Vitamin Ezekiel

I confess.

I've been doing some slogging lately, and it's left me feeling quite dry. It's not just my personal life - although I am abundantly blessed, I'm equally blessed with a crowded schedule - it's also my internal dialogue that's jolted my sense of contentment.

See, I'm the queen of Putting Things Off. And there are a few things in my heart that need to be dealt with. Things like my Grandpa's recent death, for one. He must have impacted me even more than I know, because I'm stuck in the "numb" phase of grieving and can't seem to escape. Also, I should be dealing with things like boundaries in relationships, foibles in parenting, hiccups in my marriage, and of course, my thighs (it's a crime to be Woman and not mention this one.)

So it's clear I'm full up with shlup. I could really use an infusion of green tea for my soul, a jump start that would nourish me into action, clarity, and a svelte jogging suit ... or at least sneakers. But instead, my devotional life has kept me slogging, as well. Darn it all!

See, I started a Bible reading plan that works for me this year. And by "works for me," I mean there's a tolerable chance I'll finish the Book before the ball drops in Times Square six months from now. Which is great and all, if I measured Bible Reading Success in checkmarks and chapters read.

But, alas, I do not. I tend to open The Book with an internal prayer that goes something like this: "Heeelp!" And generally, when I loiter for months in the Psalms or 1 John, my prayer is answered in full. I come away ready for the slogging ahead, a spring in my step and the vision of a morning run nearly tangible in my revved up mind. God's Word has a caffeine-like, St. John's Wort-like affect on my soul ... I hear it can be addicting.

But. This addiction gets noticeably weaker when I discipline myself to slog, I mean read, through the Old Testament ... every word. Currently I've just finished wading through Ezekiel - not a wade I'd recommend when you're stressed. There are wheels ... lots of wheels. And eyes, kind of everywhere. Yes, there are angels, but they're not saying things I like to hear. And there are judgments. So, so many judgments. My brain hurts when I read about the evils of Israel, Egypt, Judah, Jerusalem, and every Tom, Dick, and Harry within fighting distance of the Holy Land. Finding a kind word is like gasping a breath of fresh air when you're drowing - never often enough, and too short for any real comfort. During this past week of enduring Ezekial, I felt as dry as the bones he prophesied over towards the end of the book - "Can these bones live?" Come on, God. You're kidding about good things here ... right?

But just as I sat poised to check Ezekiel off the list of inspirational books in my Bible, something hit me square in the heart. And it didn't hit me just once: It powed me 64 times in a row, just in case I wasn't listening.

It was so simple - so obvious! A little phrase tucked neatly in nearly every corner of this hodge-podge of a book:

"________ shall know that I am the Lord."

The blank could be filled in with Israel, or the nations, or whomever God chose address, but the motive remained constant ... and repetitive. God delivered the phrase after judgments, promises, statements about Himself ... you name it. He threw that phrase around like our generation says like. It was, like, everywhere.

And there, at last, sparkled my inspiration - staring me in the face over and over, a field of four-leaf clover in bloom. God delivers everything - the good, the bad, even the ugly (um ... even thighs) with the ultimate desire that each thing will help me know He is Lord. It's a dogged game plan, not too creative, but in Ezekiel, it comes to light as so Divine, so revealing, that it takes my breath away in a fury. I get the sense that Someone carved my initials with Theirs on every tree in the forest ... wrote 'I love you' on confetti and showered my street. I get the sense that this Someone lurks everywhere ... even in the slog through life as a grown-up ... telling me the brazen Truth about Him and His wild love for me.

And I'm smitten. Gone are the doldrums surrounding this plough through the Word, through the day, through tragedy, sorrow, and peace, toward my goal. For I've recognized that the Bible really does come alive ... as do I. In fact, we've both been alive all along. Kind of like those old bones. What seems dead to Ezekiel or me may really just be resting - waiting for the Divine hand of Love to revive it again ... to new life, new purpose, new joy.

And maybe, just maybe, a new route to jog ... in the morning.

Vitamin Live

I have taken a huge break from blogging (curse the word and all its greasy connotations!) for several key reasons.

1. I find it difficult to blog and be fully human, simultaneously. Honest bloggers will admit the same struggle. For example: A new friend recently submitted herself to her maiden encounter with the Lord of the Rings movies in their extended-version glory. This was not due to real interest, but because, as she said while enduring a genre she didn't enjoy, "At least I can blog about it later." Why do that? Why experience something unlovely-to-you in order to scribble it down for your fans to peruse? It seems artifical, contrived, and really, no fun at all.

2. On the same note, I am busy, and blogging takes time. I enjoy writing as much as the next person, but frankly, given the choice between writing and playing Uno with my kids, I know, in the long run, I'll regret missing Uno the most.

But, these two reasons stated, let me take the flip side and explain why I'm gingerly trying to end my hiatus.

1. If it's used wisely, blogging can help a person be fully human. Take my friend and her Lord of the Rings experience. She could have stayed home. It would have been safer, albeit more boring. But because her blogging desire prompted her to at least try out the movies, she encountered something about which she can now speak knowledgably, with a genuine opinion - not just to her cyber acquaintances, but to flesh-and-blood members of her culture, for whome LOTR is an integral part of their paradigm and lexicon.

2. It is true: I'd regret not playing Uno more than missing a chance to update my blog. But sometimes, Uno wins by a very thin margin. This tells me that even if there were no blogs, writing for an audience (even if the audience is only myself) really does matter to me, after all. I've missed word-smithing. I've been in a cave. Perhaps writing again will lighten the cave, making it easier for others to find me and for me to find my way out a little more often, too. We'll see. For now, I'm just happy to be alive, learning to balance these various pulls in my life, and having a few minutes to jot down my thoughts. Life is good!

Vitamin Update

We'll offer a lame title for this post as it's merely a placeholder for Facebook viewing ... enjoy ...









Hair, part one. Selah, this is for you. We're shorn together.













Coop. That's the kids' treehouse ladder in the background.

















Wide angle. Not quite done. Chris used strong wire to support the fully enclosed run from the top ... thus not blocking our view of our neighbors. :)















The brood.

















Looking in
















From the coop looking out.


















He also made a chicken tractor. Not pictured ....

Vitamin Be

It's seven in the morning. Despite a raging illness that has placed small lances inside my throat passageway, I've been awake for two hours. A mug of hot coffee reposes on my desk, wafting seductive aromas my way. Lukewarm eggs and tepid toast top my childrens' breakfast plates, long since cooled as I've waited for the first stirs of "Good morning!" My own eyes have gone from open to half-closed as I've busied myself, far too early, in order to get a good start to the day, and now I'm nearly spent.

I perch on my hard kitchen chair, pounding on these keys, realizing that nothing remains for my morning but this solitude. I could go back to bed - out of principle. I could finish some correspondence, study the Word, pamper my hair or my face. But if I am honest, I just can't. And in this pause - this lull between tasks and adventures - my chair feels suddenly soft. It's good - oh so good - to sit simply, thinking thoughts, with my coffee.

Too often, I've blazed on ahead, rousing my troops, forced myself forward, and tromped on others' quiet spaces in the process. How much we need these un-allocated moments! How beautiful to be created as creatures of Pauses, not just Progress. In the blank face of my nine-year old as he gazes out his bedroom window at ... nothing ... in the half-guilty laugh of my spouse as he 'checks back in' during a conversation he'll never remember ... even in the companiable togetherness of my two younger children as they sit and fiddle with toys in their room ... there is undeniable Life.

For it is in these Pauses that a certain sweeping Progress unfolds. Embracing the stops ... the gaps ... the unexpected 'nothing spaces' utilizes them as they were intended, but our bodies and minds will find them, all the same. Sudden illness the moment one slows down. A bout of unexplained fatigue. Mental and emotional breakdown. These may be our soul's only means of crying out for mercy and rest. It's far less painful to provide the mercy and rest by taking it when it comes - but it will come, either way.

I recal an essay I once wrote about the art of Stillness. I was newly married then, wondering how and when I'd start my career. I noted people such as Moses, Paul, and even Jesus who encountered their Pause just prior to an explosion in ministry or service. Not all Pauses creat such visible results, but the Progress takes place just the same. Consider the refreshment we feel after a long soak in the tub or even a long, 'brainless' run. What about 'the year I didn't know what to do?' (don't we all have one ... or more?) What happened during that time could not taken place in a year of frantic activity, could it? We writers are fully aware of the 'Aha!' moment that often occurs on a quick bathroom break. And what, if not Pause, is the reason for the time-outs so steadily inflicted on toddlers, courtrooms, athletes, and even Congress?

Perhaps we should Time Out more often.

In my own culture of doing, reaping, producing, and benchmarks, I choose to stop measuring some things. The weight of my life based on my schedule. The worth of my children based on theirs. The time it takes to savor this cup of coffee, walk a mile with my son, construct cookies with my daughter, or have 'quality time' with my spouse.

But most of all, I will stop this fierce advance into DOING. Instead I will let myself BE, Pauses most of all, and rejoice in the Progress (seen or not) that this brings.

Maybe I'll go back to bed now, after all ...

Sons of Zebedee

Several nets:
Not that many, but they are enough.
We cast they daily, and they,
in turn,
return full, brimming with fish, with contentment.

Flourish? Yes, sometimes.
But even when we flounder, we fish.
The squares of our nets bind our lives
Like so many bricks, so much mortar.
The are our purpose, our way.


Until
one day
He arrived.

He said very little - just watched us at our work
(we were mending the nets, I believe)
Tying the worn little squares back together.
We sat there, silent, both waiting.
But that gaze! In His waveless eyes we felt
The Lake after raising a storm
The Sky when the moon's barely up
The Wind when it blows in the Spring
And we loved Him.

"Follow Me," He said.
So we did.
Left our nets
And our Dad
And climbed aboard this Man's ship -
Oarless, netless
And fearless as if we'd had many.

I still remember the first puffs on the road, walking after Him,
Following Him down His path, toward His purpose
Following Him to the Deep we had craved.

We had found our true Way.

Vitamin Gift

Three kids. That's not a large number. Yet they are who the Lord has given me, and I know they love me dearly.

How do I know? That's easy! They shower me with presents! I receive so many knicknacks, portraits, bouquets, rocks and feathers, and abstract twig carvings that I have created a receptacle for them all. Euphemistically termed "Mommy's mailbox," it hangs innocently on my bedroom wall, collecting all the treasures for which I've no home. Periodically, I slink away and dispose most of them ... in the trash can.

But don't tell! A deep part of my mother-heart feels shame and remorse at not being able to receive each of these treasures with the joy in which it was created. I think this is due, in part, to the fact that my own childhood memories don't include a feeling of 'overgifting' my parents. To my recollection, my gifts were each so thoughtful, so artful, so apt! The truth that they were probably the same slips of paper and bits of string my own children offer me seems irrelevant - and maybe that's the beauty of childhoos. All our treasures are priceless - all our creativity is gold. In our minds, our parents have enough room to store every cherished offering indefinitely, pulling them all out and admiring them without end.

And this is as it should be. Our parents, human replicas of the Divine, are created to respond to us with the same open-handed joy as our Father. True, their receptiveness has an end, but our childish eyes don't perceive it.

And isn't it lovely that, in God's eyes, we all remain children? No matter how mature we may feel, we still function as kids, endlessly offering our bits of glitter and glue for His pleasure. And pleasure they bring! He delights in our offerings, filling up on the tidbits we bring. He wants it all - and He has no secret dumping-ground for these gifts! He savors them, displays them with pride, and gives us the encouragement to keep on creating - all out of His deep parental pride in our existence.

Thank You, God, for accepting my gifts. Thank You for being my Dad.

Vitamin Cuttlefish

I've never thought of sea creatures as "cute," much less "cuddly," but that's just the adjectives the cuttlefish brought to my mind the other day. I'd never seen one of these puppy-faced fish, but the aquarium in Sea World boasts a loveable little collection. The children and I stood and stared at them, marveling at their friendly appearance, and then I read their information sheet.

Cuttlefish are remarkable because they can change the texture and color of their skin when they sense danger. If the threat persists, they release a cloud of ink to confuse their predator.

Wow, I thought. Not only are they cute, but clever, too. I spent the rest of the day imagining myself as a a cuttlefish, able to dimple my skin and change its hue at the drop of a ... a ... fishhook. What a marvelous skill!

But then I grew concerned. To exhibit this trait in my real, on-shore existence would mean blending in with the crowd and the culture in order to avoid any conflict. And as a Christian, I know that being 'of the world' is the last thing I should aim for, even to avoid persecution.

But what if my backdrop were changed? What if, when threatened, I were able to become more like Christ ... so that my life was 'hid in Him' and my Enemy were unable to find me? Now that's a defense strategy I can aim for! Those sweet little fish have a lesson for me after all.