Vitamin Simple

 

The dishes are simple. White, embossed with a trim of 1960’s-gold blooms. I’ve gazed at them countless times, picturing the face of a monkey in a particular oval-shaped blossom, or wondering why anyone would purchase such a horrid design. True, they’re Corelle Ware: Made to last. But even my own mother opted for a prettier pattern after saving enough cash to start fresh. The new set, purchased sometime during my young girlhood, replaced almost all of the monkey/flower design, and I imagine we both breathed a sigh of relief.

We’d seen plenty of that pattern, after all. My mother's mother owned the same set, probably purchased when the styling was new. But with her characteristic thrift, Grandma nurtured those dishes until her death at age 92. And even then, they sparkled with the same dazzling brilliance as the day she first bought them.

And I should know. They’re sitting in my cupboard right now. I nearly rejected Mom’s offer to share them during the downsizing that followed my Grandma’s death, but something made me pause in mid-“no.” They’re simple dishes, after all. Easy to match.

“Actually,” I heard myself say, “I’ll take them. Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot.”

And so, the pattern has come home. I wonder if my daughter stares at those painted blooms. I wonder if she thinks I’ve lost my already-meager sense of style. But the wondering doesn’t detract from my joy. They’re simple dishes, after all. And they speak to much more than my style. In their pattern, their very presence, I find peace. My Grandma was not given to bold public statements, yet her life-pattern fills my mind like a song. I ponder again on her faith. Her service. Her own sense of peace.  Grandma accepted what God provided, and found her greatest joy in quietly serving her fellow humans. A simple ambition, one I’ve often overlooked as I’ve churned my way through this life. But an ambition with staying power, all the same. Staying power, and a wisdom that beckons me home.

Home. It’s what I feel when I remember her, now. A smiling woman, full of grace. Generous and kind to a fault, yet possessed of an inner strength that sometimes snapped through her dark eyes, giving me a delightful, shivery surprise. She could crack a baseball,And so, the familial pattern has come home. I wonder, now, if my daughter stares at those blooms. I wonder if she thinks I’ve lost my meager supply of good taste. But the wondering doesn’t detract from my joy. They’re simple dishes, after all. And they speak to much more than my style. They remind me that although Grandma never aspired to influence or power, there’s another pattern - her pattern of living – that impacts my life to this day. I remember her unwavering reliance on God, and I turn to Him, just the same. I recall her pleasure in simple acts of service, and discover fresh joy in my own humble tasks. Her contentment. Her humility. Her faithfulness. Her smile. These and countless other habits of grace fill my mind when I see her soup bowls, her salad plates.

They’re simple traits, really. Not invented by Grandma, yet a part of her, all the same. Like the blossoms that bordered her dishes, they beautified her life, and blessed mine. I miss the woman that lived them. And yet, each time I glance at her dishes, I’ll remember her – and the patterns of grace that she lived. They’re her greatest gift, really. A gift so striking in its simplicity that someday, twenty or more generations removed, others will still benefit from the offering.

And that is the simple truth.  

Vitamin Love

Snow drifts down this evening. The sun, having long ago made its exit to warm others’ domains, has made space for the on-creeping dusk. Night hangs heavy over this silent world. Pools of light from low-crouching homes punctuate the darkness. The calls of two owls break the calm.

I wonder what they might discuss. Their hooting surely warns off their tiny, warm prey, but perhaps they’ve already hunted their fill. Scuttling bodies lack camouflage when it snows, after all. Maybe they’re just conversing for the love of it.

Perhaps that’s why I converse, too. On an evening like this, scarved in silence and shrouded in shadows, exchanging a few words feels like firelight, like blankets, like food. Solitude may satisfy me in the daytime, but when night falls and the light from my deck illuminates each tiny snowflake’s descent, I long for connection, for friends. Amid the thousands of unmarked arrivals that a snowstorm represents, I crave an arrival of my own, welcomed and recognized in a loved-one’s eyes.

And so, like these owls, I reach out. I text. I telephone. I bump shoulders with my teenage boys who, surprisingly, bump back. When I subside into silence, the owls’ discussion remains. I listen in, and their conversation lulls me to sleep. It is the sound of friendship, of shared life, of love.  

Vitamin Choose

 

I awaken to a crisp winter morning, the kind that calls for a jog. When I check out at Andy’s, I inform the cashier I’ll be parked in his lot for a while. Then I adjust my wool cap, don my thick gloves, and set out.

The sun, not yet committed to shine, hovers just above the horizon. It’s light outside, but just barely. People scurry down sidewalks in quick, jerky bursts: They’re too stiff to saunter, too chilly too chat.

I carefully pick up my speed, testing the frost for safe footing. On my left, traffic-sounds pulse beneath the podcast that drones my ears. I rarely listen to words, but today, with my plans to run far, I know the distraction will help me.

My body leans into a sprint, and I deliberately shorten my stride. Only during this, my forty-third year, have I discovered the magic of moderation. Until recently, I have approached life in one of my two preferred gears – Full Speed or Full Stop. It took a cancer scare, a surgery, long years of poor health, and the endless quiet of quarantine to help me discover this third option.

“I can jog long distances!” I crowed to my husband one day in late spring. “I just need to slow myself down!”

I know he responded with laughter, but this discovery has transformed my life. Choosing my pace gives me freedom! Now, I finish my runs with pleasantly tired lungs instead of the asthmatic puffs of my past. Now, when I run, I feel joy.

Today, that joy arrives through my senses. To my east, the dusky Blue Mountains shoulder the shreds of last night’s fog. Overhead, a houndstooth-patterned shawl of silvery clouds drapes half of the brightening the sky. In a field to my left, the sweetness of summer-baled hay fills the air, transporting me to my childhood for the time it takes to jog by. Frost formations lace the sidewalk at my feet, their delicate patterns miraculously unscathed by my steps.

Onward I run, steeping myself in this day, in this silence I share with the still-waking world. I reach the end of my route, nod to the long, waiting road, then turn around to head home. When I arrive at my car, I’m breathing a little from the exertion, but I feel like I could go on.

With a pang that feels like goodbye, I settle into my wide, heated seat. I shift my car into gear. I drive toward home.

The sun has decided to stay. It casts loving glances upon this small corner of earth, and a thousand frozen crystals respond. They shimmer and wink, and I sigh. This simple decision – the choice to move slower through certain hard tasks – has given me countless moments like this one. Moments when vistas of beauty unfurl like maps on a gray, grade-school wall. Moments when time, or me, or both of us, stand still. Moments when reverence is all that remains.

My breath catches, and I smile. Who knew one hour could contain so much joy? Like a many-movement symphony squeezed into one simple song, moments like this leave me wordless. Transcendent. Free.  

I cruise down familiar streets toward my home. The rest of the weekday stretches out like the road left untouched on my run. Will I race ahead in high gear, pushing for efficiency, dominion, and speed? Will I let boredom or fatigue stop me cold?

I shake my head. Today, I will not do either. Today I’ll choose that grand middle way.

I tap my brakes. Check the scenery. And move on.

Vitamin Furrow - CHRISTMAS POST!

     (SCROLL DOWN IF TOU JUST WANT A FEW PICS)

The field accosts me as I jog by. Empty and still, it spreads a pallor over the once-fertile hills. In summer, its harvest waved high: Plush green leaves surrounded sturdy, wheat-topped stalks. The golden smell of sun-ripening grain filled our valley. 

Now only this blank canvas remains, the silent foundation upon which a riot of productivity once waved. I exhale as I pass by: I'm awed by this empty expanse. The vastness. The potential. The change. It seems at once sacred and terrible, monumental and mundane. 

But it's the furrows that stop me cold. Some machine has mapped them, touching every inch of this field with precision. Like the texture of paper or finely-sewn cloth, the furrows march in perfectly-spaced rows across the land's open face. The soil waits exposed, these silent rows a testimony to utility, to purpose, to plan.  

The soil waits.

A catch in my throat surprises me.  I start to jog once again. It's beautiful, this empty sameness. Beautiful like a promise. Like the squares of a ready-to-be-filled calendar. Like the rhythm of season and sun, hunger and sleep. Like the simple beat of a song.

"It's hard to remember anything about this year," my teenage daughter recently observed as we concluded a quiet dinner at the end of another quiet week. "Nothing makes one month different from any other." She spoke this with sorrow, and I agreed: This year has brimmed full with mourning. 

But it's brimmed full with wonder, as well. Days still dawn. Birthdays still come. People still marry. Babies still arrive, beautiful and wrinkled and wailing with surprise.  We lay down our furrows, or God does, or both. I gaze at my silent field, drinking it in with reverent eyes. I'm passing it now, headed toward home. 

This season will pass, too, I am sure, replaced with havoc and hurry and all things pertaining to growth. Beneath it all, the furrows will stay, ready for their next emergence someday. And when that day comes, I hope I will welcome them more fully, as friends. They hold my place. They shape my days. They help me be patient. 

Together, in these beautiful, God-given furrows, let us wait.  

Photos of our year, mainly mundane:

Chris and Sarah snowshoed together  - first time in 20 years!

Ethan waxed artistic to burn off quarantine energy

Someone officially graduated!! 

Minty grew hairier - Chris grew more handsome

Summer carved a new friend 

Chris and Sarah were pencil and paper for Halloween

Vitamin Filter

 

The Gospel and The Twelve Rules

Jordan Peterson’s book, Twelve Rules For Life, offers practical and psychological help to those seeking a better life – or Peterson puts it, Life (existence for the whole planet across time). Taken as they stand, Peterson’s rules provide protection against chaos and wisdom upon which to lean

The rules, however, fall short. As Christians, we understand that real Life originates in and is and upheld by Christ. The Gospel, not personal will or ideals, provides our only hope. Without a Gospel foundation and Gospel support, trial and time erode the wisest of ideals and the strongest resolve into dust. Success comes not through more effort, but through God’s effort – effort expended at Calvary – effort affecting us still.

Filtering Peterson’s rules through the lens of the Gospel transforms them into statements of hope that convict, encourage, and ultimately, reveal the Cross as the only root from which a truly better Life can sustainably grow.

1.      Stand up straight with your shoulders back because YOU ARE A CHILD OF GOD.

Peterson makes a strong point: Carry yourself well, adopt the habits and mindsets that people espouse, and your likelihood of success will rise. However, to the Christian, success begins and ends with Christ. In Gospel culture, our success rests on the dignity, innocence and worth we obtain the moment we identify with Christ. Whatever success we achieve after God restores us becomes an extra benefit instead of our reason to strive. Christ in us, our Reason and our Reward, matures us and offers the only assurance of current and lasting success.

 

2.      Treat yourself like someone you are responsible for helping because ALMIGHTY GOD HAS ALREADY HELPED YOU.

Christ’s sacrifice gives us a moral obligation for self-care. Since Christ has called us beloved, we must act like the beloved we are. Anything less cheapens His gift and the unarguable value He’s given us. Anything less is a farce.

 

3.      GOD WANTS THE BEST FOR YOU. Befriend people who feel likewise.

Christian friendships suffer pitfalls similar all others. “Rescuing” friendships, shallow friendships, selfish friendships, or fragile friendships all fall short of the healthy relationships God intends. While Christians should, and do, befriend others with an eye for serving them, the Gospel compels us to seek out friends who mirror God’s care. He gives us hard, loving truths – and also His constant presence, both of which help us grow. Because of this friendship, we’re empowered to seek and become friends who do the same – not to the exclusion of other, less ideal relationships, but with a clear-eyed discernment that ranks certain friendships as better than others and eschews other friendships entirely.

 

4.      YOU ARE UNIQUELY CREATED TO INHABIT TIME, so compare yourself to yourself, over time – but never forget your Creator.

Peterson’s argument deepens in the light of our identity as creatures, created by God. In Him we find motivation to strive for excellence as well as humility to recognize and grow past our weaknesses. Failure or success can easily derail us even when we’re not comparing ourselves with others. Recalling our Creator reminds us of our identity within His larger story and helps us retain the dignity and humility (both required) for healthy maturation.

 

5.      BECAUSE GOD DISCIPLINES YOU IN LOVE, do the same for your children.

God’s guidance and consequences, both given in love, shape our characters. To deny our children the same advantage, especially when they are young and still unable to recognize God’s chastisement for themselves, is to participate in their own destruction. Christ has loved us, and we must love our children – not for the purpose of making them loveable to ourselves or others, but because they are God’s beloved. When we treat them as such, employing all the restraints and blessings that belovedness implies, loveableness is likely to follow. But rather than being mistaken as our greatest priority or an end unto itself, it will be a beautiful by-product of their security in our love, and in God’s.

 

6.      Set your house in order before you criticize the world, because GOD HAS GIVEN YOU A SPECIFIC SPHERE OF DOMINION.

As God’s redeemed people, we have been ushered into a Kingdom that exists now and into eternity. It is expressed and expanded with every surrendered thought, emotion, and act we perform. We participate in this expansion in our own location, bound by time. Our impact dissipates, however, when we focus on farther realms at the expense of our own. To care for our bodies, our homes, our yards, and our businesses is to beautify time and eternity. To ignore them for the sake of a more public “cause” cheapens the Kingdom and dishonors its King. We must not do this. We must uphold His kingdom as holy with every mundane or monumental task that we face. We must approach our house and our sphere, however mundane, as if it were God’s, for it is. In doing so, we build a platform from which we may rightfully approach and beautify other, larger spheres, too.

 

7.      Pursue what is meaningful, not what is expedient, because GOD INHABITS ETERNITY.

Peterson proves that small, wise choices create grand, generation-spanning Good. The Christian motivation for such choices, however, runs deeper than the knowledge that self-denial now means better Life later. It rests upon the eternity of God. Zoom out on any decision and include the truth of the Gospel, and you discover a paradigm that necessarily places meaning over expedience, generosity over selfishness. Because His gift transforms our deepest nature, we’re compelled to invest in a better present, a Life-filled future, and a Kingdom that extends into eternity. Yet again, God’s love, not human ideals, informs and empowers our behavior.

 

8.      Tell the truth – or at least don’t lie because GOD’S TRUTH HAS SET YOU FREE.

Christians experience painful, transformative proximity to Truth every day. Truth reminds us of our calledness, our belovedness, and our sin. Truth also speaks, as a Person, from His residence within our renewed spirits. As earthen vessels containing this divine treasure, we accept our frailty along with our worth, and telling the truth becomes a natural response to the Truth we have received. We speak difficult truths (when prompted) in love. We speak delightful truths because they overflow us. Because both kinds of truths have set us free, and because Truth (Jesus Christ) makes us freer over time, we speak truth with our lips and lives.

 

9.      Assume whoever you’re listening to knows something you don’t because ONLY GOD IS INFINITE.

Perhaps the only thing the stranger on the bus or the ranting lunatic knows is their own story. But still, it is new information. Jesus Himself walked the earth as a stranger. He, the all-knowing Divine, frequently queried others about their thoughts and motivations. How much more might we, wrapped in our own limitations, do likewise? This posture of humility opens hearts, both others’ and our own, to connection. It creates possibilities for knowledge and relationship that serving solitude never could. It allows us to incarnate, like Christ, into the lives and experiences of those we encounter. It creates space for Grace to unfold, and this is our greatest goal.

 

10.  Be precise in your speech because GOD KNOWS YOU INSIDE AND OUT.

Precision, like Truth, can protect us. Without clarity, how will we (or anyone else) know us (or our desires) from any others? This rule speaks to the necessity of speaking specifically rather than hiding behind “safe” generalities. What, exactly, do we want? Who are we, exactly? What, exactly, makes us angry, or happy, or sad? God spoke these truths clearly through His Word – both the written Word and the Word of God when He walked this earth. The clarity of His speech informs our own, empowering us to use specific, difficult words without fear. Our fearlessness comes not only from His good example, but primarily from His goodness – a goodness that guarantees our security no matter the difficulty of the our particular words.  

 

11.  Do not bother children while they are skateboarding, because GOD ENCOURAGES ALL THINGS TO GROW.

Growth – ours and others’ – involves danger, daring, and discomfort. In allowing us free will, God asserts our freedom to explore and expects to grow wiser as a result. Why, then, would we hamper that freedom in others? Developing comes at the cost of our safety: not developing costs so much more. Over-protected individuals destroy their spheres of influence rather than edifying them. Worse, they’re denied the dignity given to all children of God. Because God gives us the right and responsibility to grow, we must give the same gift to our children. Protecting children’s freedom to mature is part of our divine calling and displays our own adulthood in Christ.

 

12.  Pet a cat when you encounter one in the street, because THE KINDNESS OF GOD STILL LEADS YOU TO REPENTANCE.

Peterson’s final rule is the greatest: all acts of love transform Life. This is true; but this is not why Christians perform them. Our motivation springs not from the hope of betterment, but from the knowledge that betterment has already taken place. God’s act of love has already transformed Life – our own lives, Life across time, and the eternal Life of this planet. His gentle act – more costly and condescending than petting even the most dangerous cat on the street, makes us New. From this newness, we extend ourselves, too – petting cats, washing dishes, saving lives, speaking truth – and Life continues to transform. There is no other purpose. There is no other cause. Rules won’t protect or redeem human lives, but Love will. And Love is a person. God is Love.

Vitamin Outside

Gertie is a cat with a home body. Round, affable, and slow-moving, she seems incapable of climbing a tree, much less stalking a rabbit or engaging in feline warfare. During her few waking hours, she meanders the house in short bursts, pausing frequently to flop on one side and recuperate. She purrs easily, samples all laps for softness, and wears such a sweet expression that she seems perpetually at peace. An anomaly of a cat, always content. She's the perfect indoor pet.

Last night, she proved me wrong.

I stumbled downstairs around eleven, unable to sleep. After arranging myself on the couch and waging further warfare against insomnia, I  slipped into dreamland until sometime around 3:00 am. 

At this point, a curious noise awakened me. I roused and listened momentarily before recognizing the unmistakable "tunneling" sound of small paws brushing the full-length window of our front door. Although darkness obscured her, I imagined gentle Gertie, "digging" furiously to escape this safe house. 

The sound shifted slightly, and Gertie gave several soft meows. She moved to the other side of the double front door, then tried the side door, as well. 

"Pssst!" I whispered across the dark room. Her efforts were ruining my rest.

She paused for a moment, then resumed scratching.

And I? I lay still and marveled. Our obese house cat, so serene during the day, displayed such desperation at night! What did she want? Why did she dig?

She kept at it for what felt like hours. Finally, I retreated to the silence of my bedroom. I'd considered squirting her with water. I'd even tossed a poorly-aimed pillow her way. But I just couldn't fight any harder. The moon filtered in, its luminosity diffused by the day's smoky haze. Outside, the grass and trees seemed to glow. If I were Gertie, I'd strive toward that beauty, too ... even if it put me in danger. 

And so I left her to it -- to her quiet, unobserved struggle. She must have known it was futile; she'd never even extended her claws. Yet there she sat, long after I left, expressing an urge deeper than her domesticity, truer than her overweight state, stronger than her desire for safety. 

Oh, how deeply I could relate. Perhaps you can, too.

On the surface, my life bends to certain themes. Nurture. Comfort. Peace. Farther down, my silent needs lie. Adventure. Exploration. Full, freedom-filled life. When the moon rises and the haze hangs just right, these needs arise. They stir my soul, driving me to dreams and to action that surprise even me. Impatient, I push at the boundaries of my danger-free life. Like Gertie, my truest self drives me to just get outside.

And God, Who created this truest self in the first place, must smiles. He beckons me beyond, rather than imprisons me within, my four walls. He calls me forward into the mystery of dependence upon Him instead of my skills. He calls me into faith, into life.

I wonder how many nights Gertie visits those tempting glass doors. I wonder what  would happen if they opened, and she could step outside. Would she? 

Would you? 

And will I? We've got the Maker of all nature, the Upholder of eternity on our side, which means there's nowhere really outside His protection. But still, the world seems so wide. Excitement still surges each time I decide. I take one step, and then two, and with my great Maker, I smile. I'm anxious to see what I'll find.

Vitamin With

“With is … God’s plan for our lives.” (Bob Goff)

A year ago, I started the practice of sitting still. Through many trials and much error, I’d come to realize that I spent the majority of my time running, striving, scrabbling, sweating, and fomenting unrest – all in the first several minutes of my day. When I learned about the practice of centering prayer (that’s meditation for Jesus people), I knew I had to step in. My current blood pressure, my future psychotherapy bill, and my present loved ones would all thank me.

And so, I sat still. Twice a day, several days a week. I closed my eyes, settled my hands, selected a centering word, and breathed deeply. I tried not to expect instant results. I chased my errant thoughts back towards stillness. And I waited.

It was slow going at first. My thoughts wandered. I changed my sacred words like an athlete changes his socks. I developed twitches, itches, and excuses to help me avoid those 20-minute sessions. But bit by bit, I experienced a level “success.” set my to-do lists to one side, at least sometimes. I found favorite places, like the driver’s seat of my parked car, to sit still. I began to look forward to my sessions. I relaxed.

Some time later, about nine months into this experiment in stillness, we welcomed a new member to our family. Gertrude, or Gertie the Hut as my husband has dubbed her, arrived just days before Washington state’s quarantine took effect. Hailing from who-knows-where, aged somewhere around three years, this C.O.U.S. (cat of unusual size) claimed my daughter’s heart the moment she saw her online photo.

“Mom,” Summer breathed when we met Gertie at the Humane Society the next day. “She’s so beautiful!”

I looked around. Several normal-sized cats lounged nearby, displaying several states of beauty. The only visible part of Gertie, a nondescript portion of what may have been her back right quadrant, spilled through one side of the “cat house” where she had been hiding since we arrived. It rose and fell with each breath, confirming that she was, indeed, alive. But beautiful? I had my doubts.

Still, I reserved judgment. Carefully, we coaxed Gertie into our presence. 

Noncommittally, she allowed us to stroke her vast girth. Summer’s devotion increased, and so did her tugs on my heartstrings. Finally, after a hurried consultation with my spouse and a trip to the store for supplies, we stuffed Gertie into a too-small cardboard carrier and brought her home.

Would she survive? I had my doubts. Outside our doors lurked coyotes, foxes, and various birds of prey, still salivating over their memories of our former cats. Summer instructed us to keep Gertie inside; we humbly agreed.

But would we love her? Could she love us? I doubted that, too. Our dog, Minty, struggles with social boundaries. Our lifestyle involves frequent guests. And we immediately put Gertie on a crash diet. What newcomer could feel welcome in such conditions?

Initially, my fears seemed well-founded. Gertie spent the first month of her new life with the “I’m nervous” patch of fur on her back perpetually upraised. She traversed the house with her paws clenched and her legs stiff. She did a low of meowing. My husband guffawed each time she walked by. Summer’s older brother, Ethan, found her simply offensive.

“She’s so ugly,” he sniffed. “I can’t stand her!”

But slowly, our home climate has changed. Minty gives Gertie a wide berth (claws demand a certain respect). Ethan allows her to sit on his lap. Despite frequent binges, Gertie has lost several pounds (and gained them, and lost them again). Today, I have to admit it: Gertie’s become one of our clan.

Gertie seems to know this, as well. She sleeps in my favorite chair. She’s stopped yowling. And now, when I practice sitting still, she wants to join me. I settle my spirit, lay my hands in my lap, embrace my inner quiet, and hear her soft meow. Her purr starts to rumble, there’s a grunt and a whoosh, and suddenly, my lap’s full of kitty.

To be honest, it’s distracting. I’ve read the manual these kinds of things. Nowhere does it mention leaving room for a love-hungry cat.

But it doesn’t mention rejecting one, either. Once again, my heartstrings are singing. I clutch my sacred word in my mind, asking it to wait just one second. I lift my hands and rearrange them around Gertie’s soft form. Her purr kicks into low gear, and the rumble fills the stillness as, together, we practice our rest.

Maybe true stillness, like the other disciplines of grace, cannot be threatened by the presence of one lonely cat. Maybe her presence enriches it. Maybe togetherness unfolds the true beauty of every good gift, the way the wind lifts a flag to unfurl its full glory.

This virus and the isolation it creates has affected our togetherness so deeply. We feel the impact now. We’ll feel it far into the future. How can our rhythms shift? How can our actions accommodate the with–ness we must offer (and accept) in order to stay whole?

We’ll have to dig deeper, that’s certain. We’ll need to look wider than we already have. We’ll need to include our pudgy pets, and our stinky ones, too. We’ll reach out to our awkward neighbors, our annoying spouses, and the children who twang on our every last nerve. We’ll find ourselves leaning over other lines, too: Lines of routine, of expectation, of hostility. Together, as we learn to give and receive with-ness, I believe we’ll find ourselves, and our stillness, too.

One simple, shared sit-down at a time.