a lipstick wearing love

some thoughts about God's love and my late grandmother

Happy Almost Mother’s Day to all the dear wild & motherly subscribers!¹

I was telling some friends that I feel like I have become even more Southern in the last eight months. My speech patterns, my personality, my cooking, etc.

There are things I suddenly find myself doing that I don’t quite understand.

For instance - I had a sudden epiphany that Azalea Bloom didn’t have any little hair elastics! How will we keep hair bows in her hair? It was an emergency. I immediately got on Amazon to order some. Some part of my brain couldn’t compute the reality of having her in a cute outfit unless there was a bow or headband or some other cute hair accessory to complete the ensemble.

And now - when I am going out and trying to look nice, I always stop and put on a little lipstick. I have never, ever, in my life been a stop before going into a room to touch up your lipstick person. I was a maybe wear tinted lip balm if I remember sort of person.

…

But now, as I get ready, I hear the voice of my grandmother ring loud and clear - “what about her lipstick?!”

my namesake

My middle name is a bit unusual. I haven’t met anyone with the same middle name, nor do I think I am apt too. It’s beautiful. It’s French, but the Southern dialect has rather butchered it. I remember being in a linguistics class and hearing the proper pronunciation for the first time and realizing that there was an entire cemetary of Southerners that would be very surprised if they heard the proper pronunciation.

Anyways - I inherited my middle name from my paternal grandmother, called Memaw. I am passing it down to my daughter. I want her to feel that she has a heritage, one both spiritual and historical so her name comes from a saint and from our family history.

Memaw was born in Central Georgia. She had several siblings, some of whom I was blessed to meet. She was a single mother, at least for the first eight years of my dad’s life. Her first husband left her when her son (my daddy) was just a baby. We don’t really know what or why. The story is somewhat shrouded. One explanation was that her first husband was either a CIA agent or related field worker. He traveled much, and he wasn’t interested in family life.

She raised my dad for eight years, living with her dad (my great grandaddy). My dad loved his grandaddy. He loved being surrounded by his many cousins. Then, when he was eight years old, Memaw remarried and their family moved to Texas. It wasn’t an easy marriage, nor was my dad’s stepdad the sort he had hoped for as a wide eyed little boy. He wanted a daddy, but his stepdad was well… not always kind.

By the time I was born, my Pop (Memaw’s second husband) had become a different sort of man. I don’t know that he and my dad were ever quite easy with one another, but I grew up with him as a doting grandpa.

And I grew up with Memaw. She passed away when I was seven or eight, but I still have vivid memories of her.

She always dressed like a lady. She wore pastels and florals and lace. She wore wigs that she styled nicely. She had her perfume and her makeup. I remember gazing at her vanity tray with wonder. So many delicate diaphanous glass bottles of creams and powders and the like. She was the one who helped me stop biting my nails. She taught me that ladies don’t bite their nails, and promised to take me to the beauty parlor if I could be a good girl about it. That was quite the motivation for me!

She was also wheelchair bound by the time I remember her. In spite of that, she was feisty. She could tease and joke better than the best of them. I remember her as a woman of joy, in spite of her circumstances. She also, when I was born, apparently was quite delighted to have a granddaughter. She and my maternal grandmother often would try and outdo each other on buying me the more frivolous girly ensembles. My dad said that my mom liked to egg them on, showing up with me in an outfit the other grandmother had bought. My mom denies this. I don’t know that Memaw would have needed much encouragement in this department. She was a spitfire that would not have liked to have been shown up.

She was a faithful Christian. I remember crawling in her lap or sitting on the floor beside her wheelchair, watching her write down prayers requests and grocery lists with a pen with a little gold angel on its cap. She was the woman who led my maternal grandmother to Christ, visiting her even though they were both sick at the time. She was a Southern Methodist through and through, a lover of ordered worship and stained glass windows.²

And - she was Southern. Deeply, deeply Southern. She was a Crisco using, red-eye gravy and biscuits eating, bless your heart, and don’t let us ever be caught being tacky variety of Southern.

I loved her. So very much. I like to think she would be proud of the woman I’ve become.

This meme describes the exactly two lipsticks I own:

Cinderella’s lipstick

My grandparents house was a wonderland of chocolate milk and original Disney movies. Memaw and I especially loved to watch Cinderella (1950). I still love that film, thanks in large part to her influence. She even bought me several Cinderella coloring books. One day, I sat on the floor beside her coloring. I made the dress the perfect shade of icy blue, and her hair the same golden blonde of my own. I held up my artwork and told Memaw it was all done.

“Goodness gracious! What about her makeup?” Memaw exclaimed in mock horror. “What about her lipstick?! And she needs a little rouge, honey.”

Obediently - I sat down and carefully as a six year old can, colored in lipstick and eyeshadow and rouge. Cinderella looked much livelier after these additions. Memaw beamed with pride. She told me how beautiful the two of us were.

But I never forgot it. Strange the things you remember. Now, as I get ready, especially for church, I hear her voice ring out about my lipstick. You had to wear a dress and lipstick on Sunday mornings at her church. Now - I doubt that anyone would notice (and certainly they wouldn’t care if they did) that I wasn’t wearing lipstick and a dress at my church.

But still - I can imagine her watchful stare. So yes, even on mornings we are running late, I throw a lipstick in my bag to use during one of the many stoplights between my house and our church.³

what sort of single mother do you want to be

I never knew Memaw as a single mother. But I heard stories of her time. I have no memories of her as healthy. But I heard stories, saw picture of her time.

There are things I want to glean from her life and bring into my own. Her sense of humor, her love of family, and her lipstick wearing. It says something theologically to to put on lipstick and pretty clothes when you’re stuck in a wheelchair.

It says I am still beautiful. Even bruised and debilitated, she still believed she was beautiful, and still put a little effort into living out that reality. Even as a single mother, she still wore her hair beautiful by the standards of the time - blown out and huge like a beehive. It took effort to keep this hairstyle looking pretty, but she still invested the time in herself.

She had a confidence in her worth and value. Those things could have been lost by her husband’s abandonment, could have been lost by her chronic pain and illnesses. But she refused to let them go. While part of this was probably the steel of a Southern woman’s backbone, a larger part was her faith. It had seen her though many difficult things, and even though she wrestled with it at times, she held it fast, and she let herself be held fast by God.

So… when I put my lipstick on, I remember that even though my story isn’t what I imagined, even though it has been fraught with abuse, abandonment, and chronic illnesses, I am still beautiful.

In God’s eyes.

He has never seen me as anything other than his beloved.

As I contemplate how I want to mother, especially as I prepare to welcome Azalea Bloom, I realized that I don’t want to lose this fact. In the wake of Little Man’s arrival, I lost myself for awhile. It seemed unavoidable. I tried at first to carve out little moments of time and places of space that reminded me that I was God’s beloved… but it slipped away. I was drowning in a sea of someone else’s resentment, anger, and selfishness, all while desperately trying to keep my precious baby safe. My body and soul were crushed, and I lost my sense of worth and beloved-ness.

I would try and rally at times - try to have small rituals that connected me back to God’s love. But between the demands of a newborn, the pressure of my own illnesses, and the forces of darkness that were swirling in our home - I kept sinking.

This postpartum period and new season of motherhood - I want to cling, like Memaw did, to her sense of worth and beloved-ness in God. I want, even if the house more or less falls apart around us, to still have the peace and safety that comes from knowing that we are resting in his care and devotion.

I want, even amid weeks where no one has slept, to wake up and put on some lipstick and smile about all the chaos because not one sleepless night, spilled ounce of milk, dirty diaper explosion, or flare of chronic illness can separate me from God’s love.

knowing we are loved leaves marks

I think this is one of the most important things I can give my children, this abiding in God’s love, this remembering of the worthiness he imparts.

Because - when we know we are loved we leave a mark on others.

A few weeks ago at church, Little Man was wiggling about. I was trying to hold him captive during the very last song. I looked at him and felt such love and amusement at his antics that I cuddled him close and kissed him soundly on his little cheek.

It left a perfect rosy lip stain. I was going to rub it off, but he twisted away. For the rest of the day, he just wore this lipstick mark. It’s a soft, natural color, so I’m not sure anyone else noticed. But I knew it was there. And he could feel it too, I’m sure. He’s a toddler, so he doesn’t really care if he has well… anything on his face. Dirt, jelly, cheese, peanut butter, lipstick - it doesn’t matter to him.

But it matters to me. That kiss mark was a sign of my love, and it lingered on him the whole day, and I could only give it to him because I had taken the time to first recognize my own beloved-ness, my own worthiness.

So often motherhood can leave you feeling like you are pouring from an empty jar. You give of yourself so deeply it hurts.

This isn’t the way we are meant to give. We are meant to give from the fullness of God’s abundant care and tenderness, his never-ending patience. And we can only do this if we have first taken the time to receive it ourselves.

So today - think about the little liturgies, the small rituals that remind you of God’s adoration of you. Maybe it’s watching the jackrabbits in the yard, or making a cup of tea even if you know you won’t get to drink it, or putting on a little lipstick, or listening to a certain song. But find those actions, those words, those moments that you can feel God’s intimate care and stay with them.

It is so much easier said then done. When it feels like you are drowning in motherhood, someone telling you to take even thirty seconds to reflect on God’s love can feel like an impossibility. As I said, I lost this sense as a first-time mother. I am still working to reclaim my identity as the beloved and worthy daughter of God. I don’t have a great answer. I suppose my encouragement and hope going into this new season is that even if all I can do is roll my eyes heavenward as I change a diaper, or apply lipstick at a red light, or gaze at my baby’s hand in wonder for half a second - that’s more than enough. It is more than enough time for me or you to feel God’s presence. God’s heart is brimming over with tenderness, and if we are open to it, we will find that he insists on pouring it out even in the tiniest, most unexpected of moments.

1. Including to the exactly three men who subscribe. You are seen and appreciated.

2. A Southern Methodist of the pre-2000s theological shift.

3. Bright colored lipsticks before late afternoon are ‘tacky.’