January in a Nutshell

Two magical things happened to me on my flight back to France from the states.  First, the woman checking my bags did not look at the scale for my second bag--which was more than five pounds overweight.  I was fully ready to pull out things like the 2lb bottle of good bbq sauce and sadly hand them back to my parents.  But a quick compliment of the woman's hair as I first walked up helped pave the way for her to look everywhere but that scale.  So I was able to bring my bbq sauce and so much more with me.

Then, for the first (and probably only!) time in my life, I was upgraded to business class for the transatlantic portion of my flight!  People have asked me how it happened, and I simply respond: "I asked for it."  First, I asked the Lord.  That's right, I prayed and asked the Maker of Heaven and Earth if He would just bless me with an upgrade so that I could sleep and not hurt my back and just have a sweet little gift from Him.  Then, I asked the ticket man in Chicago if he could, and he politely told me he could for a very large fee.  I told him I'd spent all my money on good bbq sauce and thanks for at least switching me to an aisle seat so that I wouldn't be stuck in the middle for 8 hours.  Then, as I approached the gate, they told me I had a seat change, and this was the change:

It was everything I'd hoped it would be.  I was able to lay out flat.  My back didn't hurt.  I put on the noise canceling earphones and drifted into a sweet transatlantic sleep.  Thank you, British Airways, for blessing a poor American girl.  Thank you, Lord, for answering small ridiculous prayers.

I landed in London for my long layover and met up with thecamelridingcowgirl and her parents.  We went to the town of Windsor.  It was COLD.

That's the castle of Windsor, you know, of royalty fame.  We didn't go to the castle, but popped into a pub just across the street from it that had a lovely fire.  Our plan was to sit and have tea and make plans from there.  We ended up staying for breakfast, then lunch, and just talking the whole day away by that lovely fire.  It was perfect.  Before we knew it, it was time to take me back to the airport to finish my flight home to Marseille.

I was sure I was ruined for jet lag.  See, normally the rule is, stay awake until at least 8pm on the day you arrive.  Get up at a normal morning hour the next day, push through (stay active, if possible), and you should be fine after that.  However, I stayed up until just after midnight that first landing day (it was New Year's Eve, after all!)...and then proceeded to sleep until 2 in the afternoon the next day.  Oops.  Then, because it was New Year's Day, that meant football!!!  I stayed up until 8am the following day watching one thrilling game after another.  It was totally worth it!  On day 3, when I should have been on a normal schedule by then, I slept from 8am to 2pm.  Good golly, I knew my sleep schedule was going to be off for weeks.

But then I left early on Day 4 to go to Italy, where I was able to stay up late every night talking to my friends, and drink great coffee throughout the day to push through and stay awake.  Honestly, I only had one night where I was awake when I didn't want to be.  And upon to return to France after Italy...no more jet lag.  Somehow those weird first three days worked perfect against jet lag.  Awesome!

My dad lurves tiramisu, and so I sent him a picture of this homemade dessert I had while in Italy, just to let him know I was thinking of him while I ate the best version ever of his favorite favorite.

My dad also loves gelato, even though the stuff labeled that way in America can't even touch the real thing in Italy.  Or as it ought to be named, EATaly.  Love that!  So I sent him this picture, to which he replied that I should be eating tiramisu flavored gelato.  Challenge accepted, Dad!

I was in Turin for some work meetings, but had a free day to go sight seeing with my friends, so we headed off to Aosta.  It was Aowestome.  Obligatory door photo:

Snow on the mountains all around.  Christmas market with a big ole snowman:

Fun times with these two ladies!

Seriously love that door frame on that church!!!

And challenge accomplished, Dad.  He said he could die now that I've accomplished his bucket list, haha.  Please don't die, Dad, just because I ate some tiramisu gelato.

On the train ride back from Italy, the border police got on to check that all was well.  I fell asleep and had a dream that a terrorist came in with a gun and that I was able to dive under my seat and pull the tray over my head to protect myself.  Morbid, I know.  The weird thing is, right about the time of my morbid dream, terrorists marched into the Charlie Hebdo offices in Paris and killed the staff.  As I rode home on the train, I first read of the attacks on Twitter, and then heard everyone in the train car discussing it.

It was a solemn few days while we waited for the police to capture the terrorists, then the second attack happened at the Jewish market, and then the solidarity march a few days later.  Here's a view of the march in Marseille from my window:

There's a lot that could be (and has been) said about those days and after.  I've chosen to keep my opinion and thoughts about it off my blog.  I have said (and will continue to say) that I think Jesus Christ is the answer--He alone brings peace to the nations.  I continue to put my hope, faith, and trust in Him and hope that others will too.

In other (much less important) news... Marseille had one of their infamous trash strikes.  It lasted about a week, maybe a little longer.  While strikes are common here, a trash strike doesn't make much sense (at least to this foreigner), because the trash workers are going to have to pick up that trash at some point.  I guess the strike gives them a few days off?  Anyway, one street decided to make a barricade with their trash so that cars couldn't drive through:

Thankfully, it didn't last as long as the last one that I remember (which was three weeks long and in the fall when it was still hot out so everything rotted and stunk).  Another good outcome of the trash strike: I scored a dumpster dive door!

I was actually by the recycling bins, not the trash dumpsters, when I saw this lovely four pane door just lying on the ground.  I think the recent Mistral winds had caused the door to slam and break the glass.  I made sure it was flat on the ground and with the heel of my boot, I busted out all the rest of the broken glass.  Then I carried it home and up the five flights of stairs since it wouldn't fit in the elevator because it was too tall!  Not sure yet how I'll repurpose it, but it'll be fun once I do!

Add returning to work, and that was my January in a nutshell.  If it weren't for the Paris attacks, I would have said it was a great way to kick off the year!  I'm thankful for such a good month!

My #GoGrayGracefully Campaign

Warning: an embarrassing amount of selfies ahead, and lots of talk about hair.  Basically: a vain post while I try to share something on my heart that I hope isn't vain at all.

Also please note: I in no way judge those who dye their hair, so please don't take what is written below as condemnation or judgement or anything negative.  It is what the Lord has put on my heart for me, and I don't pass it off to others as a rule to follow.  With that said, let's get talking about hair!

I started dying my hair in high school.  I did it for a play I was in, and fell in love with how fun it was to change my hair color.  As I got older and began to have some gray hair, I found that going blonde hid the grays, and so I was blonde for most of my time in France, as seen here:

However, having naturally curly hair (which is thus naturally drier), and living in a climate with lots of sun (which dries the hair), and hard water (which dries the hair), my hair was fried.  Just fried.  It felt like doll hair.  I donated what I could to Locks for Love:

and then asked the hair dresser to dye my hair back to my natural color.  I wanted to see what it would look like if I grew it back out natural.  That was 2010 and this was what it looked like:

Within 4-5 months, I had a couple of inches of white showing at my roots, as you can see in the photo below.  I chose this photo to show the picture of my roots because it also shows a bit of why I have so much gray hair at such a young age: my life is not normal.  Proverbs 16:31 says that "gray hair is a crown of glory; it is gained by a righteous life."  I look at the gray hair in that photo and I see the crown of glory.  By the world's standards, it is not pretty, nor is it appropriate for my age, but as I reflect on the life I've been called to live...I feel like I've earned these gray hairs.  They're a prize that was hard-earned.  Sitting alone as a foreigner around that table with those women so different than me, trying to communicate through two different languages (neither of which was English), was hard.  No runner would give up his hard-earned prize after a race and change it for a "prettier" one that he didn't earn.  Why should I by dying my hair?

That same summer of 2010, I went to a local wedding.  I told my national friends that I wanted to have my hair and make up done like them.  At the salon, I gawked as the girls had their make up done in a way that I have described as so atrocious.  But it was only atrocious to me; to them it was the fanciest beautiful.  God spoke to my heart in the middle of that North African salon and told me that just like their culture found that gaudy make-up pretty, so in His kingdom culture did He find my gray hair beautiful.  The world tells me that young is beautiful and thus gray hair and aging is not.  God tells me that wisdom comes with age and wisdom is beautiful.  Gray hair is a crown of glory and it is beautiful.  I decided in that moment, despite how ridiculous I felt with hot pink and gold make-up, that I would not dye my gray hair.

With the money I saved each month from not dying my hair, I was able to sponsor a child through Compassion International.  It has brought such joy to my heart.  Seriously, I can either afford to give a chance to a better life to this orphan, or I can damage/deep fry my hair so that I fit into what society says I should do.  Easy choice.

Growing out the gray to was not easy.  It started as a white spot right at my roots as seen here (by my part).  I love that rich auburn brown color that my brother and I share in this photo, and I do not love the inch of gray between us.

But, 10 months later, I'd grown out and cut off all the natural-colored dye so that my hair was all my own.  100 % natural and dye-free.  Here brother and I are then, and you can barely see the inch of gray between us.  

The thing was, when I wore my hair curly (natural), the gray color looked so dishwater.  So not a crown of glory.  I was embarrassed by it.

And even when I wore it straight, and the grays blended better with the rest to make it look more highlighted, I still felt old and gray when I was with these young ladies who had gorgeous colored hair.  Or maybe I felt old because one of them compared my gray hair to Mrs. Robinson.

When I went on the Big White Boat, I was mortified by how gray my hair looked.  I really didn't enjoy having my picture taken anymore at all.

I got a haircut while I was home for Christmas of 2012, and hoped that the layers helped blend the gray in the front to look like natural highlights.  At least, that's what it looks like to me here:

I straighten it often.  Something about it being straight helped blend all the colors together better.  (There are so many colors in my hair that Julebug, age 5, looked at it a few months ago, and under careful inspection informed me that my hair was a rainbow, much like My Little Pony.  Well, that'll warm your heart.)

There is the rich auburn brown in the back, but in the front, there's white, blonde, copper red, a few black (thanks, Dad!), and a few of the auburn brown.  Depending on the light, it can look purely white, or blonde, or who knows what.  I'm often asked what made me decide to highlight my hair this way...people are always surprised to learn that it's natural.

And long before Anna from Frozen made it cool, I had a pure white stripe.  It's faded since 2010 (when I earned it), but it's still there.  I can part or roll my hair to show it off.

Eventually, I somehow got past the awkward growing out stage of my gray hair and as it got longer, I just got used to all it's many shades.  I wasn't so shy about my photo being taken as I was back in 2011-2012, as you can see here:

I would even wear it certain ways sometimes to show off my stripes, like when I did this side braid one day.

Well, while I was in the states this Christmas, the time had come again to chop and donate.  Here's the before picture:

And 18 inches later (16.5 of them donated), is the after.  You can see in the mirror that the back of my head is still almost entirely auburn.

But the front is almost entirely...not auburn.  White?  Blondish white?  I have no idea what color to call my hair.

I'm intrigued by how all that touches my face is gray and all the back is not.

Seriously...it's so weird.

And the Frozen stripe is still sort of there, just not as vivid as it used to be.

And the color still looks dishwater when I go naturally curly, unfortunately.  (Also, how awesome is that sweater and scarf?  Go check out The Mint Julep Boutique for more awesome clothes.)

So there's the history behind my decision to stop dying my hair and the emotions that came with growing it out and growing comfortable with it.  When I get asked why I don't dye my hair, I often just quote Proverbs 16:31.  But honestly, there are several reasons.  Here they are:

1.  I want my beauty to be defined by what the Bible says.  In Prov 16:31, it says gray hair is a crown of glory.  In 1 Peter 3:3-4, it says my beauty should not come from expensive hairstyles and other outward adornments, but from doing the will of God.  For me, my gray hair is a physical reminder of a spiritual truth: I live for His will, not my own, and that He's changing me for it from the inside out.  (And in this case, the outside in.)

2.  I want to be a giver.  By not dying my hair, I am able to afford to sponsor a Compassion child, and I am able to have healthy hair to donate to Locks of Love.

3.  I want to be a good steward of what is given to me.  I take care of the other things God has given me (my health, my possessions, my relationships, etc).  And so I want to take care of my hair, and by not dying it I'm not frying it.  It is thick and healthy and strong.

4.  I want to be a witness that shines brightly in this world.  I'm asked often about my hair.  And when I say often, I mean multiple times per week.  Every single time, I have the opportunity to testify about God's grace in my life and my deep love for His Word--deep enough that it led me to obedience in even a small thing like not dying my hair.  Even my very religious friends note how my faith floods into all areas of my life.

I recently saw a video for Dove's new #loveyourcurls campaign, where they encourage women to love their naturally given curls and quit straightening them.  I thought about, "Why not a #gograygracefully campaign?"

There are days when I would love to go back to dying my hair simply for the fun of it.  I still don't love the dishwater gray color when I wear it curly.  But I do love to think that my heart is shining more brightly than a fun color through my sometimes white/sometimes dishwater gray/sometimes blended color hair.  And I trust that God is pleased with it and finds it beautiful.  His opinion is enough for me.