's a lesson here, fellow Dorothies.

WAKE UP!

We're much the same way! Just goin' through the motions, day in, day out. Waiting for the weekend, for vacation, for the kids to grow up, for the kids to come home.

Annie Dillard writes, "We are most deeply asleep at the switch when we fancy we control any switches at all. We sleep to time's hurdy-gurdy; we wake, if we ever wake, to the silence of God."

Oh! How I want to wake up! I want to "wake to the silence of God." I want to get off the hamster wheel. If I run anywhere, I want to run on purpose, not simply because it's-what-I've-always-done.

Are you in a daze? Doing the same thing, for reasons you can no longer remember? Like the hamster, you might be on the wheel out of sheer habit. Like Dorothy, you might be sleeping when it's time to get moving.

Ask God about it. I know 'm going to...right after my nap.