Vitamin Rest

"Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28)

As a card-carrying member of Strivers Anonymous, I encounter Jesus's invitation with a mixture of hunger and hesitancy. On one hand, rest represents the deepest desire of my heart. But on the other, it infers that my current endeavors must cease. No matter how miserable I feel, my struggle for perfection, productivity, or praise has embedded itself so deeply into my identity that releasing it seems somehow unwise.

On the surface, I respond to the call He proclaims. But in reality, I know the stubbornness of my own soul. To combat my selfish desire to retain control, I've compiled a list of the desirable aspects of His rest. I plan to return to it often, any time I feel tempted to carry my burdens alone. I pray it ignites a deep desire to let go, for myself and any others who feel too prone to strive.

1. His rest exceeds mine.
Too often, I reach the end of an exhausting day, collapse into bed, and awaken the next morning with the same persistent fatigue. Jesus offers a rest that reaches beyond my body and renews my soul. (Matthew 11:29) I may manipulate my mind into submission with self-help or deep breathing, but nothing erases my worry except removing it entirely from my control. Much like extra cargo that threatens to sink a ship, only offloading the source of the strain can bring real relief. It takes a mighty hand to do this - a hand with strength far beyond mine. Only by accepting Jesus's rest can I attain the lasting renewal I crave.

2. His rest requires action.
Strivers like me often spurn utter stillness. We wholeheartedly repent and embrace our need of His rest, but we've also been wired for action! After the realization that our own works can't save us (REFERENCE) comes the fear that holiness might mean endless empty days, void of passion or purpose. On the contrary! Receiving Jesus's rest requires active participation. He instructs us to come, take, learn, and find. 

"Come to Me," He invites, and this "coming" continues every moment from our initial surrender and on. We orient ourselves toward Him, remain under His authority, seek His wisdom and will, attach ourselves to His people and submit to His word. These activities cannot save us, but they become a delightful expression of our salvation as we rest and rejoice in His presence.

"Take My yoke," He commands, and although the taking merely means shuffling under His protective, sovereign plan, it still requires a courageous choice. We cannot maintain our own yoke as well as His. We must step away from our own lists, expectations and plans in order to embrace His better ones. Taking His yoke provides a joyful, continuous response to His relentless compassion.

"Learn from Me," He says, and with these three words, provides both permission and commission to soak in His presence, study His habits and watch all His ways. While we live under His yoke, He invites our spirits to pursue the inexhaustible study of His love. Eternity, time, history, nature, and His Word all exhibit His praise. Learning from Christ provides both invigoration and rest, challenge and renewal to the curious minds He has designed.

"You will find rest for your souls," Jesus proclaims, His words pregnant with prophecy and promise. Under His yoke, the discovery of soul-rest becomes a constant delight. Where will I unearth it today? Will adversity reveal His peace? Can my soul receive rest in deepest grief? What about insult, humiliation, or need? The answer must always be yes, for Jesus cannot tell a lie. Finding His rest offers a fulfilling pursuit in place of the petty goals we once chased.

3. His rest means rescue and renewal.
If Jesus's rest meant simply the absence of strife, it would be a hollow, halfway relief. Just as salvation both erases our guilt and produces our perfection, so spiritual rest goes beyond the simple removal of fatigue. It ushers us in to lavish abundance. We experience the "10,000 charms" celebrated by the early church (REFERENCE). We encounter "joy unspeakable," (REFERENCE), "pleasures forevermore," (REFERENCE), and "more joy than when your grain and new wine abound" (REFERENCE). Resting in Jesus means exuberant, eternal satisfaction, a blessing much richer than any earthly rest can achieve.

Oh God, let my motive for accepting Your rest be this joy. In Your rest, I find a preview of heaven. I discover that my hopes stand on truth. I encounter a depth and fulfillment that ____ my soul. Let me run to Your rest with the eagerness it deserves, anxious for the release and renewal only Your yoke can provide.

Vitamin Awkward Pause

We all know the feeling. Something strikes us funny during a serious discussion. We ask a suspiciously pudgy friend about her due date, and her silence grows pregnant with meaning. We chirp, "'Bye, sweetheart!" when concluding a phone conversation with our boss.

We also know the silence these blunders create: The silence of utter shock or pure shame. During these momentary conversational freezes, everyone scrambles for an appropriate response. Laughter? Denial? An apology? Instant flight? The responses we choose determine whether a situation becomes humorous or horrible, despicable or a delight.

Other awkward pauses exist, too. We struggle to find common ground with a stranger. We discuss a difficult diagnosis with a friend. We apologize for a years-old offense. At these times, pauses populate our conversations like puddles on a tree-lined trail. In order to proceed, we must wade right through, hazard the long jump across, or venture off the path to stay dry. Both situations present us with a selection of uncomfortable options. But how do we know which to choose?

During this past year, I've considered this question countless times. No, I haven't put my foot in my mouth every time I've gone out (at least I hope not), but I've become acutely aware of an extended "awkward pause" within my own life. A year ago, my husband and I encountered a colossal marital challenge. It involved enabling, deceit, and an element of unwanted surprise. It became public overnight, leaving us reeling and threatening to unravel the 17-year-old fabric of our knit-together lives. So we hit "Pause" in an effort to survive. 

We disbanded the small group that met in our home. We pared down our outside commitments. We conserved only the closest of friends. And we hunkered down with our kids. It took every ounce of our energy to discuss our situation with each other and with them, but in the roaring silence following the big reveal, we had only one choice: Step right in. 

A few people called. Our small group prayed, then slowly drifted away. Most people pretended everything was just fine. In reality, though, our hearts were broken, our lives turned on end, and everyone around us knew why. The year of silence - this long, awkward pause - that ensued has been one of the most difficult seasons of our lives. But by God's grace, we're still here, walking this path, side by side. We're not done with the hard work of healing, but from where we stand, knee-deep in this muddy mess, we've made a few observations.

1. Awkward pauses can connect us with reality.

God knew about the ugliness in our hearts long before we did. He saw our awkward pause before time began, and He planned to use it for our good. During the space that this silence has created, He has deepened our understanding of His sovereignty. He has revolutionized our experience of His grace. His Gospel, His love, and Himself - the ultimate realities worth embracing - shine brighter for us than they once did. Our awkward pause forced us to listen - and we've fallen deeper in love with the One whom we heard when we did..

2. Awkward pauses can clarify our values.

With little other distractions, my husband and I have grown more rooted in our core beliefs. We have weeded out non-essential pursuits, pruning our priorities until we feel unified and grounded in a much deeper way. Will this clarity remain when the busyness sets in? I don't know. But I feel confident that our new foundation will provide a baseline to which we can return if we grow confused. And we owe all this clarity to our year of silence.

3, Awkward pauses can deepen our relationships.

Sharing a socially-awkward moment with a friend forges a new kind of connection. Walking through life-silences does the same. Our children, our true friends, and our closest family now feel like members of an elite tribe. They've stepped into our deepest puddle with us. They've experienced the cold and the grime. We know each other on a deeper level, and it's all because of this extended and difficult time.  

4. Awkward pauses can bring us life.

Jesus once asked, "What good is it for a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul?" (Mark 4) We may feel poised and socially stable. We may keep our marriage intact (on the surface), and our family in the latest styles. We may even shell out the dough to maintain the illusion of perpetually sun-kissed hair. But if these things keep us from an honest assessment of our poverty before Christ, they are our enemies. They are sin. Pride constantly seeks to replace God's truth with lies. I am sufficient. I am independent. I am wise. The humbling situation that caused our awkward pause helped us put these old, ugly selves to death. It brought us full, rich life in Christ. Has it been humbling? Yes? But it's the sweetest kind of humbling I've ever known, a humbling I wouldn't trade it for any polished public image, no matter how bright.

In my college newspaper, I ran a features column entitled "Puddlestompings." Here I curated articles that upheld one premise: Life should be approached with the abandon of a child playing in the rain. I have matured since then. Experience now tells me that every puddle wasn't meant for mindless stomping. But on the trail of my life, I know this. No puddle exists without God's permission. If it lies in my path, I will cross it - carefully, mindfully, and with the joy that comes from walking by faith, not by sight. I accept this path God provides, the puddles and the clear patches alike. Even if everyone else abandons me, He never will. And that transforms every pause, every puddle, into a thing filled with beauty and with light. 

Vitamin Learn

"All right, Summer. That was okay. Let's play this line again." I lean in to the piano, brushing my twelve-year-old's shoulder as I demonstrate the correct timing.

Summer sighs. I can practically feel her eye-roll from behind. Frustration oozes through her limp fingers, barely able to lift themselves to the height of the piano keys. She plunks through the specified line, woodenly and with no improvement, then stares at me, stoop-shouldered, blank-eyed. Are we done yet? every line of her posture implies.

Now it's my turn to sigh. "Well," I say carefully, "why don't you let me know when you're ready to learn? We'll come back to this later in the week, okay? For now, though, I think we're through."

I turn and begin moving my piano lesson chair back to its usual place in the living room, but not before I catch of glimpse of my girl. Her eyebrows shoot up. Her eyes widen into pools of shocked innocence. "What do you mean?' she asks, her voice high. "What did I do?"

I turn from re-situating the chair. "It's like this," I begin. "You can practice piano just because I ask you, or you can do it because you want to improve. You can value my input as your teacher. You can take my ideas to heart. That's called being a good student, a good learner And that comes from in here." I pat my chest. "You can't fake it."

Summer remains silent.

"Good lesson," I say after a short pause. "Go ahead and clean up your books before breakfast." Mechanically, I walk to the kitchen, already anticipating my own thought police. Was it really good ? My critical self demands. Summer hardly learned anything! 

No. I firm my jaw. She may not be learning piano, but there's far more than piano to absorb. Mentally, I remind myself of all the disciplines my children despise. Diagramming sentences. Checking in before making judgment calls about coursework. Performing "useless" tasks while they're at school. Family chores. None of these activities, from Algebra to push-ups in PE, are a waste.

I nod to myself as I carry loaded plates to the table. Sure, it'd be lovely if Minecraft supplied my boys with inner strength. It'd be fantastic if stringing beads provided Summer perseverance through unexpected pain. And maybe they could ... who's to say? Still, more often than not, God uses our least favorite tasks to teach us His ways. He builds our character, brick by brick, from the very things we most hate.

I glance at the colorful, nutritious meal spread out for my family. The scene makes me smile. After what feels like several lifetimes of loathing my own mundane tasks, I can testify to God's transforming power, firsthand. The things that once felt like shackles have become precious gifts -- avenues to give and receive boundless grace.

It'll be fine. I chuck my inner pessimist on the chin. You'll see. Joyfully, I envision my children as God sees them - both now, and in the future. Not as virtuoso pianists. Not as superior scholars or successful business-people or even well-known figures in their world. Bur rather, as well-known to Him. As His friends. That is why I am confident that piano lessons, Algebra, accountability, and evening household chores can be saved. They'll never be useless as long as they're tools for God's transforming grace.

Don't give up, I tell myself silently, sending it out like a prayer for my children, as well. Keep the faith. With a profound sense of gratitude, I call them to the meal I've actually enjoyed getting up early to prepare. If God can change this about me, then His canvas and abilities know no bounds. What will He use to grow each of us next? I am eager, now, to find out.

Vitamin Valley

"It's damp down here," I remark for the third time. 

A few family members grunt in assent, then return to their various duties as we settle in to our new campsite. One of the few unclaimed locations, it sits at the bottom of a tree-studded ravine. And while I feel grateful for the blessing of any campsite at all on a summer night in the Redwoods, I can't help feeling a little underwhelmed, too.

I survey our temporary home. Multiple varieties of moss meet my gaze, covering nearly every surface in sight. I can almost feel them grow, inching toward us whenever we look away. Shadows from the trees and the encroaching valley walls create an early, unnerving dusk, and I set out to forage for another warm sweater. 

As I don my next layer, I sigh. This sense of unease felt familiar. Each time I linger too long in a valley, the presence of so much immovable earth makes me squirm. 

Oh, I enjoy mountains as much as the next girl. I just start feeling edgy - and unnecessarily cold - when they shoulder right up to my tent. The shadows offend me. The incline makes me itch. Do I climb it? Ignore it? Why does it blot out the sun? 

Yes, low-lying locales upset me. They steal my sense of place, self, and security, creating a quiet desperation that only lifts when I'm safe, far away. 

But what if I just can't escape?

This question assailed me today. I've been meditating on 1 Corinthians 12:7-10 lately, especially the part that says, "I will boast about my weaknesses." The apostle Paul describes the glory Christ receives when His strength complements human frailty. It's a familiar concept, one my mind comprehends without question, but lately, God's been pressing it much deeper into my heart. 

You see, my own weaknesses have been leaning in extra hard these past weeks, crowding me like socially-awkward dinner guests. But I can't find the strength to escape! Closer and closer they press, looming higher than the encroaching terrain I so dread. And they're not surmountable weaknesses, either. They're the kind I fear I'll live with forever. They cast their long shadows, stealing my sense of place, self, and security day by day. 

I glance around, feeling small. The landscape closes in. I'm uneasy and cold, and I ache to run away. But since these mountains arise from my own soul, there's simply nowhere to go. I long, like Paul, to find the strength to accept these weaknesses as gateways to God's boundless grace. But will that mean a permanent stay in this place?

I picture myself now, surrounded by these towering peaks. Why would God allow these weaknesses to overwhelm me, anyway? Doesn't He want me to climb, to succeed, to scale new mountain heights?

Well, yes. And no. 

A closer reading of Paul's words in I Corinthians reveals that his weakness kept him humble. Resigning himself to looking up at those impossible heights prevented him from an inflated sense of pride. Paul's place and his security depended not on his own abilities but on Christ; a constant awareness of his weakness helped keep this truth fresh in mind. 

Suddenly, I really start to squirm. Why does my frailty bother me so much, anyway? Have I, like Paul, preferred to boast in my own strength, not in Christ? Do I resent a constant view of my weakness because it tarnishes this sinful pride?

Carefully, I revisit the spiritual landscape in my mind. The mountains still surround me - my struggle with depression, my physical limitations, the ugly attitude I just can't hide. Hesitantly, I ask for the strength to view them not as personal threats but as invitations to completeness in Christ. My sadness? It requires His joy. My frailty? His power. My sin? His forgiveness and grace. Without these mountains for perspective, how quickly I'd forget the One Whose strength makes me rise. 

"Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will mount up on wings as eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint." (Isaiah 40)

Day by day, I'm learning to accept this reality as another of God's wise, sovereign ways. He allows these mountains to remain. He promises stay close through the valleys. (Psalm 23) And He tells me I need not be afraid (John 6:20). With my eyes fixed on Him, He invites me, with Paul, to proclaim, "When I am weak, then I am strong." This is real faith, unashamed. This is a valley worth celebrating. This is somewhere I can stay.

Vitamin Sensitize

I inhaled deeply as I pulled the large, tan sheet off the clothesline. Thanks to a new home purchase, I'd been utilizing this outdoor energy-saver for several weeks. Each time I stepped outside to collect the laundry, I looked forward to the smell of fabric, freshly dried by the sun.

But today the aroma was missing. Why had the scent disappeared? I inhaled again and, with a jolt, the truth hit me: Familiarity had rendered it obsolete! Just as the undesirable mess of my own home often escapes me, this l desirable detail had grown invisible over time..

I heaved a sigh and tried sniffing the sun-soaked sheet again. I'd just have to work harder in order to enjoy that summertime smell. I didn't want to grow permanently immune, after all.

As I collected the last of the day's laundry, my mind hummed. To how many other beautiful details had I become unwittingly immune? Birdsong. Healthy children. Safety from war, persecution, and plague. A clean kitchen floor under my freshly-showered bare feet.

The list of my most precious treasures grew during the rest of that hot, cloudless day, and  by dinner I fairly bursted with good gifts. I gazed at the faces of my family as I shared my deep thought and saw their expressions soften as they, too, contemplated the kind of immunity they wanted to avoid. It will take careful work on all our parts. But I hope that together, throughout this busy ad blessing-filled summer, we can re-sensitize ourselves to all the goodness we've forgotten. It'll feel like a shot in the arm of good cheer, I am sure, one that will bolster us for times of unforeseen trial far ahead.

Vitamin Serve

Like a beacon, the bowl sits. Layered up to its brim with the ingredients that will produce potato salad, it holds me enthralled for a moment. Entranced. This act, the routine of following a family recipe learned by heart, seems suddenly alive. Even sacred.

The bowl’s deep aroma draws me in, and I sigh. Later, I’ll serve this dish to my family, the small flock that gathers each night for my meals. They’ll dig in, dine well, and dash off. And tomorrow, we’ll do it all over again.

Inhaling once more, I remember when serving my flock felt like slavery. Mixing, measuring, and meal prep never came natural to me, after all. I felt born for bigger things. Better. Tasks that engaged my imagination, inspired praise. My homemaking duties hounded me, dulling my senses and threatening to steal my joy.

Only the passage of time seemed to save me. Like a hospital patient, I endured this distasteful medicine, and over the years, it grew familiar, if not sweet.

At the same time, God gently prodded me towards maturity.  One day in a flash, I remembered that I’d chosen this path for a reason –  one that hadn’t included my own self-fulfillment. I realized these serving years were a crucible, a gift not only to my family, but to my character. To my soul. Humbled, I began to cherish the very acts I’d once despised, embracing by increments the housework that had seemed unbearable for years.

And so, in the end, I found peace. Not the peace I’d once longed for, the peace of service without sacrifice. But the peace of surrendering to a work larger much than me, knowing that “me” no longer holds first place in my heart.

***

On the counter, the bowl still sits, waiting. Its layers of ingredients need only my effort to create something beautiful, something good. I take up my spoon and dig in, lifting, turning, mixing in a routine familiar enough to perform with my eyes closed. I consider it now, but there’s no need. I pray with my eyes open instead, giving thanks while this meal takes shape: My offering. My service. My joy. And my praise.

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.