Balmy

My dream life (other than my current one) would have been running a medieval apothecary inside a hollowed-out tree trunk deep in a forest. Yes, like a Berenstain Bear pharmacist during the Black Death. Bundled herbs hanging from the rafters, a mortar and pestle for grinding potions, little bottles to label, and bins and knot holes to organize my supplies in. Combine that with my love of anything miniature and you can guess why I love samples of beauty products.

In truth, I'm the sucker that is funding the beauty industry's empty promises. I continue to invest in lotions, primers, and plumpers that probably aren't doing anything as effective as staying hydrated and sleeping eight solid hours at night. I'm most gullible toward serums. If you are a glass vial with a dropper I will buy you. I can't say no. My apothecary needs you, too.

I was lamenting my aging face to my aunt; a few days later Hope in a Box arrived.

Yes, I'm the odd duck that takes photos of free samples instead of selfies with her husband.

I'm happy to say I have used up every last drop of these. I'm sorry to report that I don't look any younger. But—it was fun while it lasted, and if you can't gamble on the power of a secret African flower's root or the juice from a rare melon's rind what is the point of being 40-something?

I think I have loved the term "balm of Gilead" since I was a kid. What WAS that miracle cream?

The balm of Gilead was an aromatic spice used to heal and soothe, a popularly traded commodity, and always in high demand. It was made from the resin of a bush that grew plentifully in Gilead in Old Testament times and therefore came to be known as “balm of Gilead”.

President Thomas S. Monson said,

There will be times when it appears there is no light at the end of our tunnel or no dawn to a night of darkness. We feel surrounded by the pain of broken hearts, the disappointment of shattered dreams, and the despair of vanished hopes. We are inclined to view our own personal misfortunes through the distorted prism of pessimism. We feel abandoned, heartbroken, alone.

Often we live side by side but do not communicate heart to heart. There are those within the sphere of our own influence who, with outstretched hands, cry out, ‘Is there no balm in Gilead?’ (Jeremiah 8:22). We are the Lord’s hands here upon the earth, with the mandate to serve and to lift His children. He is dependent upon each of us.

There are many of us who don't have it quite as bad as that but the balm doesn't discriminate. It can heal a gaping war wound as well as an accidental paper cut. My needs change daily but it's safe to say I'm in high demand for healing 24/7.

Elaine Jack said, "Wherever we are, we can carry with us a reserve of our balm of Gilead and we can spread it around." She added that receiving the balm of Gilead from someone "inspires us and takes the edge off our problems". As someone with plenty of edges I love that last bit. A little tenderness can make a big stroke.

Add up my love of serums + office supplies + dark chocolate + sleeping in + imported wool yarn + setting a table with china + Oscar Wilde cheese + American Ninja Warrior and you have how much I believe in the balm of Gilead.

The balm of Gilead is the healing power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, the master physician. It is also the healing power of good people who do good things for one another just like Christ would do if he were still here. I get a little dose every day from one angel or another and it makes me prettier than anything I actually apply to my face. I have a healing sphere that trades balm regularly and that is priceless. Some people are bird watchers; I'm a balm watcher. I have hope when I look around. I see a world full of little kindnesses and healers.

Photo quote from the hymn "Lord, I Would Follow Thee" by Susan Evans McCloud (3rd verse)

BEAUTY BONUS! GIFT WITH PURCHASE! I couldn't have made this up if I wanted to. This is how it went at Nordstrom on my birthday last year: 

Me: Hi, where is the Cle de Peau booth? ("Clay duh Poe" is how I pronounced it, like I'm a Texan in France)

Salesman Mica: We don't have one. You need to talk to Daisy.

Me: So you don't sell it? Where is Daisy?

Mica: Over there. In the fur vest. She's busy. You'll have to wait. Everyone waits for Daisy.

---waiting 10 minutes or so----

I meet Daisy, a middle-aged fiery Asian woman with the skin of a baby who mans the Shiseido booth 

Daisy: Hello. How can I help you?

Me: Do you sell Cle de Peau?

Daisy: No, but I get it for you. I get it for lots of people here. Come with me. (Moves to the computer, pulls out a binder with all the CDP item numbers) What you need?

Me: Concealer

Daisy, looking me square in the face and squinting: Caucasian woman only use beige or ivory. Ivory give you raccoon eyes. Beige your color.

Me: Great, I'll take it.

Daisy: You have serum?

Me: What serum?

Daisy: Cle de Peau serum for eyes. If you no have, your concealer no work. No work, no chance. Not on that face. 

Me: Is something wrong with my face? I have eye creams. Even an intense night one. This is the best my skin has ever looked. I just got new makeup.

Daisy: What brand?

Me: Oh, a little of everything. Good stuff.

Daisy: No good. Nothing you doing is right. I take one look at you and could tell you not drinking enough water or using any right products. Utah is ruining your face. You need my products.

Me: Which products? Cle de Peau? Or Shiseido?

Daisy, making a pfffhhhttt sound with her mouth: Shiseido for women who take shortcuts. Cle de Peau for luxurious woman who loves her face. You need Cle de Peau. Their foundation, you need it. You see my face? You see I'm 59? You see anything wrong?

Me: No, you look amazing. But you're also Asian and have different—

Daisy: Don't blame Asian on me! Chinese women can't even believe I'm 59. Not Asian! Cle de Peau does this.

Me: Well how much is the foundation?

Daisy: $250 

Me: No, thank you, I just don't have that kind of money. Even the concealer is a gift from my aunt in California. She mailed me a check for it.

Daisy: California? Oooooh, I work seven years in San Francisco for Cle de Peau before moving here. I know your California aunt. She your father's sister and married a rich man in California? She get everything she want?

Me, blinking in amazement: Kind of. She's very generous. I'll just take the concealer.

Daisy: You work? 

Me: I'm a stay at home mom.

Daisy, snapping her fingers: Ah, darn. If you work I say you deserve it! You pay this off in no time. Hmm. But you no work. Your husband give you anything you want? Tomorrow is Mother's Day. He take care of it?

Me: No, he's already taking care of me. Just the concealer, please.

Daisy: Ok, I order for you but when it comes you drive up here and I show you how to massage face so you not so droopy. You need serum. You sure you don't want serum?

Me: How about I think about it?

Daisy: Fine. Happy birthday. I put sample in your bag. Text my iPhone when you come. Have a nice day.

(Daisy, who felt like a human paintball gun, did know her stuff. Beige is my color. And one tube allegedly lasts a lifetime. So I'm set. Even without the serum.)