Vitamin Bounty

I stand stiffly in church, singing the words of the current worship without feeling changed.

God loves me, I think. I love Him. Why this strange disconnect? 

My mind drifts past the rows of strangers and friends to my sense of inadequacy as I serve. I have spent this past week barely keeping myself afloat, longing to reach out to others yet feeling inept to do much more than survive. A medical issue, a stolen purse, the harried, unscheduled feeling of the first weeks of summer -- they've all combined to create a confounding sense of confusion. Each night, I've fallen into bed with my heart and my prayers reaching out to the many dear ones I love -- ones who, yet again, I have failed. No cards. No calls. No flowers or meals or visits or ....

Back in church, my face falls. All my efforts at service seem so feeble! I listen, feeling numb, as Pastor Tom starts his message. He's describing the ministry to widows that takes shape Acts 6, and I sigh. Another reminder of my failure. I hear sweet words of truth about these ministering disciples, but applying them to my situation seems like a stretch.

"They were chosen to hand out bread," pastor Tom says, "because they understood that only God held an unfailing supply. Their ability to return to Him for provision helped them meet physical needs as well as spiritual: It paved the way for more ministry."

I jot these words in my journal before church winds down. I'm still mulling them over later that afternoon as I struggle to prepare for small group. I feel tapped out already, and although my husband has offered to clean the house, I'm still tense. Why can't I help more? I wonder while I sit still. Why don't I have more desire? 

Befuddled, I turn to 2 Corinthians 8, my Bible chapter for today. Here, Paul describes the early church's patterns of giving. I stiffen in preparation for more feelings of guilt, but the words provide peace, not provocation.

"For if there is first a willing mind, it is accepted according to what one has, and not according to what he does not have. For I do not mean that others should be eased and you burdened; but ... equality."

Immediately, my spirit settles. This grace! It's so rich! Rather than condemning me when my stores run this low, God promises to provide me with enough bounty to share with an eager heart.

My thoughts swirl around the picture of God as our limitless Supplier. There's no doubt: He will refill the baskets of all who ask -- and yes, I have been asking. But it dawns on me now that I have felt empty because I've expected a particular form of bounty to appear in my hands. Physical ability, perhaps. Extra energy. Genuine service as I've defined it for years. My face burns as I realize the truth: When His provision didn't mesh with my plans, I rejected it. Now, in a flood, my mind stirs up memories of the "bread" with which he has filled my spiritual basket for the past few years. My sweet quiet times. My aching for those who ache, too. My outpouring of creative energy and my deep desire to create more. This "bread," I realize, doesn't look like the "bread" I'm accustomed to receive or hand out to others. But it's God's provision, too.

Completely floored by this thought, I inhale a deep breath of new life, of hope. At last, I'm aware of the bounty God's bestowed upon me for His glory. This bounty lies heaped up around me, rich provision that easily overflows into a desire to share it with others. 

Vitamin Victory

I survey my messy home, feeling glum. It's state mirrors my mood, and I imagine the two of us exchanging dark scowls. Where, oh where, to begin? Yesterday, five eggs boiled dry on the stove, exploding and sending their fragments far and wide. Today I take stock of the damage, combining it with the realities of our busy lives in a unsightly catalog of discontent.

Mismatched chairs? Check.

Dingy dining room table, scarred by a forgotten candle that burned all one the night? Check.

Dust-covered floor, including one empty ant trap and one lone Dorito, the magnet for dozens of the six-legged pests? Oh, yes, check.

The list goes on as I visualize a permanent vacation. This small space, so cozy for a family of five at one time, now bursts at the seams with boxes, books, bags, and belongings of all descriptions. The sink overflows. Breakfast remains crowd the counter. I turn a slow circle, my mind churning with the multiple duties this day holds, never mind the demands of this house!

How can I get to it all? I fight off a wave of confusion. Summer break has descended upon us with the surprise of an owl in the night, scattering our orderly lives and leaving me, at least, limp with fatigue. Although we're house-hunting, schedule-juggling, friend-hosting, and money-wrangling like fiends, our efforts have produced anything but peace.

"I just want to burn it all!" I complain to a friend on a walk near my home. "We have no garage. Nobody wants to pare down. But we can't agree on a solution!"

Emily, my friend, emits a small hum of sympathy. "I just do what I can when I feel like that," she volunteers. "I make one thing right, then move on."

Her words echo back to me now as I stand in my dingy home. The curtains are drawn. Why is that? I shuffle to the first window, pull the cloth back. Sunlight spills in, illuminating the civilization of crumbs that has colonized the table's rough top. I open the second set of curtains, then amble to the kitchen for a dish rag. A few moments of concentrated scrubbing, and the unsightly table stands bare, if not beautiful, in the newly-bright room.

Hmm. Satisfaction soothes my soul, and I think of a hot cup of tea. On goes the stove and out come an old, favorite mug. While the water heats, I use my dishrag to ply the speckled white windowsills, my broom to reclaim the dull floor. Fanning a tiny flame of fulfillment, I forge on. Dust the two desks, arrange the motley chairs in what appears to be an intentional pattern, and stand back.

Well... My gaze turns. It's not a fully clean house, but it's one room. As a final touch, I search out a scented candle and set it on a trivet, center stage. It's cheery flame somehow sanctifies the small space, gracing it with a dignity I hadn't foreseen. Those mismatched chairs loot artsy, after all. The table's now neat as a pin. And the floor? It reflects the first rays of the morning sun, its subdued beauty that adding to the room's charm.

I reach for my tea, mollified. Only five minutes of effort. Only a dishrag and one match. My muddled mind clears. My looming list shrinks in size. Yes, the rest of the house is a mess, but this spot of clean casts a spell. No longer resentful of the oncoming day, I accept it. If one wreck can be remedied, so can more! My tea goes down warm and strong, and I smile. This small victory will blossom into more. Full of purpose and contentment at last, set down my tea and stand up. It's time boil some eggs.

Vitamin Wait

I stare at the wall. The house feels quiet, tense -- or maybe that's just me. I'm waiting. Waiting to hear about a house on which we've placed an offer. Waiting for the dust to settle on career decisions for my spouse. Waiting to see just what scholastic scenario works best for our three kids. Waiting for word from God on my own marching orders, moving forward. In every crucial department of life, I feel "on hold" -- and although I've grown up since the days when this situation would have me in a puddle of tears long ago, I still feel the stress. I'm finite. I'd like to know. And yet ... 

I feel the Lord move. I reach for my phone, dial up a friend who's been feeling a bit down. We chat for a while, and she shares heart's burden as she prepares to pack up a home with no idea in the world of where she might move next. The waiting feels painful, I hear between her words, and I deeply, personally relate.

Yet I hear my own voice offering other words, too: Words I could not have prepared. Words that speak to my soul.

It's okay, I tell my friend. I'm excited for you. God has you just where He wants you. This waiting isn't a mistake, it's a crucial part of His plan. Your convoluted path to find out "what next" doesn't mean you've missed God's voice. His voice says, "wait," because in that waiting lies His greatest good for your life. He's giving you a journey, the purpose of which you may not realize until later, but it's entirely intended, entirely right. Go ahead! Relax and enjoy this season, because God planned it on purpose for you. 

We share a prayer. We hang up. I shake my head as I replay God's words to us both in my mind. Sometimes He reaches me best when He speaks through me to others. 

I smile, sit back, and stare at the wall yet again. Nothing's changed in my visible life, but inside, I've found a sweet space of peace. Whether my many seasons of "what next?" exist purely to help me serve those I love, or whether they're achieving other purposes as well, I don't know. But I do know that my perspective has shifted, and that even in this small, sitting-still span,  I find grace. All things - even waiting - really do work together for good when I experience them in His love. 

I lean forward. I can hardly wait for what's next.

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.