Five Minute Fairy: A Halloween Mini-Tutorial

There must be an unspoken rule in my house that every Halloween someone must be a fairy or some other winged creature. My two-year old decided it's her turn this year, and I didn't want to just stick her in the fairy remnants of years past. But I have a newborn. And a five year who wants to be a leopard. And a pile of laundry you don't want to see.

I also have five minutes and a glue gun. :)

Following is a mini-tutorial on how to turn a plain t-shirt into a simple fairy costume.Forgive the lack of pictures. I wasn't planning to turn the project into a tutorial until I was looking at the finished product and thought some other laundry-menaced mama might appreciate this idea. If I have time and tulle later I'll go back and do a nicely photographed version.

Also, the bright idea behind it all is not mine. My friends used this idea at the onesie-decorating contest they had at my baby shower. They know I'm ripping them off for a good cause.

What You'll Need: 

• Glue gun and glue sticks
• Scissors
• At least 1 yard of tulle in a color of your choice.
•  If you don't like cutting the huge length of tulle from a bolt, the little rolls of tulle work well.
• I layered two colors of tulle but use a single color or a dozen colors if you fancy.
•  Plain t-shirt or onesie in the color of your choice.
• Scrap end of ribbon 
• Optional: additional ribbon for embellishment
• Optional: episode of Dora the Explorer to keep the future fairy away from the glue gun

What You'll Do: 

•  Cut your tulle
• The width and length will be determined by the size of your fairy. The t-shirt base was 24 months on mine and I cut strips approximately 9x19".
• I cut the tulle into 10 layers, five of each color I had chosen. Use more or less if desired. I recommend a less full set of wings for very small fairies so that the shirt doesn't get too bulky when they are on their backs.
• Layer the tulle in the color arrangement of your choice. 
• Pinch the middle as if making a bow. Secure with glue gun.
• Tip: Use a metal spoon to the fabric against the glue if you are worried about gluing your fingers. 
• Wrap the scrap end of ribbon around the middle. Glue the ends of the ribbon so that they are overlapping one another. I also glued the ribbon to the tulle so that everything would be nice and secure.
• Center the wings on the back of the t-shirt and glue in place.
• Fluff tulle for maximum fairy effect.

 And you're done!

You can move on to other pressing Halloween issues such as your leftover candy damage control plan. Or, if you have another five minutes, you can fancy it up a bit more.

• Cut three lengths of coordinating ribbon the length of the front of the t-shirt from neckline to hem. 
• Trim edges so that they are even
• Glue in place.

 Yes, it is puckered. I had to pull off one of the ribbons and re-align it. 

My inner perfectionist is fuming but my toddler so will not care.

Pair the shirt with a pettiskirt, tutu, or even a pair of jeans if you're feeling that laid back vibe. If you feel giddy with all the time you now have, try your hand at making a tutu. Here's a great tutorial from Cut Out And Keep

Yes, you can also sew it and it will probably look much more elegant. But the five-minute version will still make for a pretty fairy and this way you won't cry nearly so much when she gets chocolate all over it at the Harvest Party.

Happy Harvest!

Sunday Stitches: Corduroy and Tulle

Sundays are a big deal. We know this. But I want my family to see it. To celebrate it. I've been mulling over ways I can emphasize the special, wonderful First Day of the week and my thoughts (of course) came to sewing. I decided to sew each of my girls a special Sunday Dress of their own.

With three girls five and younger, my first thought for Sunday dressing is practical, not pretty. Can it survive the snack in Sunday school and our pizza-and-play after church family tradition? Can I change a diaper in under two minutes? Most of their church clothes as dual use-- worn with sparkly shoes on Sunday and with scuffed sneakers on Monday. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

But my new sewing goal, over the next few weeks, will be to make each of the girls something different. Something a little more special. A little fancier. Clothes for my girls to wear when they worship, clothes to remind them that they are unique and lovely daughters of a King. Twirling optional.



I know we're not scoring fashion points with our Father on Sunday morning.
The idea of "dressing up" for church is a bit stuffy for our jeans-and-t-shirt culture, but I'd like to offer in its place the idea of dressing deliberately. To use our clothes as a visible sign of the invisible reality that we are meeting our God. Our Hope, our Redeemer, our King! We should select clothes that emphasize not the stuffiness of starched shirts and itchy lace but the specialness of something Not Ordinary. This isn't a dress my daughter will wear to dig in her dirt pile or go to Wal-mart. It's a dress with a purpose, and that purpose is to worship her Creator in her own tiny two-year old way. When I sew with that in mind, the domestic act becomes deliberate worship. One tiny way I can help my young ladies learn to rejoice in Sunday, and one way I can refresh my heart to rejoice with them.

With that in mind, I started sewing. I thought I'd make Ember a skirt out of some deep purple corduroy I'd found on sale. And throw in a tulle ruffle for fun. I love the idea of the folksy corduroy against the frilly tulle. What followed was, perhaps, a comedy of errors. Sorry I don't have more pictures to prove what a crazy process this was. You'll have to take my word for it.

I cut what should have been a basic two-tiered ruffle skirt, the second tiering lined with cotton that ended in peek-a-boo gathered tulle. And yes, I blame baby brain for the fact that I cut the fabric wrong and ended up with something more like a strapless dress. I thought I'd throw straps or cap sleeves on it and whip out a cute shrug.

Cue the inspiration. Owly Baby offers a super-sweet baby shrug pattern that I thought I'd up-size for Ember. After a minor (cough) pattern cutting error I ditched the idea of a matching corduroy shrug and decided to use some black cotton knit from my stash. Then decided again that rather than a shrug I'd use the pattern as the upper part of the bodice and cover both cozy and cute all at once. The knit bodice was slightly smaller than the corduroy so I did a little snipping. Okay, more than a little. After extracting Ember from the results, I decided to try it on River. The dress must have wanted to be hers all along. After a few tweaks, some hemming and neckline finishing, and chasing her down for a final fitting, we had a finished garment! Though I did break a needle trying to sew on the bow.

This was the rare still moment...

...followed by bouncing, which means the dress must be comfortable enough for her. 

And the grin! We have a winner! 

Pardon the poor quality. By now the baby was crying so photo time was over.

I wouldn't exactly call this next part a tutorial....more like design notes. A guide for someone to follow should they like this look and want one for their little girl.

The corduroy part was constructed from simple rectangles. The top corduroy panel on this dress is 4" x 23" and the gathered panel is 12"x38". Those are the finished measurements. For your pattern pieces you'll want to add extra for seam allowances and hems.

The bodice, as I mentioned, is based off Owly Baby's shrug. All awesomeness goes to her...I just tweaked it for my own use. I used her sleeves, and I used the back piece of her shrug to cut my front and back bodice. I cut my pieces just a bit larger than her template so that it would fit my corduroy panel.

Once I'd completed the bodice, I simply attached it to the skirt then finished my neckline and sleeve hems. The bow was from one of the girls' rejected hairbands and was quite stubborn. I broke an embroidery needle and a machine needle before reaching for the hot glue gun. Maybe I got enough stitches in before the needle broke so that it will hold if the glue washes out in the wash.


You can learn how to make your own bow here via Sutton Grace's free tutorial.

Another great ideas for embellishment would be a fabric flower. Hop on over to Tip Nut for a list of over thirty different kinds. Have fun :)

The Point of No Return

You think of martyrs as wild-eyed men with goatskin and beards or ecstatic saints, white-robed amidst flame. You think of them as shuddering in the Arctic winter of a Russian gulag or staring down gunmetal with prayers on their tongues.

You don't really think of them sitting on their couch with their family, holding a son, beside a wife.The picture of Youcef Nadarkhani, an Iranian pastor facing execution for refusing to convert to Islam, resembles more math teacher than religious dissident. He's wearing a white dress shirt. His hairline is receding. He faces the camera with a small smile, his hand resting on the arm of one of his two young sons. He's calm.

From this picture, you wouldn't guess what the man is up against. He's been arrested before, for protesting that his son was forced to read the Koran at school. His wife's been arrested, a pressure move designed to force him to recant. She was released after international justice movements intervened on her behalf but Nadarkhani was sentenced to death for apostasy.

The whole article is here: http://www.foxnews.com/world/2011/09/28/iranian-pastor-faces-execution-for-refusing-to-recant-christian-faith/

The fact that regimes around the world violently oppress Christianity is not news.

The fact that Christians around the world face death for their faith is not news.

The fact that they do so with grace and courage is the real story.

According to the article, when pressured to repent, Nadarkhani replied

"Repent means to return. What should I return to?

Those words struck me like the sounding of a bell, one that has reverberated through millenia of faith and persecution. Peter said it first-- to whom shall we go, You have the words of eternal life and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God."

That phrase has been repeated before first century Christians in the arena, reformers at the stake, believers in a Communist interrogation cell, and countless others whose names we will only know in heaven. They are heroes not because they are brave but because they are desperate. To whom shall we go?  
Behind is a wasteland, a scorched and sin-blasted landscape of godlessness, peopled by wretches who stagger in helpless oblivion towards the pit of final wrath. Behind is emptiness, the starless night of a dead soul that all the money, comfort, pleasure, and fleeting joy of earth cannot lighten. Behind is the crushing stone of guilt upon the chest, cracking every bone of good intention and self-made merit until the very heart is pressed flat. Behind is life without Christ. Without grace. Without hope. Dead in our trespasses and sins. Walking decay.
Nadarkhani, like so many other Christians put to the same test, looks over his shoulder and sees all this. He sees who he was before and the answer to the question is simple.

"What should I return to? To the blasphemy that I had before my faith in Christ?"
"To the religion of your ancestors, Islam,"
"I cannot,"



He's at a point of no return. There is only Christ. While there is hope that an appeal may overturn the death sentence, it is unlikely that the pastor will be released without a long jail sentence “or worse,” according to the article. As his brothers and sisters, fellow members of Christ's body, we should uplift him in prayer not only for the sparing of his life but for the protection of his family should he be taken from them and imprisoned. But let's not just rattle off a prayer of concern, admire the man's faith, and go back to the Starbucks latte that's getting cold. Let's think a minute, because that question is always for you. And me.

What should we return to? 

 

No one is standing outside my porch with a machete to cut off my hands because I refused to vote for a dictator. When I go to church on Sunday morning, I won't be concerned that soldiers will appear to lock the doors and burn the building down with my babies inside beside me. I can read my Bible. I can invite the grocery store clerk to church without facing arrest. But American Christians, in our life of complete freedom and considerable ease, face a different challenge to our faith. Because our culture is so comfortable, we can forget the underlying chasm. We can turn again to stumbling, grasping at any shiny thing within our reach, angry at God because He took our job, our health, our 401K. We blame Him for our lost dreams, our failed marriages, our angry children. And the Father of Lies is quick to sidle up to our souls and whisper-- repent. Return. Go back. You tried it. He failed you. Give up.

When life is hard and faith is harder, look over your shoulder. Ask for eyes to see, like Pastor Nadarkhani, what lies behind us. Look with eyes of faith to what lies before us. Then answer the Deceiver--

I cannot. 

 

This animation of the song All I Have In Christ pays tribute to those who have had to answer the question at gunpoint. It  inspires those of us who have to answer it within in our own souls every day. I'm posting in in honor of Pastor Nadarkhani and his family. Pray for him when you watch it. Pray for me, that I'll live out my faith in freedom with the same courage, and I'll pray the same for you. 

Birth Songs

to my daughters

I. Fire

Though we named you for fire, you came to us as snow. In silence and midnight you changed everything in sight; we did not even know you were a part of me until suddenly we opened our eyes and saw a world transformed by your existence. We did not know anything about carrying or birthing babies but our love for you made us brave. We walked the journey toward the beginning of your life determined to birth you in the gentlest, kindest way possible. Only we were novices; we were young. When voices older and-- we thought-- wiser told us to hasten your coming with drugs we listened because we thought we could not trust our own voices. Your birth was not gentle, nor was it kind; the drugs made my rushes unnaturally strong and we chose medicine to relieve the pain so that I could birth you without surgery. I could not feel you move through me toward life but I pushed with the memory of my muscles and you moved. In blood, and chaos, in joy and triumph, you came into the world. Your Daddy says I cried out in joy-- my baby, my baby-- as you passed into the midwife's hands and that the cry, the exultation, was louder than any other groan or sigh I made in your birth.

Ember Rose. Flower of fire, firstborn daughter, burning of my heart.

II. Water

We waited for you, as desert people wait for rain. We danced you down; we prayed. As they search the horizon for any cloud, as they lift their faces for any coolness in the wind, we searched for any sign of your coming. And come you did, rushing in to fill and swell my womb. We had another journey before us, and this time we promised you we would trust our wisdom. We told the midwives that we would not bring you into the world early unless it was to save your life. We prepared to wait, as we did with your sister, we thought your birth would come slow. But you came as a strong current, as a tide rushing to shore. Before we even got out of the driveway, I birthed you into your Daddy's hands. He caught you and gave you to me wrapped in a bath towel. The paramedics had come and again we followed voices not our own and went to the hospital, which was not necessary because you were strong and beautiful and healthy. We spent two days waiting to go home with you but you never left my arms. You slept beside me even in the hospital bed, happy with my breast and our love.

River Lynn. Rain child, ripple of joy, water to my soul.

III. Song

You swept over us suddenly. You rushed in like a north wind, rattling shutters and overturning trash cans and changing me, again. Like a blast of air in my face you stole the breath right out of my lungs. And then turned it into song, into hope as you grew and grew strong inside me. We chose wise women to catch you and knew they would leave room for our voices besides their own. Your birthing began as a little breeze that slipped in through my bedroom window and woke me with the first of my rushes. Your eldest sister waited with me, in the darkness before dawn, until we knew you were coming. Birthing you was unlike any other experience of my life. I walked with your Daddy outside the house and lifted my face to the sun when the rushes came. I knelt in water and moaned, and sang, and even wailed, in those last moments, when your birth was a roaring wind in my ears and body. Then you were here. The midwives gave you to me in my own house, and I closed my eyes to rest in my own room. The house was hushed and holy as your Daddy and I slept with you nestled to my breast. Piper Haven. Little sand piper, little bird girl. Song and wind, music to my world.

Book Review: The Blackberry Bush

The Blackberry Bush, by David Housholder, is not what you'd expect to pick up on the shelves of most Christian bookstores. In fact you may not even find a copy in most traditional Christian fiction venues, which is regrettable because the novel sets out to do something important-- make you think about faith, about its delicately woven threads, rough and silken alike, that bind generations together in a work of grace. In Housholder's novel, these threads bind lives together, through brokenness and triumph, to tell a story of God's presence in even the darkest aspects of fallen humanity. That's a lot of big ideas to cram into a relatively short novel.

But then, you get the idea that Housholder is no stranger to big ideas. His bio describes him as An avid philosophical-spiritual influencer and surfer, who currently leads an indie-warehouse California beach church, where he dreams and works for a better world. This is a guy who wants to peel back the skin of things, who isn't afraid of messy or complicated faith. You can see all of those influences in The Blackberry Bush, though at times they seem convoluted or contrived.

The novel's narrative seems clear enough as we are taken through the lives and struggles of two young people whose family history is powerfully-- and tragically-- linked.

Two babies—Kati and Josh—are born on opposite sides of the world at the very moment the Berlin Wall falls. You’d think such a potent freedom metaphor would become the soundtrack for their lives, but nothing could be further from the truth. Despite his flawless image, Josh, an artistic and gifted California skateboarder, struggles to find his true role in the world, and his growing aggression eventually breaks him.

Kati, a German with a penchant for classic Swiss watches and attic treasure-hunting, is crushed with disappointment for never being “enough” for anyone—most especially her mother. Craving liberation, Kati and Josh seem destined to claim their birthright of freedom together. After all, don’t the “chance” encounters transform your life…or are they really chance?

For all its compelling ideas, both fictional and philosophical, and for its compelling characters, The Blackberry Bush stumbles in its execution. Too many plot elements are over-compressed so that key events of the story lack the weight the reader knows they are meant to carry. I especially found this true for Josh in one scene which he is shown committing an act of betrayal without any preceding scenes to develop his motivation for such sudden aggression. Show don't tell could be a rule this author takes more closely to heart. As compelling and vibrant as his characters are, I kept wanting more of them....to see in greater detail their lives and struggles, to go through those struggles with them and experience their sorrow and joy.

But the author's heart clearly is more for the ideas behind his narrative than the fictional narrative itself. He frequently interjects theological musing-- even to the detriment of the narrative-- as if desperately trying to get us to see the tapestry of ideas that he sees and is trying to communicate to us. This is a trap of many "theological novels". What gets more attention-- the Big Ideas or the characters and situations in which those ideas are played out? Housholder does an admirable job of attempting balance, and of addressing issues relevant to today's culture, but his success is mixed. At times I felt I was reading an elongated sermon illustration rather than a novel. Aspects of his attempts to identify with modern culture felt forced, as did the suddenly optimistic ending, though this could have been a product of the overall compression of the narrative.

Taken as a whole, The Blackberry Bush is worth reading. Housholder's heavy emphasis on the impact of family on the shaping of a young person's life will generate plenty of discussion, as will his ideas on the soft relentlessness of grace. I will be interested to see what ideas he chooses to explore in his next novel, and applaud his willingness to challenge the Christian fiction art form.

The Blackberry Bush may be purchased on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. For more information on David Housholder, check out his blog at Robinwood Church

Labor Pops

The temperature is hovering in the 90s and I have popsicles on the brain. This summer I've been adventurous and experimented with making my own. Since tonight is the last night of my birth class, I thought I'd post this simple recipe for Labor Pops. Popsicles are a great way to keep up energy during labor so why not get the most bang for your pop by throwing in a few labor-specific ingredients?

Baby M isn't due until August so I have not tested these and can't tell you whether or not they work but in my mind anything that comes as a popsicle can't be all bad.

This recipe is not my own. I found it at Hakima Midwifery. The original blog post also included a recipe for lactation cookies....check it out to boost your milk supply and satisfy your sweet tooth.

You'll need:

1-2 oz dried red raspberry leaf tea
1 quart water
Quart size jar with lid
Honey and lemon to taste
2-3 1 mg calcium tablets
Ice tray

To make the labor pops, steep 1-2 ounces of red raspberry leaf in a quart of water for at least 20 minutes up to four hours. Strain and sweeten with lots of honey and lemon; these will add much needed calories and lemon can help ease nausea (as well as the red raspberry leaf tea). Crush the calcium tablets and add to the tea. Calcium is a muscle relaxant and can help with some aches and pains during labor. Pour the mixture into the ice tray. When labor commences, eat throughout labor.

Addendum: The blog article shows them on sticks like regular popsicles but you could use a popsicle mold or just pour them into an ice cube tray and suck on the ice cubes.

Stay cool, all you mamas in waiting!

Don't Forget Your Moan

She was angry. Or hurting. Or tired. Or tense. Or all of the three at once-- after all, an almost-two woman is still a woman. I was tired, heavy with the baby in my belly and the weariness of the day, and out of ideas. The bedroom was dark but for the low light of the night lamp. This was supposed to be a peaceful time. We had nursed. We had snuggled. We'd sung Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and Hush Little Baby. We'd nursed some more. I'd rubbed feet, kissed her forehead, smoothed her hair. Still she fretted. “Mama, mama, I'm crying. I'm crying.”

After forty-five minutes I felt we'd established that point already but she insisted on saying it over and over again. Her face scrunched and flushed, her movements restless and petulant.At last I sat up at the edge of her mattress and pulled her into my lap, her head resting over my heart.

“Mama, I'm crying. Crying. Mama. Mama.”

For five years I'd soothed little ones. Why wasn't it working this night? I'd done everything and yet nothing changed.

I listened to her whimper, to her moan, and my mouth opened. I moaned with her, a soft low rumble in my throat and chest. She stopped, but only for a moment before returning to her troubles. I moaned again, following her. And again. For a few minutes, all I did was hold her and share in whatever troubles she was trying to voice. I didn't try to comfort her, or get her to stop, or convince her she was okay. I just moaned with her. After only a few minutes, she quieted. Another few more and she was asleep on my chest.

In preparation for labor, I was taught how to “moan, groan, and sigh.” That the raw and fierce energy of birthing could not be ignored, or diminished by outside distractions-- at some point you had to wade out into it and surrender. You opened your mouth and you moaned. You let it wash over you.

Mothers need to remember how to do that. So much of the advice given new parents seems to focus on how to manage babies-- how to make sure they are pooping and sleeping enough and not crying or clinging too much. And yes, we need to know how to care for our little ones in the best and most kind manner possible. In my five years of mothering, my breasts and my baby sling and my bed had proven powerful tools for nurturing and soothing. But sometimes they aren't enough. Sometimes nothing is enough. Sometimes you simply have to enter into your child's tears and stand with them. Moan with them.

When my oldest entered the world, to a chaotic delivery and a rookie mama, she cried. A lot.

I remember one night, after my first few days of sleep deprivation, when after a particularly painful-- and unproductive-- nursing attempt, I ran from my baby. I set her down by her father and fled to the bathroom corner in tears. She wouldn't sleep. She couldn't eat because the induction had delayed my milk supply. She wailed no matter what I did. My husband followed me into the bathroom, holding my newborn girl, and held her out to me. Take your baby, he said, quietly.

I remember looking at her and thinking distinctly that new babies rather resemble some alien life form, foreign and potentially hostile.

Take your baby.

I took my baby.

I started to learn how to mama moan. How to stay present, even when all the right things have been done and all the right things have failed and the sheer force of a baby's wailing seems strong enough to rip sheet metal. I learned how to look at my baby's cry not as an adversary to be conquered but an experience to be entered. Like labor, you have to wade out and hold on.

I am pregnant again, with my third child, and I expect to moan and groan and sigh plenty during the birthing. I expect joy, and ecstasy, and pain, and surrender, and strength. I also by now expect those emotions to last long past the delivery; in fact I am convinced they are bound around every mother's heart. The anguish and triumph and just plain hard work of birthing a baby is just a preparation for the years of mothering that baby.

Love your little one. Do all you can to comfort them and soothe away the thorny places in life. And when that comfort seems thin, when the thorny places poke through anyway, don't forget your moan.