Vitamin Share

The moment my alarm wrestles me from dreamland, I sense a strange tightness in my feet. I must have been clenching them for hours! I imagine my feet curling, almost cramping, and relaxing again through the night. What could my mind have been processing? I recall a dream about Disneyland and a massive, confusing, hotel. Maybe, even in slumber, I've searching for rest and for peace. That sounds about right.

I pry myself from under the covers, pat my still-inert spouse, and stumble through my morning necessities before settling on my stained office chair. I place several warmed rice packs in critical locations. I close my eyes. I open my hands and sink deep. 

Well, I try to sink deep. 

Most days lately, I've attempted this sacred unwinding. I still my soul, clear my mind, and repeat whatever mantra will draw me closer to peace and to God. The practice lasts until the rice packs cool down, and then I open my eyes and start moving. The simplicity has proved vital to my current season. I draw on the solitude all day.

But today, as is her current norm, my daughter's cat, Gerty, arrives to inhabit this space with me. First comes a gentle meow, then several padded footfalls. Finally, her soft bulk fills my lap and the beginnings of a contented purr replace the sweet silence. 

I emit a small sigh. Gerty has settled atop my open hands. Clearly they were offering her stroking, offering love. Gently, I move, cupping one palm to cradle her head. I place my other hand on her chubby body. The warmth of it emanates through the skin and up past my wrist in a comforting flow. 

Together, the cat and I breathe. Occasionally, she nudges me: More chin-scratches required! I sit and I think, and then I force myself not to think. My quadricep muscles slowly release (I didn't even know they were tight). My mantra shifts from "rest" to "Jesus" and then back again, but I figure they're basically the same. 

Gerty and I keep on breathing.

And then, just when our contours have melded into a comfortable connection, she makes a small noise and moves off. Her footfalls depart but her purr remains, somewhat muted. She's probably stationed just outside my office door, waiting for Chris to emerge from the bedroom so she can accost him with requests for attention and food. 

In the middle of my stillness, I smile. It took several days to make room for ritual. But then I realized that our pets, like our souls, require tending. When we invite them into our space, we implicitly agree to this care. But unlike houseplants or a new set of tools, they require presence and connection to achieve optimum health. We must extend. Expand. We must faithfully give and receive. 

Gerty's soft purring subsides. She's probably drifted into dreamland: I feel a small, jealous twinge. Then my mind settles back, safe in its blanket of silence. My mantra repeats. My soul stills. Jesus. Rest. Sharing my space and my soul. Somehow, the three intertwine. My mind stops is searching. My soles begin to relax. Together, Gerty and I submit to the Presence that invites us deeper, shares It's soul, invites us in. 

And we breathe. 

Vitamin Savasana

 

Savasana

Now I lay me on this mat
Hands are open, back is flat.
Adam-like, I’m still. And then …
Inhale. Exhale. Life begins.

Vitamin Seen

I was young, and I was pregnant. My joints had started to loosen in that pregnancy way, giving and swaying and combining with my blossoming belly to create a different stride, a necessity to check my balance when traversing tough terrain. I'd been hiking with Chris on a down, down, down track for what felt like too long, wandering through shadowy groves of surprisingly mundane-looking koa trees. Surprising, because these trees produce some of the most beautiful wood grain I've ever known. This created a vague sense of disappointment that I just couldn't shake. I'd expected gnomes, or sun-dappled moss, or at least an occasional bright flower. We were on the island of Kauai, after all. Garden island of our most tropical state. Where was the magic, the palm trees, the sun?

I kept these thoughts to myself, of course. Even in my sweaty state, I recognized the privilege I'd been granted by even having this adventure in the first place. We were staying on the island for several weeks for Chris's job, a job that required only a few hours a day. A paid vacation in paradise? Yes, I could quell my complaints with no problem.

And so, I kept walking. My knees began to feel tender. Eventually, our descent leveled off and we picked our way among dank and rotting old growth. Ahead, it appeared things might open up. A whiff of fresh air, a shaft of light, an occasional breeze. And then -

And then, I found myself gasping. 

In what felt like an instant, we'd emerged from the gloom. I stood atop a sheer cliff, and the Crayola-blue ocean spread out beneath me in an impossible, wide arc of color. On both sides, our cliff moved away in endless contours, the shoreline looping in and out, the rocks glistening with ocean mist and covered in the green plants of paradise. White froth rose and fell far below, a delicate, living border contrasting with the darkness of the rocks and the tint of the sea.

I inhaled. 

I inhaled again. 

The wind whipped at my hair, my shoelaces, my still-roomy maternity shirt. The sweat evaporated from my body and a shiver coursed through my body. 

Once more, I inhaled. The beauty had struck me like lightning, like an unexpected, loud sound. I simply could not catch my breath. 

While I kept on gasping, we wandered our own private promontory. The ocean air gusted around us. We said witty things like, "Oh," and "Wow." And eventually, I grew tired. Honestly, it didn't take long. The experience had shot me through with adrenaline and acted like a marathon on my nervous system. Call it weakness, call it maternity, call it being a neophyte traveler. Whatever the case, this moment made an impact upon me that lingers today. I remember it now, and my breath still catches. My nose tingles in that pre-crying way that. And I'm back.

Back in the embrace of the wind and the sun. Back with my husband and that dear, tiny life growing inside my womb. Back under the dome of God's sky, with the noise of His glory roaring in the waves far below. 

I remember, and I'm there again. And then, of course, I go on. We didn't stay there forever, after all. We ate our lunch, said more witty phrases, and started back. Back through the unmagical forest and the disturbing, fetid air. Back up the endless, unlovely climb. Back to the normal sun on a normal island in normal, everyday paradise. And later, back to our lives on the mainland, the birth of our first son, our jobs, our friends, and the future that we're live today. 

But even though I know we went back, a piece of me has always remained. Deep in some quiet kernel of my mind, I still see that sacred place. I see the ocean haze, I feel the tiny pricks of moisture. The sun's passionate gaze warms my skin. And the thundering voice of  my God fills my soul.   . 

Do you have a place like that, too? Allow your mind to return there whenever it needs. There's an infusion of truth in those spaces, I think. A recognition of our identity in proportion to God and His world. They make us feel small, of course - and we are. But in the seeing of my sacred space, I find that I also feel known. The Power that made this panorama also, mysteriously, made me. And because He gave me the ability to encounter it, I feel seen. I am a part of His creation. And thus I am valued. I'm safe.  

I haven't visited my place in some time. But I did so today, and now, I feel renewed. I wish the same renewal for for you. 

Vitamin Clear

Everything's uncertain today. Ice coats the streets. Fog hangs in the air thick enough to feel against my bare skin. My own mind feels thick with the cares of yesterday, the worries of today, and the concern about what matters most. 

Around me, people and traffic ease along at a slow, cautious pace, the speed with which I imagine the sun must be edging toward rising. On Kendall Road, my headlamp illuminates just enough ground for running, but succumbs within 18 inches of my face to the white wall of condensation. I move carefully in this shapeless void, scanning the foreground for hints of oncoming headlights and keeping a close eye on my dog. She's weaving, as usual, lost in her world - until suddenly, she snuffles at a peculiar, blue spot in the road.

I stop, too. It's a piece of old gum, surprisingly interesting to a dog typically intent on festering piles of unmentionable origin. 

I stare at the gum, a tiny, bright patch in this pre-dawn mist. Behind my annoyance at litterbugs, beneath my realization that I can't just carry it home in my pocket for disposal, a curious sensation arises. I appreciate that little blue wad - though I can't exactly say why.

Inwardly shaking my head, I move on. Ever so slowly, dawn overtakes darkness, and tree silhouettes now mark my progress. As I head toward home, I realize the fog has been lifting, as well. Its myriad, suspended ice crystals have melted, dropped to the ground, and dampened the exposed hair on my head. In the ditch to my left, a drift of old leaves sports a transient patina of frost. It, too, will disappear after sunrise. The world of this morning's run will transform, solidifying into sharp lines, safe roads, and clear shapes standing bright in the full winter sun. 

And that's what I must have appreciated about the blue gum. It offered a pinprick of clarity. A drop of certainty in an ocean of gray. Here I am, it said by its presence. I am clear.

I marvel at the message this trash-bit provides. No matter the mists in my ongoing world, like that little roadside surprise, I am here. And I am clear, too. I'm clear that the space I occupy is mine, the place I inhabit is not wasted, and the work that I do not in vain. Whatever comes next, I don't know. But I cherish my blue-gum moment and move, with more certainty, into my oncoming day.  

Vitamin Adjust

It's winter weather, I remember as I start down Kendall Road with my dog. Layering weather. The brush of my bare arms against my new winter jacket reminds me that I left my fluorescent orange running shirt, the shirt sure to keep me warm on my pre-dawn jog, back at home. 

Ah, well. I won't turn back now. I swing my arms with more vigor and anticipate the one-mile flush of warmth that will invariably overtake my chilled body. 

Sure enough, like clockwork, it comes. Sometime after a high, hunting eagle screams into the dark and sometime before Minty and I start our slow lope up Cottonwood Road, I feel it. The tingle of life returns to my fingers. My core temperature begins to rise. Soon I am stripping off my hat and my gloves and unzipping the front of my jacket. Whoever dreamed a mile could make such a difference?

I consider this phenomenon later. My system's ability to adjust to nearly any situation, given enough time. I'm moving again, back on Cottonwood Road and walking toward the mountains in the dusky space between sunrise and full day. To my left, a field sits still and dark, bordered by golden grasses that have held the night's precipitation and spun it into the most delicate of frosty-white lace. Compelled, I stop and raise my phone for a photo, and a surprising sense overtakes me. 

I'm going to miss the winter. 

The thought arises unbidden, fueled by a sudden awareness that only during winter do these visual offerings occur. I continue my walk with my dog, but my mind turns this idea over and over, worrying it like a stone in the pocket of a child. I've not felt so fondly toward winter for years. Could it be that, after enough seasons spent in the northlands following our move from New Mexico, I've adjusted to the cold, the gray, the never knowing if my front deck will be coated in a deadly-thin layer of ice? Could it be that I've found found blessing in a season that, for so long, represented only restriction, darkness, and cold? 

I believe that it could. My phone timer chimes and I should turn around, but I'm not quite finished with this little journey. Minty and I press on a little while longer and as we go, I savor the sting of cold on my cheeks, the patter of last night's ice crystals as they fall softly from a small stand of trees, and the way the fog uncurls, and rises from its low mountain bed like a silent cat stretching and starting its day. 

I like winter, I realize. I've adjusted to one more thing. 

My steps lighten as I head home. I wonder what gifts I might uncover as I adjust to other situations, other types of dark and cold. I'm not going to speculate too long, but I trust that, like today's surprise understanding, these gifts will arrive in their time. All I have to do is keep walking.   

Vitamin Share

 

                I pull into the parking lot, grab my flashlight, and step into the pre-dawn chill. I’m headed to a ladies’ prayer group at a friend’s house, and my day has barely begun. Already, however, the stiffness in my soul mirrors the tension in my muscles. I’ve scheduled this time, both the walk and the prayer, to loosen the fibers of my soul, but have my doubts it will help. The walk to my friend’s house is dim, my flashlight’s weak beam barely alerting cars of my presence. The road slaps against my sturdy shoes with a jarring, unkind, insistence. I struggle to breathe, to focus, to rest, a struggle I suspect will last the whole day.

                Once I arrive at my friend’s, I settle into her low-lit living room for a spell of soft conversation. We transition to prayer soon enough, and my friend, who cares for her daughter and her medically fragile husband, excuses herself to tend to his needs. We keep on in prayer, a familiar rhythm of raising our concerns, listening in silence, speaking life, and repeating. We name our discouragement, our need, and our joy. Spontaneously, someone sings a song. The melody rises, too, the scriptural words floating around us like a breeze, like the Spirit.

                I’m on a schedule this morning, so precisely on time, I take my leave. My friend’s dogs bark their good-bye, and her daughter calls to them from her bedroom. The ladies, I’m sure, will keep praying. I bless them with a look, and step outside into a shockingly bright autumn morning. While we’ve been praying, the sun has risen. I glance at my now-useless flashlight and break into a jog. My feet feel lighter somehow, my spirit surprisingly free. With minimal effort, I move toward my waiting car. Sunlight spills over the Blue Mountains, pinking the leaves, roads, and sky with the promise of brightness to come. I make my way through this transformation. It’s happened outside, for sure, as the sunrise has illuminated this new day. But it’s also taken place deep inside – both in the home of my hospitable friend and in the recesses of my newly lifted heart. I realize I’m entering this day filled with hope, wealth, and peace, my soul transformed by the sunrise of a few minutes spent in the presence of God with my friends.

I enter the day feeling Love.

Vitamin Presence

Today, I sit at last to face the difficult inner work I’ve avoided for so long. I am shivery from my long walk in the rain, a persistent flow of droplets so small they seem suspended in the air, yet somehow, still fall to earth.

I sit quietly, reveling in the remembered companionship of my dog on this and so many other excursions. She is a dutiful dog-of-transitions, moving with me from old home to new, from one season to another. I sit gratefully, my soul waiting, and filled with trepidation for this new season I face.

This here-ness, my presence, carries weight. It recollects Mary’s, “Let it be to me as the Lord has commanded,” It hearkens to Samuel’s, “Speak Lord; Your servant is listening.” And it calls up Isaiah’s, “Here I am; send me.” It carries power.

But also, this presence is small. I comprehend so little of God’s eternal knowing. My here-ness, this tiny speck of significance, seems swallowed in the vast sea of life. I consider the drops of rain I’ve never seen, the acres of pavement I’ve never walked, and the people with whom I will never walk them. How can my presence add depth to this life, this process of Becoming that God continually unfurls? Why does me, my sitting here, matter?

I do not know. Like the secret of the small drops of rain, this answer evades me. Yet today, after walking enough quiet backroads with friends, I trust the mystery of presence more often. I trust that the shared space with my dog – with my husband – with a stranger – and sometimes, with the silent expanse of a wheat field in the rain – hum with the same, magical force. We are with you, the actors in these shared moments whisper. We are here. We’re together. And in this sharing, there’s glory. The reality of the field, the rain, and the sky amplify. They

My choice today, to sit still for the hard work of growth, conjures the communion I have felt in the fields. I settle in, raise my gaze to the Companion Who shares every path, and sense one more truth. He is present, as well. My willingness to show up gives Him joy.

I smile. Our gaze meets. And suddenly, Presence (the most natural, mundane mystery in the world, the gift of God’s Incarnation), soaks this space with Love. We are here. Together. It is good.

Vitamin Choose

 As teenagers move forward with life - certain truths reveal themselves. This is one I knew intrinsically, but only recently have been able to express and understand with words. 

How steady the flowing from my heart to yours

Of knowledge and teaching and faith.

How eager, receptive, in your younger years!

How deep the deposit I gave.

How strange to observe it, as time has marched on;

Your spirit, so open, before,

Through no fault or failing, has closed as you've grown

To limit the stream that I've poured.

How natural the process! How good and how right!

How painful, how perfect the truth:

No teaching, no offering from me can make wise.

My children, it's you who must choose. 

Vitamin And

Everything about me feels wilted. My soul, my body, and my old, stretched-out jeans all sag as I slouch down down the path next to Chris. I'm forcing my legs to march forward, keeping myself from collapse. We're trekking down a simple trail, spurred on by the lure of warm pizza in the car. We've taken a date night while the teenagers roam, and although the occasion would normally inspire an upbeat mood, deadbeat feels much more like the truth.

I shuffle on in silence, warring with the demons that haunt me. Mental fatigue. Messy house. Moody teens. My life feels like it's careening out of control, so close to the chasm of chaos that I feel its icy updraft whenever I slow down. Abandonment. Family fracture. Distress. The combination of recent travel to a faraway place and a return to this familiar-patterned life leaves me drawn. 

I brush at a few pesky tears, inwardly thanking Chris for his kindness. His silence has given me space to unwind. I'm mourning so many things, after all: The closure of my child-rearing years. The rift between mothers and teens. And this deep, aching sadness that remains. Can a person grieve her own grief? I've wrestled with this sorrow for what feels like my whole life. 

I will my body to keep moving. I engage the thankful thoughts that so often provide a reprieve. My attention alternates between the dust-puffs at my feet and the endlessly-hued green of the hills near and far. I waver between an inertia so strong I long to curl into a ball and the knowledge that each step makes me stronger, more whole. "I can" and "I can't" wage combat in my mind, and I'm not sure which one will win.

And then.

And then we round a corner, and my eyes open wide. Bolting from the ground like confetti thrown upward, a mayhem of purple flowers rises high. All shades, all heights, as astonishing as a rainbow in clear sky, they demand that we stop and admire. An unbidden smile fills my face, making me feel almost shy. But after a pause, this subsides. Awe and anguish can coexist, after all. So can grief and gratitude, anger and joy, darkness and light. I remember the Montana prairie from where I just came. While I visited, sun warmed the winter-brown hills and called forth the first blooms of spring. Today, cold has stolen the color from those slopes and swathed them in snowdrifts instead. It seems impossible, but the reality remains. Winter and spring coexist there, just as they do in my heart.

I marvel at the memory of those flowers. I anticipate the taste of that pizza. And I save sacred space for my sorrow, my stress, my unmet desires. Life isn't pleasure or pain, love or loss, fear or fortune. It's both. It's everything. It's and. 

A few minutes later, I immerse myself in the first, tangy-sweet pizza bite. It's comforting and spicy, a promise of good things to come. I savor. I sigh. I know that I'll be just fine. 

Vitamin Gather

 

What makes a scattered flock of birds,
Arrest their frenzied flight?
Who says, “Convene!” and then who flings
Them back across the sky?

What makes us pause, stock-still in awe
To watch this grand refrain?
Connect, retreat, and then repeat.
What makes us do the same?

Perhaps, like flocks, we’re held aloft
By others, striving near.
Perhaps shared space gives us the grace
To face our private fears.

Togetherness, it strengthens us
For heights best scaled alone.
‘Til gathered in at day’s dark end
We rest as one, as known.

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.

Vitamin Hope

I started wearing contacts when I was five. I have single vision and low visual acuity in my one sighted eye, so prior to the contact-lens phase, I sported massive, frog-eyed glasses strapped to my face at all times.

I’d like to report that the sensation of freedom relieved me – and it did. But it also gave me a healthy dose of fear. I required a high-powered contact lens, which meant that each delicate disc cost quite a lot. More than once, I recall accidentally rubbing the lens of my eye, enlisting my friends to help find it, then running home with the tiny treasure balanced on the tip of one grubby finger. Those contacts were so floppy! I needed help to put them in, help to remove them, and a whole lot of reassurance when they disappeared.

Because let me tell you, losing a lens was the worst. After I got older, I’d stand over the sink to remove my lens for the night. Occasionally, it would slip through my fingers, and poof – tumble right down the drain.

Oh, the clutch in my heart when that happened! Oh, the horror of telling my folks! 

We’d carefully remove the drain plug and peer around with a flashlight. If my dad was home and felt hopeful, he’d get under the sink and disassemble the pea trap, just in case. One time it worked, too. The lens had nestled safely in that humble, U-shaped bend, from whence we received it with all the fanfare of a Lazarus newly emerged from the tomb.

Although all my contact-losing escapades didn’t end so joyfully, I must have retained a scrap of that childhood hope. Recently, while changing the belt on our vacuum, I discovered a new diagram in the manual.

“No way!” I exclaimed. “This thing has a secret compartment!” The blue-printed picture depicted an easy-to-access chamber just below the machine’s bag. This space, the manual informed me, would collect all items too heavy or too large for the main receptacle.

“Do you mean to tell me,” I wondered aloud, “that 20 years of treasures have accumulated, right there?”

Eagerly, I pulled on the handhold. Anxiously, I carried the assemblage upstairs. From across the room, my teenage son’s gaze followed me. Everything around us grew silent.

“What could be in there?” I all but whispered. I gave the thing a gentle tap; then, with images of forgotten jewelry and priceless coins filling my mind, I began shaking it in real earnest.

“Here it comes!”

A small cloud of dust blocked my view. I held my breath while my mountain of treasure took shape.

One nickel, three pennies, and a few twisted nails.

“That’s it?” My heart sank. “Twenty years, and that’s all?”

My son Ethan, weighed in, guessing that my husband had already emptied it several times. But this provided scant comfort. I’d at least expected a bobby pin! I reassembled my machine, feeling bitter.

But the feeling could not last for long.

What have you discovered? A small voice repeated as my day recommenced. List out the treasures you’ve found.

I grinned, remembering the high-five with my son after my successful belt change. I chuckled over the likelihood that my husband had rescued countless coins through the years. Maybe enough to buy a new vacuum! I celebrated the simple pleasures, too: The moment of discovery, my sweet childhood memories, and the delicious anticipation I’d just enjoyed.

True, the compartment hadn’t contained all the treasures I’d hoped. But it had provided three pretty pennies, not to mention a nickel. And who knows? Maybe next time, it’ll give me something more. I can always hope, anyway. And that’s greatest treasure of all.  

Vitamin Solace

There’s a sacred solace

found in simple, mundane tasks:

A comfort that extends beyond

the bounds of each small act.

When days loom long and pressures throng

and strength becomes fatigue,

sacred solace enters in

with work I can complete.

The counter? Scrubbed. The dog? Well-loved.

The several dishes? Clean.

I may not mend life’s larger ills,

but I can tend these things.

And when they’re done, I take my cup

of coffee, tea, or pain,

and sit with it and make the most

of what I can’t explain.

I find the work of finishing

small things can make a way

for larger cares to shrink; and then

I face them, unafraid.

Vitamin Soothe

There’s something about the pounding of my feet on solid earth that soothes me. I’ve needed more of that, lately – the soothing. I keep finding myself drifting outside, tennis shoes laced, embarking on a walk or a jog or a lope, all unplanned. I wander my neighborhood. I circle city parks. I trek the grid of gravel roads that drapes the contours of the Blue Mountains like a shawl. Inevitably, I return feeling cleansed.

Most days I walk quickly, relishing the rhythm of breath through my lungs and blood through my veins. These days I thank God for my ability – the miracles of health and sight, and the freedom to travel safe paths without fear.

Other days I move slowly. I talk with my dog, examine flowers, search for birds. On these days, I often feel a different rhythm – the pulsing headaches that have become my companions this year. These days, I move gently, keeping the throbbing at bay. But these days, too, I thank God. I thank Him that I can still move. I thank Him that my pain is so small. I thank Him for the simple things that slowness reveals: Cloud shapes. Sounds of children at play. Sun and shadows sweeping the hills, silent travelers moving with a will and a destination I cannot comprehend.

On other days still, I move with near-mindless passion. Somewhere inside, I may relish my pumping muscles, my beating heart. But these days, I’m walking to survive. I scarcely take in my surroundings. My thoughts bump in a jumble, up and down in my mind and I make no effort to sort them. They are the reason I’m here, after all; they are the things I must soothe.

Eventually, the miracle always happens. In one mile or in seven, the pounding pace perseveres. My speedy steps slow, my focus returns, my breath and my thoughts flow freely once more. My thoughts may still be in a jumble, but they’ve been jostled to a manageable size. Thus subdued, I can pick them out one by one, examine them, and decide what I want to do.

Perhaps that’s the real reason I walk. Perhaps this movement provides a stand-in for all the actions I wish I could take. It offers a preliminary satisfaction that tricks my mind into a cease-fire, a lull just long enough for me to regroup, rearm, and reengage, feeling renewed.  

Whatever. It sounds like a good reason to me. All I really know is this: Walking works. I no longer judge those people I see on the road, the ones talking to themselves, swinging their arms way too high, their gaze focused inward or perhaps outward, far away. Those people are me. They’re walking their way to inner peace. I send them a mental salute whenever I pass them by. We travelers need all the support we can get.

This may sound wild, but maybe if more of us took to the roadsides and hills, allowing ourselves to look a little crazy, we’d find our own inner peace, too. Maybe that’s the first step toward healing: Giving ourselves a place and a way to process our troubling thoughts … one soothing footfall at a time.