Dictionary.com defines rosacea as “a chronic form of acne affecting the nose, forehead, and cheeks, characterized by red pustular lesions.” To you and me, that translates to “zits.” But they aren’t zits in the regular sense. These breakouts don’t have anything to do with oily skin or dirt. They have everything to do with inflammation. So my little pre-soaped towelettes were actually aggravating the inflammation. They were not helping my skin at all.

That was about six years ago. I’ve done a lot of research and experimenting, and I’ve finally hit on the treatment that keeps my skin clear:

1. No foaming cleansers. Not any brand. The chemicals that are used to create the foam are too harsh, and they further inflame irritated skin. Dove makes a cream cleanser, as do Olay, Philosophy, and most major skin care lines. Cetaphil is another perfectly acceptable cream cleanser. Just check the label carefully to make sure the cleanser you select is non-foaming.

2. No toners of any kind. Doesn’t matter if they are alcohol-free. Do not use them. They are not for you.

3. Do not think that you need to use cleanser on your face every day. Most days, I just rinse off with water and use makeup remover. I only use cleanser about once a week. Remember, rosacea has nothing to do with dirt. If you can leave your face alone, you are better off!

4. I take one Omega 3-6-9 capsule daily. This is a pretty good anti-inflammatory. (Omega 3, by itself, doesn’t cut it. It needs to be the 3-6-9.) If I am a little broken out, I will also take L-lysine. You can get both of these at any pharmacy or most grocery stores. And if I’m a little broken out and have an event coming up, I’ll take an Alleve in the mornings for a couple of days. That, however is VERY occasional.

5. And here’s the Bam! I learned this from the People’s Pharmacy website. I use Milk of Magnesia on my face twice a day. Yes, you read that right. Just get the original MoM, shake it up and put a few drops on a cotton ball or pad, and pat it over the affected area. Leave it on until it dries. (This only takes a minute or two.) It will leave a white residue. Then put your regular moisturizer on top of the MoM. The residue will disappear under the moisturizer.

I got a small squirt bottle and transferred the MoM into that, because the mouth of the MoM bottle is pretty wide, and using a squirt bottle gives me better control.  Also, make sure, when you shake that original bottle, that the lid is on tight.  Otherwise, you will have MoM all over your bathroom!

The second morning after I started applying the MoM, I said to my mirror, “You have got to be kidding me.” I couldn’t believe something so simple and so cheap would work so well. But it does.  I am 55 years old, and people regularly compliment me about my skin.  The magnesium apparently has anti-inflammatory properties. The People’s Pharmacy site says it also works for acne, eczema and poison ivy. I will probably be trying that last one this summer.  Sigh!  But that’s another blog.

Here’s a link to my new book trailer:  http://youtu.be/-kOpmGv217k

Our dad was a gentle man, patient, principled, respectful of others. He loved our mother completely. He raised us to be thoughtful, to be still, and to look beyond the surface. Our grandfathers were also both men of integrity, clear-sighted, committed to their families and to their faith. Thanks to them, I knew what it was to feel loved and welcomed. Our uncles followed in their steps, continuing the legacy, and adding – at least for me – an element of play. My uncles were, and are, a lot of fun.

I married a good man. Here words fail. Maybe I should say I married the best man. He’s been my friend and lover for better than thirty years. He’s prayed over me, played with me, set me straight, and made me laugh.

When I married him I got a wonderful father-in-law, a couple of great brothers-in-law, and various uncles thrown into the mix. And when my sister married, I got yet another terrific brother-in-law.

Then there have been spiritual fathers and brothers – and some sons, too, both here and abroad. These men have been steady beacons pointing us to Christ, setting examples of fearless devotion, commitment and love – a kind of wildness in their faith – all generously sprinkled with humor.

What an embarrassment of riches! These have been men who know how to work and how to wait. They understand when to act and when to step back. They don’t have to talk much, but when they do, you know you’ll get the unvarnished truth – or at least an unvarnished opinion. I have always enjoyed the company of men, and now I know why. None of them has ever given me reason not to.

For all you men out there who love your wives and kids, who work hard and play hard, thank you. For those of you committed to faith and family, who are passionate about life and determined to make the best of it for the ones you love, you have my admiration and gratitude. This world is a better place because you’re here

It was all worth it.  I knew it was — in my head.  But the Lord moved the knowing down to my heart the day we left for Kenya.

It was all worth it — the morning sickness, aching back, pinched nerves, pummeled bladder, labor three times.

It was all worth it — the poopy diapers, sleepless nights, spit-up in my hair, ear infections.

It was all worth it — the tantrums, wrestling with high chairs and car seats, the potty training and just plain old training.

And then there were skinned knees, gashed foreheads, lots of trips to the emergency room, broken bones.

It was all worth it — T-Ball and soccer, swim team and football, Tae-Kwan-Do, art lessons and piano lessons, the driving around, picking up and dropping off, teacher conferences and homeschooling — and one unexpected and undeserved visit from CPS.

It was worth it — driver’s ed, anger, angst, heartbreak and backtalk.  More tantrums and slammed doors.  And, one by one, watching them leave home.  Worth it.  So worth it.

Three of our kids were home that Sunday and they came to church with us.  We went forward, as a family, for communion just as the congregation began singing “Be Thou My Vision.”  Our youngest urged us to circle up so she could pray for us.  With her prayer rising like incense to the Throne, with that wonderful hymn thundering in my ears, with the wine and bread inside me and my children’s arms around my shoulders, all I could do was stand and weep for joy.

Others gathered around us to bathe us in loving prayer, and the Spirit of God burst alive in me afresh.  It was like being kissed on the face.  Heaven kissed my face.

A little later, someone asked me if I was ready for Kenya, and I said, “I am now.”

And it was worth it.

For the new book, My Name is Falon, the editors wanted me to write a biographical blurb for the dust jacket.  In that blurb, I made the statement that I was a “Texas woman” and that my “roots in the Lone Star State” went back several generations.  But later on, when the whirlwind of jacket design settled, I started asking myself what I meant by that.  I’ve heard others say (with some pride) “I am a Texas woman,” but what does it mean?

If all being a Texas woman means is that we’re females born in this state, or even that our ancestors were, how does that distinguish us from anyone else? Is it just geography?  Wearing a hat and boots?  Sporting a “Native Texan” sticker on the bumper of the F-150?  I doubt it. These are just trappings. (Though I do love my Nocona’s!)  So what is a Texas woman?  I gave it some thought and came up with a list:

1.  When the going gets tough, a Texas woman gets going.  She rolls up her sleeves and does what has to be done.  If there’s nothing that can be done, she grits her teeth and rides it out.

2.  A Texas woman does not whine. Or, if she does, she has the good grace to feel bad about it later.  Instead, she counts her blessings because, Lord knows, things could always be worse.

3.  Texas women say “ya’ll” and “fixin’ to” without apology.  They ain’t squeamish about “ain’t”, and they aren’t afraid to end a sentence with a preposition — as in: “Which shop ya’ll fixin’ to go in?”

4.  A Texas woman is hospitable.  Texas is the “Friendship” state, and its women are happy to open their homes and hearts to others.

5.  That said, Texas women do not suffer fools gladly.  If you’re fixin’ to act like a doofus around a Texas woman, you can expect her to yank you up by the short hairs and set you straight.

6.  Texas women love rain.  They do not complain when it’s wet for more than two days in a row.  They understand we need every drop we can get.

7.  A Texas woman is honest — unless she’s talking age, weight, or hair color.  She’ll give you the unadorned skinny on things as she sees them.

8.  A Texas woman helps.  Helping is programmed into her DNA from way back when her pioneering ancestors had to pull each other along to survive.  So she’ll come early and help set up, and she’ll stay late to tear down.  She’ll bring a casserole, a box of Kleenex, a bottle of wine, or a baseball bat — whatever is needed.

9. Finally, a Texas woman is a woman of faith.  What I mean by this is that she understands that she is part of something bigger than herself.  The sun will come up tomorrow, and she’ll press on.

For all you Texas women out there, I am humbly grateful to be in your company.  For you yellow roses who have been transplanted in other places — bloom!  Take the best of home and make your corner of the world a better place.  And for you new ladies, those who are visiting, or who have moved here — welcome.  I hope you’ll make a place for us in your hearts as we try to make a place for you in ours.

What makes a person a writer? Innate talent? Publication? Publicity?

I’ve been to a number of writers’ conferences, and it seems that many of the attendees seem to believe that they need all of the above, or at least two out of three, in order to properly call themselves writers.  I used to think so myself.
Truth is, it’s much simpler than that.

Teachers teach. Painters paint. Brick layers lay brick. Woodchucks chuck wood. Writers write. This is the one and only distinction that separates a writer from a non-writer, or a would-be writer.

Do you write?

People tell me all the time, “I have the coolest idea for a story.” And they proceed to lay it out (the ones, that is, who aren’t afraid I’ll steal their ideas!) But when I ask them if they have started writing any of that magnificent idea, equivocation raises its ugly head. “Well, I….

….don’t have time. ….haven’t figured out how to start. ….haven’t figured out how the story ends. ….am working on something else right now.” On and on go the reasons why they don’t write.

I understand that. Writing is work. I think most people who say they want to write actually want to have written. Like those dear readers who turn to the last page first to make sure the story has a happy ending, they want to skip to the end. But you can’t get there from here. You have to plant your tail in a chair and put pen to paper, or pinkies to keyboard. I have had a number of students who had wonderful innate talent, but getting them to actually write (and turn in their assignments) was like herding cats. They’d do just about anything — except write.

Just because a person is published doesn’t make him or her a writer. Some of the best selling books out there were not written by the people whose names grace the cover. Doctors, self-help gurus, talking heads, and pols of all stripes crank out books. The bookstores are full of them.  But those folks (with very few exceptions) actually write their own books.  They, or their publisher, hire ghostwriters.  The ghostwriters do the work of writing, but often aren’t even acknowledged anywhere in the book.

As for being known, for having a publicity machine — well, that’s nice, but it has nothing to do with whether you are a writer or not.  Publicity is a necessary evil for the sales of books, but the presence of the machine is not a symptom of writerliness.  (New word.) Neither is its absence a symptom that writing has not taken place.

Do you write?  You’re a writer.  Period.  Talented or not. Published or not.  Recognized or not.

So here’s a challenge.  If you’re a writer, accept that and move forward.  Take a class.  Subscribe to a writers’ magazine.  Go to conferences.  Learn the craft.  Submit your work to contests.  Don’t sweat all that other stuff.  What have you got to lose?  If you love to write, do what you love, and don’t give ground to naysayers — even those dearly beloved naysayers who share your house.  And for heaven’s sake, when you’re at the conference, don’t walk around looking desperate because you’ve been told the odds of being accepted by royalty publishers are against you.  They are against you.  Write anyway!
If you’re a not-yet writer — what are you waiting for?