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.