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.

Vitamin Count

Today I must have counted to 500 this morning before I felt ready to speak with my teenage son. It's not that his sin was so grievous--and I knew it. I just found myself in the midst of the perfect storm of a situation, painted exactly to bring up my most furious self without warning. 

And so, following the guidance of many wise experts in this field, I counted my anger slowly away. It didn't dissipate entirely, of course. In fact, it didn't even subside for quite a while. Waves of frustration lit up my mind, printing a hot, sudden headache and a familiar construction in my upper throat.

Eventually, though, about twenty minutes later,  I'd relaxed enough to stop counting and managed to express my concerns I a calm manner. 

The difference in our exchange was astounding. True, I still had to deliver bad news. And I still I stayed my anger (and its reasons) out loud. But it happened is in such a controlled manner that my so 's Inner Miniature Hulk never emerged -- nor did mine!

I'll take my miracles where I can these days, thank you very much. And I'll keep on counting whenever I can. My moments until manageable frustration, my years left of presiding over piano and grades, and yes, even my innumerable blessings--including the precious teen by my side.

Vitamin Death

All good things - and even the bad - must come to an end.

This fact my darling son, Ethan, brought into sharp focus during breakfast this morning.

"Mom," my girl, Summer, had just suggested. "For the whole last year of your life you should just go back to eating sugar." I heard in her voice her deep sympathy for anyone who exists without the sweet substance, and her earnest desire for me to enjoy it after I my days were numbered.

"But Summer," I said, laughing. "How will I know when that year begins?"

We both giggled - and I thought the subject was closed.

"But Mom," Ethan cut in - wheels churning hard behind his thatch of pumpkin-pie-orange hair. "What if that last year of your life was the year you were all crumpled up in bed, like a dead spider? All bony and wrinkled ..."

His voice trailed off. Clearly, he'd seen the look of disgust on my face inspired by the vivid picture he just painted.

"Um .." he began. Trying hard not to laugh.

"Um ..." I echoed faintly, unsure how to respond.

In the end, we both dissolved into giggles. The image of my poor body, exactly 365 days before my death, suddenly seizing up like a dead spider, proved to be too hard to resist.

True, death can come unexpectedly. And whenever it does, it's surely not pretty.

But knowing it will arrive - accepting the inevitable - and perhaps, event throwing out a "dead spider" joke or two as it slowly draws near - helps break the tension that surrounds such an inescapable event.

At any rate, it sure does for me. Someday, when I lie shriveled up in my bed, I'll have a good chuckle at the aptness of my son's youthful description. I fervently hope that my bony, wrinkled face will be smiling so much in those last days that it'll become my natural expression - something to counteract the hideousness of my "dead spider" body, in the end.

Cheers to life! And to death! And to the reality that there's more, after both, than we can possible imagine!

Cheers to kids.