Vitamin Coat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vitamin J

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take pleasure in experiencing the small things.

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

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

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

Vitamin Delight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

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

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

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

Vitamin Candle

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

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

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

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

Vitamin Help

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vitamin Bubble

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

But not tonight.

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

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

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

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

Vitamin Mother

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

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

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

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

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

Before we were born, He adored us.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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