November 2008 | Elaine Olsen

Room to Breathe

November 10, 2008

“I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; you works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, … .” (Psalms 139:14-15).

I am pro life. Whether on the battlefield, in the nursing home, at the end of a feeding tube, on death row, or in a mother’s womb, I will always vote for life. This doesn’t affiliate me along party lines, for both sides hold their merit in various ways. It does, however, make me ever conscious and deliberate about the decisions I make when elections roll around. That being said, there is a story I want to write.

Not because you haven’t heard it before, but rather because by not doing so, I would be denying the stirring that’s been haunting my thoughts for nearly a week now. It’s a story that’s been writing me for the past five days. A story that doesn’t belong to me alone, but one that belongs to the million plus voices who, this year alone, will never be given …

room to breathe.

We all know the outcome of the presidential election on November 4, 2008. But there is a lesser known outcome from that day that probably didn’t make the “cut” for post election discussions around your tables and in the work place.

California’s Proposition Two. Jim Downing, writer for “The Sacramento Bee,” reports the following:

“To a huge majority of California voters, it seems, the chicken does come before the egg. The measure makes California the first state to require that its chickens be freed from their cages and allowed to stretch their wings.…

And what does getting out of a cage mean for a chicken? Three main things: a nest, a perch and a place to take a dust bath. Without these basics, hens act stressed. Caged systems don’t offer them, while modern cage-free setups generally do.”[i]

Apparently, the hens are living in less than desirable conditions, and while their “output” remains strong, their surroundings for doing so was deemed worthy of an upgrade. The National Humane Society contributed over eight million dollars toward the upgrade, while opponents donated over seven million dollars toward its defeat.

Fifteen million dollars expended on behalf of the chickens. A costly proposition in my opinion, and one that paid off…at least for the hens. By the year 2015, hens across California will be stretching their legs, making their nests, and enjoying the romp of a dust bath at whim and will. Thanks to the voters, California hens will have a little more room to walk their two year life expectancy without any…

*bars to cage their steps.
*inconveniences to cramp their living.
*restraints to hinder their production.

Room to breathe, friends. I can almost hear their thankful clucking from where I sit tonight on the opposite coast. And lest you think, I’m ungrateful, I’m not. I am for the humane treatment of all of God’s creatures, but as it pertains to a chicken’s “rights” and California’s Proposition Two, my heart and soul shudder at the hypocrisy lived out with such a mandate.

Many well-intentioned people expend their pocketbooks, voice their objections, and vote their conscience along such lines. They man their vigorous campaigns with bold initiatives and principled views, all in the name of the humane treatment of animals.

But when it comes to the one and half million unborn babies who will know an early death this year because of abortion, pocketbooks often remain closed. Voices remain silent, and the human conscience is swallowed up by a vigorous “lesser” that offers no room for innocence to breathe her first breath, much less make a nest, find a perch, and stretch her wings toward hopeful flight.

Many will argue that the issues are different. That the variables are extreme and cannot be considered as equal.

I would agree. Hens and human life are different. They are not equal and, in terms of intrinsic worth and eternal value, should not be considered in the same breath. But when the hypocrisy is so blatant, so obvious and so egregious, I cannot help but speak of them in the same sentence. When the rights of a hen get more press than the rights of the unborn child, my heart cries in disbelief and in grief for the moral disparity that is blanketing our country.

Abortion was not the only issue in this year’s election. I understand. There were and still are many valid concerns that weigh heavy upon our hearts. America is the sum total of these concerns. But I’ll be honest. I didn’t walk to the voting booth with many of them in mind. Instead, I walked with a “one issue” focus that took hens and the like off the table and put the sanctity of life at the helm.

I cast my ballot accordingly; not because of any particular fondness for either candidate, but simply because I want the unborn children of 2009 to have the right to walk their life expectancy without any…

*bars to cage their steps.
*inconveniences to cramp their living.
*restraints to hinder their production.

I want them to live. To spread their wings and to have room to fully breathe their rights as God-created, human beings. Some will. Sadly, statistics show that over a million won’t. And tonight all I can muster is a few painfully pondered questions.

Who can fathom the consequential depths of such poor decisions? Why would anyone want to? Who could argue the death of a child as a best laid plan…ever? Who could appreciate such statistics and reason them appropriate? Who could voice abortion’s worth accordingly?

I cannot, nor would I ever endeavor to try. My holy fear of a Holy God won’t allow me to voice such an offense in his presence. God is not impressed with our excuses, with our many words and with our defense of such poorly reasoned sin. Nothing we could argue would warrant his condoning of abortion. He is the Author of human life, and he values it accordingly. The fact that you are reading this now is witness enough to the beauty of such a sacred truth.

Your mother was willing to give you room to breath. To let your life matter. To let you grow and to let you become a person of kingdom influence upon our King’s soil. There was never a moment when you didn’t count, when you didn’t matter and when your Father looked away. You have always been his priority. Not chickens. Not ever.

As I approach a new year with a new Washington, I will be watching to see if our new President will uphold the strides that have been made in the past eight years toward reducing abortion and toward promoting the rights of the unborn child. I will remember California’s chickens, and I will expect higher preference to be afforded the children growing in the womb. I will settle for nothing less, at least as far as my voice is concerned. I may be forced to live with the choices of unreasonable politicians, but for as long as I have breath, I will voice it…

For life. For freedom. For wings to stretch. For nests to call home. For perches from which to launch, and for wide, open spaces that afford me a gracious cleansing and room enough …

to generously and thankfully, breathe it all in.

the fruit of my thankful womb!

As always,

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[i] Jim Downing, “What California Voters Hatched with Chicken-Cage Ban is Unclear,” The Sacramento Bee (November 10, 2008), http://www.sacbee.com/111/story/1380971.html.

PS: Congrats to Pamela for winning the $20 gift certificate toward a necklace. Pam, please e-mail when you are ready to purchase, and I will have a code for you to deduct the $ from the total purchase. If you know you won’t use it, please let me know so my daughter can draw another name! Congrats, friend.

Peace arrives in a tiny package…

November 7, 2008

It arrived on Wednesday. A good day for unwrapping the much needed necessary of my weary heart. A little,

peace …

for the journey.

Not long ago, I ran across an artist’s work that immediately captured my attention and my appreciation. Her name is Lisa Leonard, and like all true artists, she sees the world through a unique set of lenses.

As image bearers to the Master Artist, we share his capacity for creativity. Our Father fashioned our flesh with a bent toward creative expression. All of us…every last one of us…are artists. We paint stories with…

Our words. Our writings. Our music. Our cooking. Our acting. Our dance. Our paintings. Our teaching. Our leadership. Our singing. Our speaking. Our conversations. Our silence.

No one escapes the need for expression, for within each one of us is the impulse of our creative God. He placed our lives upon this earth to put voice to a story … his story. And somewhere within the telling, he hopes that others will be compelled to add their own lines to the script.

Lisa, at least in part, expresses her voice through her jewelry. Those of you who know me, know that I am not a fancy girl in search of a lot of “bling” to add to my bland. Lisa’s work exceeds bling. It breathes with a simple beauty that invites quiet contemplation rather than loud demonstration.

For a few months now, I’ve admired her work from the sidelines, and when my ladies at Bible study gifted me with a recent “thank you,” my thoughts warmed with the possibility of purchasing one of Lisa’s designs. The girls instructed me that the money was not to be used on my children or for bills, but rather to be used on something I wouldn’t normally buy for myself.

No further persuasion was needed. I ordered my necklace, and I couldn’t be more pleased with the results.

As a way of honoring Lisa’s creative expression, I want to gift one of you readers with a $20 gift certificate toward the purchase of your own, hand-crafted design. In addition, Lisa is offering a 20% discount to anyone who places an order for a design.

When ordering, simply type in the code “peace20” to receive your 20% discount. As for the $20 gift certificate, please leave a comment, and I will draw a winner on Monday. If you want to comment, but know that you won’t be able to use the gift, please indicate accordingly so that someone else has the opportunity to win. (*note: I will have a code available for you when you are ready to place your order that will deduct the $20 from total purchase.).

Thank you so much, Lisa, for your beautiful heart and life that shines through with each of your hand-crafted creations. Thank you, readers, for allowing me to introduce her to you. I won’t often do this on the blog, but I do believe in celebrating the many talents that God has scripted into each one of us.

Lisa Leonard certainly fits the bill. So do you. So get busy in tending to your creative side and allowing God to use it for his many kingdom purposes. Tell us about it in the comment section.

I love your hearts. I love that you consider me your friend, even though many of us have never met face to face. I love that you love Jesus, and most importantly, I love that we will one day share heaven together with Him. Until we get there, and while we walk here, may his constant presence be your portion, may his favor and blessing be your shadow, and may you always know his loving and abiding …

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Please take time to visit Lisa at her website and peruse some more of her handmade jewelry: http://lisaleonardonline.com/

This Moment…

November 5, 2008

“For the eyes of the LORD range throughout the earth to strengthen those whose hearts are fully committed to him.” (2 Chronicles 16:9).

Perspective.

Remember?

I woke up this morning, just as I have for the past forty-two years. With some moments and with an opportunity to make those moments count. To seed them with eternal thoughts and eternal doings or to limit them by ignoring the possibility of their worth.

I bet you woke in similar stride. If you’re reading this, then you did and, now, you have come to see what I have to say in the matter. A matter that matters for the kingdom, but not one that will impede the process. Rather, one that has been part of the process all along and has finally been given to us for the unwrapping.

Thank God. Seriously. Thank Him for the unveiling of an answer that has kept us captive to our “what if’s” for a long season.

Had I hoped for a different outcome? Yes. Did I weep some tears for the unborn child? You bet. But I did something else in addition to my disappointment. I gathered my family sometime after midnight, and we surrendered our tears in prayer to God. We laid our hopes and dreams and fears before the throne of heaven, knowing that our Father heard, understood, and then, listened to him as he asked for our understanding in the matter.

For a higher perspective that yields faith, obedience, and a heart that is willing to seed mercy and grace accordingly. For hands that are willing to get down in the soil and get to the business—God’s business—that exceeds a shift in Congress or the new residents of the White House. It includes them, but they are not the sum total of the whole.

They are part of the bigger picture, and alongside my country, I choose to stay focused on the role I’ve been given to play and the chapter I’ve been given to write. No one can do that for me. My story is mine to live, and these next few moments are mine to give to the world … to God. To stand and to kneel as the bridge between the two.

It is my joy and my privilege to do so. Thus, I pray for peace. Search for peace. Receive my peace, and go forward from this one moment, walking with peace. Peace is not some far off possibility or longed for conclusion. Peace shattered the night sky over 2000 years ago with the cries of his feeble flesh and his divinely rooted purpose.

A purpose that included moments of walking out the role he’d been given to walk, on an earthen soil he’d been given to save. Is Peace ringing his hands this morning? Is Peace heading to the local bar to drown his sorrows? Is Peace chaotically assembling his army for a showdown? Is Peace spreading more gossip seeded in fear? Is that the Peace you know?

If so, then may I be so bold to suggest that true peace will never be your portion?

Time for perspective, friends. Time for reframing and for some soul searching in the matter. Time for remembering who you are and who you belong to and for believing in a stronger and higher purpose that exceeds this one moment; not separated from this one moment, but rather lived in unison with a greater unseen whole that is walking its story in perfect cadence with our Father’s clock.

I love America. I love the fact that I’ve been given the privilege to call it my home. Do I think we are off course and could use a strong and bold revival in our land? I’m praying for it because I fully believe we are due its arrival. We are a needy and selfish people, both inside and outside of the church. Some of us our licking our wounds today. Some of us our celebrating a shift in leadership who has promised far more than any single person is capable of accomplishing.

Human nature is like that … always thinking it is up to us to solve the problems and the sin in the world. Too much of a load for any one man to carry. But One did. All the way to Calvary and back, fulfilling the role he had been given to play. The story he had been given to write.

His name is not Mr. President. His name is King Jesus, and he, alone, is my Peace this day. He’s yours too.

Pray for him. Seek him while he yet may be found. And then walk with him, in this moment and in the next, until all moments are gathered and collected and laid to final rest within the boundaries of a garden’s rest. Heaven. Forever.

A final unwrapping of a gift and an unveiling of an answer that has kept us captive to our “what if’s” for a long season. So be it, even so come.

Live it like you mean it, friends. This moment is yours to seed for eternity’s gain. As always,

Early Memories (part two): the find and the fear

November 3, 2008

Please take time to read the previous post for context. This is my follow up response.

“‘The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field. Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.’” (Matthew 13:44-46).

Hartsville, Indiana.

The soil of my beginnings. The landscape that houses my earliest memories.

My mind traveled to Hartsville this past weekend. My father’s words always have a way of taking me to places—to new levels of understanding often tucked away in the old and in the unseen, yet, when scratched, become the itch that cannot be ignored. I’ve thought a lot about my early memories and Sam Keen’s words…

“Tell me your three earliest memories and I will tell you what you are working on right now.”

I’ve plumbed the depths of my remembrances; some have yielded pleasant. Some not so much. And as it pertains to my now, I’ve come to two conclusions about those early imprints—those firmly rooted memories and about how they, perhaps, continue their shaping of my current.

1. The find.

One of my earliest memories can be traced back to this picture–an Easter egg hunt at the ripe age of nearly three. Some would argue me too young to remember, but the images in my mind from that day are real and vivid. I can still feel the heat of the sun and the squirm of my hand inside of my mother’s grip. The decorations of the Easter basket were held together with straight pins, pricking my tiny fingers with just enough annoyance to relegate my attention away from the task at hand.

The find. The candy and the eggs. The hidden treasure that required my participation.

My anticipation was heightened by the flock of other children intent on doing the same. Even at my young age, there was a deep sense of urgency for the find. I was disturbed by the waiting for the horn to sound, signaling the beginning of the hunt. I was even more disturbed by the possibility of not being able to get my hands on the prize.

The memory holds little else for me beyond these initial moments of waiting, but once the signal sounded, my heart and my feet raced forward for the find. I don’t remember the prize that I took away from that event. Perhaps the memory in and of itself, is the prize.

The find. The urgency for the hunt. The concern that somehow I would be overlooked and unable to get my hands on the promised treasure of Easter.

Could it be that I’ve never quite escaped my need for the search?

2. The fear.

Hartsville also housed the beginnings of my fear.

In that season, my father was in graduate school and my mother worked part-time; thus, my sister and I were sometimes left in the care of babysitters. One of our favorites was Beulah. I liked going to Beulah’s house, but going to Beulah’s meant being away from my parents. I remember standing on her front porch, furiously waving to my father as he drove away. Because of his absence, tears filled my eyes as an unhealthy sense of fear filled my heart.

For all of the reasons that I loved Beulah, they weren’t enough to warrant any joy at being left in her care. I’m not sure as to the reasons why, but the insecurities secured in me during that season were the beginnings of a deeply rooted fear that has followed me for nearly four decades.

Could it be that I’ve never quite escaped from my fear of being left behind—forgotten about and deemed as the “lesser priority” of well-intentioned goals?

The find and the fear. Two urgent and pressing memories that surfaced for me this past weekend as I contemplated what I might, perhaps, “…be working on now.”

One replaces the other. The more I find the treasure of Easter, the less I fear being left behind. The hunt for Jesus—the digging and the intentional search for the kingdom of heaven—always yields a peace that surpasses any fear that surfaces to the contrary. I know this to be true, for I am an Easter person.

I’ve walked the road to Calvary and found the greatest treasure of eternal Truth seeded in its soil and harvested in his resurrection. Jesus didn’t walk the road home to his Father so that I could stand on earth’s porch in fear of his never returning. No, he walked home so that I could follow accordingly, with a faith that replaces fear and with a joy that comes from being trusted with the sacred find.

When we find forever, friends, and when we cherish it as the greatest holding of our hearts, we need not fear his return on our behalf. He’s coming, and it won’t be long. Fear tells us that it will be, but faith reassures us that our waiting is but a breath—a single pause between our flawed memories and our sure and soon-to-be, eternal realities.

Now we see dimly. Live dimly, and remember dimly. But soon, we shall fully see. Fully live and fully understand how our beginnings—our early remembrances—have shaped us and equipped us for the kingdom find that has always been our Father’s intention. Thus I pray,

For memories and their shaping, Father, I thank you. Never let the “truth” of my past replace the truth of who you are. The former is flawed, whereas you are perfect. When I am tempted to be shackled by the restraints of imperfect remembrances, increase my vision for my perfected end. As I live my life in process, I ask for your guiding hand and divine wisdom to be my teacher. Where there is fear, replace it with faith. And when I cry tears, wipe them away with the truth of your return. Today, I cast my eyes to the Eastward sky, knowing that you soon will break my stare with the glorious revelation of your return. Even so, come quickly, Lord Jesus. Amen.

PS: For any of you who would like to be put on my father’s weekly email list, please email me separately with your address. I will pass it on to him. Shalom.

Early Memories…Lingering Lessons

November 1, 2008

My dad is one of the best human beings I know. He is a gifted communicator, a passionate preacher, and hands-down…

the best story teller I’ve ever come across. When I was a child, I spent many nights being whisked away to imaginary places via his one-of-kind narratives. Over the years, I have come to appreciate his flare for the dramatic as it pertained to his make-believe stories, but more importantly, as it pertains to the Story–the one that levels real and provocative and life-giving everytime it is heard. My father’s heart beats for his Father, and thus, it is my privilege to share a little bit of his writing with you this weekend.

My dad (most affectionately known as Chuck to friends and as “paps” to his grandkids) writes a weekly word to his friends. The piece below was sent to me today, and I wanted to share it with you. It got me thinking (my father’s words always have a propensity to voice accordingly) about my early memories and how they seeded their story into mine–even 42 years down the road.

So without further fanfare … meet Chuck. My dad. The first man who ever held me in his arms and spoke his love into my heart. Enjoy hearing from his today.

Sam Keen is a noted author who has given us many quotable quotes, like:

- “We are always in the process of writing and rewriting the story of our lives, forming our experiences into a narrative that makes sense.”

- “Darkness is the place where you find renewal.”

- “Your questions are your quest. As you ask, shall you be.”

“Love isn’t finding a perfect person. It’s seeing an imperfect person perfectly.”

Well, there is one more quote I would like to give you. I was in a workshop with Sam Keen a few years ago and the memorable quote from that workshop was, “Tell me your three earliest memories and I will tell you what you are working on right now.”

My earliest memories? Let me give it try.

1. Dr. Thompson and his black bag

I was four years old. I had what they called “the old fashioned measles”, with a temperature of 105 degrees. I was told years later that Mom and Grandma hovered over me for days, wiping my fevered brow, fearing for my life. That I don’t remember, but what I do remember is Dr. Thompson, standing at the front door with his little black medical bag, talking to Mom. Years later, I was told that it was a grim conversation. The doctor was not only concerned about my survival, but that the high temperature could be harmful to the brain.

My first memory had to do with fear; fear of dying.

2. The tar-papered house

That is how my parents’ first home was described to us kids—a tar-papered house on Sam Hay’s farm. I remember the day they took us to the place where the house once stood. All I could see was a patch of sandy soil filled with sand burrs. They told us about their furniture, too; orange crates for cabinets and an old pot-bellied stove. It was that stove that got our attention as Mom told us about the fire.

She told me that on the night of the fire, she needed to go to her parents’ home for an errand and had debated whether she should just leave me sleeping in the cradle or wake me and bundle me up. She decided on the latter and took George, Patty, and me along. When we returned the house was in flames. Again, I could have died that night.

While I obviously didn’t remember that night, I do remember that day when the story was told and how I was revisited with a fear, a fear of not being in the world.

3. First grade with Miss Wilma

I was five when I started first grade. Mother persuaded school officials to allow me to register at five, even though I wouldn’t be six until January. All the details are sketchy but I do recall some embarrassment for having been punished for writing with my left hand. Miss Wilma worked hard to get me to change my writing hand. This infuriated my mother and she made a special trip to the school to inform Miss Wilma that Charlie can write with his left hand if he wants to. And that was the end of that.

Could it be that in that early experience there was programmed in me a sense of insecurity, a feeling that there was something wrong with me, that being left-handed made me strange and odd, and that I was somewhat inferior to others?

Well, there you have it–three of my earliest remembrances. Was Sam Keen right? Am I still working on those issues? I suppose I am.

Ernest Becker in his book, “The Denial of Death”, states that the fear of death is at the heart of all our fears. Philosophically and theologically, I am at peace with the rhythms of life, but there is still this ‘nag’ about what Shakespeare said, “…that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns, puzzles the will.”

And this whole business of trying to measure up to other people’s expectations, like “I will write right handed if you want me to” is a statement about relinquishment of my own Chuck Killian-ness; affecting self-confidence and self-assurance. From time to time, those old tapes have reared their ugly head.

Those ‘old tapes’ had numerous occasions for bringing on disaster. But they also have been the very places for joyful deliverance, forgiveness, and healing. It was out of the ‘dark night of my own soul’ that I was forced to remember. As Elie Wiesel said, “To forget extends the exile, but in remembrance comes liberation.”

Sam Keen was right, “Darkness is the place where you find renewal.” I am still a fierce believer in the “Light that shines in the darkness, and the darkness will never be able to put it out.” (John 1:3-9). How blessed is one who finds light in the dark places!

~Chuck

For those of you who would like to read a little further about my father, please click here to read a post I wrote about his marvelous gift to me … his voice. Have a blessed weekend. Shalom.
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Monthly Archives: November 2008