Vitamin Serve

Like a beacon, the bowl sits. Layered up to its brim with the ingredients that will produce potato salad, it holds me enthralled for a moment. Entranced. This act, the routine of following a family recipe learned by heart, seems suddenly alive. Even sacred.

The bowl’s deep aroma draws me in, and I sigh. Later, I’ll serve this dish to my family, the small flock that gathers each night for my meals. They’ll dig in, dine well, and dash off. And tomorrow, we’ll do it all over again.

Inhaling once more, I remember when serving my flock felt like slavery. Mixing, measuring, and meal prep never came natural to me, after all. I felt born for bigger things. Better. Tasks that engaged my imagination, inspired praise. My homemaking duties hounded me, dulling my senses and threatening to steal my joy.

Only the passage of time seemed to save me. Like a hospital patient, I endured this distasteful medicine, and over the years, it grew familiar, if not sweet.

At the same time, God gently prodded me towards maturity.  One day in a flash, I remembered that I’d chosen this path for a reason –  one that hadn’t included my own self-fulfillment. I realized these serving years were a crucible, a gift not only to my family, but to my character. To my soul. Humbled, I began to cherish the very acts I’d once despised, embracing by increments the housework that had seemed unbearable for years.

And so, in the end, I found peace. Not the peace I’d once longed for, the peace of service without sacrifice. But the peace of surrendering to a work larger much than me, knowing that “me” no longer holds first place in my heart.

***

On the counter, the bowl still sits, waiting. Its layers of ingredients need only my effort to create something beautiful, something good. I take up my spoon and dig in, lifting, turning, mixing in a routine familiar enough to perform with my eyes closed. I consider it now, but there’s no need. I pray with my eyes open instead, giving thanks while this meal takes shape: My offering. My service. My joy. And my praise.

Vitamin Bounty

I stand stiffly in church, singing the words of the current worship without feeling changed.

God loves me, I think. I love Him. Why this strange disconnect? 

My mind drifts past the rows of strangers and friends to my sense of inadequacy as I serve. I have spent this past week barely keeping myself afloat, longing to reach out to others yet feeling inept to do much more than survive. A medical issue, a stolen purse, the harried, unscheduled feeling of the first weeks of summer -- they've all combined to create a confounding sense of confusion. Each night, I've fallen into bed with my heart and my prayers reaching out to the many dear ones I love -- ones who, yet again, I have failed. No cards. No calls. No flowers or meals or visits or ....

Back in church, my face falls. All my efforts at service seem so feeble! I listen, feeling numb, as Pastor Tom starts his message. He's describing the ministry to widows that takes shape Acts 6, and I sigh. Another reminder of my failure. I hear sweet words of truth about these ministering disciples, but applying them to my situation seems like a stretch.

"They were chosen to hand out bread," pastor Tom says, "because they understood that only God held an unfailing supply. Their ability to return to Him for provision helped them meet physical needs as well as spiritual: It paved the way for more ministry."

I jot these words in my journal before church winds down. I'm still mulling them over later that afternoon as I struggle to prepare for small group. I feel tapped out already, and although my husband has offered to clean the house, I'm still tense. Why can't I help more? I wonder while I sit still. Why don't I have more desire? 

Befuddled, I turn to 2 Corinthians 8, my Bible chapter for today. Here, Paul describes the early church's patterns of giving. I stiffen in preparation for more feelings of guilt, but the words provide peace, not provocation.

"For if there is first a willing mind, it is accepted according to what one has, and not according to what he does not have. For I do not mean that others should be eased and you burdened; but ... equality."

Immediately, my spirit settles. This grace! It's so rich! Rather than condemning me when my stores run this low, God promises to provide me with enough bounty to share with an eager heart.

My thoughts swirl around the picture of God as our limitless Supplier. There's no doubt: He will refill the baskets of all who ask -- and yes, I have been asking. But it dawns on me now that I have felt empty because I've expected a particular form of bounty to appear in my hands. Physical ability, perhaps. Extra energy. Genuine service as I've defined it for years. My face burns as I realize the truth: When His provision didn't mesh with my plans, I rejected it. Now, in a flood, my mind stirs up memories of the "bread" with which he has filled my spiritual basket for the past few years. My sweet quiet times. My aching for those who ache, too. My outpouring of creative energy and my deep desire to create more. This "bread," I realize, doesn't look like the "bread" I'm accustomed to receive or hand out to others. But it's God's provision, too.

Completely floored by this thought, I inhale a deep breath of new life, of hope. At last, I'm aware of the bounty God's bestowed upon me for His glory. This bounty lies heaped up around me, rich provision that easily overflows into a desire to share it with others. 

Vitamin Victory

I survey my messy home, feeling glum. It's state mirrors my mood, and I imagine the two of us exchanging dark scowls. Where, oh where, to begin? Yesterday, five eggs boiled dry on the stove, exploding and sending their fragments far and wide. Today I take stock of the damage, combining it with the realities of our busy lives in a unsightly catalog of discontent.

Mismatched chairs? Check.

Dingy dining room table, scarred by a forgotten candle that burned all one the night? Check.

Dust-covered floor, including one empty ant trap and one lone Dorito, the magnet for dozens of the six-legged pests? Oh, yes, check.

The list goes on as I visualize a permanent vacation. This small space, so cozy for a family of five at one time, now bursts at the seams with boxes, books, bags, and belongings of all descriptions. The sink overflows. Breakfast remains crowd the counter. I turn a slow circle, my mind churning with the multiple duties this day holds, never mind the demands of this house!

How can I get to it all? I fight off a wave of confusion. Summer break has descended upon us with the surprise of an owl in the night, scattering our orderly lives and leaving me, at least, limp with fatigue. Although we're house-hunting, schedule-juggling, friend-hosting, and money-wrangling like fiends, our efforts have produced anything but peace.

"I just want to burn it all!" I complain to a friend on a walk near my home. "We have no garage. Nobody wants to pare down. But we can't agree on a solution!"

Emily, my friend, emits a small hum of sympathy. "I just do what I can when I feel like that," she volunteers. "I make one thing right, then move on."

Her words echo back to me now as I stand in my dingy home. The curtains are drawn. Why is that? I shuffle to the first window, pull the cloth back. Sunlight spills in, illuminating the civilization of crumbs that has colonized the table's rough top. I open the second set of curtains, then amble to the kitchen for a dish rag. A few moments of concentrated scrubbing, and the unsightly table stands bare, if not beautiful, in the newly-bright room.

Hmm. Satisfaction soothes my soul, and I think of a hot cup of tea. On goes the stove and out come an old, favorite mug. While the water heats, I use my dishrag to ply the speckled white windowsills, my broom to reclaim the dull floor. Fanning a tiny flame of fulfillment, I forge on. Dust the two desks, arrange the motley chairs in what appears to be an intentional pattern, and stand back.

Well... My gaze turns. It's not a fully clean house, but it's one room. As a final touch, I search out a scented candle and set it on a trivet, center stage. It's cheery flame somehow sanctifies the small space, gracing it with a dignity I hadn't foreseen. Those mismatched chairs loot artsy, after all. The table's now neat as a pin. And the floor? It reflects the first rays of the morning sun, its subdued beauty that adding to the room's charm.

I reach for my tea, mollified. Only five minutes of effort. Only a dishrag and one match. My muddled mind clears. My looming list shrinks in size. Yes, the rest of the house is a mess, but this spot of clean casts a spell. No longer resentful of the oncoming day, I accept it. If one wreck can be remedied, so can more! My tea goes down warm and strong, and I smile. This small victory will blossom into more. Full of purpose and contentment at last, set down my tea and stand up. It's time boil some eggs.

Vitamin Wait

I stare at the wall. The house feels quiet, tense -- or maybe that's just me. I'm waiting. Waiting to hear about a house on which we've placed an offer. Waiting for the dust to settle on career decisions for my spouse. Waiting to see just what scholastic scenario works best for our three kids. Waiting for word from God on my own marching orders, moving forward. In every crucial department of life, I feel "on hold" -- and although I've grown up since the days when this situation would have me in a puddle of tears long ago, I still feel the stress. I'm finite. I'd like to know. And yet ... 

I feel the Lord move. I reach for my phone, dial up a friend who's been feeling a bit down. We chat for a while, and she shares heart's burden as she prepares to pack up a home with no idea in the world of where she might move next. The waiting feels painful, I hear between her words, and I deeply, personally relate.

Yet I hear my own voice offering other words, too: Words I could not have prepared. Words that speak to my soul.

It's okay, I tell my friend. I'm excited for you. God has you just where He wants you. This waiting isn't a mistake, it's a crucial part of His plan. Your convoluted path to find out "what next" doesn't mean you've missed God's voice. His voice says, "wait," because in that waiting lies His greatest good for your life. He's giving you a journey, the purpose of which you may not realize until later, but it's entirely intended, entirely right. Go ahead! Relax and enjoy this season, because God planned it on purpose for you. 

We share a prayer. We hang up. I shake my head as I replay God's words to us both in my mind. Sometimes He reaches me best when He speaks through me to others. 

I smile, sit back, and stare at the wall yet again. Nothing's changed in my visible life, but inside, I've found a sweet space of peace. Whether my many seasons of "what next?" exist purely to help me serve those I love, or whether they're achieving other purposes as well, I don't know. But I do know that my perspective has shifted, and that even in this small, sitting-still span,  I find grace. All things - even waiting - really do work together for good when I experience them in His love. 

I lean forward. I can hardly wait for what's next.

Vitamin Ill

"Maybe I'm allergic to strawberries," my 14-year old son theorizes after his second day of work at a local farm. "I was sneezing all day."

But one look at his face, one swipe of his forehead with my own palm, and I know. "Jared, you're just sick," I announce to his instant groans. "No school for you, even if there are only three more days in the year."

Too feverish to respond with his usual fervor, my ailing son simply nods and stumbles off to his bed. He's no better in the morning, and so I cancel a few plans and settle in. Sure, I leave him behind, here and there: He's a big kid and actually starts to recover partway through the day. But this is small gap of togetherness I'm not willing to waste.

The future looms large, after all, and it's a busy one. Summer on the strawberry farm, studies each afternoon, and pool time whenever he can fit it in. Jared will be anything but bored as he nurtures a love of forging, reading, and Minecraft on the side, too. It's just how God intended it when he designed all kids to grow up. Their interests shift. Their world broadens. And before long ... I hold back a melancholy sniff. Before long, he'll spread his wings, fly the nest, and start the circle all over again.

So today stands out in my mind, for two reasons. One, I don't often get to care for my stoic son, well or sick. He experiences highs and lows in characteristic silence, letting his few words be used to dole out witticisms or the ever-present sarcasm about which I constantly chide. Today, I soak up my chance to some surreptitious doting - sure he'll stop me if he realizes just how much I'm enjoying it.

But in addition to this little gem supplied by my son's sickness, there's another. In a busy home with several siblings, a home that only outsourced the kids schooling in the past few years, time is a precious commodity. Today, rather than rush from task to task, I take minutes and even hours to simply sit in my son's presence. Sometimes, he speaks up: A surprising amount, actually, considering is personality and physical state. Sometimes, we sit in silence. But all the time, I'm deeply aware that this shared space is a gift. Sure, it came at a cost to Jared's health. But it is a gift all the same. We laugh and joke. We sit down to our lunches several hours too soon. Just before school gets out, we take a trip to a local thrift store where he finds a favorite book - and chuckles while he reads me excerpts all the way home. By the time I pick up Jared's siblings, I am glowing, and feel a little surprised they don't see. This has been a red-letter day -- I treat I'll treasure during the many Jared's-left-home years ahead.

Silently, I breathe a small prayer of thanks. God, You're so good!

Yes, our health is a gift. But sometimes, God allows a short sickness to season our lives with other gifts, too. I remind myself of this fact later in the evening when my own forehead feels noticeably warm. Here we go ... I think with a wry smile. Another gift in the making.

Vitamin Blue

Blue like the color of baby-fresh eyes
Blue like the shade of soft, sweet summer skies.
Blue as the waters reflecting their dome,
Blue as the windows that welcome me home.
Blue as the bubbles that busy kids blow
Blue as the tint of the fresh-fallen snow
Blue as the birds whose fresh eggs I find
Blue as the mountains where hidden trails wind.
Blue, the horizon that beckons me on
Blue, the deep silence I feel when I'm gone.
Blue, the sensation that kicks off a good cry
Blue, the wild yonder I'll find when I die.

Vitamin Church

I muse over the meaning of church as we park and stroll towards our five-year-old start-up fellowship, downtown. My mind pictures all the churches meeting around the city, around the world, and I ponder the significance of "church" in our particular culture. With folks placing less and less value on formalized groups of all sorts, many churches face dwindling numbers and reduced contributions as real threats to their continued survival. But how should God's body respond?

As a family, we've taken various approaches to this concern. Our main focus through the years, the in-home small group, has undergone numerous iterations until its latest, which served a primarily unchurched or other-churched crowd. We've taken several long- and short-term hiatuses from official fellowship, with wildly-varying results. And our own culture -- that of family, social, and personal areas of focus -- has changed through the years, as well. Yes, our relationship with "church" in the traditional sense has experienced multiple shifts, and we're currently undergoing another one.

We silently find seats in the sparsely-populated "sanctuary" - really a high school gym. Singing has already begun, worship songs which we join in with gusto. Across the street, our pre-teen son meets with another fellowship, one that provides a larger group of peers. Yet I spot other families whose children attend here, swelling the "child" ranks to include kids of all ages. Clearly, one size dosn't fit all in this quest for the real purpose of church.

As the service progresses, we mingle, pray, share announcements, and sit under God's spoken word. Our pastor presents a message that touches my heart, and I thrill to see a new girl in the next row taking careful notes, too. I do appreciate this gathering together, I conclude. But I know it's just one small part of "church." I think of our precious small group - a group we disbanded months ago while my husband studied for a large test. This comprises an integral part of "church" for us, too. I consider our dear ministry friends, a family with whom we share neither small group attendance or weekly church, but to whom we feel closer than most people in this room. "Church" includes them, without a doubt.

And again, my mind soars to the other fellowships meeting around town and the world. I think of house churches in China. Underground meetings in the Middle East. Flourishing fellowships in Africa, South America. And struggling ones across Europe. I think of the millions of friendships like those we enjoy between believers that share no common group, only Christ. I return to our cultural challenges, and I smile. "Church" will survive - of that I feel sure. It may look different as our societal needs shift, just as church in India or long-ago France appeared different, too. But its core - the bond that draws believers together across cultural bounds since Christ's death - cannot change. Christ died to make us free - free brothers and sisters in Him - and whether we meet in a house, on the street or in prison, our fellowship will remain.

Our pastor's sermon drives on, and suddenly, I'm listening again. No longer do worries pinch my soul I'm confident that whatever path God prescribes for our family in the coming years, it won't take us far from fellowship - far from home. I gaze around the beloved faces I see every week, and I smile. "Church" looks familiar today - friendly and secure. But if it looks different very soon, its center will remain strong. Christ, the heart of church, holds us together. And Christ will carry us through to the end.

Vitamin Fail

"I've never failed a test in my life."

My husband's eyes search for mine as we discuss our most recent shock: He hasn't passed a test for which he studied for months.

"I just don't know how to tell people," he continues, looking glum. "It's going to be really hard."

I mirror his grimace. I've been wondering the same thing. I run through a mental list of our family and friends - our three precious children included - who have been awaiting these test results, too. How will we break the news that Dad may take the same test, again?

They'll be devastated, I conclude. Just like Chris. Although we both know that in Christ, nothing can define Chris as a failure, the strength of this blow still stings. Future discussions with coworkers and friends will pose problems, for sure.

"I guess it's just a chance for God to get more glory," I mumble aloud. My hand reaches for his across our scuffed dining room table. I wish I sounded more sure.

How can we handle failure with grace? 

After thinking about this question for days, I realize the answer's right there -- in its very last phrase. With grace. We've nothing to offer others, after all, but the truth. Chris tried -- with all his might. It wasn't enough. And he failed. Others' response - whether or not it mirrors our understanding that a man's identity arises from God's achievements, not his -- must be met with the same grace that sustains us now.

Will they scowl? Hang their heads? Turn away? Say hurtful things? Most likely, yes. Still, our response must be laced with the grace we experience today. God gives. God saves. God loves. God defines. And in the end, pass or fail in any of life's countless trials, God is good. His identity -- more than any of our own successes, failures, or hurts -- gives us the ability to face all seasons with peace and yes, even joy.

Did he pass? No. But this changes nothing in the larger scheme of his life. My half-hearted first statement rings true: Chris's response to his failure provides a chance to put the focus on Christ. Failure may not be what we expected. But, like everything about life under the grace of God, it's a gift. A gift for which, even today, we give thanks.

Vitamin Raw

Many edible items should be consumed only after a thorough cooking. Eggs, chicken, cookies, and steak represent a few. Those who eat them take their health into their own hands and often receive the raised eyebrow of suspicion for their dangerous activity. 

Years ago, the opposite might have been true for people who insisted on cooking their milk, but today, drinking raw milk carries the same stigma as eating an uncooked egg ... if not more. After all, the selling of raw milk in most states constitutes the committing of a small crime. Owners of dairy cows or goats must find creative ways to market their product, knowing they'll face hefty fines for profiting from such a dangerous delight.

All danger aside, only delight remains for myself and my daughter when we discover a friend's father's cow has recently calved. 

"Raw milk!" she crows jubilantly. "Raw milk!" Her brothers and dad gaze at her, eyebrows raised. But I understand her excitement. It's rare to find a soul who will sell, much less for the stellar price of six dollars a gallon. I wish I could bottle this stuff, make it shelf stable, and enjoy it the whole year through. It's so incredibly tasty!

But there's the rub. This wish to prolong my enjoyment of raw milk likely lead to its pasteurization in the first place. When multiple people began experiencing food poisoning after drinking raw milk stored in large batches, federal government mandated the bacteria-killing processes we live with today. The treatments, involving extreme heat, did indeed stop the food poisoning - but they also "killed" the good traits of a tall glass of milk. No longer could consumers receive healthy probiotics with each cup; instead, they downed damaged proteins that would later associate themselves with a host of health problems, including lactose intolerance, mucous buildup, and leaky gut. Just as with mass-produced meat and cheese, the truth was too awful to bear -- the best way to enjoy them is untreated, in sustainable amounts -- and omnivores everywhere gulped down the unlovely lie. Treated milk grows strong bones, gives good nutrition, sets the standard, promotes good health.

The truth - awful though it seems - sits less easily with most folks, our family included. Raw milk - conscientiously-farmed meat - and healthy cheese - should only grace our tables in the amounts that can be obtained with our current finances, and on the occasions that they're readily available. This means that when our friend's father's cow stops producing, our milk consumption will cease as well. This should mean that fresh meat comes only from sources we actually trust, and eggs should originate in a backyard flock we've laid eyes on ourselves. 

The reality, however, is more bleak. Like many Americans, we do enjoy processed milk. Rarely does it come in a tall glass, and rarely do we use more than two gallons a month. But its presence is ubiquitous in our yogurt and cheese. I long to break free from the perceived need for these things, but my creativity and finances stretch thin, and I resort to them, every month, with reluctance. Our budget -- and my resourcefulness - simply can't sustain the "perfect" plan -- and so I pray daily over the sub-par foods we consume and trust our long-term health to our God.

But all this compromise hasn't dimmed my opinions and preferences. Along with my daughter, I rejoice at the opportunity to drink fresh milk again. When it arrives, all yellow with separated, fatty cream at its top, my husband scowls. "I can't drink that stuff," he says to a friend. "Sarah's cured me so that I like the fake stuff most of all." I know he's talking about the nut milks we buy most consistently, but still, I crack a small smile. His preferences will probably prolong his life -- and f nothing else, they'll save more of this special treat for the rest of us.

"Raw milk!" Our daughter sings out again, in sweet joy. "I'm so happy!"

 I place the pristine gallon in the fridge, and heave a deeply-contented sigh. I couldn't agree more with her joy.

Vitamin Tired

I used to think that if I blinked
Or slowed my frantic pace
I would find myself behind
In life's unending race.
I tried my best; I skimped my rest
I worked from dawn to dark
But in the end I couldn't win
I somehow missed the mark
My good health failed. My ship had sailed
(The one called "Energy".)
And in its wake I had to make
More time to sit, to sleep
It chapped my hide: I often tried
To change this state of mine
It never worked. Now, sadness lurked
Within my "wasted" time.
But then I read how God had said
Each season was His gift
I sat. I thought on what He'd taught
And felt my spirits lift.
My chore, this peace was given me --
A present, wrapped in grace
I smiled, received this gift -- and freed
My soul to His embrace.
No longer shocked at what I've lost
I think of all He gave.
A pause. A place to feel His grace
A gift, from God Who saved.

Vitamin Clean

Clean - the noun. It haunts me like a speckle-toothed specter, gliding into each room before I arrive and pointing its cobwebby fingers at the evidences of my neglect. Closets bulge, regurgitating their contents into halls, bedrooms, and beyond. Wadded socks repose in odd places - beneath the exercise bike, behind the toilet, convened on the front porch like a coven - condemning me with their presence. Dust bunnies multiply in both number and size. Carpets collect clippings, crumbs, and unidentified hairs.

And the fridge - oh, the fridge. My constant companion, an odiferous necessity that wafts warning whiffs to all who approach. As I contemplate this offending appliance, I realize that clean is the antithesis to my world. A continual reminder of my sub-par status as homemaker, clean exists as a dream I'll surely never achieve. Clean creates in me a desire to be more ... and a crippling fear that I can't. Clean condemns my messes and robs me of motivation to contain them.

But the other clean -- clean, the verb -- came calling today, too. Unexpectedly, my fridge experienced a transformation under the capable hands of my spouse. Defrosting. De-icing. De-stinking. De-staining. He labored for hours at his job, presenting me witHh a spotless end product to refill. I stared in awe, giving special attention to the scent-absorbing coffee grounds he'd installed on one shelf.  My perfectionist heart gave several thumps of delight; my gratitude meter dinged FULL. Humbled, I realized that while I had been hoping for the noun clean to transform my life, my husband had lived out the verb, providing me with a gift of service that meant more than all the dust bunny-free floors in the world.

Vitamin Host

I have a home - four walls, a stove.
That folks find without fail.
It's not as clean as some I've seen. 
But still, they blaze a trail.
From far and near they trickle here
Some days they simply flood.
Knock knock - surprise! - I close my eyes
And wish for extra food.
I can't prepare. I'm unaware
Of who might happen by.
They text. They call. I love them all
So much I just might cry.
I sigh and try to serve them well
Despite my selfish heart.
But hosting wears my kindness thin
And picks my peace apart.
At last, I rest, the house a mess,
And eye my sticky floor.
I would treasure silence less
If it happened more.
But this routine of listen, love,
Of stillness, service, sleep
Provides me joy, paints pictures of
How Jesus welcomes me.
Against all odds, unlovely, flawed
I'm always ushered in.
His grace, my hope. His heart, the home
That teaches mine to give.

Vitamin Ministry

The last chapter of Acts describes what appears to be the descent of Paul's magnificent ministry. After traveling his world for years, suddenly, this man found himself housebound, in Rome, under the watchful eye of his own personal guard.

I imagine him chafing at the monotony of a single house, a single city, a single view from a single window ... for months. I imagine him dreaming of the sea, the harbor, the long, twisting trails of his past. Perhaps he lay awake at night, remembering the churches he planted, praying for the people he might never see again.

Perhaps, just like me, he wondered why God would ground him just when he felt so on fire. What had he done? And what could he do now? Like me, maybe Paul felt punished, forgotten, unneeded, unused.

Maybe. But I doubt it. All this speculation steps on the toes of what God's word clearly states. Long before he reached Rome, Paul knew God intended him to reach the Gentiles there. He pressed on toward this goal, cheerfully enduring shipwreck, stranding, and several public trials in the process. And while he pursued opportunities to preach at until the last minute, Paul seems to have settled in nicely to the routine of house arrest in his old Roman world.

Paul, after all, was perfectly poised to proselytize Rome. Being a Jew, yet possessing a Roman citizenship, Paul represented God's ideal messenger to this place. After his years of itinerant work, and with increased Jewish hostility towards the message of Christ, God settled Paul safely in his hometown and limited his scope to the safe-guarded scope of his own home. Undoubtedly, this provided a more intimate form of ministry than before. No longer addressing crowds, Paul faced however many people his house could hold. No longer free to travel, he devoted more time to writing.

Thus, rather than derailing the ministry of this man, God set His sovereignty upon it. I want you to sit, I can almost hear Him say as Paul paced his narrow confines. I want you to settle. Invest. Open your home. I picture God bringing just the right people, each day, to stop by, while Paul waited, and watched, in wonder.

Yes, Paul kept his commission from Christ. But rather than traveling to reach out to others, God helped his target group reach out to him. It must have been humbling to learn just how effective ministry could be, when Paul could do nothing but sit. No more striving, planning, walking, mapping, and praying about where to go. Instead, a calm reliance on his Savior to send needy souls to his home.

"For the next two years," writes the author of Acts, "Paul lived in Rome at his own expense. He welcomed all who visited him, boldly proclaiming the Kingdom of God and teaching about the Lord Jesus Christ. And no one tried to stop him." (Acts 28:30-31)

Derailed ministry? Not a chance. These words paint a portrait a man on God's mission, whether housebound or free. Paul's persistence - and patient submission - inspire my own passion to accept God's perfect plan, regardless of what He might ask. Wherever God asks me to stay. Whenever He asks me to go. I'll obey, settling in gladly to a plan that provides His best for both me and the people I so long to serve.

Yes, ministry has a meaning, to be sure. But Paul's life encourages me to broaden that meaning to include everything from a sitting in a prison cell to speaking before crowds and kings. Ministry means only one thing: Spreading God's glory in precisely the way He commands, day by day. Paul's life provides a multifaceted example of this surrendered service. I pray that mine will, as well.

Vitamin Receive

"Receive your sight" - Acts 9:18

Commanded to receive,

I open my hands, and

into them pours a blessing

This simple equation

tells me, every time, I

cannot forget who I am.

"Receiver" - my name - it

rings out with no shame. Lame,

I limp toward my healing.

Covered in filth, still I

move forward,  uphill, 'til

toiling, I pass up my pride.

At last I am near the

great Giver. Here, I lie

finally spent, at His mercy.

            He lifts me up, gently

            Looks at me, intently.

            Asks me to hold out my hands.

My pride long forgotten

I obey. Tears fall, all

noticed by Him who now kneels.

He opens his own hands

Pierced, hard-working hands - and

Lets His life-gift swiftly flow.

His fingers - so warm - give

healing and hope; pour forth

love to my soul like a sea

I'll never leave Him. I'm

glad to receive Him: Gift

Who make all other gifts pale.

Vitamin Best

The day slides by -

Sun, shadow, shine

A motley mix of shades.

Blue, yellow, green

Glance off my screen.

Outside, sweet Springtime plays.

The garden calls

As daylight falls

And morning turns to dusk

I've sat. I've read

I shake my head.

I'm dressed - but only just.

My brain cells swim

My vision dims.

"I should have"'s fill my mind.

Outside this home

So many groan

With pain - am I so blind?

And yet, today

I heard God say

In words straight to my soul

"My best, for you,

Lies in this room:

Come, let me make you full."

Full of

rest,

Full of peace.

Next day you'll be renewed.

Smile again!

Oh child, dear friend,

My Best is always good.

Vitamin Save

"For God did not send his son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through him might be saved." John 3

I just finished reading Frank Perretti's book, The Oath. In it, Peretti compares sin to a dragon who "marks" the people he owns by creating a wound over their hearts that oozes black slime. This mark gives the dragon the right to consume them. 

The people, at first, notice these wounds. They fear their impending doom. But towards the end of each person's life, he or she sinply ceases to care. People begin living as if they have no wound. Sinning and hurting others with reckless abandon. Marching towards their own death in a sickening display of denial. 

This idea aptly illustrates the words of Jesus to Nicodemus in John 3. In this conversation, Jesus says that the world already stands condemned, and that Jesus came to do something much different than condemn humanity, again. He came to save.

See, just like the people in Perretti's story, every one of us has been marked with sin's wound. This gives us a fatal connection with our enemy, sometimes called the Dragon in the Bible. Eventually, he will consume us. We can pretend we're immune. We can live as we please. But truth will claim us in the end. 

When Jesus came to earth, He knew our soiled, sin-sickened state. Rather than sealing that existing condemnation in stone, He came to provide an escape. A substitute. Someone who could pay the penalty that our festering wounds would demand.

It is a beautiful picture, yea? A sinless Lamb, facing down a bloodthirsty dragon, armed with nothing but His own death-damning Love

This love runs so deep that even if I never admit I'm oozing sin's slime, Jesus still offers His gift - His substitutionary blood - to me all the same. My response makes no difference: His love -- and my condemnation, without accepting it -- will not change. 

So what will I choose to embrace? The dragon, his "freedom," his mark? It's already mine, actually. As a child of this world, I took my first breath with that slime-seeping wound, and without Christ,  I'll carry it til I die. No choice is a choice. I can deny it, but nothing can alter the truth. 

Only the Lamb and His ridiculous plan,  His chosen cross and His arms spread out wide, offers any hope for my condition. My state can be changed, but I must admit that I'm dying in order to take receive the Lamb's life. This means letting go of my pride, seeing my rights crucified, and embracing God's world-changing gift.

The dragon? The Cross? My way? Or the Lamb's? Jesus came to save me, if I will but accept Him. Can I admit that I need Him, and live?

Can you?

Vitamin Moment

The cat, a mild-mannered orange tabby,stretches luxuriantly on my queen-sized bed. She's picked the exact center, near two socks awaiting their owner. From here, she blinks, kneads one paw, and rolls over with obvious delight to expose her ample, tawny-furred belly.

Oh, Rosie.

I can't help but smile as I scoop her up, her body a friendly, limp weight in my arms, and head for the front door. Her dreamy demeanor belies an uncanny ability to locate and breach any unguarded entries to our home.

It was good while it lasted, I think as I deposit her, surprised, back outside. But I'm sure you'll be back again, soon. Still groggy from her secret snooze, Rosie stumbles as she lands on the front porch, then rights herself and glances back. But there's s not a hint of animosity in those expressive, green eyes. No matter the millions of times we repeat this routine, she seems incapable of holding a grudge.

Mentally, I tip my hat. That's the spirit, I think as I start the long Wednesday plow that eventually culminates in my bedtime. Savor the sweet things while you have them.

On a walk with a friend, later on, I catch myself following Rosie's feline lead. The lay of a field, freshly-plowed. A covey of cows bedded down the road. Trees in bloom. Tiny plants. Each observation garners more appreciation that I would normally feel, and by the end of our walk, my sludgy weekday spirit has risen to one of gratitude, one of joy.

"Moments have been on my mind," my walking partner mentions as we wind down our stroll. She's contemplating a potential move, dabbling in planting a garden, striving to live out a peace that flies in the face of a thousand unknowns. "This is the life that we have, here, right now. This is what we should enjoy."

I nod, she smiles, and we both laugh. Enjoying life's moments sounds easy ... until you try. But I sense, as we pick up the pace and near our walk's end, we're both willing work for it. The payoff may not look like Rosie's slow stretch on her stolen bed. But it'll be wonderful, all the same.

More peace? Perhaps. More joy. Without a doubt. And hopefully, with a little careful maneuvering, several catnaps to savor, as well.

Vitamin Bask

Walking into a south-facing room, I spot a small patch of sun in my home, splayed on the floor like a fat, sleeping cat. The vision sends an unexpected flutter all the way to my stomach, a flutter I can only compare with the jolt one feels upon sighting one's secret crush in a crowd.

Warmth! I adore you! Sweet light. Give me joy.

Drawn to this bewitching delight, I sink down in its checkered comfort with a sigh. At once, warmth washes over my extremities, flooding me with a sense of well-being I've lacked since the desolate days of winter began. I bask like a lizard, all duties forgotten in these first ecstatic moments of spring sun. I am a worshiper undone, thanking my King for this precious window of light.

And yet ... He grants me these windows every day. Love. Friendship. Food. Shelter. The smile of one of my kids. Without seeming to show special favors, He most certainly does.Those things that draw me to Him litter my path like wildflowers, and I pick them all with abandon, with pure joy. God, help me to bask, help me to worship, with each precious gift that You give. 

Vitamin Wait

Nothing chaps my hide quite like ... doing nothing. Something in my DNA (or perhaps my parents' diapering technique) makes sitting still as onerous as scrubbing toilets to my psyche.

And yet, these days, I'm doing more "nothing" than I ever thought possible. Post surgery ... post surgery fatigue ... post fallout from ignoring post surgery fatigue ... these and other factors have lead to a second year of quietness the likes of which I've never experienced before.

I have duties, of course. Just not enough to make me feel useful. And each time I attempt to collect more, God installs a shimmering, unavoidable wall that says  "No." Complain though I may, I find myself standing around, unsure what to do with my hands, an uncomfortable burden of guilt on my shoulders in place of the tasks that I carried before.

My friend, Lynn, knows this burden firsthand. Diagnosed with Lyme's Disease years ago, she spends most winters gritting her way through chronic pain, immobilized from all but the most basic of tasks, living in such a thick mental fog that daily decisions confound her. But all this pales next to the mental anguish Lynn has experienced as she's watched others carry (or drop) the responsibilities she so longs to lift.

It's culminated, more than once, in moments of intense soul-searching and doubt. But each time, Lynn has emerged with discoveries profound enough to shake my paradigms, too.

"I'm content," she says now, as we walk slowly around our mile loop. "I'm at peace." She describes the freedom she experiences as she settles into the life she cannot avoid living, with all its limitations and, surprisingly, blessings. She details the joy of praying, uninterrupted, for those she loves. The silence that provides a backdrop on which her Creator can paint. The sweetness of shared time with her kids. Guilt no longer hounds her when she's indisposed. Instead, she trusts her Maker and His plan for her today, her tomorrow, her eternity.

And then, after recounting her own blessings, Lynn turns to me. "What about yours?" she asks. "You don't have to wait for them, you know. What blessings has He given you now, in this life?"

I groan, thinking of my undercurrent of discontent as I wait for God fill up my schedule. I'm not sure how to answer, so I promise to give it some thought, and we walk on. Lynn's not afraid to wait for my response, and, I realize with a start, neither am I. We round the last corner toward home, our noses nipping in the late winter cold, and I smile. A bit of Lynn's peace has seeped across to me, after all. Perhaps these quiet days, the biggest surprise of my life, have been sent to teach me the joy of surrendering my agenda to God's plans, greater than all of my good ones. Perhaps, if I just wait without struggling, I'll hear what He's been saying all along. Perhaps the wait is the blessing of this season, after all.

I can hardly wait to find out.

Vitamin Comfort

Today, while performing the routine "home cleanse" that takes place after a full weekend of family fun, I hear a soft "meow" from the top of my younger son's bunk.

Curious, I look up to see that I've just thrown his winter jacket on top of our overfed orange tabby cat, Rosie. She chirrups cheerfully, kneads her claws a few times, and settles back to her midmorning nap.

I shake my head, unbelieving.

"No thank you," I firmly state, hefting her around her ample middle and lugging her towards the front door. "You've eaten three gerbils already. You're no longer an indoor cat."

Rosie seems mildly surprised as I deposit her on the cold front porch, despite the fact that this very same process has been repeated almost daily for many months. Somehow, this sweet, phlegmatic feline, just can't make sense of her new status. It's just so inviting indoors -- especially with this winter's pervasive fog and endless drizzle. Her innocent olive eyes seek my face me as I headed back to my task, but I force myself to stay strong. Surely, she knows better by now.

But aren't we all, honestly, a little bit like this cat? God tells me no, yet I weasel my way into the comfort I so desire ... only to find Him lovingly depositing me back where He knows I belong. No, not all comfort is bad, but comfort against His express orders smacks of sin. It's amazing that I feel so surprised every time He reminds me of this -- as though He hasn't told me the same thing before!

I hope, someday, my mental capacity can exceed that of my sleep-loving cat - who even know has begun scratching at the front door in hopes of a return to the bunk bed. No means no, and I pray God helps me to listen when He makes His will plainly clear.

Vitamin Wool

Nothing says devotion like rolling countless skeins of raw roving into tightly felted wool ropes. The warm softness of the fiber beneath my soap-covered hands. The distinct, fuzzy feeling of the wool changing from cotton candy consistency to firm-cored perfection. These endless wooly worms, ranging from ten to eighteen inches in length, and compose a beautiful blue-and-brown tribute to my creativity, my vanity, and my earnest desire to be different. Soon, this hope will be achieved with the donning of a head full of wooly dreadlocks, carefully braided into my own hair. This natural semblance of the "real thing" - dreadlocks formed with my own tangled tresses - offers the benefit of easy removal and virtually no damage to the real head of hair in question. I'm thrilled at the prospect of reaching my goal. I may be almost halfway there! True, the mountain of wool seems barely diminished, and my hands sport from a stiff outer coating of olive oil soap that just won't wash away. I gaze at my precious periwinkle-hued dreadlocks, and I wonder: Will I have grown to hate them by the time I install them on my head? Will they last a mere several days before I can't take the itching, the fuzzies, the smell? The preconceived notions of others weigh hard on my mind, and I brush them aside with great difficulty. This is, after all, a long-held dream. Dreadlocks symbolize nothing in particular to me except, perhaps, freedom from viewing my own natural hair day in and day out. But this is a lifelong dream dreams of hair freedom and not some fleeting fancy, and it's reached a new peak of self-sacrifice.

I reach for another hank of raw wool with an equally raw determination. If it strips all the skin off my poor palms to roll the last deadlock, I swear I'll see this project through! It's not often I invest time or money in my appearance. And this will (in theory) provide relief from the daily question of whether my hair will behave. I look with moderated excitement toward the day when I'll face the world, a dreaded woman, and I smile.

Nothing says devotion like wool roving.

Especially once it's attached to my head.

Vitamin Sweet

As I carefully sort M&M's out of my small bag of trail mix, I have to smile. Who else sifts through their bounty and removes  the sweet stuff? My near escape from cancer has changed my eating habits, my preferences, and my lifestyle in countless surprising ways. I avoid sugar. I move slower. I pay attention to the signals of my body. And I empathize better.

Thanks to cancer and its subsequent labs and surgery, I know what a certain level of discomfort entails. I can understand, however faintly, the fear of death. My body has been violated by well-meaning physicians. My home life invaded by illness. All in all, refusing to eat a few M&M's is the smallest change to my lifestyle, but it signifies so much more.

See, just like those M&M's, the things I've let go of once seemed so sweet. Now, however, I realize that they contributed nothing to my overall health. When has overcommitting ever been wise? And wearing a Pollyanna attitude in the face of others' real pain now seems demeaning. My whole system of choice-making has fallen by the wayside in the wake of this two-years-past sickness, and although it's left me reeling, I wouldn't have it any other way.

I place the M&M's on the counter, then set to work on the raisins and nuts that remain. Their satisfying flavor fills up my mouth, and I grin. Let someone else have those things!My life is sweeter without them.

Vitamin Disappointment

Here is an exercise I wrote for a friend...responding to the questions, "What is your greatest disappointment in life? Name three blessings that disappointment has created."

One of the greatest disappointments of my life is the lack of flair. I (mistakenly) assumed that my economy was God’s economy, that my idea of “good” was best for me and for everyone else. This led to crushing disappointment when things — career path, location, spouse and children, mission dreams, personal goals — turned out unexpectedly.

The outset. the three Bright Sides to this sadness that still remains:

1. It’s easier to go through suffering with others from a place of relevance. When they face disappointments and confusion, I can say, “I understand. I hurt, too. In fact, I’m still confused about certain things.” And my street cred goes up. People with lives as “perfect” as mine often appears need a little personal pain in order to be believable, in order for our empathy and caring to be received. I’m glad I can truly hurt with the hurting. I wouldn’t change that for the world.

2. Unfulfilled desires make me aware of the fulfillment I’ll find in heaven. Perfection here would make it hard to long for anything greater. I’m glad heaven feels real enough, good enough, to really long for. Even if the longing is so bittersweet.

3. I get a chance to try on new flavors of “me.” Without my identity wrapped up in the things I once held so dear, I get to find a new side of myself in each season, holding on to only the deep “me” that God defines. It’s no longer about what I set out to do, to accomplish. It’s about Him. And that’s an adventure I wouldn’t have chosen without some external Force giving me a shove.

Life is a very grand adventure. Dying will come when it’s time. Right now, I’m just trying to learn to live with the abandon that God intended. Disappointment, along with deep delight in my Savior, have proved to be the two biggest helpers along that unplanned path.