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.