Fashion Series

Image courtesy of Fotolia
Courtesy of Fotolia

I began to hear whispers on Friday morning at camp. The boys had created the infallible Top Ten Hottest Girls List. I knew in my heart of hearts that I wouldn’t be at the top of that list…

But I wasn’t prepared that I wouldn’t be on it at all.

Y’all. There were eleven girls at camp. I didn’t make the list.

I don’t tell you this story to make you feel sorry for me. Oh trust me, I’m not hurting over here, now married to my hot swedish man… who clearly put me at the top of the list when we met a few years later.

I’m telling you this because I know what it’s like to be an ugly duckling. And I want you to know… it doesn’t have to last forever.

In fact, you can start making changes today. 

And I can help.

So stay tuned for my new series on fashion and How to Get on the Top 10 Hottest Girls List.

Or something like that.

Or maybe just how to love and accept yourself a little more… because… and this is a hint of things to come: confidence speaks louder than words.


Friday’s Flashback: The Lord of the Ringlets


I’ll admit – it isn’t easy being married to a curly-haired boy. In the words of one redheaded girl, “Everybody hates people with naturally curly hair”.

If I was the redheaded girl, I would have rephrased it. I would have said, “Everybody hates the girl who’s married to the boy with the naturally curly hair”.

I don’t know what it is, but curly hair causes insanity in women. The moment they see ringlets they lose their minds.  I know this from experience.

I also know this from observation.

Every time I go out with my boy I have to flash my wedding band at women. I hope they’ll pick up on small social cues like the fact that my husband is making out with me.

Yesterday even those small social cues failed. It was my own fault. I let my guard down.

McDonald’s felt like a safe place. The woman was pushing a walker. I was pretty sure she was the type of lady I’d like to adopt as a great-grandmother.

Until she started hitting on my husband.

“You don’t like him any, do you?” she asked – as if she really wanted to know. (Who were the police going to believe in this cat fight? Something tells me they’d side with the woman with the walker.)

I had no choice but to let her continue. When she finally finished her string of come-ons, she patted me on the butt and walked away.

Yes, me. On the butt. Miss Personal-Space. Miss Don’t-Touch-Me-Unless-You’re-My-Husband. Or should I say Mrs. Married-To-The-Guy-You-Just-Hit-On?

Come to think of it, maybe I have something to be grateful for. She had not patted him on the butt.

Good thing for her, or I would have had use my superpowers to overcome the dark, dark evil. Walker or no walker – you don’t mess with the Lord of the Ringlets.


Friday features vintage post. This was written in 2010.


1381809_10151984334617556_155816862_nBekah Hamrick Martin is a national speaker and the author of The Bare Naked Truth: Dating, Waiting & God’s Purity Plan (Zondervan, 2013). Most of all, she’s Ethan’s wife and Zoey’s mom.

Writers’ Wednesday: Taking Care of You

renewed_lucille_zimmermanI’ve never read a book three times within seven months… until now.

This is the second time in 2014 alone that I’ve rereadRenewed.

I’ve never met the author (but we’re Facebook friends–does that make me awesome?!), yet I feel like she knows me.

My exhaustion. My thin moments. My frantic scrambling to get it all together…

{Continue reading on Scribble Chicks…}


Monday’s Muse: So I’m High-Maintenance.

MP900404922“I hope American men appreciate the fact that we women shave upwards of 60% of our bodies in order to be socially acceptable.”

I posted the above on Facebook recently, and was told by several people that I am (and I quote) “an overachiever”.

I would gladly concede, except, no one wants to see what would happen if I stopped any part of my daily grooming routine.

Some people don’t have to try to be socially acceptable. They were born that way.

For instance, as I was curling my hair (an hour long procedure) in front of the mirror recently, my husband said, “Oh. When I want my hair to look like that, I just stick it under the faucet.”

Okay, Mr. Elijah Wood–not everyone was born with naturally thick, curly hair.

Upkeep as a plain brunette woman can be exhausting. There are manicures, tweezers, pedicures, volumizing, taming, plucking, coloring, and of course… red heels.

So yes, friends, while I would love to forgo shaving every day, I’d also like to do other things… like become a medical doctor. Overnight.

Some things are just impossible. That’s why God invented the razor.

Writers’ Wednesday: What Type of Organized Are You?

organizationI decided I’d get the workout endorphins going when I turned around and discovered someone had organized my bedside table.

A two-year-old someone.

{Have no fear. The prescription bottle was empty.}

I have a feeling this little girl is going to organize my life. And it scares the mess out of me.

{Continue Reading by Clicking Here.}

I signed up for a baby, not a 2-year-old

1381809_10151984334617556_155816862_nI signed up for a baby, not a two-year-old.

 I wanted the snuggles and the late-night feedings and the smell of newborn skin.

 I got the “no!”’s and the spaghetti splattered wall and the smell of sour morning binkie breath.

I’m not sure when it happened, but that tiny little late-night snuggler turned on me.

She started having an opinion and sharing it openly, most often in very public places where strangers stared and grandmas shook their heads. 

I’m not sure why I’m writing this in past tense. I’m talking about life now… today… at this moment. 

I signed up for a baby, not a two-year-old.

But you know what? Every morning when that baby-turned-two-year-old wakes me up, she snuggles that little curly head into my shoulder and as I breathe in that sour morning binkie breath, I wonder how I made it through life without her.

Someone said once that being a mother is like having your heart walk around outside your body.

Now if I can just get my heart to quit screaming in public…

The Hoarder

boxes_bingWe moved two weeks ago and my house still looks like Hoarders filmed an episode here. Or two. Or three.

Every time I think about adding a Christmas tree to the chaos I want to cry.

“Don’t worry,” I told Ethan the first day we unloaded the truck. “Give me three days max and everything will be settled.”

The only thing that’s settled is the dirt.

I failed to equate one thing into this fourth move of our marriage (in six years): this time there is a toddler.

Unpacking is the greatest game ever to a two-year-old. The moment I unload a box, she repacks it. With most of the items I just unpacked.

Maybe I’ve been playing the wrong angle for the past two weeks. Maybe I should be grateful for the help. Maybe I should just hand her a roll of wrapping paper and tell our friends and family these gifts are from the baby. (Who can turn away a gift from a child?)

Yeah, this may be the fastest way to unpack. And the best way to keep the Hoarders documentary crew out of my house…

My Arms, Your Home

I still remember the moment we fell in love with this place… the front porch hanging low under the shade trees… the tiny fireplace nestled inside the big living room… the sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows, dancing on the walls.

We knew this was home, and we knew this is where we would have our children. That’s what we hoped… though neither of us dared breathe those words out loud.

Eight months later we discovered our miracle was on the way. We carried her through that door and I watched as you walked her around the giant living room with the tiny fireplace, telling her this was her home, where she would always be warm… and safe… and wanted.

We paced the wide, wooden floors for months, hushing, quieting, singing. Eventually the pacing gave way to the sound of two tiny feet; first a slow start and then a sprint of thump, thump, thumps…the most beautiful noise we had ever heard.

We will be leaving this place, the place we love, in just a few weeks.

The low front porch where we first carried her, the fireplace where we sat with her, the light-filled kitchen where every new day brought hope that there would be another Miracle.

We grieve as we say goodbye to this place; our little Miracle is unsettled at the boxes piled on every side of the living room.

I hear myself whisper in her ear as I pace, our arms are your home… and here you will always be warm… and safe… and wanted…

And I find comfort.

Hello, My Name is Chuck Norris

I’ve been on the Paleo diet for nine weeks now, and apparently the word “Paleo” is Greek for “personality transplant”.

I never knew that inside of me was a repressed runner. Also, a morning person.

In addition, “paleo” has a second meaning: “Eat only items that taste like poop”.

Basically, if the “food” (and I use that word loosely) has enough bacteria to make your colon grow legs and escape your body, by all means, consider eating it.

Fermented foods are especially encouraged. The recipe for fermentation is as follows:

Put water (from the creek in the back yard preferred, toilet optional*), veggies, and salt (according to taste) in a jar. Sit jar on counter for at least six weeks, or until the smell kills the dog.*

Once the fermentation is complete and you have partaken, you will either:

  1. Sleep for six days then wake up as Chuck Norris
  2. Go to the Emergency Room
  3. Run a marathon

In all seriousness, this diet has transformed my life. I went from a chronically fatigued mom to a woman whose toddler begs for “nigh nigh” before I’m ready to wrap up the day.

 Hello: my name is Bekah, and I am not selling any diet products in this column. Unless the cabbage industry is secretly slipping money under the table for me to tell you that sauerkraut is an amazing fermented veggie you can make on your countertop…

*Do not follow this recipe. It is a joke.


Bekah Hamrick Martin is a writer who can be reached at, unless she’s seeing a psychologist for her personality transplant.

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First Impressions vs. Grace

The maxi dress. + The gorgeous sister

I believe in the power of a good first impression. Which is why before I met my publisher’s publicist last week, I shaved my legs. And my upper lip. (This time I even left some eyebrow.)

Also, I bought a new dress, did my nails, and begged my two-year-old not to throw up on, perforate, or otherwise desecrate said new dress.

It was probably too much to ask.

Somehow, I made it to Orlando without one single dress-incident (other than the full-frontal pat-down, courtesy of TSA, thanks to embellishments on my outfit. Good to know they’re keeping the country safe from 98-pound women in maxi-dresses).

I had it all together. Until it was time to actually meet up with the publicist.

At which point I got lost in Universal Studios (turned out I wasn’t even in the park yet), pulled out my cell phone for directions to the meeting, and didn’t notice as my room key and park ticket floated to the ground.

Until I tried to get through the park gate.

Did I mention it was raining?

Nothing like calling your pregnant publicist to come rescue you in a torrential downpour because you have no money and you’ve lost the only belongings she’s asked you to keep track of the entire weekend.

(I cannot make this stuff up.)

I still believe in the power of a good first impression.

I also believe in grace.

So if you’re reading this, dear publicist friend, I thank you for my second chance. Also, thank you for noticing that 98-pound women in maxi-dresses really can take the world by storm.

And if you have any doubts about the truth of that last statement, just consult TSA.


Bekah Hamrick Martin is a writer who can be reached at, unless she’s still detained at
the airport.