Vitamin Givingthanks

Thanksgiving is coming.

I can hardly wait.
With it, I expect good things.

But really, they'll just be a a continuation in an endless line of good things, all parading past me, to me, through me, from the throne of my Father.

And I do mean through me.

I pray that this Thanksgiving, all those things I so often take for granted - extra space in my house, extra food in my cupboards, extra smiles in my day, the peace of a stable country and home ... and so many more ... would be put to good use blessing others - not just stagnating within my own little sphere. I pray this would be a day, a season, a year, a lifetime, that is equally about GIVING as it is about THANKS. And I pray that each of you may receive a piece of that GIVING as God may ordain it. I love you all ... I miss writing here ... God has it all in His care ... and, because I can ... a preliminary MERRY CHRISTMAS to each of you!

God bless.

Sarah

Vitamin Treasure

It's just a simple child's toy. It beeps, has a little light that flashes, and can be broken into two parts. It's a treasure chest, given to my children by their beloved Aunt Selah, and when someone separates its two parts and hides one of them, the other half will beep at different pitches to tell the seeker how close the hidden treasure may be.

It's just a simple child's toy, but my children adore it. They must have enjoyed playing with it today, because now, after the lights are off and we're all winding down, I hear a persistend BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. - every thirty seconds or so. The chest is hidden somewhere, waiting to be reconnected with its other half. Where is the treasure? It asks repeatedly, as I scurry around putting the finishing touches on this finishing-touch of a day. Where is the treasure?

The strange thing is, the beeping - and the question - really don't bother me this evening. In fact, they seem absolutely appropriate. You see ... we've spent the past several weeks discovering the answer to that very question. Tonight marks our last night in this yellow brick house near the trees, and we've said good-bye to so many people, so many times that our heads are still spinning. We've been inundated with help, love, gifts, and companionship. The endless list of 'to do's' has been completed not just by us, but by a radiant team of individuals, all eager to offer their services. Here are a few of their feats:

Under-sink plumbing in the bathroom ... miraculously fixed by Daniel.

A whole truckload of trash ... hauled off by Damon.

Electrical issues ... solved by Dave.

Children ... watched, fed, loved, hugged, and protected by Melanie.

Ugly yellow bathroom ... spruced up by a mystery guest - was it Katie?

Care-worn kids' bathroom ... polished and preened by Junelle.

Youngest daughter ... outfitted with love by Katie, Melanie, Karen, and Kitti.

Going-away goodies ... lavished upon us by everyone mentioned above, and by Niqi.

Whole days of car/yard/pool help ... offered up cheerfully by Daniel.

Movers ... taken well in hand by Melanie, sometime next week.

Meals ... cooked as if by magic by Katie.

And the list could march on all night! We are overwhelmed with the generosity, the goodness, of these friends who have cherished us over these years. We remember the myriads of things we have shared. Board games. Hand-me-downs. Movie nights, spice drawer notes, song-writing, and swimming. Prayers without number. Lunches at the park, zoo, foothills, mountains, and McDonalds. Road trips. Camping trips, rock climbing adventures, tennis, and long walks. Belly laughts and gut-wrenching sobs.

We've scattered pieces of our hearts so far and wide that it's as futile to try and collect them as to basket all the fallen confetti-leaves of this season. They're everywhere! As I fold our family's socks for the last time in this home, I realize that many of the pairs I'm folding were probably left here by guests and have been assimilated into our supply. This, too, speaks of friendship: Not only have we shared of ourselves with these people - they have enmeshed their personalities into our lives as well.

And we're so grateful! As the echoes of the last prayer, the last well wish, the last shouted "GOOD BYE!" ... the last ... everything ... fade into the silence of this night ... we remember. And the BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. of my children's treasure box asks me again. Where is the treasure? Where could it be?

I smile at the question, because tonight, I already know how to answer. You could ask me a thousand times and my response would still remain. The treasure - our friends - lies buried within my family's hearts. It will remain there always, growing with time as we learn more and more reasons to hold these people dear. Who would have thought, in a place we never fully expected to call home, we'd catch such a beautiful glimpse of how the fellowship in Heaven, our true Home, will feel?

Until then ... until we all come Home ... farewell, dear ones. We love and miss you already. Thank you each and all for sharing your lives, your love, your gifts, and your socks with this blessed family. You are truly, always, our treasure. We love you ... we praise God for you ... and good night.

Vitamin Coat

They bought it, they said, because they wanted to.

I know this was the truth. They couldn't help themselves. My mother, herself once a young girl attending the same boarding school where I now resided, had endured the bitterly cold winters there without the added warmth of a good pair of pantyhose: Her family just couldn't afford them. And of course she'd never enjoyed the luxury of what she and my father were now proposing to buy - a long, wool winter coat.

I eyed the circular racks of potential selections with suspicion. I knew what a purchase like this would cost them. Especially at the nicest store in the mall. And I also knew that simply sending my brother and I to this school had put them in a financial pinch as it was. And yet still - here we were. My mom's face was determined. My dad was her stoic supporter.

And so we searched, my family and I - my brother trying not to yawn too obviously at the tedium (for him) that ensued. I tried on. I turned. I held out my arms and buttoned myself in. And with each coat, the conviction became more sure. I would walk out of this store the proud owner of a ridiculously expensive insurance policy against catching a chill while at school. They'd already bought me a ski jacket for the winter, and I'd been careful to select one in a neutral color that would function well as a dress jacket, too. But here we were - selecting a long one in a classy navy hue, trying on soft cashmere scarves to go with it, boxing up the whole throat-tightening expense, and walking from the store as though we made purchases like this every day.

My friends, I knew, would probably think nothing of this sort of thing. They'd been sporting coats like this since the beginning of my stint here at school. But for me - having only recently seen my own mother accept a similar gift from her parents (she certainly couldn't affort to buy herself such a treat) - for me, the gift was unspeakable.

I wore the coat, that winter. I wore it often. In my subconscious, I prayed for snow even, to justify the purchase my folks had made. Willing it to be cold, I wrapped myself up in that coat the way I folded myself into their love whenever I came home on long weekends. And as the winters wore on, and I drove off to college with my brother ... and as I moved across country, and got maried, and had children, and settled in a climate where nobody needs a long coat like that ... their love, and their gift, stayed right with me.

Sometimes I'd see that navy coat hanging in my closet, and I'd wonder: Should I sell it in my next garage sale? After all, I wouldn't be needing it ever again. And besides, it had grown to look rather dated.

But each time I reached to remove it from its hanger, I just couldn't make myself do it. The coat had grown to become a symbol for far more than just extra warmth in the winter. It reminded me, uncannily, of all that my parents gave up to offer me the education, the opportunities, the joy and the freedom that were mine through the years. I could no more sell it in a garage sale than I could hawk the beauty of my childhood.

And so, to this day, the long coat remains. I'm moving back, now. Back to the cold college town where the coat got its most use. Will I wear it again there? Even though it's ten-plus years past its prime? Probably. And if I do, I'll wear it with pride. Because gifts of love, just like this one, always bring joy to my life.

Vitamin J

Why on earth did such a simple gift affect me so profoundly? It was just a pack of socks, after all. Brown, stripey socks, to be exact. And beige socks with brown toes. And brown socks with polka-dots all over. All told, there were five silky-thin pairs in the bunch - ankle socks, waiting to be washed, folded, and worn with nearly every outfit in my closet.

My friend looked at my joyfully. "I knew you'd love them!" she said. "I remembered talking about socks with you the last time we were in the store - so when I had to pick up some socks for myself, I just couldn't help it! You had to have some, too!"

I couldn't wipe the silly grin off of my face. "Well, you were right!" I hugged her, and hugged her again, and stared at my socks in delight. "They're just ... perfect!" How my classy, sassy, big-hearted friend had known just what would tickle my soul I wasn't sure. But she had hit the nail smack dab on the head with this gift. I fingered those socks, thinking of how I would never have purchased such a luxury for myself until the very last minute. I buy socks one pair at a time, and in practical colors like white and ... well ... white. But these - these were not only functional in their ability to match most of my meager outfits - they had a touch of attitude, too! I felt spoiled beyond all reason, and as I lovingly folded those socks, I realized that this treasured feeling was the hallmark of my relationship with J.

We met so long ago that we've now known each other just as long as we haven't ... and we're still growing closer with time. We've had three chilren each since those early days ... and as I sit across from my friend now, I see the lines of laughter and motherhood on her beautiful face. She has grown more dear to me with time, and has taught me lessons that sink deeper than she can possibly imagine. Lessons like:

Pamper yourself on occasion - and pamper your kids more, as well.
Respect your husband for just who he is. Love him extravagently, as you want to be loved.

Rejoice - laugh - be silly - and enjoy staring at spiders with young boys. You only live once after all!

Take pleasure in experiencing the small things.

She insists on lauding me as the one from whom she can learn, but here I think she's mistaken. I am a hard person - hard on myself, hard on my chidren, and given to assuming that all of life must be hard. She, on the other hand, deals in softness. She works with her children witha gentle hand. She wears her heart on her sleeve. And each time I'm with her, I pray a bit of that softness rubs off. I am enriched by her very presence ... and I don't tell her that often enough.

The truth is really quite simple: Each time my friend waltzes through my front door, she brings with her a few rays of sunshine, a practical, soul-warming something that, much like those socks, cheers me to a ridiculous degree. She's just moved to my town, and were it not for the fact that I myself am preparing to move, we'd have many moments ahead in which to share the joy of each other's presence. I'm sad to journey away from her again, but I know that, not long from now, she'll be waltzing through my door again. And when she does, I know, too, that she'll be bearing the gift of her love in both arms - and I, with undeserving gratitude, will accept it.

There's nothing like an old friend. I hope I keep her forerver.

Vitamin Delight

This morning, to my absolute joy, autumn hung in the air. Suspended, it invaded each pore of my skin as my children and I galloped along on our walk.

Oh, the joy of it! Crisp, lovely air! Although autumn brings with it the promise of long, dark, cold days, in the very moment of its presence, it also provides something so sweet - the knowledge that I can now exert myself as much as I want without overheating in the warm air.

And so I tromped through that glorious understanding today, up one hill and down another, reveling in the last dance of summer before a new season took over completely. One more performance, before the curtain call. The flowers still bloom, the leaves haven't all faded - and yet that 'brisk' in the air tells it all. Autumn is coming! Autumn is here! For a brief several days, the two seasons will share the stage before summer subsides completely, and I love it - it delights me!

This bountiful feeling rang in my heart as I sat down to study later in the morning. And I came across several sentences which, when tied together, speak for the kind of joy I cling to most of all.

"At God's right hand are pleasures forevermore," says the Bible, reminding me of the incessant joy I can expect upon reaching heaven. But then, in an odd quirk, I read another verse about God's right hand. "Jesus Christ is seated at the right hand of the Father."

Do you see how those two verses play off each other? Perhaps I can begin to experience that "incessant joy" way down here, on faded old earth. If pleasures forervermore are really at God's right hand, well, look at that - those pleasures must be found in Jesus, because He's already there! And lo and behold, I've already found Jesus - so therefore, let the delighting begin!!

It's a beautiful thing to stumble across a connection like this, because it makes the rest of my day sort of glisten. I've been going about my day sort of smiling on the inside. It's as though I get to taste two worlds at once today, and not just two seasons. Sure, I look forward to eternal delight in heaven, but now I see it - here on earth, even as the act's about to close, I can savor the beginnings of that delight in the person and presence of Jesus. It's so beautiful, so generous ... so delightful! And now all that remains remains is to dive in, experience Him for all that He's worth, and say thanks to the One who created me to long for Him in the first place. Nothing, no one, can please me more - and so I dive in, grateful for whatever delights He brings my way through His presence. Thank You, God, for this day. I love You.

Amen.

BONUS! Two other quotes on pleasure that seem to go well together.

"There is no pleasure comparable to not being captivated by any external thing whatever." (Thomas Wilson, 1663-1735).

Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart. (Psalm 37:4)

Vitamin Candle

I just walked by my kitchen table and smelled the most wonderful, soothing aroma. The kitchen is dark - the sounds of the night winding down linger about me. The washer clicks and hums ... a movie's just ending on the TV. I've been puttering around online and in my bedroom for the past hour, enjoying the silence. But this candle - this single green candle - the thing that's putting off such a beautiful smell - reminded me at once of the sounds and experiences of this past weekend.

My friend Melanie brought over the candle the other evening, unceremoniously, before we all sat down to dinner. We enjoyed a great time then. I set the candle on another table and left it there. Then, this weekend, it just seemed right to light it up.

We had a crowd in our home - at least for us. Between three and six extra kids, and four extra adults - all of our dearest friends. The husbands went out for twenty-four hours of backpacking and guy time, and we ladies stayed in with the kids and enjoyed ice cream, a late night, and lots of laughter. We let the candle burn then, and it's still burning now - a small, simple reminder of the fellowship and peace we enjoyed with our friends. Yes, they've almost all gone home now. Yes, we've moved on to complete the rest of our evening. But like the candle - the gift of their friendship remains ... enriching our lives even when we aren't consciously aware of it.

I couldn't ask for more from my friends - more from God. He has blessed our family with true, loyal, forgiving, life-honoring people with which to share this journey. I only hope that we can spread some sort of richness to their lives as well. For our part, we've been blesssed beyond measure ... and we are eternally grateful.

Vitamin Help

I don't even know the man's name. His voice, though, wafts over the harsh sounds of my week and soothes them all into silence. He sings after church every Sunday, cradling his guitar and strumming melodies he has no doubt composed. His voice ushers us out, but each week I find myself wanting to linger. Such a sweet voice - such lilting notes - work like a quieting balm to my soul, and I believe other worshippers agree. The church empties slowly: Until the final notes of his song die away and we hear his characteristic, "Have a good week," we all move in slow motion. Only after we're released from his spell do we pack up our Bibles and coats with more gusto. Only then do we step out of doors and back into our lives, our hearts full of the blessing of this one man's gift.

He is a tall man, this singer. His arms are thick and muscular, his skin a deep chocolate brown. He plays his piece and backs down, not seeking the spotlight for himself.

But this Sunday, he entered the spotlight without realizing it.

"Let's pray," the pastor invited from the podium. I bowed my as usual, but something kept my eyes from closing. And there, to the right of the pastor, I saw a small miracle take place.

A team of three men, each moving as silently as a cat in the darkness, rose from their seats and moved forward. One was pushing a wheelchair - the wheelchair that carries the closing-song singer through life. Carefully, noiselessly, the first man wheeled him up to the edge of the stage.

I looked around for a ramp, but there was none. Effortlessly, the musician maneuvered his chair around backwards and held still while the first two men lifted him to the stage. Then, while he wheeled himself toward his microphone (which one man deftly lowered to his height), the third support man reached for his guitar. Noiselessly he helped the man place it comfortably ... and all was ready for action. The three helpers retreated to their seats on soft feet, and before the pastor had reached his amen, the musician sat onstage, sans his helpers. The gentle notes of his song filled the room, a quiet introduction to our worship before leaving. His voice raised in song- that soft, grace-filled voice - and carried with it an invitation for us sing, too.

We all complied - the pastor, the congregation, the ushers. I'm sure his three helpers sang, too. But what I noticed - what caught me more than all this - was the transaction I had just witnessed. With grace, this man's helpers had assisted him. With dignity, he'd accepted their aid. The whole saga (repeated time and again every Sunday) had looked to me to like a perfectly constructed toy: Like the game made of gears that my sons are just now growing into. Each gear turns, and its motion affects the gear next to it. Together, the whole jumble of gears creates an intricate, working machine. Something of beauty, greater than the sum of its parts. Something akin to a miracle.

"Have a nice week." The singer's closing words stopped my thougths. I bowed my head then, not in deference to him but in gratitude to the God who places within us the ability to help - to be helped - with such respect and such love. This was my sermon today. This is what will remain. Long after I've learned the name of this man - long after this pastor, this building, this world - turn to sand - the acts of this morning will stand.

And now these three remain: Faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.

Happy Mother's Day, all. To those who bear the title of mother, and through their efforts create miracles just like this every day ... and to those who aren't mothers but who live out this same God-pleasing love ... I salute you. May your life, and this day, radiate outward from the care that you take to serve others. Thanks to God, you're creating a great thing of beauty - and that inspires me to say thank you.

So thank you ... and have a nice week.

Vitamin Bubble

I lie in the bathtub, soaking. Beside me, in the adjacent bedroom, sounds of my children's Bible CD fill the air. When I place my ear in the water, the sounds amplify, creating the almost-distinguishable noise of others talking that often fills me with the urge to eavesdrop.

But not tonight.

Though the story on the CD is a good one, I turn my radar inwards instead. Or better yet, turn them off. As the warm water, laced with scent, soothes my skin, the bubbles around me soothe my mind. They pop with small smacking sounds, not unlike a hundred tiny kisses being offered up for my joy. Each pop sends a little jolt through my skin: Not enough to upset me, but enough to keep me alert.

I like this feeling. I like resting in a place private and clean and warm and alone. I like knowing that I have matured enough to allow myself these small and valuable comforts. I allow my mind to vacate except for the occasional sounds of those bubbles popping, and each one I imagine to be a small love-note from God. I love you. I see you. I approve of you. You are mine. Each small pop reminds me I am loved. Each small pop give the nod of consent to this new, more me-friendly way I've been living. It's okay, I here gently, with grace. Feel my love.

For so long, even the thought of a bath seemed repugnant. Who could spare precious moments when so much of the world needed taming? But now ... thanks to Grace ... I find peace in making time for myself. In these quiet hours, I hear not the selfishness of one self-centered girl ... but the joy of a God Who created me to take time for myself and for Him without guilt. I hear the sweet love-songs He sings to me softly - songs I'd never make out in the rush of my daily grind.

I stretch. I relax. I soak it all in. And when the last silver bubbles have popped, I emerge - cleaner, more calm, and less burdened than when I first stepped in. This water, these bubbles, this small fine moment of Grace - has been healing. I plan to repeat it again soon.

Vitamin Mother

Before I existed – before I knew I existed – my mother loved me. When I lived in her body only as one half of a person – as an egg, waiting to be fertilized – her body nurtured my pre-formed being, sheltering it deep within her. Later on, even before she knew she was pregnant, this instinctive shelter continued. She loved me in the silent, soft preparations of her body to house me. She loved me in the miraculous dividing of cells, the hosting of a tiny organism, the cushioning and protecting of my life from its first single-celled moments right on through the last and most painful contraction that brought me into her world.

And in that world – beyond the dark walls of her womb – her hands were the first to caress me. Her body – spent from the effort of birthing me – cried out to serve me still more. When I arrived, wrinkled and angry from the indignities of birthing, she wrapped me tightly, offered herself as my source of comfort and food, and joyed in my taxing existence.
And I had done nothing to merit this care! Not a thing, save live – and even that feat took place thanks to her.

She has loved me instinctively, passionately, and fiercely when no one else knew my name. She has loved me when I brought her nothing but grief. She has loved me every heartbeat of my life until this one … and she will love me until her own heart stops beating.

Perhaps this knowledge explains why, when all other loves fail, even the worst of criminals still clings to the love of his mother. It is unmerited, illogical, and pure. It is the Grace that drives hosts of dark demons away.

Perhaps this also explains why God cannot be entirely male. Even the Christian Bible, at time, reckons God’s love as that of a woman. “How often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings” (Matthew 23:37). “As apostles of Christ … we were gentle among you, like a mother caring for her little children.” (I Thessalonians 2:7) What else, after all, could so aptly describe the kind of unmerited fixation with which this Deity regards us?

Before we were born, He adored us.

Before anyone – even our own mothers – knew our names, He carefully fashioned our beings.

Before we had hair, eyes, fingers or toes, He wired the circuits in our brains. His gaze bathed us in a beauty not of our own choosing – in the beauty that fills the eye of the Beholder. “Whoever touches you touches the apple of [God’s] eye” (Zechariah 2:8) He does not demand that we do anything other than live in order to receive of this love, and even the gift of life came from Him.


When I watch my own mom – when I see the way she cares for me – I notice several things.

First, I see that no matter how old I get, she still tends to my needs. “You’re too skinny,” she’ll say, time to time. Or, “You work to hard – take a rest!” Constantly, without prodding, she drops little tokens of love in my lap – gifts that only a mother would offer..

Second, I see that this lifestyle of love is instinctive. I could no more ask her to stop caring for me than I could say, ‘stop your own pulse!’ It happens almost without her knowledge, just like breathing – and that is what makes it so miraculous.

Third, I note that even my mom has a mother. When I mentioned Mother’s Day to my mom, she just laughed. “I haven’t even thought about it for myself! I was busy figuring out how to honor my mother instead!”

Again, this points me to God. Returning His unconditional love is the drive inside each of us. Just as we all have a mother, we all – every one – have this God. And although we may have opportunity to pour out His grace on others, the real impetus to do so stems from the grace He originally poured out over us.

The equation’s simplicity leaves me stunned. Mother-love equals God-love. Mother-love equals grace. Whether I am conscious of how I give it out or not, I fully admit to receiving it. And that admission creates in me the same vacuum that even hardened criminals feel when they think of this grace-gift. I must honor my mother. I must thank her!

True, in both relationships, I can never reciprocate fully. I’ll always be ‘behind’ in the love-giving race. But who cares? In human terms, I know my mom certainly doesn’t! She’s just pleased that I want to be with her – to talk with her – to call her up on the phone. Her motivation for loving me is independent of my own actions.

And I believe that’s God’s attitude, too. His love is the one constant in an otherwise shifty-eyed world. His love is the pole on which I can hang all my hopes and yes, even my failures, too. While I may waver and doubt, His love remains the strongest force in my life – drawing me in – drawing me back – giving me worth – giving me hope. And as it does so, I will grow. First like a baby inside the womb, then like a baby about to be born, and finally, when He is ready, like a baby about to enter a whole new universe entirely – one in which I can communicate with and begin to understand some of His dramatic gestures of love. And as I grow and learn, my love for this Mother-God will grow, too.

I look forward to those days of learning. I enjoy living in them now. And I believe, in eternity, I’ll find even more reasons to love Him. But for now, this simple picture of His love in my mother’s is enough. It rocks my world, after all. It makes sense out of so much. I love my mom – fiercely, loyally, but not without cause. She loved me first – and has always loved me far better than I can return. In the same way, I love my God – just like the song says … ‘because He first loved me.’

True, this is one of those relationship in which I can never ‘win’ at being the most loving.
And, just this once, that’s okay. That imbalance, after all, is what makes my world go round. Just like my relationship with my mom, it gives me life. And this Mother’s Day, I’m more aware of that than ever.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
Happy Mother’s Day, God.

And Happy Mother’s Day to all of you dear mothers out there who do it, day in and day out, without thinking twice about how. That’s God in you … working outwards. And I want you to know that I see it. I love you and I’m proud of you … and each of your children are incredibly blessed to belong to you. Now go put your feet up and thank God for the privilege of mothering them! (Eating chocolate will help you appreciate the privilege even more – I promise!)

Vitamin Friendship

The drawer is shabby. No matter how often I organize it, my spices, laid on their backs like so many patients awaiting operations, look askance at me when I peek in. They are akimbo - the Garlic lies diagonal to the Oregano, which sits haphazardly next to the Dill, which looks perpetually angry. I really should own a spice rack, but my counters are cluttered enough. And besides - if I had a spice rack, my special notes from my friend wouldn't seem quite so much like hidden treasure.

You see, these notes rescue my spice drawer. They make me smile whenever I open it. Tucked away - between the edge of the drawer and the Parsley, perhaps - I'll often find a new little note from my friend. Some notes are silly. Some contain hope. Rarely, there'll be a note of tears. But each of them holds a measure of my friend's love, and that is why they make me smile.

The notes are usually white. Thus, secreted among the earthy tones of my spices and the vibrant colors of their packaging, they stand out like little flags. Flags of surrender, of peace.

It has taken much for this friendship to forge. My friend and I are, on the surface, far more different than we are alike. But as time has progressed, we've come to see our similarites - to treasure them as equally precious alongside the things that make us unique.

And now, now I have a new note to add to my collection. I read it a week ago, and its words haunt me still. "Nothing is forever," my friend wrote in this note. "It would be foolish of me to assume this friendship could go on forever." No, she did not want to dissolve the relationship we have built - she merely wanted to take out an insurance policy, in her words. Wanted to inform me that no matter what happened, I would always have her love.

And while this gesture is sweet - it also leaves me sad. How poignant to think of friendships like this - as things that cannot be guaranteed. They, like the spices with which we enhance our foods, are the things that give our life the most flavor.

And then - there it is. Flavor. While this friendship may not last a lifetime (who knows what quirks time and chance have in store?), its flaovr can never be forgotten. I will live the rest of my life having been forever changed by my friend. Regardless of how long our friendship lasts, my present and future always contain the echo of my friend's existence, her love.

And this is the beauty of it. These spice notes, yes. They are an insuranc policy. A gift. And yet also, they are just what they remind me of: Little flags of surrender. With each note she leaves me, with each note I send back for her, my friend and I surrender another portion of our pre-friendship life - turning over more of ourselves to be flavored by this shared experience. I am grateful. I am honored. And I am anxioius to see, with each passing year, how we will flavor each other's futures. Some day, when we smile from the warm shelter of eternity back on our cold years on earth, we will recognize that this existence prepared us for the one to come After - that all our gestures of love, of sisterhood, of surrender, were flavoring far more than our few years on earth.

And with that in mind, I can truly say that I believe my friend and I will be forever friends. With this life as the beginning, and eternity ahead ... Forever is a reality, after all.

Somehow, I think there will be spice drawers in Forever - don't you?

Vitamin Hold

The world, it seems, is all elbows of late.
Sharp jabs in the ribs, prods in the back.
And nothing is nicer, in this sort of world
Than coming home to your outstretched arms.

Vitamin Childhood

The mysteries of childhood are large.

Unwieldly, persistent, and full.

A doll becomes a living soul -

A towel, a prince's robe.

These mysteries follow us everywhere -

trailing behind us like so many clouds of pixie dust,

smudging the clean lines of our lives.

("Can I take my bear to the potty with me?"
"Mom, don't ruin my space ship! It's going to Mars!")

And as the crowns, badges, dolls and capes pile up

I realize just what they are.

Not playthings at all, but tools;

Their business more serious than any grown-up pursuit.

For with each incarnation of doll into darling, stick into sword,

the child is shaped by the things she adores.

A princess. A hero. A king. A friend.

From fireman to fairy, these fantasies

are more real than most of what takes place

when they fade.

I love them for that.

The children, yes.

The fantasies, and even their trail-along toys.

But most of all, the souls.

The kings beneath their bedsheet robes,

the heroines gracing teddy bears with their care.

I cherish the reality their make-believe shows-

laying up stock in the Day

when all playthings transform

into the stuff made for legends.

Their capes shine with jewels! Their crowns catch the light!

And all their glory comes Home.

Vitamin Wait

Last week, I spent an enjoyable forty minutes wending my way through New Mexico's farmlands on my way to rendezvous with a friend.

When I arrived at our prescribed meeting place, rather than pulling out my trusty cell phone, I pulled out a two quarters instead. Equipped with the necessary fundage, I made my way into our meeting place - a fast-food joint - and asked about the nearest pay phone.

Flashing me a look somewhere between disgust and admiratio, the girl behind the counter handed me the business phone instead.

Naturally, it was coated in grease - but I gingerly accepted it and dialed the appropriate numbers. My friend answered - on her cell phone - and told me she would arrive shortly to pick me up. When I hung up, I briefly considered waiting out in my van, but opted for the warmth of the restaurant instead. Here, unable to resist the proximity of frosty dairy beverages, I ordered a milkshake.

And there I sat, drinking my malt. Staring out the window at the passing traffic. Listening to the behind-the-counter banter of the restaurant's employees. I pulled out no ipod. I punched in no instant messages. I dialed no numbers, played no games on my Blackberry, enjoyed no tunes on my portable device. Instead, I just stared out the window.

The sun was shining. It reflected off of the window in such a way as to create a double-image effect, which I found quite transfixing. I sat. I sipped. I considered the quality of this establishment's product. Thick, rich, full, and sweet - this treat that would register high on the calorie-meter, but I couldn't have cared less. This wait - this moment of peace in an otherwise unpeaceful world - had stripped all the worry from my mind.

I sipped. I savored. I reveled in the breadth of each moment. There we were, myself and I, enjoying a treat that would not have been if I had owned a cellphone. True. the wait took a chunk from an already overbooked day. But it was a chunk I felt privileged to lose. If only I coul wait more often ... my days would be worth their weight in gold.

Vitamin Selah

Her laugh
fills a room,
a heart,
a home.

Her heart
houses laughter
and fills all its rooms
with joy.

Her joy
makes room
for the laughter
of others.

Her home
is the heart
where others find room
to be free.

Her freedom
to laugh
creates room for others
to find joy.

Vitamin Rug-Outside-My-Shower

It's just a rug

But it provides

Relief for all my woes.

I step from warmth

Onto its fluff

And all my worry goes.

Before it came

I'd placed my feet

On cold, unloving tile.

But now I find

Such peace of mind

That bathing makes me smile!

For from my shower

I'd been loathe

To move the smallest toe

Until the day

This rug arrived

And now what joy I know!

Oh, treasured rug!

Oh lavish grace

To find you waiting here!

Each time I step

From steamy warmth

Your presence brings me cheer.

Your friendly hue!

Your deep, soft pile!

The one from whence you came!

For these and countless

Other loves

I gladly praise your name.

Vitamin Pressure

Normally, I run -

walk, stride, saunter.

But lately, it's been cold.

I've stayed inside.

Not even ventured out to use the hovering black relief

of my punching bag.

And so, the pressure's off.

No pounding, jolting sense

Of sole, foot, palm, fist

Jammed against a substance that resists.

I miss that. I miss the jarring hit, the freeing pain

That accompanies my normal routine.

I've come to rely on it, I guess - the series of small pressures

somehow relieving

the larger ones

that build up

where jogging can't release them.

Vitamin Grace

It's wicked cold out today. So cold that only the bravest of old women in my sedate neighborhood managed the feat of a late-morning walk. So cold that I opted for mismatched socks, clunky shoes, unattractive layers, and long, head-warming hair in place of a more presentable appearance. Yes, I knew I'd be out - but who cared? I'd be quick, and besides - I'm only a housewife. Who really expects housewives to wear lipstick?

---

Flash forward to every housewife's inevitable errand, the wide aisles of Costco. Here I swerved past beckoning tiers of higher-end food, fending off my progeny's pleas for just one more sample from the All Revered Cookers. We approached the checkout line, nearly unscathed. I placed my snap peas, my embarrasingly large bag of carrots, and two frozen lasagnas on the conveyer belt. I wheeled my children through line. I payed. And as I prepared to depart (keenly aware, mind you, of the snappily-dressed mother of three who'd stood quietly in line behind me) ... I spotted her.

Her name eluded me momentarily. But I'd know her crown of golden-white hair in any supermarket bonanza. She glanced up, perfectly coiffed, and gave me her genuine and gracious full smile.

"Hello, neighbor!" She beamed as she approached me. Her cart, too, was scantily laden: The fare of an older widow and her two cats. But here our similarities ended.

Her hair was immaculate. Her outfit, from her fuzzy-lined, quilted jacket right down to her perfectly coordinated handbag, called out good taste. Her appearance, far from gaudy, spoke of a general care for her well-being - and a pride in what assets she still maintained.

Katherine (I'd at last remembered her name) beamed generously upon my three smudgy children. She remembered them: Did they remember her? They'd knocked on her door at Halloween, dressed (what was it?) - oh yes, as space heroes. They were so cute. No, she hadn't sold her house. The market had been bad, blah blah blah.

In a break in the neighborly small-talk, I volunteered what I had been thinking.

"Katherine, you look lovely!"

Again, she smiled graciously - and I saw her eyes drift for a moment to my oversized, tubular down jacket. From there to my yoga pants, cut too long. And last, to those abominable clunky shoes, before returning (with grace) to my naked face.

Not even lip gloss today! What was I - daft?

"Don't look!" I heard myself saying. "It's so cold I threw fashion to the wind!"

She laughed (graciously). "Oh dear, you always look nice." And although I knew that she meant it - although we ended our short coversation on a note of mutual goodwill - I coudln't help walking away with the feeling that I had been somehow ... brought higher.

If an old woman, widowed, with nobody to impress but her silent cats, could manage to get out in the winter looking like a girl on her first date ... couldn't I at least fix my hair? I, with a husband, a small daughter who learns from my habits, and plenty of 'assets' on which to improve?

It's not so much about appearance, either, I realized as I trundled my offspring back to the comparitive warmth of our waiting minvan. It's far more about the bigger picture.

On the coldest of days, in the most unfriendly of seasons, how do I find myself reacting? When I'd rather sob - when my hair (or worse, my mood) won't cooperate - do I make an effort, like Katherine, to don a genuinely appealing, generous tone with the world? Or do I (as I did today) consider the task to great to be dealt with - do I allow my hair, my clothes, my mood, my expression to fly where they will, unattended? And if so ... what will be the result down the road? In my thirties, forties, sixties, or nineties ... how will I fare under the public eye, private spotlight? Will my wrinkles, my disappointments, my drooping assest cause more harm than they really should - or will they merely be 'things that happen' along my joyous, my beautiful, my fulfilling journey? Will my face (like hers) speak of grace and genuine care, both for others and my own self?

I hope so.

I hope that's what my face does.

But, as we all know, the face is merely the mirror of the soul. So the real, the in-earnest work begins there.

To start with, I'll remodel my thinking about the cold. Perhaps this weather's really a pleasing opportunity to showcase the nicer of my chill-weather sweaters instead of this meant-for-home, manly sweatshirt. Perhaps the cold is a chance to be grateful, start smiling, take a walk. Each season has its place: Each season has its grace. I think it's high time I concentrated on this fact instead of any inconvenience these seasons may cause me. In the end, I have a sense that this will make all seasons blend together as one - one beautiful, unending season of bounty, from which I will have been blessed to partake and give back very freely. And oh, I am ready for that season to start. Thanks to Katherine, it may have just started ... today.

Vitamin Connection

Today, while I let the kids burn of some excess steam at our local McDemon's, my two-year-old daughte duck-walked toward me with a frantic look on her face.

"Mommy!" She said in low, plaintive tones.. "Mommy!"

At once, I knew what to do. This daughter of mine - all my kids, for that matter - live in a sort of denial that their bodily functions exist. They resist telling me they need to go, waiting instead until I smack their little bottoms onto the potty by force. It's a system riddled with failure, but then, diapers are expensive, and most of the time, we muddle through.

Today, however, was not the day on which I wanted to fail. And this was not the place.

"BOYS!" I hollered over my shoulder as I grabbed my daughter in a strategic, bottom-outward, footbal hold. "Follow me!!" We made a mad dash to the bathroom, the kids all in their sock-feet, while I tried to ascertain via olfactory input whether or not I'd be peeling my daughter's pants from her backside.

But - oh joy! - her veritable slate was clean! "HOORAY!" I cheered from the recesses of the stale-smellng restroom. (I'm sure half the drive-through customers heard my celebration.) "HOORAY! Honey, you did it! You told Mommy you needed to go (well, sort of, anyway) - and you held it in! I'm so proud of you!!" On I gushed, stopping only long enough to kiss my cherub's rosy face and ask her that all-important Real Life Question: "Aren't you happy you did such a good job?"

My daughter looked up at me with cool, emotionless eyes. "No," she said calmly.

My bubble of joy disappeared with a nearly audible pop.

I blinked. Perhaps I had misunderstood. But a second questioning garnered the same response, and I was left staring in awe at this manifestation of the teenage years, sitting before me on her porcelain throne and gazing over my right shoulder at some vision only she could understand. I was crestfallen. I was hurt. How could my obvious pleasure not touch her pliable little toddler's heart? What had I done to deserve this?

What, indeed.

It's been a busy several days at our house. My older son has been acting up, and the round of continual discipline has created a tense atmosphere for us all. Additionally, I've been spending more time than usual organizing my life - on the computer, in the kitchen cabinents, in every messy cubpoard for which I have time - you get the idea. Just this afternoon, my daughter walked up to me while I rushed about, cleaning the post-lunch clutter, and said quietly, "I want you to hold me, Mommy."

To which I replied (and I quote): "Not yet, okay? Mommy has to finish her chore first. I'll hold you later."

This response makes me shudder. In it, I see the seeds that germinate into a lack of connection between mother and child. Of course no mother has time, all the time, to answer her child's every whim. But here - in this instance - I would have done well to stop all and sit quietly, holding my small treasure close.

After all, I want her to lap up my praise. I want her to know that my pride should create an equal and satisfying pride in herself. I want her to form her ideas of Right, Good, and Wise from my example, meager though it may be. I love her - she must know that! I hope that my joy and care for her heart will encourage her to try things that she might not have otherwise tried - and to succeed!

In short: I want her to respond to me the way I'm sure God longs for me to respond to Him.

The difference is, He's never too busy to hold me. His praise is always timely, and if I receive it with reserve, it can only be my fault for losing the connection, not His. This is comforting, in that I know even if I fail my daughter, God will ultimately find her. But it is also a call to rise higher - to follow His lead and offer my kids such a continual stream of love and praise that they covet it in the most healthy of ways. I fear lest we ever become so disconnected as to sever those needs for affirmation and grace, and I pray such a day never comes.

But now - in the present, in the mean time - I hope for the best. I hope I will maintain a strong bond with my children, fostered through following my Master's example. I hope that I offer them incentive through my constant praise. And I hope that, next time we are in an oh-so-public place, my daughter anticipates my heartfelt pride and comes to me sooner with her potty needs.

Shoot, I hope she comes to me with all of her needs - and that I'm always ready to listen. That's what Connection means to me.

Vitamin Grumpy

I feel grumpy -

Is that bad?

Sometimes grumpy

Makes me glad.

Grumpy gives me silence

Grumpy gives me solace

Grumpy lets me revel

In all my selfish fullness.

Grumpy fills my plate up

And dumps my glass right out.

My plate is full of black thoughts

My cup is free to pout!

Grumpy has an ending

But while it lasts, I revel.

Soon, I'll turn to smiling -

My mood will once more level.

But in the in-between times

Why not let this simmer?

Grumpy isn't all bad!

Believe me, I could get be grimmer -

I know my lipstick doesn't shimmer!

So what if my team's not the winner?

Who cares? My eyes have lost their glimmer!

I like to mope that I'm not slimmer!

See? Things really could be dimmer!

SO LET ME POUT IN PEACE!

Vitamin Float

There's a pink balloon wandering around this house. Somehow, it found its way into my husband and I's bedroom, where it lurked unseen for a time. Someone, one of my boys, most likely, inflated it a while ago and then forgot about it. But its time to disappear had not yet come.

This morning, while rushing around preparing to leave the house until lunch-time, I happened to glance across my bedroom on my way to the bathroom - and there, in plain sight, was the balloon - not lying on the floor as one might expect an un-helium-filled balloon to be -- but floating about two feet in the air.

Of course I did a double take. And then I saw that the heater vent just below it was keeping it afloat. There it hovered, just above the warm air, dancing languidly in the otherwise normal Still Life of the bedroom.

I smiled, kept walking ... then stopped and turned around again in order to watch this performance a little longer. It was so random that I couldn't help thinking about it as I went about the rest of my day. What drew that balloon to the heater vent? What drew me to stare at it so intently? And (because I can't help myself) - what parallels did it present to my about my own life?

I came to the conclusion that I want to be just like that pink balloon. I want to let go of all the earth-bound cares that struggle to weigh me down and instead be free - weightless enough so that when a burst of inspiration comes along, I'll take flight.

It's a simple idea, really. One that could be written of more eloquently using a different illustration. But today, the ballon made me smile - and I hope I'll remember that the next time inspiration strikes me. Sometimes, just the sight of someone dancing - someone who is free enough to be carried along by a pretty fancy - brings a smile to the face of others, as well. I hope I can be that someone.

Vitamin Serve

I like tennis. Though I may be a blundering idiot on the court, I persist in believing that someday, I'll learn the skills needed to handle that ball with the reflexes of a hyperactive cat.

In the mean time, though, I practice.

I get rare opportunities to do this. In fact, it's probably been several months since I last stepped onto a court with my instructor (who also happens to be my husband). So this past Thursday, despite the chill and the wind, I cheerfully grabbed hold of my racket nd decided to perfect my technique.

Unfortunately, my decision proved useless.

As usual, I blundered about. The highlight of the session was chasing a rabbit behind the tennis court (where we had to forrage for all the balls I'd lobbed high over the fence.) But the tennis lesson proved valuable in other, less tangible ways - ways that make me very glad I chose to play.

See, I learned a lot about service while I played my game. I served the ball a lot - since it took a hundreds of tries to get it over the net. Later, nursing one very sore forearm, I thought about the amount of effort it takes to perform a decent serve ... and I realized that this applies to the less athletic mode of service as well.

How many of us enjoy the warm happy feeling that manifests itself when we have done something to serve someone else? It's lovely - it's addicting! I thnk we'd all enjoy creating that feeling on a daily basis if we could. But the trouble here is that, at least in my case, laziness roadblocks my efforts.

You see, serving my fellow men, women, and children usually entails some form of exertion on my own part. While I may ask my husband how I can serve him today, I always hope he won't ask me, to, say, rake the whole back yard - or give him a nice, long back rub. His back is huge, and my hands are not! That's an act of service that could take me an hour!

But who cares! Just like perfecting my serve on the court, there has to be a few pains for my effort in order to achieve the desired reward. Maybe I don't really want to rub that huge back - or practice my terrible serve one more time. But when I do ... even though I may feel the energy-sapping backlash for days ... I'll also enjoy knowing I've accomplished that which I most wanted to do.

Whether it's honoring the one that I love, helping someone who'll never be able to thank me, or changing the kitty litter in my own home, service is as rewarding and effort-worthy to perform as the kind that I'm learning in tennis.

And usually ... thank God ... it doesn't give me sore forearms.

Vitamin Brave

The weather here in New Mexico has taken a turn for the vicious. The cold has been bitter - the wind merciless - the night absolutely intolerable. For all these reasons, my little brood and I have spen the better part of the past month growing more and more infected with cabin fever.

Yesterday, it got to the point of near-desperation. I felt as though my body were dying from the outside in. My skin, so used to sunlight and wind, felt positively lifeless! This translated inward to my lack of physical energy, which translated even further inward to my mental outlook and emotional state. It became not just desirable to spent a few minutes outdoors - now it was an absoolute necessity.

"That does it!" I announced after lunch. My three children and their visiting friend, a little boy, looked up at me. "We're going outside right now. Get your coats on!"

"No, no!" protested my crowd. "It's so cold!" (Obvioulsy, I had conditioned them to this belief.)

"Yes, yes!" cheered their little guest. "Where's my coat?" Clearly, somebody's mom had been sending somebody outside on a regular basis. I felt a pang of conviction.

Of course, I also felt a pang of fear. The body - no matter how desperate for regeneration and health - also shows a preference for comfort. I glanced down at my bare legs (yes, I'd been running around indoors in a pair of shorts.) Could I do this? I began hopping around, warming up my blood for the inevitable shock of the wind. As I zipped up coats, tied shoes, located jackets, and ushered children out the door, I hyped myself up, body and mind, for a successful venture outdoors. The sun was shining, after all: How bad could it be?

-------

The moment I stepped outdoors, the cold hit me. My poor legs quivered in shock, and I nearly lunged back for the door without thinking. But the expectant faces of my little charges made me hesitate ... and instead I dashed out into the backyard with a holler.

"Come on!" I yelled. "Let's play ball!"

So followed a rousing game of 'Who can miss the ball the most times?' - with me taking a decisive lead. But it didn't matter. I dashed. I darted. I dove. I leaped. Soon, my exposed skin had forgotten just how cold it had been, and my whole body began enjoying the exposure to outdoor air.

The kids weren't complaining, either, so I suggested a short walk. We set out for a block-long adventure that lead us past the silent houses of our neighbors and deeper into the mysterious aloneness of winter.

And do you know what? Rather than being sinister and miserable, the chill fully intoxicated us all! We leaped and danced - we ran and played. We positively cavorted in what must have looked like fatally dangerous conditions to our neighbors. The sun! The wind! The endless sky - and unerneath it the high, white ceiling of clouds, ruffled with light and undergirded in the gray foundations of a possible storm. It was glorious! The children's faces grew rosy. Noses began to run. The wind whipped our hair and coat sleeves, but we pressed on.

And when we finally - finally - turned around to head home, we carried our exuberance like a banner. The day could not have been more alluring. The sun, for all its reduced winter heat, seemed somehow tender. The shadows, the goldening light of approaching dusk, the leaves as they swirled ahead of us in eddies - each of these tiny details spoke volumes of life to our souls.

We arrived home breathless and chilly, but also alive, renewed, and even a little bit hesitant to return to our enclosure of comfort. Winter had worked her magic on us, after all. Our small act of bravery - choosing a risk instead of submitting to a prediction of impossibility - had reaped far greater rewards than we had expected. The rest of the afternoon was spent in pleasurable play - each of the children, and for sure, their glowing caretaker, illumined from within by this one simple shining moment of joy.

Perhaps it wasn't bravery that sent us out there, after all. Perhaps it was obedience. Obedience to the small Voice within that provides insight into the real needs of our souls, the votes of our minds notwithstanding. Perhaps I'll never know the real answer ... but you can bet I'll don my tennis shoes with far less hesitation the next time the urge to explore washes over me - and I hope my children will, too.

Vitamin Cusp

There's a sense of sweet suspense
Just as the scene starts to change.
What will we find as the road starts to wind -
What will go, and what remain?

Who will we be when the transition's complete?
How will our new friendships fare?
Will we find peace as old traits are released?
Will we, facing newness, feel scared?

What course will we take on this journey we make
Between light, and more light, and evening?
What will we see as we make history?
And will sight bring with it believing?

Ultimately this, our deepest heart's wish
To come to a strong place of knowing
Is our greatest hope as we edge down the rope
That leads us through life, always growing.

Vitamin Dad

As a mother, I must admit to a large dose of jealousy.

No, I'm not jealous of the freedom of my children. (Well, at least not much.) And no, I'm not jealous of the freedom of those who have no children. (Again - at least not much.) But I am insanely jealous of the freedom I see in my husband.

You see, I'm of the old-fashioned sort that stay home with the children while my breadwinner wins bread. This means that on most occasions, by the end of even the most idyllic of days, my children are ready for some change. My husband walks through that door - the telltale string of bells on the doorknob starts to jingle - and all yell breaks loose.

"DADDY! DADDY'S HOME!"

It echoes from the far reaches of our abode like the war cry of a mutant tribe of small Amazonian warriors - warriors bent on hugging their opponent to death. They run screaming at him, eyes alight with a fierce glow that's seldom reserved for their mom . Is it the glow of conquest?

I shake my head. That can't be right. No, the sheen in their little pupils has more in common with the same light I see in my hubsand's eyes. It's the light I see in the eyes of those who are not yet married, but hope to be - the light of freshly-found love.

And oh, is that light beguiling. My husband and my children fling themselves at each other with wild abandon. They wrestle. They cuddle. They sing and they snuggle.

And I, in the background, mutter half-hearted threats. "Oldest boy forgot to clean his room. Youngest girl is walking all over her daddy. Middle boy just cannot stop shrieking."

Of course, I would not interrupt this love-fest at any cost. And any practiced ear could tell my threats are just second-nature and not borne out of any real malice. But perhaps that's where the real annoyance might lie. Since I am cheek-to-cheek with these hooligans day in and day out, I see a different side of them (and they of me) than is visible in the father-child relationship I so jealously observe from the sidelines. Some mothers call it the Chopped Liver Syndrome: Once Dad arrives home, Mom becomes, well, you know. We wouldn't want it any other way, of course - we just wish we might experience the joy of being the Glorious Returning Parent at leats a few days out of each year.

But alas: We mothers are often relegated (or perhaps relegate ourselves) to the role of Wendy next to Dad's Peter Pan. It's a shame - it's a crying shame - and it's a shame I should very much like to remedy. But until I figure out how to turn off my mother-brain and turn on the minds of my children to the idea that my steady and reliable presence is just as desirable as Dad's, I do have one consolation - and it's a big one.

Dad's presence in my children's lives gives them a beautiful glimpse into spiritual Fatherhood, as well. Their joy upon his return - indeed, Dad's exuberance at seeing them again - offers an unforgettable insight into the sold-out heart of their Savior for each of their precious souls. While my own daily presence offers a special kind of security and insight into the nurturing heart of their spiritual Father, the return of their Dad every evening is equally, beautifully a blessing. Together, he and I offer a picture of Grace that reaches beyond ourselves. Together, our differing roles touch separate needs of our kids. Wish as I may to experience both sides of parenting, and hope as I do that I somehow will, I do see the good in this present arrangement. And I hope, looking back, my children will, too.

Vitamin Behind

Today, I visited with a dear friend via telephone She has become a mother in recent years, and as we talked, I heard all too clearly the screeches, laughs, shrieks, and pre-speech babble of her adorable (and vocal) two-year-old son.

To be honest, the background noise stole a little of our conversration's magic. Have you tried baring your soul while, in the background, you hear "MOO! MOO!", the sounds of heavy breathing, and fire-engine wails that assure you someone, somewhere, has lost a leg? Yep. That's right. It's nearly impossible ... unless, of course, you take frequent 'pit stops' to repeat, "Is everything okay? Should I let you go now?"

Which, of course, I did. "Shall I call at another time?" I finally asked her , point blank. After all, I'd just been informed that my friend's beloved sound effects generator was now bouncing up and down on her tummy. I just knew my deepest, darkest secrets wouldn't sound the same if she heard them while being used as a crash pad.

But my friend had other ideas. "No, I'm fine," she said calmly. "Let's just keep on talking."

Gingerly, I agreed. It was going to be hard! But as the conversation progressed, I began to relax. The noise in the background - the noise that had formerly overpowered my ability to focus - became a sweet piece of reality for me to enjoy . Although it surely would have been easier to converse without the excess noise, I began to realize that this distraction, however ungraceful, provided the perfect counterpoint to our discussion.

What better backdrop, after all, for weighty matters of the soul than the vivacious laughter of a child? What better balance to so many questions about life, the universe, and God than the heady noise of imaginary airplanes flying over a toddler's own personal landing strip? God is good, and in His mercy He provides these moments of reality - checks on our soul, if you will. All through life - whether in the distraction of background noise on the telephone or an unplanned hiatus from a career - He allows us glimpes into beauties we would not have otherwise seen.

I have gradually begun to notice the budding of my own awareness of these things. The constant chatter of my own children, for example, as I struggle to output an article. The flurry of rain on the roof while my own thoughts bustle inside. Perhaps the mystery of a heavy-traffic day when I'm in a special hurry - or even the demands placed upon a busy schedule by the keeping of a family pet. Each of these things, in a different way, provides the music and lights - the activity that goes on behind the scenes of my life. And each of these things deserves careful attention as well. For, just as in a good movie (or a good conversation), the whole of the experience must be internalized in order to achieve maximum enjoyment, so with life. If I neglect, or worse yet, resent, the things that go on behind the 'main act' I have chosen, I will cheat myself out of the beauty of a complete experience of grace. And I wouldn't miss that kind of wholly great goodness - not for a million quiet chats with my friend.

Vitamin Rain

It falls upon

the driest ground -

dry, and cold, in winter.

It washes clean

the world around

and helps it to remember

what it means

to be so clean

to feel fresh, well-watered.

It reminds

our tired minds

of voices we have not heard

since before

the drops last fell

and cleansed our hearts for hearing

words so sweet

that speak of hope

and tell us spring is nearing.

Vitamin Identify

The thread of gray

That wove itself

So skillfully into

My tapesty of hair

Came to light

In the bathroom mirror;

A revelation exposed

Long years too soon.

And suddenly,

All my words

So joyfully spilled

Upon others' similar plights

Became me-focused jokes -

Not so funny and

More bittersweet

Now that I could relate.

VItamin Extreme

Today, I tossed out last year's paper calendar.

It was a beautiful calendar: Full-color, great pictures of rock climbing feats nationwide, and filled with highlighted dates, records of births (and a few deaths), and appointments kept and forgotten. I loved that calendar - and as I paged through it before letting it go, I couldn't help but enjoy the stroll down the memory lane marked "2007."

And yet ... it's freeing to start a new year. The calendar is mostly blank - marked only with the appropriate birthdays and appointments for the coming year. It has no highlighting on it - no markings to show when my husband's scheduled days off will fall - no pre-set vacations or visits from friends. Anything could happen in this year: Anything!

It's appropriate, then, that my calendar of choice for the year is proof positive that anything really can take place. It' s a record of random people ironing in random spots - the title of the calendar is Extreme Ironing. I hope, like the people in this calendar, 2008 finds me doing the most ordinary things - watching my kids, feeding my family, taking my daily walk or having quiet time in the morning - in a way that speaks volumes about my love for it. After all, only a certain kind of passion for ironing would drive one to iron, say, on the back of a taxi. That's the same kind of devotion and drive I'd like to bring to the everyday rituals I take part it. I'd like to love them enough to commit to doing them even in the most unexpected of circumstances.

Will I be on a cruise ship this year? Will I be moving to the Northwest? Will I host more company this year than last year, and find it difficult to do those everday things - bathing my children, eating three square meals, taking date night with my husband? I hope so! And I hope that my ability to stay consistent in even the most mundane of things will make even this humdrum housewife's life look 'extreme.'

I take my inspiration from this calendar: I hope my life somehow mirrors it!

Vitamin Save

In this house, we like to wrestle. And when I say "we", I mean the masculine "we" that resides here. My daughter and I wrestle only to be near the men that we love - not because we enjoy it.

Actually, my personal role looks much more like 'sit and watch' than it does 'wrestle,' but that's almost beside the point. You see, I play a crucial role in this family bonding activity. I exist to be rescued.

"ROAR!" Yells my husband, approaching one or the other of my defenseless young boys. "I'm going to GET YOU!"

They shriek like little girls and run away, only to be lured in by that greatest of all forces, chivalry.

"Well then -" my husband pauses in his pursuit of the boys. "I'll have to get Mommy instead." He lunges toward me, sitting on the couch, and I emit the appropriate sounds of distress. (To tell the truth, I am a bit distressed. I never know my chances of keeping my bladder contents restrained if I start to laugh a little too hard.)

Both boys pause in mid-flight. "MOMMY!" They bellow in blind fits of rage. "DON'T GET OUR MOMMY!" With eyes aflame and legs churning, they rush back to face their opponent. As a unified team, they wrestle him to the ground, a gyrating, flailing mass of arms and legs and pummeling fists.

And not a moment too soon! Without their able assistance, I'd have been reduced to a puddle - hopefully only a metaphorical puddle - of laughter and screams on the spot.

"I'm your hero!" My youngest son shouts with abandon. "I save you every time!"

I agree loudly (to be heard above the sounds of war all around me) - and then in a short pause, I hear another, much softer, voice by my side.

"I'm your hewoah too, Mommy!" It says.

I look down. My cherub-faced daughter, sweet eyes gazing up at me with unrivaled joy, gives me the tightest hug she can muster. "See?" she asks happily. "I save you!"

And then I see it. To this daughter of mine, saving means something entirely different than it does to the boys. To her, the tight clasp of her sweaty arms around mine is the epitome of rescue. of bravery.

And I believe she is right. This world needs both kinds of saving; don't you think? There's the all-out, teeth bared kind of rescue that protects a person physically from intended harm. And then there's the softer, equally indispensible, sound of salvation. The voice that says, "I am here. You're not alone." That voice, just as much as the fists and flint of the fighting heroes, brings a sense of safety to all who hear it.

That voice. Those fists. Both are unavoidably necessary to bring true salvation. And like the makeup of our family wrestling sessions, they must both be present in one's hour of need. They must, and thank the great Rescuer, they are. God is both iron and velvelt, justice and mercy, peace and protection, wrapped into One. "Therefore, He is able to save completely those who come to God through Him, because He always lives to intercede for them." (Hebrews 7:25)

Yes, our family loves wrestling. But even more so, I think we all cherish the act of saving that wrestling makes plain. In it, we find ourselves. In it, we see a mirror of Grace. And in it, we live out a larger picture of what it means to be made in the image of God.

But I won't try telling that to the screaming banshees in my living room just yet.