Vitamin Date

It's wonderful enough when I get to go on a date with my husband. Really, it is. Last night, we went out with some friends and enjoyed laughter, good food, and freedom for a few minutes. But today, the real vitamin is the sweetness with which I've watched my husband take each of our three kids aside and give them special, one-on-one Daddy time. They blossom under this attention. They thrive on it. I could not be mor epoleased with the man I have married, and I have a feeling that our children are equally smitten with the perfect Dad. I am blessed beyond measure today: blessed as I watch my husband bless our children. Thank You, God, for this gift.

Vitamin Convenience

No frills here: I just feel like listing out the things that truly make my life a picture of ease. In no particular order, they are:

My husband.

The washer and dryer.

Hot showers.

Helpful children.

Christmas tree lights (electric).

Dishwasher.

Garbage disposal.

More than one change of clothes per person.

My crock pot.

My pressure cooker.

Oven and stove.

Sinks with running water (hot and cold).

Computer, phone, internet, TV, radio, CD player, etc.

The postal service.

Caller ID.

Insurance.

Refrigerator and freezer.

Fully stocked grocery stores.

My day planner.

Calendars.

My parents.

Good friends who help with the dishes.

Heat and cooling in the house.

A swimming pool.

Generous family (think, toys for the kids I never would have bought them).

Job security (thank you, US Government).

Four bedrooms.

Toilets ... that flush.

Transportation we can afford.

Thank You, God, for Your bounty!

Vitamin Purge

I dropped off a large load of clothes to Goodwill yesterday. As I pulled in to the donation center, I noted a lumpy, mountainous pile of other people's cast-offs nearly obliterating the building - and I chuckled. Naturally, in the final days of this year, the whole city would decide to purge its possessions at once. And why not? Just as a new year begins, why not empty our closets, our toy chests, our drawers? As everyone knows, it's the perfect time to make a clean break from things we have too long been holding.

So why not empty our luggage as well? Yes, I'm speaking figuratively. Why not identify not only those things we want to do in the coming year (Exercise More! Eat Better!), but those we'd like to discard, as well? Of course. it's far easier to part with a moth-eaten sweater than a treasured, inner habit - but the relief after parting will be proportionate to the agony the habit caused us beforehand. If something no longer serves us well (perhaps it never did in the first place), why not send it out with last decade's frumpy styles? An attitude worn too thin, perhaps? An ugly tendency to complain? My list would be so long it would ruin the positive nature of this post, but you get the idea. Perhaps, before inviting in new habits when we ring in the new year, we would do well to make room for them. This will give the new habits room to flourish and grow.

I'm excited to let go of certain things as I start this new year. They've been cramping my style for too long and - like the items I so gleefully left at Goodwill - they're longer welcome in my life. So long, yesterday's ills. Hello, New Year! I'm now free to welcome you without the distraction of extra clutter - and that is a beautiful thing!

Vitamin Luminate

Luminarias line our driveway

And countless other driveways, city-wide.

They give off a feeble light.
Yellow, muted inside the brown paper bags

in which they sit.

They are tethered to earth by the slightest of things -

a small scoop of sand in each bag. This alone keeps them

from blowing away with each gust Christmas-time wind.

It is enough.

They stay,

stable,

their slender flames not wavering enough

to ignite their paper bags and consume them.

This must have been what it was like for Him.

Long ago.

He did not know it, of course.

For, on the one hand, He was just a baby,

born in a sleepy, anonymous town.

But on the other - on the other hand, He was more.

Humble, yes - rooted to earth, yes.

But possessed of a Power so great that it could have

illuminated His whole surroundings, consumed them

in a glory of flames in one instant.

It did not.

He, like the luminarias, simply stayed lit.

His light looking feeble to many

through the muting lens of this world.

And yet - His light gave with it an invitation.

Like every candle, everywhere, it held warmth.

Come.

Luminarias line my driveway.
They shine, ever so simply, next to the brighter, gaudier, lights of this season:

Lights that need cords, outlets, power.

But in their simplicity,

they attract those who are seeking.

They send out His message, after all -

a message meant for the simple, the humble, the seekers.

Tonight, they have sent it to me.

Vitamin Convention

I dislike pizza.

Yes, it's true. Crazy as I am about many of our edible American traditions (donuts, cheese, and apple pie, for example), the beauty of this one has eluded me. No, I don'd mind the occasional pizza experience. But, for the same reason I rarely gawk at sunsets, I seldom go out of my way to enjoy pizza. Pizza, in a word, has always been too conventional for my independent tastes.

Oh, I can't deny its appeal: The warm, tangy sauce. The colorful toppings. The melty goodness that heated mozerella creates. But even these charms can't resign me to give pizza a place on my "cool" roster. In fact, if the truth must be told, I typically enjoy pizza the most when it ist he furthest from its original (read: Conventional) state.

Thus, this Christmas season, I went out of my way to order pizza for our Christmas dinne that only slightly resembled this great American staple. At the take-out counter, my husband raised his eyebrows when I selected not one, but two oddly-concocted varieties of pizza. One contained sun-dried tomatoes and pine nuts, and the other boasted a white sauce in place of standard red.

What possessed me? The same thing that possesses me each time I think my preferences are bordering on the 'typical' for people in my culture - my peers. There's some wild hair within me that just wont' let me accept 'normal' as somehow all right.

Oh yes. I ordered one token standard pizza for those not enlightened enough to enjoy my higher tastes. But I ordered it grudgingly, without joy. We brought the bright boxes home, stored them in our refrigerator-temperature sunroom (winter in New Mexico has its chilly moments), and forgot about them until the great baking moment on Christmas Day.

The trouble is, we really shouldn't have done that. Apparently, these pizzas contained a mysterious substance that bonded them like hardening concrete to the cardboard in which tehy were packaged. Despite the "they'll be fine!" promises of the establishment from whence they were purchased, these pizzas had become one with their boxes. And now Christmas dinner loomed, a mearer 12-18 minutes away; what were we to do with the pizzas?

Well ... bake them. We reasoned that they might loosen themselves as they baked, and that the problem really wasn't as serious as it appeared - and we reasoned wrong. When the timer gave its cheerful chime and we removed our three small disasters from the oven, they had become large disasters instead.

We poked and we pried. We pushed and we prodded. We eased and we coaxed. And in some cases, we resorted to physical violence to extract our pizzas from their offensive white packaging.

Eventually, we succeeded well enough to salvage three lukewarm piles of crust, sauce, and cheese, and begin our Christmas feast. We enjoyed the meal far more than I might have expected, given the circumstances - but as we ate, I noticed a curious thing: The two pizzas I had bought in my effort to expand our tastes had turned to be the biggest failures. They stood as messy piles of rubble, eaten only out of necessity.

But the one pizza - the boring pizza - had survived its ordeal nearly intact! In fact, I found myself actually enjoying the consumption of something I had hitherto viewed with disdain. Could it be? Was this thing, so mundane, actually better equipped to handle a crisis? I submit that it was! And I believe that not only pizza, but sunsets, certain models of cars, long walks in the park, and all the other things that 'normal' folks tout as the best, deserve my respect as well.

You see, I begin to suspect that conventions don't happen by accident after all. They have been tested in multiple circumstances. They have been held to the fire, and not withered. True, some conventions (leg warmers, anyone?) may be fickle, but many will outlast their first fans. And rightly so! There is a steady assurance in espousing a convention for which one knows there is much evidence of goodness. Like standard pizza, for example. Or chocolate shakes. Perhaps its time that I not only coddle my preference for the unusual, but enjoy the beauty of the usual as well. Who knows? I might even find myself gushing over a sunset sometime soon. After this Christmas, I can't rule out anything - not even a boring old root beer float. Can you?

Vitamin Quiet

There's something beautiful about silence.

We're not talking visual beauty here, obviously - although it could be argued that the silent scene of a slumbering woodland lake is beautiful for its visible stillness. No, the silence I refer to is the ceaing from movement that only those who have been moving very quickly can appreciate. It is also a cessation from noise.

Do I speak from experience? Of course I do. At the momen, two of my three children are sleeping. The other, my oldest, is (comparitively) quietly playing in his bedroom with a friend while they listen to a story on CD. No phone is ringing nearby. No knock has sounded on my door for at least several hours. I spent this morning bustling about, mailing Christmas packages and fulfilling various obligations with gusto, and now, in the full of the afternoon, I find silence, find beauty.

It may not last for long. These poignant gifts rarely do. But while it is mine, I embrace it. I embrace the difference between working and rest, between noise and quietness. I embrace the gift of peace with a kind of fervent devotion - not for the peace itself but for the great Peace-Giver who has gifted it in the first place.

And now I hear my children laughing. The moment has passed; I move on. But I move on enriched for this brief pause, this moment of beauty that consisted entirely of the absence of activity. And as I move on, I realize that any activities I pursue for the rest of the day will speak of this moment of peace. I will be less frenzied - more calm. Perhaps I myself will become Beauty, or at least Quietness, to those around me. Perhaps I will be this for my own family.

Whatever the case, I will be grateful. And I will wait and work patiently until the next such moment comes, enjoying the other beauty that comes from the opposite of Quiet, Activity.

Vitamin Commune

We haven't been to church in a while. That's why, last week when we finally decided to make an entrance, my feelings bordered on the obsessive.

Who are these people, and why are they smiling? I found myself wondering soon after stepping inside. It's not natural to act like this! True, they weren't all approaching us with arms open wide (every church has it's quirks), but I had forgotten, the corporate joy over such a shared thing as the Spirit.

It was beautiful. The sermon, the music (imperfect, both of them) - even the tottering old man in his velvet hat who smiled at us as he picked his way across the parking lot - each of these things gave me a delicious echo of greatness. You have been here before! My awakened mind screamed. You liked this sort of thing. You thrived here!

While that statement was true, I also understood that things had changed since I'd last stepped into a church. I had grown. Adopted a few new philosophies, and let go of a few others. I felt as though, for the first time, I was observing the church from the outside - knowing of course that it was important and permissable to join such a crowd, but knowing also that it was not the only way to spiritual peace. I approached, not with a bent toward skepticism, but with an understanding that this pattern of life was not all that God had to offer.

So was it right for me - for my family?

I couldn't tell. We concluded our morning, returned home for lunch, and opted to try the same place again next week. This in itself was a first. In our past church-hunting experiences, one attendance had often been enough to frighten us away from a second.

So the next week, bright and early, we returned to the little church in the mountains. It was Communion that day: It had been Communion the week before, and I know a pattern when I see one. This church, unlike any other I'd ever attended, most likely celebrates Communion every Sunday. My husband and I, in the very farthest seats from the front, accepted the elements last. They were handed down the row to us, the little white wafers lying like scales on a silver plate from which we all partook. I imagined the germs we were sharing - especially as the last of a large group of participants. The man who handed me the bread was rotund, wearing some sort of shiny gray jacket, and clearly uncomfortable with newcomers. But he offered them all the same, with a forthrightness that seemed misplaced.

We accepted. We waited a moment, studied the words of Communion on the overhead projector in silence, and then partook of our portions. The grape juice - always so tart and poignant on the tongue - and the small, barely chewable wafers of bread. Inevitably they get stuck in the teeth - one bite crushes them, after all, and they lodge in my mouth and slowly dissolve, a dimminishing reminder of the Body that broke and bled for my love.

The service wore on. Singing, praise, sermon, prayer, and closing. At one point we greeted one another with Christmas cheer. The man beside me remained awkward, unsure. His smile barely showed itself and when it did, it appeared more of an afterthought than an intention. But when it came time to collect the Communion cups, he reached over to take ours, his sturdy arm pressing against mine with nothing of the reserve I'd expected. He must be more brave than I thought, I surmised as I surrendered our cups. This is his church, after all.

My mind wandered back to a conversation with my two-year-old daughter that morning. "Are we going to that big house?' she had asked me as I rushed her into her dress.

I had laughed. "Well, it's a church," I informed her, "but God lives there - so I guess it's a house, too."

"Is this a church?" She'd then wanted to know, looking around the purple-and-green paradise that was her room.

I smiled. "This is our house. But God lives here, too. So yes, I guess this is also a church."

In the context of the awkward gentlement beside me, this thought brought more sense to his actions. Being as this building was not just a church, but God's home, and being as he was not just a man, but God's child, it made perfect sense that he should feel a certain amount of comfort within his Dad's house.

I smiled as we stood to sing the last song. True to my prediction, the man all but bolted for the door the minute we were dismissed. But in his response, in the off-key singing of the congregants, the quirks and endearing attributes of the pastor, and even the lack of openness on the part of most of the church members, I felt at peace. We were One, after all. One Body fashioned from that first Body that lived and died to ensure our existence. This church, a small part of the larger Body, was bound together - and bound up with me - in ways that went so far beyond social niceties that they were nearly non-issues. I accepted with gratitude the few smiles and friendly overtures from several young mothers. And I agreed, with an element of pleased surprise, to my three-year-old's statement when I picked him up from his class.

"Guess what, Mom?" he beamed as he turned an exuberant circle in the foyer. "I know something special!"

"What?" I asked absently - eyes scanning the crowd for my husband. "What do you know?"

My son stopped to gaze up at my face. "These people are our family!" He announced. His glance took them all in, and he gestured broadly at the sanctuary, the small pockets of visiting friends, and the children clustering like crows in the stairwell.

"Who told you that?" I asked, astonished at the way his sentiments mirrored my own .

"Nobody!" His smile broadened, and a sheen of confidence crept into his eyes. "I just know it."

"Well, you're right!" I replied as I reached for his hand. "You're absolutely right." Nobody had heard our little exchange. Perhaps we would never return to recount it. But no matter. It was true all the same. As we made our way to the car, we passed the same distinguished old man from last week, his velvet hat perched on his head like an elaborate toupe. I felt a kinship with him - not because we have ever shared so much as a word between the two of us, but simply because we share the same Body. We are family, after all: Red, yellow, black, white - friendly and awkward alike. We are One - brought from One and worshipping One - and this makes us all related.

With that thought in mind, I leaned back in my seat as we drove away from the church. Who knew what the next week would hold? And who cared? I belong to something far greater than one church, one service, one denomination or religion or spiritual trend. I belong to a Family from which no power on earth can remove me. For the rest of my life, I plan on communing with those who understand this belonging, regardless of their social or religious persuasion. And that's all the Communion I need.

Vitamin Renew

Our fireplace room has been a stark white since we moved to this house. And not just stark white. Stark white made even stark-er by the presence of dark beams across the ceiling and a dark wood floor down below. The contrast has not been beautiful, but we have managed - managed, that is, until tonight.

Today, the most velvety of green paints made its way into our home. Today, against all common sense, we cracked open the can and began our endeavor. Today, amidst a towering list of Things to Do and in my own personal process of Dealing With Angst, we set out to beautify this most univiting of rooms.

The job began in silence. In the process of Dealing With Angst, I have begun to learn the valuable lesson of keeping my mouth decidedly closed. Thus, we painted away in what would have otherwise been a companiable quiet - but what, in my mind anyway, was a seething opportunity for more Angst. Wordless woes pressed upon me. Meaningless anger filled my thoughts. What on earth could be bothering me? Where on earth was my Peace? I could pinpoint my frustration to my lack of time or focus to do the things that matter most to me - keep my spiritual and physical self fit -and to a lack of 'hearing from God' in the past several days. I'm sure the lack of time to listen and the lack of words from God were intrinsically connected, but that didn't cross my mind at the time. I simply felt angry - alone - un spoken-to - and pitiful.

In reality, this Angst-imposed silence was the first long stretch of 'nothing' that I'd encountered in quite a while. The wordlessness of the moments began to soothe me. I fell into a rythm with my paintbrush, resenting my husband's suggestion to take even a five-minute break. This was my groove, after all! My neck ached. My hands cramped. But still, I painted on. And afer a while, the silence began to fill up with words.

No, not my words. Not (at first) even the direct words of God to my heart. But my husband turned on the music, and while we painted, song after random Christian song filled our slowly-transforming space. The station - one that plays all Christian songs without discrimination based on quality or chronological appropriateness - produced several giggles at the road over which Christian muscians have traveled. A few lounge-type songs made us guffaw. Sevearl painful synthesizer-laden ballads made us cringe. But through it all - through the cheesy lyrics, and also the ones that spoke straight to my heart, I sensed a kind of camraderie. These musicians - silly or oudated though they may be - had poured out their souls in order to express a passion we both shared. I began to take note of their words, forvgiving most (not quite all) of their poor musical choices. And as I listened - listened, mind you, rather than griped about my own sorry state - my ears began to hear the voice of my God.

We painted on. The room slowly transformed into a moss-green oasis of comfort. And in my own heart, a similar metamorphosis took shape as well.

I felt whole again - or at least sane again. God had not forgotten me. Though I had been unable to stop and listen for so long thta I should have at least had His finger shaking in my face, I got instead a gentle and multi-voiced reminder of His unfading love for my soul.

I felt renewed. I felt at peace. Yes, I felt tired as well, and still just as anxious for things to slow down. But I knew that if this ugly room could transform in one evening, God surely had similar plans for my heart. I stopped working for the night while the music still played - hoping to spend some time making a little music of my own before falling asleep. It might be cheesy, just like what I had heard through the evening, but I didn't care. It would surely come from a heart set afire with the same love these songwriters shared - a heart transformed just as wholly by grace. No, not all of my Angst had dissipated, but I had set aside my own worry long enough to listen to the joy of others - and that had renewed me more than an evening of grumbling ever could have.

Vitamin Many

There are too many great things to pick these past few days.

- The beauty of the 18-month old twins in my home for an afternooon.
- The wild abandon of three small boys having sword fights.
- The hospitality of a friend.
- The generosity of my husband.
- A chance to go OUT on a DATE for FREE tonight.
- Christmas surprises.

Vitamin Romp

The day is cold. The dog, less a companion than a symbol of a poorly-articulated ideal, paws at the snow. He has grown up here - spend the joyful days of puppyhood with this family. He knows not that he deserves more. He simply harbors within his wordless heart a persistent longing. He is tired of the small dog run he has been confined to for most of his stay at this home. He finds little joy in the nightly trek to the family house, the warmth of the rooms a fleeting treat before the relegation to the cell-like kennel in which he spends his nights. The children laugh and play around him - on rare occasions, with him - but it is not enough. He is young, active, aching to run. And they are just too busy.

The dog waits. Company arrives for the holidays. And then, while the rest of the crowd enjoys a movie, a lone figure emerges from the back door.

It is one of the guests. He is tall, quiet, and almost without exception given to expressions of distaste around domestic pets - but the dog knows nothing of this. He sees only the purpose in the man's gait - the direction that will certainly lead him to the door of his dog run. He sees the ball in his hand and the smile on his face.

And then the dog hears his name.

His excitement, previously contained to cautious tail-wagging and his usual pacing along the edge of his enclosure, becomes a frenzied expression of glee. By the time the man open's his door, the dog's pent-up hope translates itself into leaps, snorts, long, tearing runs across the yard, and whirling fits of of pure joy. To the man, the conduct is assuredly annoying. But he doesn't let on, and the two figures play roughly for what must be near an hour. The dog is unabashedly exuberent. Nothing compares to the joy of a having playing companion - a companion who calls his name kindly and does not rush him from one cage to the next without words. He makes himself obnoxious in his exhileration, but even if he were to realize it, he could probably do nothing about it. He is entirely given to this beautiful moment.

Too soon, it ends. The kind man returns indoors, smiling - the dog returns to his cage. But long into the evening, after the sun has set and before one of the children moves him to his kennel in the house, the dog stares lovingly at the back door. He is loved, after all. He is cherished. His longing for that other great necessity of life, love, subsides for a time, and he is once again able to accept the other necessities - food, shelter, water - with greater appreciation. He lives on - a solitary figure in a lonely back yard - but he lives on with a renewed hope in the goodness of his own existence. Against all odds, after all, he has been noticed. Who knows? Other miracles could be just around the corner tomorrow!

Vitamin Clutter

Today, a brown Duplo block went through the dishwasher along with my silverware. It was hiding - you can't blame me. And besides, the kids do most of the dishes around here. Maybe they slipped it in.

But ... but you can blame me for the pile of children's clothes in the hall. They're extras - I'm debating the merits of another trip to Goodwill versus saving them for someone I know.

You can also blame me for the stack of books on my desk, the sandwich bag of half-eaten health bars near my keyboard, and the positive attack of random items that litters the rest of my home: Socks on the futon, library books on the floor. A pair of slippers lurking near the fireplace, and an unlovely stack of long-since-dry dishes awaiting attention on the counter.

My home, in a word, screams out Clutter. And the truth is, I'd like to scream with it. No matter how many trips to Goodwill I make - no matter how often I purge, file, organize, or size down, the mass of things that remain is still daunting. I'm a lover of the simple, streamlined existence - and yet, here I am, staring at stacks of receipts and piles of old books that could all be reasonably classified as garbage. What happene to my lofty ideals?

You want the truth? Nothing happened. I'm still a lover of simplicity, of grace. But I'm living in a bountiful reality. One filled with children's laugher, children's loves, and the abundance that stems from a plethora of generous friends. This clutter that I see - most if it has been gifted to us by others. The pajamas I now wear - they're hand-me-downs from a friend. The pile of clothes in the hallway - most were given to us as well. The books, the dishes, even most of the mismatched furniture that we own - it all originated in the kindness of our many friends. And don't get me started on family: All this beautiful mess grew to its present state through the loving gestures of so many. How could I resent it at all? For in every thing out of place, every 'extra' item I find, there's the tangible presence of blessing. Not only have we been gifted with more than we need, we're in a country, a life, a time filled with plenty as well.

And it's a beautiful thing to be so gifted. Nothing to scoff at, after all. I think of the many, here and in other countries, who would stare open-mouthed at my callous treatment of this bounty. I take so much for granted. I take so much ... let that be granted. But, with this season of gratitude now upon me, I hope to be giving so much, as well. And I can begin by acknowledging the lavish blessing of the life into which I've been born. It really is cluttered. But were I elsewhere, were I even viewing my life through any outsider's objective gaze, I'd realize at once that there's a beauty in this clutter I don't often see. It speaks of wealth I do not deserve. It speaks of plenty. And if I listen closely, I believe it will also speak of my need for an equally rich existence in spirit. Let me not take any blessing for granted. Let me understand when I have accrued more than I need and be willing to share my blessings with others. Let me not hoarde or ignore, but let me enjoy, give thanks, and keep order among the numerous gifts I've been given.

And in so doing, let me find grace and humility to thank the Giver of all these good gifts. My clutter may not be my ideal, but it can serve as a constant reminder to look upward with gratitude for this unique opporunity to care for so many beautiful gifts. May I do that far more often than I do now ...

... and may I also find it within myself to clean that hallway ...

... tomorrow.

Vitamin Dissolve

How much time do I spend in making resolutions? In my opinion, far too much. Obviously, it's not just New Year's that captures my attention. It's new birthdays, new eras in friendships or family, new posessions, new schedules, new responsibilities ... the list goes on. Each of these things inspires me to aim for my best - to set standards I will consistently aim to meet. And, while the bettering of myself is inherently a good cause to pursue, I have come to see that all the bettering - all the resolving - in the world will not stop me from failing. As often as I rightly and consistently set out to keep any resolutions, I will fail and forget them as well.

This is not meant to be negative. It is simply a fact of existence. "All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God," after all. It's not just me; it's the whole world. But I tend to take these failings so persronally -as if I really am the only one in the universe to miserably disappoint myself so often.

So tonight, as an exercise in freedom and grace, I'm choosing, just for a change, to un-resolve certain things. To dissolve them, if you will. And I'm going to start with a big one.

Dissolved: The belief that I have the power to keep all my resolutions without failing.

Dissolved: The notion that others do, too.

Dissolved: The concept that I alone fail so often at the things I hope to do best.

Dissolved: The feeling of personal responsibility for my inherently fallen existence.

Dissolved: The subsequent urge to pin on myself unnecessary shame and revulsion that leaves me unable to accept genuine Love when it's offered.

Dissolved: The belief that genuine Love must be offered with motives beyond the simple desire to be near me.

Dissolved: The wearing of these previous beliefs like a lead necklace, dragging me down with each step.

Dissolved: The need to rehash them in varying forms throughout every day.

Dissolved: The lack of freedom such rehashing brings.

Dissolved: Any desire to be other than that which God has created me to be. And, in conjuction with this, the belief that God wills me to be just like person A, B, or C in order to truly please Him.

Dissolved: The feeling that any mercy given to me must be given out of obligation or duress, not from pure and abiding affection.

Dissolved: The need to 'earn' the affection I have somehow, miraculously stumbled upon.

Dissolved: The need to make others earn my affection in the same way I once thought I had to earn God's.

Dissolved: The desire to moderate my enjoyment of good things, believing they don't come along very often and must be treasured and doled out accordingly.

Dissolved: The propensity to hope in muted tones, expecting disapopintment and preparing myself for the worst.

Dissolved: The need to give myself acts of subconscious penance, hoping to atone on my own for my sorry state.

Dissolved: The lack of relinquishing the atoning, forgiving, and remaking of my own self to the One who atoned for, forgave, and made me in the first place.

And finally ...

Dissolved: My right to experience life, joy, and freedom to anything but their fullest and most pure extent.

----

With all this dissolving going on, I must spend a little time on the concept. As I dissolve each of these habits or beliefs, I see them disappear, floating out in smaller and smaller bits into the great absorbing Presence of One willing to dissolve ever more burdens and pain. I am relieved to see that when the process is complete, no evidence remains of these burdens. Instead, I see a pure and endless solution before me - the greatest Solution ever, one capable of handling all the things needing to be dissolved in the whole world.

This gives me immense satisfaction. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, I can continue to dissolve each and every negative vestige of unspoken, subtle deceptions. I can rid myself of those things that cloy and cling, leaving me feeling weighted down with ornaments far more harmful than worthy of another moment's attention. I can be free, unfettered, at peace. And if I wake in the night, feeling strangled by unspoken weight yet again ... I can simply relive this process. My Maker is waiting. He's ready. Just as He has been aching to take my resolutions nad make them lived out in Him, so He is anxious to receive each of these items to dissolve, holding them for a moment and then setting them free, to His glory and my joy, forever.

And no matter how great any resolution might be, it cannot compare with the lasting power of the eternal freedom I can experience right now - with the simple act of Dissolving.

Vitamin Peace

Morning,
And the feathers of this new day's bird
Are as yet unruffled.

The house sleeps quietly.
The heater drones on.
The hum the computer
accompanies the tune
of my own private thoughts.

The cat in my lap
stands and stretches.
Across the hall, the children awake.

This room is serene, but
there's a chill that seeps in
through a gap in the kitchen front door.

I stand.
I stretch also.

Perhaps the quilt of these moments
will blanket my day
with patchwork pieces
of grace.

Vitamin Privilege

Last night, I went to the mall with a friend. It was late, and we ended up closing down several stores before sitting on a bench just inside the main entrance ... and praying. During prayer my friend mentioned how blessed we are to be able to pray in public like that, without fear.

She was right.

I also find it amazing that I can wake up, feed my children a full and substantial breakfast, put dishes into my dishwasher to be cleaned, dress everyone in beautiful and well-made clothing, read them a selection of books from our overflowing children's library, drive downtown to visit a pristine park on base, and have lunch with my husband - all without incident or fear.

While we had lunch at said park, a gaggle of emergency vehicles convened on the fast-food restuarant across the street. And again, I thought of our blessed existence. Someone flipping burgers can pull a little lever when he or she senses danger, and immediately, the burger-fliping joint will be evacuated while four emergency vehicles rush to the rescue. Truly, we have it far better than we realize in this vast, free country of ours. I hope I never take these blessings for granted.

Vitamin Stream

The canyon begins as a barely-perceptible rift in the New Mexico landscape. It is wide, and gentle. We walk up the sandy flatlands that span its base without really thinking 'canyon,' and proceed in this manner for at least a mile. We are engrossed in conversation, my husband and I. We are preoccupied.

But slowly, the canyon walls start to narrow. On either side, the hills turn themselves inwards, forming the funnel-like shape through which we must pass. The air around us begins to cool. A stream appears at our feet: First a trickle, and then a small gush, it sends the first signal that up ahead, all is not quite as seems. Water lurks somewhere above. A spring, perhaps. A hidden pool. We quicken our pace and move on.

The terrain becomes slightly less friendly. The incline slowly increases. Rocks appear, humping up from beneath the coarse sand like beasts of dubious origin, raised to do battle against unwelcome intruders. Cactii and desert thorns block our path. We cross and re-cross the stream, sometimes slipping in the mud, sometimes losing our balance on rocks worn smooth by the silent rush of the stream.

Further on, we reach a rock wall. It is a simple climb, but I feel as though it has been placed there for a reason. A huge, segmented boulder welcomes me at its top - looking like a petrified dragon, a relic of battles gone by. But this dragon has seen better days. While it creates an imposing facade, it literally leans back onto the rock wall behind it, creating a grotto from whose shadows emergethe first peaceful waters we've seen on this hike.

There is a sound of falling, of tumult, and I venture a few steps further in. Beneath the fallen dragon, hidden in the perpetual twilight of its hulking form, a cascade of springwater awaits me. It is a spring, my husband informs me. Further ahead, it bubbles silently out of the ground. But here, for the first time, it falls with the riotous splash of a current enlivened by gravity. Here in the dark, in the cave-like embrace of the earth.

I am touched.

Of all the locations this stream could have given voice to its existence, it sings that first song right here. Here, where quiet would normally reign. Here, where sunlight cannot bend to shine. I think of that verse from an old Book, "He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.” (John 7:38) I look and listen with the eyes and ears of my heart, and I hear voices calling out to me from this scene - reminding me that wherever my life-path might take me, I am called to sing out my own song with the insistence of this simple stream. Indeed, I am more than called to this task: I am promised that I will so do. It becomes my joy and my destiny, the hope and the faith upon which I hang all my deepest desires.

I smile. We walk on. Another stream crossing, a brief look ahead to where the canyon narrows and steepens still further. And then a gentle retreat as we find a new path back toward home. From below, as we walk a high trail near the streambed, the water glints through the trees like thousands of all-knowing eyes. And yet this does not make me shudder. These eyes, the sight of the great Knower that watches my every move and inhabits the very streams I hope to put forth, hold no terror for me. They are gentle, full of promise and of love. They are worthy enough to believe in. And they speak of my freedom.

We walk lower, and reach the point at which the spring's waters fade back into the sand. I feel no sadness in this - instead, I feel peace. This stream, a beloved reminder of who I am and Who gives me life in the first place, will surface again. In some humble, secreted spot, in a place ready and willing to accept it, it will rise. And until I see it again, I take comfort in knowing its memory lives in my heart -a spring of its own, rising up to quench the desert lands through which it now flows.

Vitamin Sanctuary

There is a sanctuary,

to which I turn

when other temples fail me.

Its walls, drab white.

Its furnishings,

the standard bathrom type.

But within this silent space

I find a small light

high and unwavering

that calls to me,

always calls to me,

calls me again and again.

I answer,

and look up.

I am often on my knees,

sometimes sitting against the far wall,

seeing things so far removed from this place

that the only familiarity is the sound

of my own breath -

A reminder that my life goes on.

Vitamin Variance

This morning at the zoo, the light shone down into the sea lion tank and made patterns. Shifting, slidy patterns they were - half light, half shadow, and made all the more interesting by the liquid upon which they were projected. The sea lions had just began enjoying their morning quota of fish, and the water pulsed around in that tank like a miniature ocean at storm-time. The strange shapes formed by the light and shade on the water moved up and down the walls of the tank, mesmerizing me while my children looked on at the aquatic feeding frenzy before us. How beautiful, I thought. How apt.

Later, as we strolled through the zoo's sunny walkways, I noted the pleasing difference between two acceptable temperatures: On one hand, the sunshine warmed my back and inspired me to long for a good book and a nap. But then, moments later, we'd walk through a patch of shade - and the coolness of the fall air would invigorate me again. As we walked, I happened to look up and catch the pink gaze of one of the last flames of color to be found: A beautiful, two-flowered holyhock, raising its last autumn blossoms like a banner of freedom, of hope. The sun had caught its petals and lit them from behind, illuminating them in such a way as to make them impossible to overlook.

It went like that the whole morning. Trees, turning from summer to fall, afforded me glimpses into the whole gamut of natural color. Several zoo cages stood empty, reminding me to appreciate those whose occupants still remained. The howler monkeys stayed a strict silence while we watched them the first time, but set up their scheduled chorus just as we were prepared to leave for the day. Everywhere I turned, the subtle shifts of situation and time caught my attention, and then held it.

I thought about my morning at home - so miserable in ways too personal to write about, and yet holding itself out in stark contrast to the unsullied peace I typically enjoy. How could I, so blessed and fulfilled, find it in my heart to be put out at the occasional unlovely experience?

I pictured that holyhock in my memory again. It captured the sunlight so beautifully - but I'm sure it stays in full bloom in the shadows as well. As I walked with my children back towards our car, I began to appreciate the variations in my life for what they are: A rainbow of canvasses upon which to paint the same picture, again and again, and see how its background affects it. One canvas might be pale blue: Perhaps this brings out the blue in my picture as well. Another, like the light hitting the holyhock, might illuminate my picture in such a way as to make it striking, alive. Or perhaps the canvas given to me on a particular day holds a background filled with pictures just like mine. If so, my picture must still remain the same - and perhaps, in the painting of it, I can find solidarity with the canvas I've been given.

Whatever the case, I realize that my own identity - the Image in which I've been cast - finds its beauty and meaning not in its simple existence, but in the way I respond to my surroundings. Just like that sea lion tank came alive through the interaction of water and light on its surface, my own character can be enlivened as well. Light, shadow, darkness, tears - each of these things in their turn bring a new element - perhaps an element I myself have not yet seen - to my being. And in the shifting of these backgrounds, the variation of my life circumstances, I begin to know my own self a bit better. To see the Image I represent a bit more fully in my crudely-drawn lines and poorly-sketched details of my heart.

Yes, now I begin to se it. Not only are these variations a beautiful thing on their own, they also bring their beauty to me. Taken graciously, gratefully, as gifts from a Giver whose artistic ability far exceeds my own, the varying circumstances of my life provide just what I need to achieve true beauty. And perhaps, in all this growing and deepening, parts of my picture my actually turn their viewers back to the Artist who inspired them - and that would be the most beautiful gift of them all.

Vitamin Inside-Out

For so long,
I lived
Inside a world made to please me.

I slept, ate, felt, and connected
On levels innately satisfying to my soul.

Now, today,
I live out a different existence entirely.

I soothe, feed, respond, and form connections
In ways that further my surrender.

To what, you ask, have I surrendered?
To serving.
To loving.
To acting on my belief that humility is better than honr,

To the still, small,
voice in the night

asking
for a cup
of cold water.

Vitamin Thanks-giving

Last year, around Thanksgiving time, the kids and I began a "thankful chain." Each link in the chain began with I'm thankful for: - and we all took turns completing the sentence. The activity was a big hit, but I haven't repeated it this year. Instead, I find myself thinking of of other, more 'productive' ways, to express our deepest thanks. Inevitably, my mind runs along lines of 'giving back' or 'paying it forward' - ideas which are fine in and of themselves, but as a substitute for the simple act of thanksgiving, not wise.

You see, I'm beginning to realize that the simple act of giving thanks is a beautiful end unto itself. Consider the response of a generous friend when I wrote her a thank you card for her gift of hand-me-down clothes for my daughter: "I never get tired of hearing you say thank you!" No, she wasn't being self-centered. That response is a natural one - one most likely shared by our God.

"Through Jesus, therefore, let us continually offer to God a sacrifice of praise—the fruit of lips that confess his name. " (Hebrews 13:15)

I believe God gets a wonderful high from hearing me simply give Him thanks and praise. Rather than consistently looking for ways to edge around this spiritual practice, I think I'd do well to look upon thanksgiving as something so desirable to God that He sees it as a beautiful gift which needs no embellisment to be complete. It's called thanksgiving, after all: Since when did the idea of giving thanks alone become 'not enough' to please the One who asked it of us in the first place?

"But You are holy, enthroned in the praises of Israel." (Psalm 22:3)

If my thanks can create for my God a richer throne, a higher glory, than my withholding of the same, by all means, I'm prepared to give it! This year, I want to picture the vocalization of my thanks as a precious gift worth more to God than all the hollow activities I could claim were my thanks instead.

George Barna, in his slim volume Revolution, notes that "Only one out of four churched believers says that when they worship God, they expect Him to be the primary beneficiary of their worship." (32) But shouldn't God enjoy our heartfelt worship as much or more than we ourselves? I believe we enter into true worship through the avenues of 'thanksgiving ... [and] praise" (Psalm 100:4) ... so offering these up with the knowledge that they please Him for more than meaningless words or actions can be the beginning of a sweet time of blessing - not solely for myself, but also (and perhaps more so) for my God. What a novel concept! My simple "Thank You," my praise to the One who gave me the reason to say "Thanks" in the first place, is fulfilling and true enough on its own! Kind of like a glass of water: It needs no additves to be fulfilling. In fact, it's often what the body craves most of all.

I'd like to fill my life, and the lives of my children, with more of this kind of fulfillment. I have a hunch that when we're saturated in true thanksgiving, the actions that come afterward (and yes, I believe there will be actions - read Hebrews 13:16) will be richer and more meaningful than before - because they will be borne out of a right sense of gratitude to our Maker.

I can't wait to gift my God with true thanks. And what better season than this to dive in? Let the thanks-gifting begin!

Vitamin Sky

No, I wasn't standing on my head. But I was performing stretches that showcased my butt, high in the air, while the kids played in the Foothills this morning. It felt good! Really! My hamstrings are thanking me still!

But as I so gracefully improved my flexibility, I happened to notice the view from this new perspective. The sky ... from upside-down ... looked enormous. A yawning field of blue interrupted only by the various browns of the autumn-y earth at its feet. And, perhaps aided a bit by my uncomfortable position, it took my breath away.

In one small moment I thought of how God must see us. How we could see the world if we so chose. Not so much in relation to itself: As in, "My that's the tallest skyscraper I've ever seen!" (next to only the things that I see in this world.) Or, as in: "That mountain is absolutely inspiring!"(forgetting the vastness of the universe still unexplored. But as the world, in reality, exists - a very tiny orb of water and mud, suspended in a universe we no more understand than appreciate. That's what my view of the sky made me think. It just seemed so overpowering when I viewed it from a new perspective ... and I think that's a good thing to remember.

Although I am important, here on Earth ... I am, in fact, small. The humility that comes with that knowledge, as well as the appreciation for the Power that keeps us together, is a refreshing breeze indeed. Rather that making me feel small and unloved, I feel small and highly prized. The Power that was great enough to hang my measly planet in space in the first place obviously cares enough about its inhabitants to keep us from whirling away. In fact, sometimes I'm actually grateful that I'm such a small part the cosmic scene. It gives me the freedom, like my small children, to know that no matter how badly I fall , someone wiser is fully aware of my plight - and understands it far better than I. He sees around corners I cannot imagine, and paints sunrises on planets so distant I'll never explore them. He has fashioned my particular world, it's true - but the part that makes Him truly amazing is that He's got not just this world, not just all the worlds ... but the vast and perfectly-organized expanses of space in between ... all wrapped up in His hands.

And that, my friends, provides the kind of awe and comfort that no amount of earth-glorification ever could.

Vitamin Stinky-Cheese-Dip-and-a-Bathtub

It's ten o'clock at night, and the food I just consumed was entirely unnecessary. I wasn't starving - I just knew that if I didn't eat something right now, I'd resort to my default for the past few days - Halloween Loot. So really, you could look on what I just did as a heroic act of desperation, a sacrifice in order to preserve the candy for the children.

Well, whatever. The truth is brutal and stinky: I ate, by the spoonful, one of my favorite foods in the world. Spinach-Artichoke Dip, made my Costco, straight from the tub.

It's not like there aren't plenty of other things to eat, by the spoonful, from the tub. Ice cream, for instance - which we also have on hand. Or peanut butter, in a pinch. These things leave a pleasant aura in their wake, and probably produce sweeter dreams - for both the consumer and the consumer's sleeping partner. But Spinach-Artichoke Dip? Made with Garlic? (Note that hte capital 'G' is denotes the ingredient's preiminence in the amount-used-per-ounce equation.) Well, let's just say that after the deed, the news of my past preceeded me.

"What's that smell?" Chris asked, a full two feet from my person.

I turned my head away before answering. "I said you wouldn't like what I just ate."

He groaned. "I hate that stuff!"

I spoke carefully, using the side of my mouth located the farthest from my husband's nose. "Well, I can't help it: I think it's fabulous!" With that I left the kitchen, pungently awaare of my undersirable conditon. Even the cat didn't follow me: My folly was truly complete.

But really ... maybe folly isn't quite the right word to use. I knew what I was doing when I went for that plastic tub full of goodness. I knew and I willinginlgy engaged. There are times in a woman's life when caution can rightly be thrown to the wind (heaven help us if caution has a garlicky hint, and the wind shifts directions mid-toss) and a few simple pleasures indulged. Tonight has been one of those nights.

I sat in my bathtub for the better part of an hour.

I cried on the phone with my sister.

The water grew cold - I pruned up to look like a futuristic version of my eighty-year-old self. And still, I kept right on sitting.

Sure, I knew it was silly - a grown woman sitting naked in a tub of tepid water, emoting over the miles to another grown woman while her pores slowly absorb a good third of the liquid in which she's been soaking. Sure, it would have been wiser to throw on a towel and sit, like a rational person, on the couch. But 'rational' doens't always equal 'right. Sometimes an absurdly long bath or a sponful of stinky dip is just what the doctor ordered. Adult responsibility is noble and all, but it can only carry me so far before we both need a bit of a break.

And you know what? I think that's swell. The Grind is good, while it lasts. But unless it is tempered with moments like these, it quickly turns into a curse - one long, protracted groan of boredom that drives away all the benefits of persevering in less-than-ideal conditions.

So maybe my tastes are eclectic. Maybe I could have munched on some spearmint instead of the equivalent of twelve cloves of garlic. But I don't do this that often, and it could have been so much worse - just ask my husband what garlic and bananas do to my essence! Besides - the night is still young, and my responsible self still hasn't kicked in. I could always chase this down with a few spoonfulls of ice cream, while sitting on the roof, in my jammies. That would improve things quite nicely! In think I hear it calling my name ... and it says I should share with my husband. Oh, wait! I've been instructed to share with you, too.

Care to join me??

Vitamin Wild

My cat, Lucy, is truly not bright. There are no euphamisms for what, to me, seems a complete lack in common feline sense. For instance:

1. She meekly allows herself to be handled in the most ungraceful of ways by my three clumsy children.

2. She eats scraps from the table that even a dog might avoid.

3. Her reflexes are so slow that simply avoiding getting herself stepped on is a near impossibility.

But there is one crowning folly - one that, until yesterday, has seemed the greatest of them all. Lucy, in all her adolescent glory, simply cannot get the idea into her head that she does not belong outside. Due, in large part, to her not-brightness (and due, in another large part, to our desire to avoid 'kitty funeral' at our house), we have chosen to give her the honorary title of Indoor Cat.

She, however, does not view see this as an honor. On multiple occasions, various Lucy body parts have been slammed, jammed, and pinched in our quickly-closing front door. Once safely trapped inside, she yowls like a drunk yodeler until we return - and then only stops long enough to attempt a death-wish dart through our legs to her imagined freedom.

It's pathetic. It's dangerous. And it's gotten downright annoying. I had felt for some time that her persistence would pay off, and been dreading the day when we'd have to tell the kids, "We found Lucy's collar last night ... but not Lucy."

Well, yesterday, that day finally came. All night, the house remained eerily quiet. Twice, I heard something bumping at the window and rushed to see what it was. But when I opened the door, no Lucy-cat stood at my threshold. I knew finding her in the dark would be useless, and so I went to bed with a prayer and a hope that she would survive the long night.

The next morning, I heard her. I'd just padded out to begin breakfast as usual when a familiar miaow reached my ears. And there she was, standing on two legs and peering through the frosted glass at our front door. She looked ... not pathetic ... but saucy! That cat! She strutted in, obviously glad to see me, but not falling all over herself with relief, either.

I had to laugh: That Lucy! Even she, the most intellectually challenged of cats, still knew where she belonged! The night had called to her, begged her to step out, and her instincts wouldn't let her rest until she'd complied! I rewarded her safe return with a few tidbits of cheese (which she gladly accepted), but I could tell by her strut that no edible bribery would prevent her from seeking another escape. Wildness has been bred into her, after all. She's not just a cat - she's a lion in miniature. And the sooner I understand (perhaps even tolerate) this fact, the less I'll obsess about my feline's safety. Is she equipped for the night, the outdoors, and the danger? Absolutely not. But is she wired for it, al the same? She'd bet her life on it - in fact, she's probably scheming about how to risk it again even now.

I think I could learn a little from my wayward kitty, don't you? Why avoid those things that attract me so insistently? Why fear them? Perhaps I may not be the best suited to deal with the difficulties they bring, but I may be the best suited to appreciate them. And so, though the danger of their pursuit may cost me my life (or at least a part of a limb), perhaps the bigger danger lies in losing my heart if I don't at least try. Certain things pull me - certain things call.

And even if it might seem unquenchably foolish to attempt them ... like Lucy, I believe I am created for more than just safety. And so, the next time the night's dark, I'll watch my cat's eyes ... and maybe together we'll venture out into the exhilerating unknown. Will we come back in the morning? Who knows! As Lucy could tell you, and I soon hope to learn, that's the best part of the adventure!

Vitamin Grind

Frankly, it's late. It's Halloween Evening, and I'm in my pajamas. There's a gap in the drapes through which curious trick-or-treaters could see my bra-less self if they so chose. I didn't think of that when I sat down at this computer, but never mind. Tonight I'm resolved to state my Vitamin for the day if it kills me (or the onlookers) - so here I am.

Waiting.

Wishing that some sort of epiphany would hit me, as it has for most of the posts on this blog up till now.

Realizing that sometimes the epiphany doesn't come.

And, in that realization, finding my Vitamin at last.

Today, I salute Vitamin Grind. And when I use that word, I mean it in the cleanest sense. I speak here of the grind of daily living. The grit of existence that brings with it no shining reward, no stardust, not even the glimmer of appreciation from an onlooker's eye. Just pure, un-pretty living.

I speak here of the usualness of awakening in a dark room, knowing the alarm clock has sounded, and endeavoring to wring from myself the strength to emerge from the covers with courage.

I speak of the predictability of preparing breakfast while the house begins stirring around me - the cat pattering about to check for stray spiders ... the children hovering like moths above the heater vent, bickering with each other over trifles ... the water taking too long to boil.

I speak of dishes and laundry, of bathing and soothing my brood, of my passing glance in the mirror and the wry expression my two selves share. We do not meet often, my reflection and I. We both know this should be different. But even that rare occasion - when I stand, resigned before a flattened image of myself, plucking eyebrows, flossing teeth - that, too, has become a part of the Grind.

The Grind, as I see it, lacks beauty almost completely. It is the progression, sometimes slow and painful, of one hour to the next, one day to the next, and week upon week in succession. It is the biting of my tongue when I'd rather yell, and yes, the harsh words when I should have remained silent. It is the relentless knowledge that those harsh words will become my past as soon as they are uttered, and the subsequent pull to make things right.

The Grind, in a physical sense, could be compared to the coffee-making process: Harsh, unbeautiful, too real to be romantic ... and yet so very necessary if resuls are to be achieved.

Nobody extols the virtues of the ear-splitting proess that brings whole beans under the submission of whirling blades, thereby producing that beautiful powder that blends so nicely with water to create America's brew. But nobody bypasses this process, either. The beans must be ground in order to reach their full potency. And though it is ugly, unlovely, and vile - the Grind must take place at all costs.

This day, this portion of my own Grind, was not a bad one. We smiled often, ate well, learned hard, and played freely. But it wasn't a Rockwell day, either. My rough edges showed just before lunchtime. My selfishness surfaced as well. I have not necessarily created a thing of beauty from the raw materials that this day provided, but I feel as though I have taken part in process that's intrinsically necessary in order to get on with the creating. Who can say? Perhaps the fragrance of my tomorrow, or the rest of my today, will lend credene to my theory ... or perhaps the next several hours or years will be more of this daily Grind. Either way, I'll not shirk it. For in the Grind - in the dusty, dark hours - lies a shining truth that dims in the brighter days after: Sometimes life is the sole reward for living, and living the reward for life.

With that in mind, I plan to take this this life I've given, grab it by the shoulders, and kiss it full on ... and turn, smling, back to my Grind.

Vitamin Ocean

OCEAN

The tide’s coming in.
Waves rush towards me in what feels like slow motion
but is truly an irresistible pull.
I feel the pull in my body –
know that from where I am sitting
it’s only a matter of time till I am covered in foam.
Yet I am not afraid.
I see a figure, lone, standing in the water,
Beckoning me to come and follow Him.
He is all radiant, even as He appears sodden and spent like the rest of us,
and I know
there’s nowhere I’d rather be than with Him, in the waves.
So I rise,
I stand,
I begin walking toward Him, to the water.

The first touch of my feet to that Ocean is cold,
but somehow pleasant; awakening in me
sensations I had long forgotten to feel.
I walk on. Step after step, I draw nearer.
The water grows deeper.
I am aware that I may be called to submerge, and that if I do,
the shock of the cold, the transition from
this life above water
to a new and strange existence below it
might be painful.
I think of birth, of rebirth, of how I’ll learn to breathe all over again,
and I am not afraid.
I do believe the One calling me
has lived in both worlds, and will teach me
how to do the same.
Together, we’ll swim and rise again, following the currents of this boundless Ocean
as it swirls and heaves in a moving picture
too broad for me to comprehend
but compelling enough to draw me in,
into the delights of experiencing the waves firsthand.
And that, my own experience in this un-knowable Ocean,
is all that I have longed for,
anyway.

Vitamin Light

A leaf is just a leaf - green, yes. Full of the life of the sun and the earth, yes. But when the light shines, like a promise, through its living, breathing substance ... it becomes so much more. A translucent little ligh titself, it glows from wtihin, lit by the rays of the sun that called it forth in the first place. It is twice, and magically, alive: Once through the natural, responsive process of growth; and again by the supernatural experience of illumination. Now it is truly a wonder, being not just itself any more, but a startling and vital testament to somethign brighter, greater, more true than any one leaf could be. It has become a small, green flame - not to be mocked for its smallness but to be noticed, rather, for the piercing way that it calls others to a longing, a yearning they cannot describe - not to be the leaf, nor to be inside it, either - but to get at, by all means, the magnetic Presence behind the leaf. To discover the thing that has lit it so fully, and to be equally illuminated by its transforming, consuming, consumating fire.

Vitamin Lucy

Lucy in the sill,
With diamonds in her eyes, purrs,
And jewels the night.

Vitamin Solidarity

Today, a neighbor friend stopped by for a while with her daughter. Then, just as she had to leave, her husband popped in for a while also. Rather than rushing off when his wife had to leave, this nice man stuck around with his daughter and their older son, allowing my children a chance to play with them a little longer.

This in itself was a treat. But what struck me more than that was the complete sweetness with which my neighbor's husband stepped in to fill the gap in our family these past few days. He immediately dropped down to two-year-old eye level and spoke directly to my daughter. She (who had been in a bit of a sour mood) warmed right up to him, and soon had him examining all her various owies ("Oh, there's one on your knee? Would you like me to kiss it?"). Moments later, he was reading her favorite book, and they sat cozied up on the couch while I began to fix dinner.

The favorite book turned into another, and another ... and if I hadn't been so rushed preparing lunch, my eyes probably would have misted over. How kind - to take a few moments to stand by a family with a little extra need, and to do it with such obvious enjoyment. It may seem like a little thing to this kind man, but for my two-year-old, and for I - who got to enjoy the sweetness of her improved mood the rest of the morning - the treat was purely priceless.

Vitamin Lost

Today, for half an hour, my keys disappeared.

It happened as we roamed the aisles of Target - where, incidentally, my keys have disappeared on at least one other occasion.

The kids and I spent a tense period of time circling our previous route through the store , unable to locate the keys' whereabouts. And when we finally found them, they were nowhere akin to where I'd suspected. They lay nestled comfortably in the plastic bag I'd left at the Customer Service counter along with my latest returned item. They looked, through the opaque veil of the white bag, not quite smug, but ... content. It must have been a relief for an object so necessary, so daily thought of, to spend a few moments in total nirvana-like anonymity.

That quest for peace is probably what drives Lucy, our family's kitten, to dash for the open door each time she sees it. Getting lost in this neighborhood would possibly mean a loss of her life as well, but she seems hell-bent to risk it for the possible gain of a few moments of freedom.

Being lost ... and being free. Somehow, I think they're connected. Who says not knowing your own location, not knowing if others know your location, is really such a bad thing after all? Who says that even a feeling of complete and hopeless abandonment might not, in the end, inspire gratitude for the good that was gained in that void?

In truth, I believe that noo one who is lost cannot be refound. Reminding myself of this belief lends a new freedom to my current state. Because unlike my keys, my exact location cannot be unknown to every being with which I'm connected. There is One who has never misplaced me, who might have placed me right here for a purpose beyond my own sight.

And if that is the case - whether I'm stocking up on future Good for my life or for others' - I'm perfectly happy to find rest in my lost-ness. To repose, hidden for a while by God's grace and design, and to emerge as made new whenever He chooses to find me.

And in the mean time ... I'll be humming a few lines from this song (especially that highlighted one in the middle):

He sees you down by the water line

Knows what you're thinking all the time

He sees the rising of the waves

When the tide starts rolling in

He lets you know it's gonna be o.k.

He sees you dancing in the moonlight

His arms around you hold ya tight

And if those clouds should start to break

He'll be standing out in the rain with you

And though it's hard to believe

He believes in you

God is watching over you

As always

You are loved

Whatever you go through

He's right beside you

God is watching over you

As always

And if you think He'll ever leave you

You better think again

Painted in the sky a rainbow to remind you

Nothing that is broken

Cannot be made new

He knows when ya feel so far away

He's gonna keep the night light on

He's waiting there to receive you

You are loved

Wherever you go
Through fire, through wind and through rain

Yesterday, today and tomorrow the same

Nothing here can take this love

Nothing you could do will break this love

Climb a tree, gonna reach so high

Swing low sweet chariot

It's time to fly

He sees you down by the water line

Vitamin Soothe

My daughter is having one of those days.

She probably got it from me, the whining, angry, angst of it seeping out of her pores and into her demeanor like a cheap and stale perfume.

I take her into my lap to comfort her, but she will have none of it.

"No!" She squirms and tries to escape, her efforts meeting with my calm resistance as her father and I remind her that a struggle will not elicit the results she desires.

I feel her unahppiness as she writhes against me, and I let my own mind wander to the similar state within my own soul.

No! I holler impetuously, far too often, to my Father. I will not be comforted! I will not be made well!

In the present, my husband offers a solution. "Once you can be loving, you can get down," he says. She scowls and refuses his offer, so I try another track.

"Can I have a hug?" I ask her sweetly.

"NO!"

"Can you give me a hug?"

"NO!"

I settle in for the long haul. Her situation is strangely familiar.

"You'd be so much happier," my husband advises, "if you'd just stop resisting Mommy and Daddy."

I feel the echo in my heart. How often do I refuse the comforts of my Father, refuse to accept His gestures of love or return them with any amount of grace?

My daughter and I struggle through this encounter - until finally, she senses defeat. We hug, she and I. She ends up offering comfort to me with the gift of a band-aid for an imagined wound on my finger. At once, as if sensing the conflict is over, she slides off my lap and asks me if I'll lie on her bed with her.

We settle in. I sense a deep peace in this moment. She lays across from me, her head pillowed on an enormous plus butterfly. We share secrets, her blanket, more hugs. Now we're not simply rocking in a chair, but investing in the most peaceful and intimate of pastimes, a side-by-side siesta to brighten our day. And in this small moment, I feel a deeper sense of intimacy as well.

Stop struggling, I hear my divine Parent suggest. Let Me hold you. We can comfort each other, you know. And once you've mastered the art of grace in this area of closeness, you'll find yourself moved to a whole new plane of intimacy with Me. You'll finally sense deep-down peace.

As I lie on the bed with my daughter, my house-slippers fall from my feet. They land on the floor with two clumps, and I sense the rightness of their removal. This is my own burning bush bush, my own holy ground. My need to find peace has been choking, but I sense that at last I've made some headway. The road to the future may be rocky, but finally, it seems to have come clear. Relax. Be soothed. Settle in. Accept the gifts I am offered. And soon, very soon, I'll find greater ones than even these.

My daughter and I fall into a companiable silence. We are friends again, the two of us. And the whole world seems friendlier because of it.

Vitamin Bliss

It doesn't take much to make bliss ... when you're two.

Today, it was a simple stuffed costume. A Spider Man costume. This costume, in all its lumpy glory, spent most of the day lounging across the stacked bales of hay at Santa Fe's annual Pumpkin Festival. This costume (hereafter referred to as Pseudo Spider Man, or PSM) caught the attention of my two-year-old as she puttered around Toddler Land at the festival, and she pointed and squealed appropriately.

"Shpidoh Man!" She lisped. "Shpidoh Man!"

With no thought as to whether or not this apparaition in blue flannel might be friend or foe, my daughter made a beeline for his nearest appendage (an arm) and lovingly yanked him from his perch. Then she wrapped her chubby arms around his chest and gave him a genuine, full-frontal hug.

She was beaming. I didn't know whether to laugh or to groan. I had tried so valiantly to keep my kids free from the influences of the media, and here she was, standing in an awkward embrace with a poor imitation of a fictionalized character from TV - a character, mind you, she'd never actually seen on TV to begin with.

"Shpidoh Man wants a wide!" My daughter announced after a brief pause. She'd been toodling around on a wooden bug with wheels, and now she dragged PSM the several feet toward her conveyance. Generously, she shared - hoisting him onto the contraption with great effort. Carefully, she chaperoned - pushing him across the uneven ground. Pleadingly, she looked up at me as first one, then both of his unseemly legs began dragging behind his little car.

"Help, Mommy?"

I couldn't resist. Together, we wined and dined PSM until my daughter tenderly returned him to his seat in the hay. I breathed a short sigh of relief. Now, maybe we could get back to more wholesome adventures!

But this was not to be.

"Shpidoh Man's cwying!" My daughter's brow furrowed as she turned back to her new friend, and she again dragged him again from his seat. Her eyes begged me to make it all better.

Grudgingly, I asked if she thought PSM needed to sit on my lap. She nodded, and then looked a bit jealous once I got the hideous creature settled in. Instinctively, I knew what she wanted.

"Would you like to sit on Spider Man's lap while he sits on my lap?" I asked. This was getting ridiculous, but I just couldn't say no. The two-year old mind knows no bounds, after all. Too much of a good thing can't be had. My daughter climbed shyly aboard (it's not every day a girl gets to share Mommy's lap with a superhero) and immediately popped her thumb into her mouth: A sign of ultimate satisfaction.

We sat there, we three - me hunched over a lifeless red-and-blue wonder, who in turn sat hunched over a priceless princess with curls. The sun beat down on my neck and I suspected it had already scorched my skin. In the background, cowboy-lounge-bluegrass music blared. Children whirled on rides in the distance. But for my beautiful child, there was only this moment of bliss. Not one but two laps that loved her, and all the time in the world.

If I hadn't shifted positions, I suspect she'd have fallen asleep in our arms ... but at last she stirred, and stood up. The spell had been broken. The magic dispersed. Here we were, back in reality, and my daughter began toddling off toward the slides. But I caught in her glance the faint dreaminess of a moment that had shaped her forever. A soft place to sit - kind arms around her - and no one to say she was silly. What more could a two-year-old - or a thirty-year-old, for that matter - desire? Aside from a large puff of cotton candy, of course, the moment had been simple perfection ... and I'm grateful to have lived it together ... even if we did have to share it with a stuffed toy.

Vitamin Purr

It is a small thing:
The purring of the kitten
I hold, while I muse.

Vitamin Pause

A pause between
A drove of tasks
A moment spend just breathing

A yellowed page
A mind that asks
A pause to think, while reading

A quiet word
Amidst a horde
Of louder voices rising

A smiling thought
A tender touch
Upon my mind, surprising.

The softest feel
Of softning heart
The solitary's solace

For taking time
As it strides by
And basking in its fullness.

Vitamin Close

My children own a quick-setup school bus. You know, the nylon kind, lassoed together with mysterious metal-or-plastic loops that act as a framework once the structure has been released. It' sa two-room bus, with holes for windows, two doors (just like the real thing!) and an open-topped roof.

Today, my oldest son remembered that said bus belonged to this family, happily retrieved it from the dark corner where it had lain, neglected, for weeks, and hastily assembled it for his adoring audience of six. It became an instant hit, and before you could say "Wheelsonthebus," six miniature schoolchildren (the seventh is too young to walk) had crammed their little bodies inside the yellow delight and were parading quite smoothly around our our home.

Even up and down a few stairs.

Even turning sharp corners.

They were happy - gleeful even - the bliss of the moment civering any grievances they may have been harboring. The whole procedure reminded me strangely of a Chinese dragon filled with pudgy white Chinamen, and I coudln't help but laugh. Kids ... and their penchant for closeness ... are simply remarkable.

That laughter served me well later, as I sat buried in a mound of sweating children, holding the book I'll Love You Forever in front of me like a trophy, and attempting to read while simulaneously feeling my hair burst into flames from my skyrocketing body temperature. Closeness, shloseness! That same need to share body space, body smells, body actions ("'Scuse me ... scuse me ... 'scuse me again!" said the girl seated squarely on my right thigh) ... that need can lead to not only physical, but emotional discomfort as well. Of course little children will fight like there's no tomorrow. In their world, there's not. Today's all they've got, and they'd better get all the loving, playing, arguing, and hugging out of their systems while there's still time!

And isn't that a better way, after all? As adults, we stand in grocery store lines with our arms crossed, daring anyone to penetrate our invisible boundary. We build homes with thick walls, then build fences outside of those, then install security cameras and post signs warning solicitors to stay scarce. We hoard our impulses to argue, to make up, to love freely, to hold tight, and we dole out those actions with such a tight-fisted grip that usually, every expression of them feels painful.

But at the end of the day (could it be our last?), who is it that sleeps the most soundly? Who wakes up eager to face a new day, when a new day is beautifully granted? Who doesn't even notice the discomfort of sweaty legs sticking together as they snuggle up on the couch, doesn't bother with germophobia when sharing a cookie, and forgets what they were arguing about the moment the fight is resolved? Those who know how to live closely, that's who.

I love my children. I love the opportunity to teach them. But truthfully, as so many parents have said before me, they teach me more than I know ... and now I think I'll go give them a warm, sweaty hug just to thank them. Care to join me?

Vitamin Journal

My aunt gave me a paper journal for my birthday. At first I was a bit gun-shy - I've spent so long in the electronic world of writing!

But then, as I looked at the perfectly-chosen journal (black, slick, spiral-bound, with pages edged in multi-color), I felt that nearly-buried twinge of excitement that comes from owning a book, all to myself, intended solely for my own words to fill. My aunt had written a little prologue in the book, encouraging me to try my hand at poetry again (it's been so long!), and I do believe that I will. I'm excited to remember my old love, that of penning words with real ink - a different kind of contact sport than writing with a keyboard and a computer. I'm excited to fill something tangible, rather than simply adding more size to a file stored in a computer that I'll never print. Writing in a paper journal feels more like publication, because I'm actually dealing with the raw elements of traditional publication instead of with pixels and megabytes and electricity. I can't wait to explore it again!

Stay tuned for snippets from what I create ... or maybe ... don't stay tuned. Again, that's another sweet difference between paper writing and electronic composition: The opportunity for others' voyeurism. Maybe it would be good for me to simply bask in the simplicity, the quiet, the solitude of a journal intended just for me. Maybe it would encourage me to a new kind of greatness. And then, if perhaps I do share portions of my journal ... the sharing will be more treasured, more poignant, more real. We shall see. For now, I'm just happy to have this simple, thoughtfully given, possession. I can't wait to make it more mine with a few well-chosen lines on its first page. I can't wait 'til it becomes my old friend.

Vitamin Haiku

The first - upon giving 3-month old J his first swimming experience tonight.

He squirms in delight
As I hold him in the pool
Splashing me with joy.

The second - correct according to Robin's directions:

Autumn leaves, falling
gracefully from the embrace
of Summer, float by.

Vitamin Gold

Aspen Grove in Autum


Gold
in high-altitude hues
scatters its abundance across the sky

Leaves,
full and round as moons, as coins,
fall brightly from aloft
to become the currency of change.

Without this harvest
of season's shift
spring would tire and dim
and green become a thing
less-longed for;
sought
only as the prize for those now living

and unappreciated as the
resurrection
of those who passed before.

Vitamin Choose

I like to hike. No, I love to hike. The thrill of the journey almost (but not quite) outweighs the glory of attaining the summit, breathless and sore, and surveying the panorama that greets me from the top. And so, as I lay in bed the other morning and attempted to muster up the gumption to enjoy a day ahead that would be fraught with obstacles, hiking provided a natural analogy for my mental dialog.

When I hike, I'm undertaking an inherently difficult task. Plodding uphill, mile after mile, on short rations of water and dry, starchy measures of food is nobody's idea of luxury. But it's my idea of adventure, and so I enjoy every part of the trail.

The low, boggy parts.

The moderate, sunny slopes.

The merciless hills.

And yes, even the boulders.

You see, this is where my deep thought began. As I hike, I encounter large obstacles in the form of stationary rocks. I scramble over some of them. I bushwhack my way around others. And still others have an actual trail built over or around them for ease of movement. But regardless of how I approach them, I understand that they're a part of my journey. These obstacles are really the joy of my adventure - and also the substance that makes up the bulk of the mountains I climb. Rocks and boulders serve a noble purpose in this hiker's mind, and I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Similarly, I'm understanding the new concept that approaching my life in this matter will prove helpful as well. Choosing to see each of the hurdles throughout my day -- screaming children, poopy diapers (or undies), a phone that rings off the hook, or simple setbacks to my day have all had the power to discourage me. But no longer! These things are what give character, focus, to my adventure! Shunning or complaining about them would be rejecting the very substance of my life. Instead, as my husband reminded me, I can choose to enjoy these moments rather than dread them. In fact, this choice is the easier of the two options, because it makes the rest of my life so much happier, too. A grumpy hiker travels twice the distance in twice the time because her attitude makes the journey unbearable, but a cheerful hiker loves every moment of her adventure-filled trek.

So today, right now, I'm choosing to be that cheerful hiker. It's corny, I know - but it helps me. I'm choosing my own adventure - and it's going to be filled with joy.