Vitamin Ill

"Maybe I'm allergic to strawberries," my 14-year old son theorizes after his second day of work at a local farm. "I was sneezing all day."

But one look at his face, one swipe of his forehead with my own palm, and I know. "Jared, you're just sick," I announce to his instant groans. "No school for you, even if there are only three more days in the year."

Too feverish to respond with his usual fervor, my ailing son simply nods and stumbles off to his bed. He's no better in the morning, and so I cancel a few plans and settle in. Sure, I leave him behind, here and there: He's a big kid and actually starts to recover partway through the day. But this is small gap of togetherness I'm not willing to waste.

The future looms large, after all, and it's a busy one. Summer on the strawberry farm, studies each afternoon, and pool time whenever he can fit it in. Jared will be anything but bored as he nurtures a love of forging, reading, and Minecraft on the side, too. It's just how God intended it when he designed all kids to grow up. Their interests shift. Their world broadens. And before long ... I hold back a melancholy sniff. Before long, he'll spread his wings, fly the nest, and start the circle all over again.

So today stands out in my mind, for two reasons. One, I don't often get to care for my stoic son, well or sick. He experiences highs and lows in characteristic silence, letting his few words be used to dole out witticisms or the ever-present sarcasm about which I constantly chide. Today, I soak up my chance to some surreptitious doting - sure he'll stop me if he realizes just how much I'm enjoying it.

But in addition to this little gem supplied by my son's sickness, there's another. In a busy home with several siblings, a home that only outsourced the kids schooling in the past few years, time is a precious commodity. Today, rather than rush from task to task, I take minutes and even hours to simply sit in my son's presence. Sometimes, he speaks up: A surprising amount, actually, considering is personality and physical state. Sometimes, we sit in silence. But all the time, I'm deeply aware that this shared space is a gift. Sure, it came at a cost to Jared's health. But it is a gift all the same. We laugh and joke. We sit down to our lunches several hours too soon. Just before school gets out, we take a trip to a local thrift store where he finds a favorite book - and chuckles while he reads me excerpts all the way home. By the time I pick up Jared's siblings, I am glowing, and feel a little surprised they don't see. This has been a red-letter day -- I treat I'll treasure during the many Jared's-left-home years ahead.

Silently, I breathe a small prayer of thanks. God, You're so good!

Yes, our health is a gift. But sometimes, God allows a short sickness to season our lives with other gifts, too. I remind myself of this fact later in the evening when my own forehead feels noticeably warm. Here we go ... I think with a wry smile. Another gift in the making.

Vitamin Blue

Blue like the color of baby-fresh eyes
Blue like the shade of soft, sweet summer skies.
Blue as the waters reflecting their dome,
Blue as the windows that welcome me home.
Blue as the bubbles that busy kids blow
Blue as the tint of the fresh-fallen snow
Blue as the birds whose fresh eggs I find
Blue as the mountains where hidden trails wind.
Blue, the horizon that beckons me on
Blue, the deep silence I feel when I'm gone.
Blue, the sensation that kicks off a good cry
Blue, the wild yonder I'll find when I die.

Vitamin Church

I muse over the meaning of church as we park and stroll towards our five-year-old start-up fellowship, downtown. My mind pictures all the churches meeting around the city, around the world, and I ponder the significance of "church" in our particular culture. With folks placing less and less value on formalized groups of all sorts, many churches face dwindling numbers and reduced contributions as real threats to their continued survival. But how should God's body respond?

As a family, we've taken various approaches to this concern. Our main focus through the years, the in-home small group, has undergone numerous iterations until its latest, which served a primarily unchurched or other-churched crowd. We've taken several long- and short-term hiatuses from official fellowship, with wildly-varying results. And our own culture -- that of family, social, and personal areas of focus -- has changed through the years, as well. Yes, our relationship with "church" in the traditional sense has experienced multiple shifts, and we're currently undergoing another one.

We silently find seats in the sparsely-populated "sanctuary" - really a high school gym. Singing has already begun, worship songs which we join in with gusto. Across the street, our pre-teen son meets with another fellowship, one that provides a larger group of peers. Yet I spot other families whose children attend here, swelling the "child" ranks to include kids of all ages. Clearly, one size dosn't fit all in this quest for the real purpose of church.

As the service progresses, we mingle, pray, share announcements, and sit under God's spoken word. Our pastor presents a message that touches my heart, and I thrill to see a new girl in the next row taking careful notes, too. I do appreciate this gathering together, I conclude. But I know it's just one small part of "church." I think of our precious small group - a group we disbanded months ago while my husband studied for a large test. This comprises an integral part of "church" for us, too. I consider our dear ministry friends, a family with whom we share neither small group attendance or weekly church, but to whom we feel closer than most people in this room. "Church" includes them, without a doubt.

And again, my mind soars to the other fellowships meeting around town and the world. I think of house churches in China. Underground meetings in the Middle East. Flourishing fellowships in Africa, South America. And struggling ones across Europe. I think of the millions of friendships like those we enjoy between believers that share no common group, only Christ. I return to our cultural challenges, and I smile. "Church" will survive - of that I feel sure. It may look different as our societal needs shift, just as church in India or long-ago France appeared different, too. But its core - the bond that draws believers together across cultural bounds since Christ's death - cannot change. Christ died to make us free - free brothers and sisters in Him - and whether we meet in a house, on the street or in prison, our fellowship will remain.

Our pastor's sermon drives on, and suddenly, I'm listening again. No longer do worries pinch my soul I'm confident that whatever path God prescribes for our family in the coming years, it won't take us far from fellowship - far from home. I gaze around the beloved faces I see every week, and I smile. "Church" looks familiar today - friendly and secure. But if it looks different very soon, its center will remain strong. Christ, the heart of church, holds us together. And Christ will carry us through to the end.

Vitamin Fail

"I've never failed a test in my life."

My husband's eyes search for mine as we discuss our most recent shock: He hasn't passed a test for which he studied for months.

"I just don't know how to tell people," he continues, looking glum. "It's going to be really hard."

I mirror his grimace. I've been wondering the same thing. I run through a mental list of our family and friends - our three precious children included - who have been awaiting these test results, too. How will we break the news that Dad may take the same test, again?

They'll be devastated, I conclude. Just like Chris. Although we both know that in Christ, nothing can define Chris as a failure, the strength of this blow still stings. Future discussions with coworkers and friends will pose problems, for sure.

"I guess it's just a chance for God to get more glory," I mumble aloud. My hand reaches for his across our scuffed dining room table. I wish I sounded more sure.

How can we handle failure with grace? 

After thinking about this question for days, I realize the answer's right there -- in its very last phrase. With grace. We've nothing to offer others, after all, but the truth. Chris tried -- with all his might. It wasn't enough. And he failed. Others' response - whether or not it mirrors our understanding that a man's identity arises from God's achievements, not his -- must be met with the same grace that sustains us now.

Will they scowl? Hang their heads? Turn away? Say hurtful things? Most likely, yes. Still, our response must be laced with the grace we experience today. God gives. God saves. God loves. God defines. And in the end, pass or fail in any of life's countless trials, God is good. His identity -- more than any of our own successes, failures, or hurts -- gives us the ability to face all seasons with peace and yes, even joy.

Did he pass? No. But this changes nothing in the larger scheme of his life. My half-hearted first statement rings true: Chris's response to his failure provides a chance to put the focus on Christ. Failure may not be what we expected. But, like everything about life under the grace of God, it's a gift. A gift for which, even today, we give thanks.

Vitamin Raw

Many edible items should be consumed only after a thorough cooking. Eggs, chicken, cookies, and steak represent a few. Those who eat them take their health into their own hands and often receive the raised eyebrow of suspicion for their dangerous activity. 

Years ago, the opposite might have been true for people who insisted on cooking their milk, but today, drinking raw milk carries the same stigma as eating an uncooked egg ... if not more. After all, the selling of raw milk in most states constitutes the committing of a small crime. Owners of dairy cows or goats must find creative ways to market their product, knowing they'll face hefty fines for profiting from such a dangerous delight.

All danger aside, only delight remains for myself and my daughter when we discover a friend's father's cow has recently calved. 

"Raw milk!" she crows jubilantly. "Raw milk!" Her brothers and dad gaze at her, eyebrows raised. But I understand her excitement. It's rare to find a soul who will sell, much less for the stellar price of six dollars a gallon. I wish I could bottle this stuff, make it shelf stable, and enjoy it the whole year through. It's so incredibly tasty!

But there's the rub. This wish to prolong my enjoyment of raw milk likely lead to its pasteurization in the first place. When multiple people began experiencing food poisoning after drinking raw milk stored in large batches, federal government mandated the bacteria-killing processes we live with today. The treatments, involving extreme heat, did indeed stop the food poisoning - but they also "killed" the good traits of a tall glass of milk. No longer could consumers receive healthy probiotics with each cup; instead, they downed damaged proteins that would later associate themselves with a host of health problems, including lactose intolerance, mucous buildup, and leaky gut. Just as with mass-produced meat and cheese, the truth was too awful to bear -- the best way to enjoy them is untreated, in sustainable amounts -- and omnivores everywhere gulped down the unlovely lie. Treated milk grows strong bones, gives good nutrition, sets the standard, promotes good health.

The truth - awful though it seems - sits less easily with most folks, our family included. Raw milk - conscientiously-farmed meat - and healthy cheese - should only grace our tables in the amounts that can be obtained with our current finances, and on the occasions that they're readily available. This means that when our friend's father's cow stops producing, our milk consumption will cease as well. This should mean that fresh meat comes only from sources we actually trust, and eggs should originate in a backyard flock we've laid eyes on ourselves. 

The reality, however, is more bleak. Like many Americans, we do enjoy processed milk. Rarely does it come in a tall glass, and rarely do we use more than two gallons a month. But its presence is ubiquitous in our yogurt and cheese. I long to break free from the perceived need for these things, but my creativity and finances stretch thin, and I resort to them, every month, with reluctance. Our budget -- and my resourcefulness - simply can't sustain the "perfect" plan -- and so I pray daily over the sub-par foods we consume and trust our long-term health to our God.

But all this compromise hasn't dimmed my opinions and preferences. Along with my daughter, I rejoice at the opportunity to drink fresh milk again. When it arrives, all yellow with separated, fatty cream at its top, my husband scowls. "I can't drink that stuff," he says to a friend. "Sarah's cured me so that I like the fake stuff most of all." I know he's talking about the nut milks we buy most consistently, but still, I crack a small smile. His preferences will probably prolong his life -- and f nothing else, they'll save more of this special treat for the rest of us.

"Raw milk!" Our daughter sings out again, in sweet joy. "I'm so happy!"

 I place the pristine gallon in the fridge, and heave a deeply-contented sigh. I couldn't agree more with her joy.

Vitamin Tired

I used to think that if I blinked
Or slowed my frantic pace
I would find myself behind
In life's unending race.
I tried my best; I skimped my rest
I worked from dawn to dark
But in the end I couldn't win
I somehow missed the mark
My good health failed. My ship had sailed
(The one called "Energy".)
And in its wake I had to make
More time to sit, to sleep
It chapped my hide: I often tried
To change this state of mine
It never worked. Now, sadness lurked
Within my "wasted" time.
But then I read how God had said
Each season was His gift
I sat. I thought on what He'd taught
And felt my spirits lift.
My chore, this peace was given me --
A present, wrapped in grace
I smiled, received this gift -- and freed
My soul to His embrace.
No longer shocked at what I've lost
I think of all He gave.
A pause. A place to feel His grace
A gift, from God Who saved.

Vitamin Clean

Clean - the noun. It haunts me like a speckle-toothed specter, gliding into each room before I arrive and pointing its cobwebby fingers at the evidences of my neglect. Closets bulge, regurgitating their contents into halls, bedrooms, and beyond. Wadded socks repose in odd places - beneath the exercise bike, behind the toilet, convened on the front porch like a coven - condemning me with their presence. Dust bunnies multiply in both number and size. Carpets collect clippings, crumbs, and unidentified hairs.

And the fridge - oh, the fridge. My constant companion, an odiferous necessity that wafts warning whiffs to all who approach. As I contemplate this offending appliance, I realize that clean is the antithesis to my world. A continual reminder of my sub-par status as homemaker, clean exists as a dream I'll surely never achieve. Clean creates in me a desire to be more ... and a crippling fear that I can't. Clean condemns my messes and robs me of motivation to contain them.

But the other clean -- clean, the verb -- came calling today, too. Unexpectedly, my fridge experienced a transformation under the capable hands of my spouse. Defrosting. De-icing. De-stinking. De-staining. He labored for hours at his job, presenting me witHh a spotless end product to refill. I stared in awe, giving special attention to the scent-absorbing coffee grounds he'd installed on one shelf.  My perfectionist heart gave several thumps of delight; my gratitude meter dinged FULL. Humbled, I realized that while I had been hoping for the noun clean to transform my life, my husband had lived out the verb, providing me with a gift of service that meant more than all the dust bunny-free floors in the world.