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.