on being lonely...

Another restless night of sleep for me. Another night of tending to this loneliness that resides within. I can’t remember a time in my life when I’ve felt so lonely. Not alone, just lonely. There’s a difference, you know. Aloneness is easily cured. Loneliness? Well, a bit harder to remedy.

I imagine we could all recount an occasion when our being surrounded by persons didn’t come close to fixing the internal ache of loneliness… of desperately wanting to be known, yet not being able to find a single soul to take notice. To ask a question. To bend low for engagement. That’s where I’ve been for the past five weeks. I didn’t notice it at first. Life kept me busy and sitting on stress for a long while, thus abating those initial inclinations that something was a bit skewed on the relational front.

But after a week of few phone calls and even fewer visits, my heart began to hurt. After five weeks of it, even more so. I’m living with some open wounds, and try as I may, there’s a part of me that wants to isolate myself rather than continue to try and permeate this new community with my presence. It’s never been so hard for me to make friends. Friend-making comes naturally for me, but there’s something different going on here. Something that isn't an easy fit with my heart, and I am weighed down with the struggle.

But then she called this morning. A new acquaintance in keeping with the status of my “ancient” friends from yesterday. She told me she’d be around to get me for lunch… that we’d be going to the Bordeaux Drug Store for some egg salad and some conversation. True to her word, we made our way to the lunch counter at the Bordeaux and spent the next hour getting to know one another a little better. At eighty years of age, the only thing slow about this woman is her pace. Her mind, her wit, her vim and vigor are as up-to-date as this morning’s forecast. She even took on a baby copperhead snake with the end of her cane as we made our way to the car.

“I think I murdered him,” she said, “and that pleases me.”

And then I laughed… a lot… wondering all the while how many other snakes she’s taken on in her eight decades worth of living. Something tells me this wasn’t her first one. I imagine we’ll have some more time for discovery in the days to come. And while our time ended with me wondering if she really knew me any better than when we started, I was thankful for the diversion… for being considered and for being called.

It’s a start. A simple, slow one, but enough to keep me hopeful and to keep me willing to sow some further seed, even though the ground beneath my feet seems so unresponsive to its arrival. God knew I needed that phone call; he knows I need more. I’m counting on his “knowing” for, with his knowing, comes engagement of the heavenly kind.

Lonely doesn’t feel so lonely when heaven’s walking with me. Lonely is manageable with Jesus at my side, but I don’t mind telling him and you that a few more lunches at the Bordeaux would go a long way toward easing my internal ache.

And so I’ll pray for that and should you, like me, feel the ache of loneliness in this season of your life, I’ll pray for you as well. I believe this to be a temporary condition, for our Father is faithful to entreat the prayers of our hearts and to shower us with his good answers... his good people. He created us to be relational creatures. He wouldn’t have done so if he didn’t intend to fill that need with others who were created for the same. All of us, every last one of us, have an innate desire to know and to be known. We mustn't make any apologies therein; rather we must keep ourselves to the task of celebrating God's created by knowing God's created. By opening up our hearts to make room for just one more lonely soul who needs to know his/her worthiness in light of the kingdom of God.

And one last thing…

Don’t assume your pastor’s wife is brimming over with friendships… that her busyness is an indication of her fullness. Bend low to ask a few questions this week, make a phone call, or send her a card. Better yet, find a Bordeaux counter that serves some homemade egg salad and treat her to lunch. She’ll be blessed to know that she matters to you and that you think her worthy of your time.

I love you each one. Thank you for genuinely loving me and allowing me to share my heart with you. I covet your prayers in this season, and as always…

Peace for the journey,

Investing...

I asked him to repeat his name to me, not because I didn’t hear him but, rather, because I didn’t think I heard him correctly.

Doris. Or Dorrace.

That’s what he said. I "googled" it upon returning home; apparently Doris was a popular name for boys in the 1930’s. Seems in keeping with the age I determined him to be in our moments of exchange. He was hunkered down over his cart while pushing it through the paint aisle at Lowes when he stopped just short of me.

“Ma’am, can I ask you a question?... What color would you paint a bathroom?”

I knew there was more to his question than just paint, but it served as our starting point. Every good conversation starts somewhere (usually with a question), and ours started with paint. He showed me his card of samples; I showed him mine. His included shades of brown. Mine included shades of green. We covered the generic questions in keeping with paint conversation, and then the dialogue moved to a deeper level.

“Haven’t painted the house in years, but I’ve been taking on more projects these days. It’s just me now, so it doesn’t much matter the color I choose. But she’s still with me, you know. I don’t think she’d mind all the changes. I talk to her about it every day.”

“Your wife?”

“Yep. Almost sixty years of living together. She died a year ago, but she’s still with me. She’s on the mantle in the den.”

Another starting point for a more pointed conversation… one that lasted a good thirty minutes. We covered a lot of ground in that time. Mostly I just listened to his lonely heart. Words about extended family members who’d been here for a recent visit. A collection of Hummels his wife had collected over the years. Life in Fayetteville, the traffic, and then a final probing question from my heart to his.

“What about friends, Doris? You’ve lived here so long; you must have some good friends to spend your days with.”

“Oh, I don’t have many friends. I live a pretty lonely life, but I’ve got her with me everyday. Whenever I feel alone, I just talk to her.”

And my heart broke into a thousand pieces as I listened. I reached into my purse, grabbed a piece of paper and wrote my name, along with my husband’s name and phone number, onto it and handed it to Doris.

“You’ve got two friends now, Doris, and when you get that bathroom painted, we’d really love to stop by for a visit and take a look. Everyone needs a few good friends, and I’d like to be yours.”

He said that he’d call; I hope that he does, but I don’t imagine he will. Something tells me he’s not quite ready to let a stranger through the front door. That’s OK with me; I much prefer the access of a back door friend. Back door friends talk about everything… soul things, whether over a cup of coffee at Starbucks or in the paint aisle at Lowes. Perhaps thirty minutes was all that was meant for our paths… his crossing mine and mine crossing his.

Sacred intersections… that’s what I call them. Two roads that collide to further God’s kingdom work. A moment that stands at a crossroads where two hearts connect intentionally, purposefully, non-coincidentally, perfectly timed and orchestrated by God and feeling as natural as the air we breathe. I’ve had a few of them in recent days. Not as many as I would like, but just enough to remind me of what I’m supposed to be doing with my days…

Investing.

In others.

Not just in things, or endeavors, or plans, or goals, but more importantly, investing my time and energies into people. I cannot always pick when that happens, don’t always have the luxury of planning my sacred intersections. I much prefer it that way. Plans can sometimes be full of pretense and projected outcomes. I’d rather let the intersections arrive as they will and along the way. God knows when they’re coming; he sees them from afar and is more than capable of making sure that my heart is prepared for their arrival.

So tonight I think about Doris. I think about the joy I would have missed if his cart had not connected with mine. I think about my big God who sat back and watched the exchange… entered into the exchange, even though his voice deferred to mine in that moment. And I am thankful for the privilege of being his conduit of kingdom dispensation.

He’s trusted me with so much… the mystery and the secrets of the kingdom. He has committed to me the ministry of reconciliation… of being his mouthpiece as though he were making his appeal through me (2 Cor. 5:18-20). I cannot conceive of his choice, his trust and his willingness to allow me any measure of influence upon this earth. Instead, I can only receive it as yet another grace from his heart.

I don’t always get it right, friends, don’t always speak God’s witness as I should. Sometimes I keep my silence; sometimes I say too much, but every now again, a Doris-moment comes along, and I know that it was pretty close to perfect.

His path crossing mine; mine crossing his.

An investment of the richest kind.

I may never stand before a crowd of thousands or see my name in lights on this side of eternity, but you can be certain I’ll wake up every day to have that kind of sacred intersection. Some days it’s all I can do, all that I have to give, all that keeps me going when little else in my life is making sense, and trust me when I tell you that life doesn’t “feel” sensible right now. Even so, I pray the Lord to keep me to all that I can do and all that I have to give and to let my tomorrow be filled with more intersections and investments of the kingdom kind.

The Doris kind.

I pray the same for all of you this week. As always…

Peace for the journey,

PS: Thank you for all of the kind comments on "the Goody Bag" and for visiting Judith's new blog. I made sure to include your name in the drawing, whether you posted a comment here and/or there. Miss Amelia just drew the winner prior to going to bed. Jennifer @ The Spirit of Truth is the winner. Send me your address, Jennifer, via e-mail, and I'll have your book to you this week. Shalom.

The Goody Bag

Today it is my privilege to introduce you to one of my dearest blogging friends, Judith. I met Judith early into my blogging foray, and over the past two plus years, we've become kindred friends. Although we've never met face-to-face, our hearts are connected via the tender love we share for our Lord and for the deeper work of the cross that is constantly presenting itself upon the soil of our souls. We've shared many a good conversations over the phone and some heart-felt e-mails in this season of our lives. More than being a kind and generous acquaintance, Judith has become and continues to be a mentor for me. Despite her illness, Judith remains one of the strongest witnesses of faith I've ever encountered. I want you to encounter her as well. Thus, her gracious willingness to serve as a guest-writer at my blog this week. After a long season of rest in regards to her writing, Judith is, once again, putting her heart on paper to serve as an encouragement for all travelers on the road toward home. Today, she reflects on one of the writings included in my new book. I pray it blesses you, even as it has richly blessed me. So without further prompt... meet Judith (and when you're done here, please visit her newly designed blog and follow her along in the journey of faith).

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The Goody Bag by Judith Guerino

My favorite Elaine vignette from her new book, Peace for the Journey, is often the one I have just read. But there are those special ones that either have taught me something new or, because of her unique way with words, have worked for me like a kind of brain Velcro: they stick. Consider her thoughts beginning on Page 10 about the woman in Luke 8:42-46 who suffered twelve years from a discharge or issue of blood. Elaine writes:

“She had and ‘issue.’ I have mine. You have yours. Hers was blood. Ours are other things—blacks and blues and hues of all manner of issues. Regardless of their color, they still bleed red. And if not tended to by the Healer, they will continue their hemorrhage toward eventual destruction.”

Issues. Elaine is so right. They can bleed us dead. And where I think I have become strong, an issue can fly in just under the radar to do damage.

Eight years ago, I received an unexpected diagnosis of Stage 4 cancer before I even knew that there had been a Stage 1. While it felt like living in Belize and suddenly moving to the Badlands, I didn’t waste energy with the “Why me, God?” question. I have known too many wonderful people who have suffered with this frightening disease to think that there was something so special about my sorry parts that I should be spared. My journey through cancer, fraught with discomfort, confusion and grieving, has helped me cling to and love Christ more. It has strengthened my character and enlarged my understanding of the living and loving and wanting to serve. More than cancer of the body, I have feared cancer of the soul.

Yet it’s a messy thing, this business called living or surviving. We don’t do it in a tidy fashion. There are highs so spectacular that we can be stunned to silence at God’s goodness and grace. But there are those other times when the best we can do is survive the day. Days of rejoicing from good news can become stained by bad. We don’t always see a blessing when we are standing in the middle of it. We misstep. We despair when the answer, the gift, the hope is just around the corner. That’s where I was when I opened to Page 10 of Elaine’s book.

I had been told at the beginning of my journey through Cancerland that there is no cure when it behaves the way mine did but “not to worry,” my kind and cheerful Oncologist said. “I have lots of goodies in my goody bag that we can use to manage it.”

Goodies in a goody bag… doctor speak for chemotherapy. I smile now at the good man’s attempt to help me keep perspective, but “goodies” and “chemotherapy” just don’t belong in the same sentence – ever.

Good Dr. Doom (my favorite never-to-his-face name for him) retired about six years ago. Mentioning his ol’ goody bag to my recent Oncologist, I asked if, after all these years, we weren’t finally running out of the contents. I could tell she had been thinking about it too while flipping through the pages of my file at my last visit.

“There’s still one left we haven’t tried.”

“Just one?” I asked hoping she meant ten.

“Yes, just one…,” her voice trailing off. I thought I could tell what she probably would never say without a direct question: this one is last because it’s least likely to help. Surely that was a moth that I saw fly out of Doc Doom’s bag.

So, as Elaine effectively wrote, I had an issue with those goodies, that bag full of chemotherapy treats that I despised: What will happen when the last one is gone? What will happen to me, when Oncology finally has nothing else to offer? While my question was honest, it was one I thought I had settled long ago. But my radar missed the peril. The plane snuck in just underneath it, and… bombs away! Fear found Terror and together they blew up Hope. Despair won a victory, and I began to panic and fidget.

In his honest and uplifting testimony, written before he died from colon cancer, Tony Snow observed “The mere thought of dying can send adrenaline flooding through your system. A dizzy, unfocused panic seizes you. Your heart thumps; your head swims. You think of nothingness and swoon. You fear partings; you worry about the impact on family and friends. You fidget and get nowhere.”

Elaine writes that as the woman with an issue felt compelled to touch Jesus someway, we, too, “must be willing to reach in order to receive. We must move beyond our tight-fisted clenching…”

Tight-fisted clenching. Elaine’s words, empowered by the Spirit of God, were held up before me like a mirror. For days I had been holding on to something that I had always known could never make a promise of life to me; guarantees are never issued with chemotherapy. I had been through this panic before and knew better. But focusing on hopelessness, I clean forgot the blessing of eight years of survival and began to “think of nothingness and swoon.”

Reading the story in Luke again, I saw a difference in how that desperate woman and I were reaching. Elaine’s insightful and tender applications made me weep and they made me yearn. I had forgotten that I had to look more critically at not only what I was reaching for but also whose hem in the crowd I was trying to find. I thought about tight-fisted clenching and how that woman’s hand had to be open and empty in order to grab Jesus’ hem. I was beginning to hang on so tightly to this one last “hope” that my hand had become closed, filled with nothing.

I put Elaine’s book down for a moment remembering an old Johnny Cash song I knew from decades earlier. It was a story about a guy without a job and down on his luck, and all that remained between him and “pauper’s hill” was one “wrinkled, crinkled, wadded dollar bill.” With this one wadded bill he could buy an inadequate jacket at the surplus store or day-old cakes at the bakery but not both. His victory came with the understanding that in his fear of losing it, he had become a slave to something that really couldn’t help him. Determined to not be bound to that one wrinkled, crinkled, wadded dollar bill, he threw it into Lake Michigan.

Having shared some of these thoughts recently with a group of women who also have Stage 4 cancer, one began to weep saying “It never occurred to me that there wouldn’t always be something else they could give me.” Her tears and words expressed a frightful and difficult truth for every one of us in that room. But eventually we all must come to that place. One day each of us, cancer or not, will open a goody bag and watch moths fly out. Whose hem we have been reaching for is critical.

So today, I am comforted by renewal. Tony Snow’s “dizzy, unfocused panic” that had seized me is gone as I remember, once again, to hold on to the sufficiency of Christ and not to what I fear. Those few bombed out buildings of my heart that suffered a sneak attack from our enemy are rebuilt quickly as I focus again on God’s Word and his character. God knows what he’s about regarding my life. He doesn’t need chemotherapy to heal or extend one’s living. He may use it, but he requires nothing except my confidence in him and his ability to do what is right for me and my family, whatever that may be.

So you might say I’m not bound and, in my sane moment, never will be to some wrinkled, crinkled, dusty old goody bag. There is more to affliction than being healed of it.

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PS: Leave a comment today to enter for a chance to win a copy of my book; leave another one at Judith's place (make sure and let me know here) and receive another entry. Shalom.

the fire in my bones...

“But if I say, ‘I will not mention him or speak any more in his name,’ his word is in my heart like a fire, a fire shut up in my bones. I am weary of holding it in; indeed, I cannot.” (Jeremiah 20:9).

I wish you could see me this morning… all fussed up in the middle of my bed with grandma’s quilt as my covering and with my “parchments and scrolls” littered about—written words about the Word messing with my heart and mind. Some familiar works; some lesser known, but all of them with one thing in common—

Jesus Christ.

He has that effect on people, you know... starts messing with a heart and then doesn’t leave it alone until it is undone before him requiring a response therein. He’s been messing with me for a long season, and after four months of a grueling faith workout, I’m finally finding some rest. I don’t imagine it will be permanent. Every now and again, faith’s progression requires some strengthening, thus the need for a month or two or four of a strenuous heart-stretching in order to reach the next, higher plateau. I think I’ve reached it… at least for now, and with the accomplishment comes a day or two or four of some sweet steps with the Father where his mentoring is tender and his Word serves as the gentle salve to soothe my aching bones.

We’re in this together, God and me. He keeps reminding me of this… keeps returning to the pavement of my real life with his kindness and goodness—a grace that supersedes any menial expectations I might lay at his feet regarding his participation. God makes it his habit to exceed my limited understanding where his character and his Kingship are concerned. Rarely do I get it right, but always is he faithful with his correction. He can’t help himself. He simply and profoundly wants to be known by his children. God longs to reveal his fullness to his people; all too often, though, we’re unprepared and unwilling for his weighty disclosure. Why?

Because to receive God in all of his glory… to know him as he longs to be known, well with that kind of revelation, we make ourselves vulnerable to full, personal disclosure and for most of us, that isn’t a comfortable fit. The closer we draw to the purifying flames of Christ’s candle, the clearer we see our own deficiencies. God’s fire rids the flesh of everything temporal and replaces it with everything holy—a consecrated word or two or four about the Word that, eventually and in God’s timing, must be spoken aloud so as to avoid personal, internal combustion.

When God embeds his branding upon a heart—when God burns his mark upon a soul—one cannot help but show the world. If you’ve no compulsion along these lines… no need to rip wide-open your heart in order to reveal the sacred imprint that God has left behind in the wake of his purifying flames, then may I be so bold as to suggest that you’ve yet to fully come to the furnace in the matter of your sanctification? If there is no burning desire in you to tell others about Jesus and the saving work of the cross, then what’s the point of your salvation… my salvation? Just to make it home to him in isolation? Just to narrowly escape the flames of hell while our brothers and sister, neighbors and strangers are strangled and confined with their eternal punishment all because we’ve put our personal safety above corporate well-being?

I know it’s a heavy word and, perhaps, not in keeping with the message you might imagine arriving from a day or two or four of sweet steps with my Father. But you’d be wrong, friends, because a message like this is sacred sweetness to my soul. The weightiness of my Father’s presence in my life is the kindest, most generous work of grace I have ever known. Accordingly, with God’s fullness, comes God’s mandate—his words about the Word and about the need to rip wide-open my heart so that those around me might be able to see and to smell the scorch of heaven’s branding.

Jesus Christ is like a fire shut up in my bones. Like the prophet Jeremiah, I am weary of holding him in for these past few months; indeed I cannot. Christ’s love compels me to release him… to unleash the hot and fiery passion of the cross so that all who are caught in its wake might be consumed by its truth. I don’t know where this passion will take me in the days to come. My world lives pretty small right now, but even small presents an occasion for the dispensation of God’s flame every now and again.

A trip to Wal-Mart.
A phone conversation.
An e-mail.
A blog post.
A jog around the neighborhood.
A gathering of the saints at Christ UMC.

Indeed, a small extension in this big arena known as our world, but the last time I checked, roaring fires didn’t start out with a roar. Rather, they began with a single flame lit in honor of a single King for the single purpose of igniting a single heart until one by one, singleness morphs into corporate witness.

A roaring fire, flaming with the truth of heaven… shaking the very foundations of hell.

Indeed, I wish you could see me this morning… all fussed up and messed up with the truth of Jesus while sitting on my bed. I cannot think of a better consumption for my soul in the next day or two or four of my life. Thus, I pray…

Come and be my consumption, Lord Jesus. Fuss me up and mess me up with the truth of your weighty presence. Brand me with the cross and burn me brightly on the hill of your choosing so that others might come to know a day or two or four of sweetness in your presence. I put no conditions on my burning fire, Lord. I only ask for your faithfulness to fill me with your kindling and then to light me with the flame of your abiding Holy Spirit. We’re in this together; apart from you, I burn to ashes. With you, I burn for all eternity. Even so, come and set my heart ablaze for the kingdom. Amen.

Peace for the journey,

Copyright © July 2010 – Elaine Olsen

the broken road of faith...

“Faith moves forward… faith anchors itself in the unseen. Faith doesn’t base its hope in emotion but in the truth.”

That was my answer this morning to the question that was raised in Sunday school regarding the definition of faith. I spoke it rather mechanically, almost as if rehearsed over and over again prior to its departure from my lips. I suppose I’ve been practicing it for a while now, not just with words, but in my spirit as well.

It’s a good thing… this rehearsing of faith in an earlier, seemingly unchallenged season. Why? Because when uncertainties arise to challenge that faith, we need the advantage of a previously rehearsed faith. We need the anchor of truthful words when feelings pull us in the opposite direction.

I’ve been challenged lately… been hoping for some tangible validation to my deeply-held spiritual convictions. It’s not that God’s been unwilling to validate my inward pulse; no, instead, it’s been a great deal about my unwillingness to take the time to listen to his. Life and busyness and stress have shouted their insistence, almost to the point of sweeping me under the rug of doubt. I’ve caved many times, succumbed to my tears and frustration and feelings of numbness.

It’s hard to continue an old life in a new place. On the front side of my ellipsis nearly three weeks ago, I imagined this transition would be easier. I naively placed the enemy at bay, believing that my faith was unshakeable, unbendable, unwavering and steadfast. But naivety has little, if any, place in the life of a believer… especially one who is intent on the ongoing pilgrimage of faith’s perfection. Troubling times are sure to come, and while my “troubling” might categorize as insignificant to those who are troubled with a seemingly far worse scenario, it ranks pretty noteworthy for me.

“Whatever trips you up.”

This is what I’ve always told my Bible study gals (if you’re one of them, I miss you tremendously and am sending a heart full of love to you this night). We all have our triggers, and we can be sure that the enemy knows them full well and is ready to exploit them every chance he’s given. I suppose I’ve been more prone to opening up the door to his advances in recent days. Exhaustion has set in, and whenever we’re physically and emotionally tired—when the pavement beneath our feet feels more like rubble rather than smoothness—we’re prone for a misstep along these lines.

That being said, a “trip up” isn’t the end of a heart’s faith. A good faith acknowledges the imbalance early on. A good faith pauses to recognize the incongruencies between what is true and what is purported as truth. A good faith doesn’t linger too long in the rubble; instead a good faith picks itself up and moves forward, doing what it has always done.

Believing further. Looking higher. Walking onward.

Faith keeps going, and faith keeps speaking the truth, even when feelings lag behind.

That is what I did this morning. I spoke my faith despite my feelings, and as I did… something broke in me. Tears began to water my cheeks, and for the first time in a long while, God’s Spirit resonated tenderly with mine. I felt him nearby, and my heart was renewed for the journey ahead.

Sometimes, friends, we need to live our faith out loud and in living color, even when unfamiliar faces serve as our audience. I cannot pretend to be otherwise. Sometimes, my faith isn’t pretty or commendable. Sometimes it lags behind the expectations of others. But always, it lives out loud, and I just have to believe that somewhere in the living and telling of my story, someone else will benefit from the honesty.

There is no set of blueprints that perfectly defines how your faith and mine faith will cadence through until the end. We cannot predict on the front end (nor would we want to) of our ellipses all the “rough and tumble” of our tomorrows. But of this one thing we can be certain…

No matter the stones that present themselves on the path of faith, no matter the potholes and the gravel that serve as precursors to a personal fall, the One who stands at the end of the road is worth it. God is what keeps me going. I may be bloodied from the fall and the wounds may run deep, but you can be sure that I will rise again to a new day’s journey until my feet and my faith have landed me safely home. That is what I told my new friends this morning when the teacher (perhaps stunned and uncomfortable with my tears) thanked me for staying the course of faith.

“He is so worth it. God is the real deal; the only thing I’ve got going on.”

Perhaps this day some of you, like me, boast the bloody knees of a recent fall. Let not your hearts be completely troubled by the stumble; instead, believe further, look higher, walk onward. Remember the truth of your yesterday’s faith, and allow it to be the underpinning that moves you forward this week. Don’t linger too long in your guilt; let God’s forgiveness and love for you be the foundational truth from which you monitor your progress this week. You can never stumble so far as to miss the reach of God. You can never fall too far from his heart so as not to be pulled back into his loving embrace. The enemy would have you think otherwise, but the enemy is a liar. Tell him so, and then keep going. Keep speaking the truth out loud and on purpose, even when your feelings lag behind.

Faith comes through hearing, and hearing through the Word of God (Romans 10:17).

Be careful to listen to his voice this week; be willing to speak it all the more. As always…

Peace for the journey,

PS: I heard God's voice this past week through the 32 Killian family members that gathered on the shores of SC for a family reunion, but no time more profoundly then the final night when we gathered for a family sing. I pray it blesses your heart as it did mine. Be sure and hang on for the final song by our beloved, Joni... our own Sandi Patty! Shalom.

monday's morning view...

"For since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities--his eternal power and divine nature--have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse." {Romans 1:20}

A view from my window this morning...

The Killian family reunion has convened on the beaches of Garden City, SC, where we'll spend the week frolicking in the waves, fellowship over meals, and feeling the breadth and depth of what it means to live in close proximity to God's waters.

Romans 1:20 was the scripture focus of my morning's devotional from Spurgeon's Morning and Evening. As I listened to the welcome from the morning waves, I couldn't help but think about the excuses that we collect for not being in connection/relationship with God, and none of them were enough to contradict the ebb and flow of the ocean that beckoned my notice. No single excuse for "not" believing in God can stand up against his morning reminder of grace.

So I say to you, my good friends, let nothing come between you and your connection with God this week. Live without excuses, and take notice of all the ways that God has painted his fingerprints into your day. I'll be sure and do the same. As always...

Peace for the journey,

consider your walls...

“God is in her citadels; he has shown himself to be her fortress…. Walk about Zion, go around her, count her towers, consider well her ramparts, view her citadels, that you may tell of them to the next generation. For this God is our God for ever and ever; he will be our guide even to the end.” {Psalm 48:3, 11-14}

Do me a favor. Find your Bible and read Psalm 48 in its entirety out loud. Read it from this perspective… a personal perspective. One that understands that you, because of your sacred status as a believer in Jesus Christ, are the living temple of the living God’s, living Spirit (1 Cor. 6:19). That the outward and visible signs of the old covenant, which were once carved in stone, have now moved inward and are carved upon your heart by the precious blood of the cross. Read Psalm 48 that way and when you are finished… walk about your temple and compass around her walls. And then…

• Count your towers.
• Consider your ramparts.
• View your citadels.

Towers. Migdal in the Hebrew language meaning, “elevated stage, pulpits, raised bed.”

Ramparts. Cheyl in the Hebrew language meaning, “fortress, wall.”

Citadels. Armown in the Hebrew language meaning, “palace.”

Thus, count your stages; consider your walls; view your palace.

What God is asking us to do with this passage of scripture is not only to ponder this holy admonition as it occurred in context a couple of millennia ago, but greater still to ponder its worthiness as it pertains to our lives right now. I don’t know about you, but as I walk about my “temple” this day, I’m not sure I see what God sees. The last few weeks of my life have been a blur at best, and I seem to be crumbling to rubble rather than rising to the “temple status” as described in Psalm 48.

I have no personal pulpits to mount (although my family might disagree). No gleaming ramparts to display. No citadels in which to stage my kingdom. Instead, I have boxes and stress and precious few moments of intimate exchange with my Father. No, when I look around at this crazy mess that I call my life, I don’t see much personal application in keeping with the status of Psalm 48. But then again, I don’t always see like my Father sees.

It’s not my pulpits or my best efforts at polishing my life or even the thrones that I ascend that give occasion for my Father's notice. None of my self-impressed notions, self-imposed restrictions, or self-maintained guidelines garner me the attention of my King. What makes me attractive to him—what elevates me above all the other “fortresses” that are being erected around me in hopes of garnering the world's notice—is the One, luminous stronghold who lives within my temple walls:

“God is in her citadels; he has shown himself to be her fortress.” {Psalm 48:3}

Indeed he has… shown himself to be my fortress—the Hebrew word misgab meaning, “high place, refuge, secure height, retreat.” I shudder to think of how miserable my life would be living right now if not for the saving, long-reach of Father God. If he were not my high place… my retreat, then my walk about within my palace would be a futile attempt at grasping for personal significance. And quite honestly, who of us needs that kind of exhaustion? Trying to matter to the world without the fortification of and identification with the King will, indeed, leave us with our rubble rather than his restoration. If we’re counting on the outward manifestations of our “pretty” to serve as a lasting impression for the generations to come, then we are one generation away from being forgotten.

Why? Because our attempts regarding our “outward” don’t last; God’s continuing perfection of our “inward” is enduring. When we allow the Master Builder his hands in our palace construction, our tower raising, and our fortress fortification, then what is left behind is something worthy of survey and remembrance. Therefore, precious sojourners on the pilgrimage of grace...

Count your towers. Consider your ramparts. View your citadels.

Because of Jesus, you are a gleaming temple fit for the presence of the glorious, ever-present, always-with-you, King. Only he can bring such beauty to the messiness of your flesh. Only he can make Psalm 48 an up-to-date “write” for your life; mine as well. Thus, I pray…

Walk with me, Father, around my temple today. Together, let us count these towers, consider these ramparts, and view these citadels from your heavenly perspective, not mine. Where there is crumbling, Lord, repair the brokenness. Where there are personal pulpits erected for personal means, tear them down and replace them with your cross. Where there is dullness, shine me with the lustrous revelation of that first, Easter morning sunrise. You are what makes me beautiful and worthy of the next generation’s pause. Today, I humbly ask you to come and make my temple a commendable home for your heart. Thank you for making Psalm 48 a good “write” for my life. Amen.

Peace for the journey,

PS: Please note that all word study references were obtained from Studylight--a wonderful website devoted to helping the average Bible reader strengthen his/her understanding regarding the original language/text of Scripture. Check them out.

Copyright © July 2010 – Elaine Olsen

running my neighborhood...

{arriving home...}

Not long ago, my friend, Melanie, asked me a few questions regarding my “running” life. She has recently started a new blog for running moms and graciously allowed me a post all my own. You can read it here. One of her questions centered on my running route—the place I best liked to run. My answer?

The neighborhood behind my house.

When responding to her questions, I still lived there… on a busy highway that prevented my running endeavors. Accordingly, most days I opted for the brief walk through a field behind my house in order to secure a safe running path in the neighborhood that bumped up against my backyard fence. For nearly six years, it was my path. It no longer is my path. Instead, my path has led me to a new neighborhood… one with tree-lined streets and landscaped yards and the sounds of sprinklers and lawn mowers and birds desperately trying to make peace with the scorching summer temperatures. I took to those streets a couple of days ago… paying close attention to landmarks and being careful to notice my surroundings.

I had a good run; I was relieved to get it behind me. There’s a bit of mystery attached to this unknown path. Taking to it rather than retreating from it has been a good approach for me as I navigate this continuing journey of faith. It doesn’t serve the kingdom or my fears to stay isolated within my four walls. Hibernating… hiding only prolongs the process of my becoming, and for those of you who know me at any level, I’m all about my becoming. I cannot abide a stagnant heart and life. Staying stuck in yesterday isn’t an option for me, even though there are moments when I long for the safety of its embrace. Thus, I took to the streets of my new community, and I thought about Melanie’s question and what it means for me as I begin to turn the pages of this new chapter in my journey.

Running the neighborhood.

We all have one, you know… a neighborhood. A place given to us by God for the generous dispensation of our hearts and his kingdom seed. He doesn’t intend for us to stay isolated in our lives, removed from the world and safely entrenched in personal confinement. Instead, God means for us to lace up our shoes and to hit the streets with the witness of our willing faith. To put pavement beneath our feet because, in doing so, we move our faith forward rather than keeping it buried in our ellipses.

{my new neighborhood... Christ UMC}

Your neighborhood may not look like mine. Yours might be altogether different from mine. I will never “live” there with you, and you will never “live” here with me, but all of us share a common interest—a single connection that requires us to move past the fear in order to take hold of a rich faith. To see beyond the old that has kept us and to embrace the new that God has parceled out before us.

For most of us, that’s a scary prospect. Living with the unknown is a difficult abiding for those who enjoy reading the last page of the novel over taking the necessary pains to get there, one page at a time. Some would rather skip the mystery and live the sure reality that precludes any measure of uncertainty, any growth in personal faith. This has been my temptation in recent days, but when I bow my head before the Father, when I engage his heart in the matter, I see a Jesus who didn’t skip the mystery but who was, instead, deeply invested into every page of the story… not just the conclusion.

Jesus didn’t miss anything in his earthly tenure. Jesus laced up his sandals and took to the streets of his neighborhood, paying very close attention to the landmarks and giving special attention to his surroundings. He didn’t miss a thing… not one moment, not one person. Wherever he walked, he lived. Whatever he saw, he touched. No day in the life of Jesus was wasted. He was never “not” in the mood to be Jesus. He didn’t forsake the journey of faith for fear of his making a mistake. He simply did what he came to do… to run the streets of his neighborhood and to elevate his heart rate in accordance with his Father’s.

That’s neighborhood running, friends. That’s what it means to be a kingdom runner, regardless of the soil that claims the soles of your feet... the soul of your heart.

I don’t have clue what this means for me in the days to come; I only know and fully believe that I can run my “neighborhood” because there is One who has gone before me and given me a perfect example of how I might more perfectly and deliberately live my faith on the pavement of real life. I will not let my fear keep me bound within these four walls. I will, instead, let my fear drive me to my knees and to my Father who has promised to run my neighborhood with me and to make sure that I don’t miss a thing.

Oh for the eyes and faith to see and to live like my Jesus! That is the prayer of my heart this night; the prayer I hold for you as well. Keep to the road, friends. Run your neighborhoods and live your faith in the strength and grace of your Jesus who has promised you his courage and perspective for the road ahead. In the midst of all the changes that are going on in my life, I am thankful that my blogging address remains the same—

a good and loving neighborhood to run with you in this season. Thank you for loving me as you do and for allowing me a few moments of gracious entry in and around the streets surrounding your home. You are a landmark worthy of my notice… worthy of our Father’s as well. I love you each one and will endeavor to jog past your place sometime this week. As always…

Peace for the journey,

PS: A favorite Bebo song to fit this season of my heart...

living my ellipsis...

“… Come now; let us leave.” (John 14:31).

I’m a fan of the ellipsis—the “dot, dot, dot” (…) that is sometimes used in writing to denote a pause in thought. An ellipsis is a connector of sorts, a bridge linking a previous moment with the next one. Sometimes the link is obvious; sometimes more veiled, but always intentional. Ellipses are my friends. They allow me to explore the inner conversation of my soul on a continuum that keeps the flow of thought fluid and pulsing. Without them, the thinking stops, the conversation ends, and what began as a good pondering gets tucked away for another day’s rumination.

As it goes with my writing, so it goes with my life. Today, I’m living in the midst of my "dot, dot, dot." Today an ellipsis has arrived on the page of my life, and I am reminded of the importance of its existence. Without this bridge, I’ll never be able to connect my yesterday with my tomorrow. Without the pause, without the indicator that something is soon to follow my “dot, dot, dot,” then all that remains for me is that which has come before—the previous forty-four years’ worth of days that I call my life.

I happen to believe that there is more to my life than what has come before. I happen to believe in tomorrow and in its connection to all of my yesterdays. They cannot be separated even though they will try. What lies ahead… what is lived ahead is intricately linked to every moment that has lived previously. This is the way of a pilgrim’s journey.

For six years’ worth of days, my journey’s been lived upon the hallowed ground known as Rosewood, NC. Mind you, that’s not our official name. My mailing address reads Goldsboro, but for those of us who live within a few square miles of the 581 and Rosewood Rd. intersection, we name our residency accordingly. One doesn’t know that going in; some things about living here are learned… earned over time. Love stands a prerequisite for that learning; without love, Rosewood is just another location between here and there… another obscurely hidden dot on the map easily missed if one isn’t intent on the find.

Six years ago, I was intent on the find, and I am not disappointed by my discovery. What Rosewood lacks in aesthetics is amply made up for by the beauty of its inhabitants. People are what make this place a worthy investment. Long before I arrived here with family, God saw fit to include us in Rosewood’s history. It’s been a very good place to raise a family, an even better place to live a faith. Tonight, we stand in the middle of our ellipsis. We cannot go back and rewrite the previous years’ remembrances. Instead, we can honor their existence by pausing in this “dot, dot, dot,” believing that what has been scripted into our hearts here has counted and will continue to count for what God is going to script into our hearts next—the other side of this ellipsis.

This is our leaving time, friends, a time of going so that the time of God’s up-and-coming can arrive. It’s not an easy advance for any of us; our hearts are tremendously grieved with the good-bye. But as our dear friend, Tom, reminded us over lunch today (thank you Friendship SS Class for showing up in force at Torero’s), we risk something with our loving… we risk the pain of the “letting go.” Still and yet, we wouldn’t choose otherwise. To limit love is to limit authentic living. This, too, is the way of a pilgrim’s journey.

I imagine it will take me a long season to unpack the lessons that I’ve learned over the past six years in this place; some thoughts are better processed on the other side of the bridge. I’m looking forward to reflecting on them in the days to come… to holding them closely as my comfort and to recalling them as stones of remembrance in honor of the faithfulness of my Father’s love and watchful care over me and my family in this past season. I’ve spent nearly one-seventh of my tenure on planet earth in this place, and it’s been a good fit for my heart. I pray the same for the other side of my “dot, dot, dot.” I ask the Lord to be as good to me there as he’s been to me here. I cannot imagine him doing it any other way.

But I’m not there yet; tonight I’m resting in this ellipsis… confident of the words that God has written into my journey up to this point… confident of the words that will arrive via his pen to continue my story until they write me all the way home to heaven.

Perhaps, like me, you’re living in an ellipsis right now. There’s been a pause in your heart that has you wavering in between your yesterday and your tomorrow. You’re not stuck; you’re simply waiting… believing… hoping… dreaming. It’s been a hard bridge for you to navigate, yet to forsake these necessary steps is to miss the other side of your “dot, dot, dot.”

Don’t miss your “dot, dot, dot,” friend. Walk it. Quicken your pace, strengthen your feeble knees, and fortify your faith for the second half of the sentence. There is a tremendous beauty that comes with a finishing thought—a wholeness that replaces the partiality of a single phrase. Don’t be afraid to allow God to complete your pause. Instead, ready your heart for its arrival. God never writes anything into our stories without his corresponding punctuation. It may take a season or two to arrive at the conclusion, but when it comes, we can be sure that it comes in the fullness of a Father’s understanding and with his best intention for our lives. He, alone, can connect the “dots” and have them make sense.

Thus, watch out my tomorrow. I’m walking my “dot, dot, dot” tonight, and I’m bringing Rosewood, NC, with me as I come. You and her will be forever connected because of this pause that resides in my in between… because of this heart that is willing to carry the influence of my yesterday into the seeding of my tomorrow. I’ll see you when I get there; how I pray to live you all the more.

Until then…

Peace for the journey,

PS: Please forgive my absence from your blogging addresses, friends. I've barely had a moment to myself and only squeezed this post in because I desperately missed my "pen" this week. I won't have Internet connection most of the week, but as soon as I'm up and running again, I'll be sure to stop by for a visit. Thanks for all of your prayers. We've felt them all, especially today. We'll be pulling out Tuesday morning and would appreciate your continuing thoughts. Shalom.

headin' home...

“… And they admitted that they were aliens and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own.” {Hebrews 11:13-14}.

People who say such things.

When was the last time you said such a thing… made an admission regarding your tenure upon this earth? I suppose we all say it from time to time; if not with words, then with our thinking… maybe even with our actions. On every occasion when we encounter the pull between the temporal ramifications of our flesh and the eternal, hidden pulse within, credibility is given to this faith-filled yearning. We don’t live very long in our skin before feeling the effects of such an understanding. We may not know what to call it—this ache that resides so very close to our hearts—but we cannot deny its existence. We simply feel it as it happens. Some of us receive it as a gift from God; others retreat from its witness in hopes of abating the inevitable—a final moment of final witness with some final answers regarding a final finish. Some of us would rather wait for then, but not me.

I want to be a person who says such things now; not then. Now is when faith happens; not when God reveals himself in final splendor. Faith doesn’t grow in that finishing moment when God is clearly obvious. Faith grows now, when God’s pulse within us quickens with ours and we can no longer keep our silence regarding such things.

I had a such things kind of moment today. I said something this morning during my prayer time that seems to echo the refrain of my spiritual ancestors from Hebrews 11. They may have said it better than me; I fully imagine that they lived it better, but all of our hearts, whether then or now, anchor with the same God. Thus, a few similar words from a similarly captivated heart.

I want to be a better pilgrim, Lord.

It’s a good prayer to pray… an honest prayer of confession. As of late, I’ve been tightly focused on my agenda to the neglect of God's bigger picture. None of the details that have garnered my attention are unnecessary or unimportant. They are a requirement of the journey that I’m traveling. But because of it all—the packing, the phone calls, the address changes, the good-byes—it’s sometimes easy to miss the pull of heaven. Sometimes the “necessary” gets in the way of my pilgrim focus, and if not carefully guarded, becomes the cloud that blocks my view of home.

I’ve been missing home in recent days. Not this one; in just over a week, I’ll have a new roof over my head and a new life to get to know. No, when I speak about missing home, it's not this one that I'm pining over. I miss the view of the home that’s coming—the one that’s free of the flesh and full of the Spirit of God. My attachments here have made me weary and have brought me to my knees and my tears and my wondering about their worthiness as it pertains to my pilgrim status.

True pilgrims of God don’t get bogged down in the particulars. Instead, true pilgrims keep their focus. Keep looking ahead. Keep pressing through the “necessary” without ever losing sight of the “next.” True pilgrims share a few common traits. Traits like…

Dreams. Determination. Discipline. Devotion.

Dreams to start the journey.
Determination to make the journey.
Discipline to stay the journey.
Devotion to finish the journey.

Short change any one of these steps, and homeward focus can easily be replaced by temporal visioning.

Long ago and faraway, I had my first dream about home. Today, I am determined more than then to get there. I pray for the discipline to take me there, and above all else, for an unbridled devotion to the Lover of my soul that will land me safely on his front porch where he will carry me through the portal of my forever.

I want to be a better pilgrim. I want to a woman who says such things… who lives such things all the more. I am an alien and a stranger on this earth, in search of a country to call my own. It belonged to God first, and because of his Son, Jesus Christ, it belongs to me now. I cannot see it in this moment, but I can dream it. Tonight, it matters not the roof that serves as my shelter, nor the address that claims me as resident. My temporal cannot replace dreams eternal. It will try, but at the end of the day, the ache that resides deep within me cannot be denied. It must be addressed. It must be remembered. It must be given the honor that it is due.

Home really is where the heart is, and tonight my heart is with Jesus.

People who say such things.

May we all be found saying such things this week. As always…

Peace for the journey,

PS: In honor of the road ahead (my two older boys heading to Bolivia on Wednesday and our impending move in eight days) I’ll be missing from blogland for awhile. I imagine I’ll be checking in with you from time to time, but my pen will be taking a much needed break. My heart? Well, it never takes a break, so there will be more to come down the road. In the meantime, keep looking toward the horizon and keep thinking about home. Our God is so worthy of and honored by our thoughts. We covet your prayers. Shalom.

Copyright © June 2010 – Elaine Olsen

one so blessed...

My precious friend, Joanne, sent me an e-mail this morning to remind me of the book give-away she is hosting over at her blog. The book? Peace for the journey: in the pleasure of his company. Maybe you’ve heard of it? I have a particular fondness for the work; it strikes pretty close to home, and I’d love for one of my readers to win a copy. Please stop over at Joanne’s place to sign-up, and bring your lawn chair with you as you go. Her blog is like sitting beneath the shade of a favorite tree on a hot, June afternoon. She makes me laugh; she makes me think; she gives me permission to pause from the busyness of my life in order to partake in the loveliness of hers.

Thank you, Joanne, for your interest in me and for the bucket loads of kindness you’ve extended in my direction. You are one of the best evidences of God’s grace and love toward me in the blogging community. I count it a privilege to be walking alongside you in this season of life and to call you my sister and friend.

Peace for the journey,

PS: I'm closing comments on this post so that you can head over to Joanne's place and start enjoying the fellowship beneath her shade tree! Shalom.

"Let the boy run..."

As I rounded the corner of mile two on my usual jogging route, I noticed them walking toward me—two middle-school boys getting off the bus… two brothers making their way to the home less than a quarter of a mile from the bus drop. I’ve seen them before; even chatted with them on occasion, but all I received from them in that moment was their cursory nod as they made their approach. It was obvious to me the debate going on between them. I noticed the increasing, accelerated paces that accompanied their “out of the corner of the eye” glances toward one another. A race was about to happen, but not before they passed my observation.

I must have served as their starting line, because as soon as they made it beyond my right shoulder, the competition was on. I don’t know who won the race; the older brother is bigger with a longer stride, but the younger is thinner and perhaps harbors just enough determination to claim victory over his older brother every now and again. I chuckled as they passed, having seen this kind of competitive spirit in my own sons over the years. It has both annoyed me and blessed me, always reminding me of the subtle differences that seem to exist between boys and girls.

I continued with my jog for another mile and with the “chewing” on these differences when a thought occurred to me. A voice really. A whisper that simply and profoundly declared…

Let the boy run, Elaine. Let the boy run.

If there is one thing this woman knows, it’s boys. I live with four of them—one manly boy, two semi-manly boys, and one wishing he were anywhere within shooting range of the older three! There’s just something in them that says “get to the finish line first.” Whether it’s a foot race to the front door, a sprint to claim the front seat of the van, a drive to the hoop, the front runner for the hot shower or for morning pancakes, boys have it in them to be first. When it comes to racing, all other considerations are pushed aside. My boys can’t seem to help themselves. They simply were made for the running.

Let the boy run, Elaine. Let the boy run.

I’ve thought a lot about this whisper over the past couple of days since it first entered into my heart. Thought a lot about all of the ways I’ve tried to squelch the “run” in my boys over the years. As a single mom of two young sons, it was easy for me to justify my taking the lead in all of our matters. When they wanted to run in those younger days, it bothered me. I didn’t understand boys back then; I just tried to control them for fear that I would lose them. Since Billy’s coming into my life, I better understand the nature of the manly “run”; he’s brought depth and insight into the equation. Still and yet, there’s a part of me that cannot fully appreciate the pace of a boy’s heart—the boy’s drive to be first, be strong, be in the lead, be in charge. So much of what they’re wired to be is how I’m wired as well. Thus, the rub. Thus the need for a whisper from time to time reminding me to…

Let the boy run.

I want my boys to run, all of them. I want them to be fully man and fully alive to the paces of their genetic and spiritual predisposition. I don’t want them to wait to run until they’ve passed my shoulder and I can no longer enjoy the display of their manly fortitude. I want them to run in front of me while I can yet witness their strength. I want to see them grow and become and develop into the strong leaders that God has called them to be. I don’t want them to be hindered by my need to be in control; rather, I want them to run past me, all the while because of me and my willingness to tie up their laces, to walk them to the starting line, and then to cheer them onto victory. At my age and in this season of life, I might be running alongside them; not to beat them this time around, but rather to enjoy them and to champion them into doing what they were always meant to do.

To run.

It’s not been an easy conclusion to arrive at; my parents raised me to be a strong, independent woman, unafraid of her shadow and not easily swayed by man’s opinion. I am thankful for the sturdy sense of identity that was embedded into me long before I knew what it was to share a home with a boy, much less four of them. But after years of living with their witness, they’re growing on me, and I am beginning to appreciate their innate need for speed and for the lead.

Let the boy run, Elaine. Let the boy run.

By God’s grace, I hope to follow through on this whisper of heaven. Something tells me I might need the strength of my four boys in the days to come… might need their courage and their pace to buoy me along in my journey toward home. I’m glad I have them. As I grow older, I become less tolerant of my need to be in charge and more willing to concede my front-runner status to those whose legs are better able to handle the pace of life. It’s taken me a long season to get there, and I imagine that I will always prefer my running shoes to high heels. But for now, I’m enjoying the sprint to manhood that is taking place under my roof. It makes me glad to be a woman… to know the differences that exist between me and my four boys and to be perfectly content with the distinction.

And so I say to you, my four boys—Billy, Nick, Colton, and Jadon—

Run boys. Run swiftly and let this wife and mother take it all in. I look forward to watching the race in the days to come and to cheering you on to victory. Home is just around the bend, less than a quarter of a mile from this moment, and the pace you now keep will be worth the company you will then keep for all of eternity.

Let the boy in you run strong. Let the man in you finish well.

This woman loves you and delights in living this life with you. May you now and forever always know…

Peace for the journey,

Copyright © June 2010 – Elaine Olsen

Preacher Billy's moving tips...

Because every now and again... we all need a good laugh. Find something to laugh about this weekend, friends. In the meantime, here's my man making me laugh. Oh, how I love a good tear-producing, snortin' out loud, kind of laugh. I'll see you on the other side of some boxes and some rest.

on "going to the woodshed"

I have a story I want to tell you; not because there’s anything particularly spiritual about it all, at least not at this point. Perhaps before it’s over there might be a small nugget’s worth of something to cradle as your own, but for now, this story belongs to my daughter because, long after I’m gone, I want her to have it to cradle for always.

Miss Amelia. She is the caboose of our immediate family, following in line after her three older brothers. They tell me she doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

I don’t see it as much as they do; I don’t look for it… don’t search for all the ways that she might resemble me. I just live with her, love her the best I can and am occasionally mindful of what they profess to see.

Me in her; her in me.

Like a few days after she was born when I cradled her closely to my chest and looked into her eyes. They fixed on me, almost as if she was giving me permission to glance into the depths of her soul. For a brief moment, I peeked in and had the strangest feeling that I was looking at a mirrored reflection of myself. The memory is as vivid to me now as it was nearly eight years ago.

Me in her; her in me.

Like a few weeks ago when her daddy called me on the way home from picking her up at school. Apparently there was an issue in the hall bathroom… something about a potty mouth and her not being able to take good instruction from the teacher the first time around.

Me in her; her in me.

Like the moment after receiving the call when I met her at the back door and sent her upstairs to “think it over” before talking it out. Knowing that her momma was disappointed, her eyes brimmed with tears searching for any measure of initial grace that might be extended to her on the front side of discipline.

Me in her; her in me.

Like the commotion that followed her bedroom ascent; her unable to handle the isolation and silence and feeling the need to fix the problem herself, all the while making sure that I took notice of her angst.

Me in her; her in me.

Like in the one-sided conversation that followed her “thinking it over” when she met me on the stairs half-way. Me coming up; her coming down.

“Stop right there, Mommy (upright hand directed at me). Before you say anything you need to know something. I’ve already washed my mouth out with soap, and I’ve already spanked myself. And just in case you’re wondering… it really, really hurt.” (Her words; not mine.)

Me in her; her in me.

I stifled my laughter until later, acknowledging to her that the discipline seemed to have fit the crime and that we were good to go for the rest of the day. We hugged; she moved on, and I was left alone to ponder the exchange between us.

I’ve been thinking about it ever since. We are quite the dramatic pairing. We live our lives out loud and with full emotion at every turn. Few are the days void of our laughter and our tears. Never are we silent, and rarely are we ever alone. If it’s true, if in fact my daughter doesn’t fall too far from the maternal tree, then I am not surprised about the extraordinary lengths that she was willing to travel in order to punish herself. It’s a technique I’ve perfected over the years—personal flogging for personal sin that, if not carefully guarded, can easily become a personal pastime for me.

I’m not as bad as I used to be, but every now again, when I pursue sin over personal holiness, I’m quick to find the bar of soap and the paddle, even though all I’ve been charged with is the “thinking it over.” Rather than taking a cue from my Father in regards to my taking a breather in the isolation and quiet of an upper chamber, I busy myself with trying to find some grace via the route of my good intentions. I rely on personal understanding rather than God’s understanding, and more often than not, the self-inflicted wounds I apply aren’t in keeping with the crime… aren’t in keeping with my Daddy’s grace.

I wonder if you understand; if, in fact, you know what it is to take yourself to the woodshed over your sins. That maybe you, like my daughter and myself, don’t fall too far from the same tree. That sometimes it is easier to receive punishment than it is to receive our Father’s compassion. Could it be that we have grown so attached to our need for penalty that we altogether miss the grace of the cross? I’m not saying or thinking that our sins don’t come without consequence. But what I am wondering is…

Who are we to decide that consequence? Are we the ones to measure out mercy or to put parameters around pardon? When is enough, enough? What discipline could we offer on behalf of our sins that would equal our Daddy’s forgiveness? Does one spanking suffice? Would two or ten or twenty years’ worth of woodshed drama be adequate to cover the gaping distance between our bad and God’s good? Our need and God’s sufficiency? When does hurt, hurt enough, and why in the world do we burden ourselves with the awesome responsibility of keeping score?

Me in her; her in me; perhaps... you in us.

I think, in part, this is where the story moves from solely belonging to me and my daughter to belonging to you as well. I’ve been to the woodshed in recent days, friends. I imagine some of you could say the same. Maybe some of you are there tonight. Do me a favor…

Put the soap back in the dish; hang the paddle back on the nail, and simply sit in silence with your Daddy. He’s already ascended the stairs on your behalf, and I imagine that he has a word or two of grace to offer to your hurting heart.

“Stop right there, child. Before you say anything further, do anything further, you need to know something. I’ve already been to the woodshed for you. And just in case you’re wondering, it really, really hurt. And just in case you’ve forgotten, you're really, really worth it.”

Him in us; us in Him. And none of us too very far from the family tree. As always…

Peace for the journey,

PS: My heart is strangely stirred this night... these last few posts have come from both a place of poverty of soul and fullness of spirit. Some of you won't understand that; I'm not sure I understand it all myself, but of this I am certain. God is moving in my heart, and he longs to speak to me. Accordingly, I must move closer for a listen. I've walked with God long enough to know when he is calling... long enough to know that I don't want to miss a single moment of intimacy with him... certain enough to know that something good is around the corner. I pray all of this and more for each one of you tonight. I'll see you on the other side of God's burning bush. Shalom.

Copyright © June 2010 – Elaine Olsen

on "burning words"...

I burned some words yesterday.


My words.

Three journals worth of words dating back sixteen years to a season in my life that walked wildly and in selfish pursuit of sin. I didn’t call sin, sin back then… didn’t name my thoughts and, consequently, my resulting actions as sin. Instead I named them as “reasonable reactions”—the natural, resulting overflow from a life that was seemingly void of the love that I longed to hold as my own. Rather than going to God with my sin in that season, I went to my “pen” and spent a great deal of my evening hours trying to justify the choices that I was making.

I don’t know who I was writing to back then… journals are kind of open ended in that respect. It’s probably a really good thing that I didn’t have a blog sixteen years ago. Some words… some thoughts of our hearts are better kept as private, between us and God. Not everyone needs to know the "everything" that’s wrestling itself out upon the stages of our hearts and minds, especially those who stand in the direct line of consequence—our families and our friends.

Writing words can be a healthy way of working out our thoughts, feelings, and questions. But when those words serve as our personal justification for sin, well, where’s the merit in that? What can be gained from going public with that kind of nonsense? I suppose we’ll always be able to find someone who is willing to stand in our corners and champion our “reasonable” choices for sin, therefore adding some credibility to our decisions to reveal the inner chambers of our thought life. But the pay off is temporary. Any pats on the back that we receive for our sins are a stumbling block—both for us and for the one who is doing the patting.

When we replace God’s truth with the enemy’s lies, we stunt our spiritual growth. In some cases, we altogether shut it down. That is exactly what I was doing sixteen years ago—making a deliberate choice to disengage from the pursuit of holiness. I didn’t clearly see the egregious nature of my decision back then, but I see it now, and I am sickened by it. I barely recognize the woman behind those words. I recognize the handwriting, but I do not champion the heart behind those words. Nothing written in that season deserves a pat on the back. Nothing. My heart was rotting from the inside out, filled with the sin-sick disease named “self.” But for the grace of God, self nearly killed me.

Nearly.

I don’t know why I’ve held onto these “words” for so long. To be honest with you, I haven’t seen or thought about them in the six years since moving here. I only found the journals yesterday while cleaning out a bottom drawer of my nightstand. I recognized them immediately and bravely allowed myself to go there… one more time. To open up the pages and to relive a bit of that season and the pitiful nonsense that infiltrated my thought processes which, eventually, sent me down a treacherous path of sin. The results were devastating. Sin should never be underestimated. The toll it takes on a soul and on the souls surrounding its witness is far worse than originally billed. I know. I’ve lived that payment; so has my family.

It would take a long season before I willingly looked back over my shoulder to see God’s grace chasing after me… an even longer season before I allowed it to catch up with me, but it did. He did, and my life no longer carries the sin of my words from sixteen years ago… maybe a memory or two along these lines, but I am no longer held in the grip of those memories. Thus, my willing walk with my husband yesterday afternoon to a make-shift fire pit in our backyard.


I’m not a fan of burning words, friends. Our personal words are a precious gift to us from God. They mirror the inward pulse of our hearts. But the words I burned yesterday no longer reflect the pulse of my heart; they only seek to diminish it. They aren’t in keeping with my current pursuit of holiness. The only worthiness that can be found in their existence now is in what remains after their holy burning upon the altar of God’s intention.


Ashes. This is what remains.

Which brings to my remembrance an important word I received from Dr. Steve Seamands regarding my ashes during an Ash Wednesday service that closely followed the penning of those journals some sixteen years ago. You can find the story in its fullness on pages 18-20 in “peace for the journey: in the pleasure of his company”:

“God loves ashes [elaine], because ashes can be blown anywhere by the wind of his Spirit.”

Yesterday, I burned some of my words; today, all that remains of those words is a soft pile of gray which is more than willing to be picked up by the wind of God’s Spirit and to be blown in accordance with his will. Burning our words is sometimes the right thing to do, friends, especially when those words are keeping us separated from God and from his perfect plan for our lives.

Perhaps today, you have some lingering “words” from your past—hidden away thoughts that are buried deeply within the corners of your heart. You’ve almost forgotten them, but every now and again a “move” requires your attention to their presence in your life. Perhaps today, you’re writing some of those words… maybe living them all the more. You’re making a willful choice for sin, justifying your cause and pleading your case before any available ears that are willing to listen. You’ve long since given up on reasonable understanding and have begun to accept the lies that the enemy is sugar coating in your defense. He seems to be on your side, and if you haven’t already taken a bite from the apple, your lips are close to breaking its skin.

I understand where you’re at, because I’ve been there. I made my home there for a long season. The ash heap in my backyard is living proof of that season. Thankfully, I no longer have to carry those “words” with me any more. Long ago I surrendered the sin behind those words to God; yesterday, I surrendered the temporary remnants. Tomorrow? Well, maybe God’s wind will come along, pick them up, and carry the witness of their final defeat into the lives of those who need a similar victory… who need to know that they were meant for more than apples. That they, in fact, we meant for the kingdom of God. That maybe it’s not someone else who needs to know, but that maybe it’s you who needs to know.

The day is fast approaching when our surrendering our sins to the flames of God’s purifying grace will be no more. Many people are counting on that more… believing that more days will follow this one and that tomorrow would be a good day to make good on today’s sin. Make no mistake, friends. We’re living on borrowed time—God’s time. Today is the day of salvation. Today is the day to clean out the drawers of our hearts and minds and to dump the baggage into God’s fire pit. There are no words you can offer to justify the sin of your heart. None. And while there is great grace to be found on the other side of willful sin, there is great grace to be found on the front side of sin’s full invasion upon the soil of your heart.

Take hold of that grace today. Surrender your thoughts, your words, and any precursors to eventual sin to God and allow him to replace the enemy’s apple with a rich portion of his divine, sustaining strength and power that is more than capable of moving you past the apple and onto the heavenly feast that’s been prepared in your honor… in my honor as well. I’ll meet you at the table, friends. And when you get there, don’t be surprised if you smell the lingering scent of smoke on my skin and see a few fragments of gray on my fingers. God loves ashes, and this day (well beyond the days of my sixteen years ago), I’m burning brightly for the King and his kingdom. As always…

Peace for the journey,

Copyright © May 2010 – Elaine Olsen