my Montana dream...

for "Montana" and for pilgrims everywhere who dare to dream it...

Wanderlust. That desire in each one of us to roam and to move beyond the current boundaries that cradle us in order to explore the wild unknown with carefree abandon. A search brought about because of an underlying “stirring of the soul” for something better … something purer. More peace and more pleasure.

I’ve thought about my “wanderlust” this morning. I didn’t mean to, but through an e-mail to my friend, Kristen, I was reminded about a piece I wrote over thirteen years ago. A season in my life when I was a single mother of two young sons dreaming about better days—a better time when all would be “right” within my soul. Those dreams always landed me in one place—

Montana.

I’ve never been there, but there is something about its vastness, its wide-open spaces and “heart of the land” kind of living, that unsettles me; stirring something within me, creating a hunger deep within my soul for something more. I no longer dream a great deal about moving to Montana, but the unsettled feelings? The stirring in my heart for something better, some soil beyond the current earth that supports my feet?

Well, it’s still there. It still flames, and one day soon, I’m going to get to my “Montana.” I believe its boundaries are closer to me than I might realize, thus strengthening my passion for my crossing over. Perhaps you understand something about “Montana’s pull.” If so, then I offer you a piece of my writing history to stir your own imagination and wanderlust for something better.

It’s not great writing, but it was my heart’s writing in 1996. Still is, and I suppose that makes it great all on its own.

***

MY MONTANA DREAM {written in 1996}

If I could move to Montana, I would. Life would be different there.

In Montana there would be plenty of space for me to be me. In Montana, I wouldn’t worry about wearing make-up or if my car was dirty or if my English was perfect. Jeans and flannel shirts would fill my wardrobe making me a “good fit” with the locals.

If I could move to Montana, I would buy the boys and me a cabin on the plains. It would have a warm kitchen where the sound of boiling water and the sight of tea bag would greet me each morning. Pancakes would start our day and cocoa would rock us to sleep at night. The light from the fireplace would warm our spirits and give us atmosphere for our nightly adventures within the pages of books. The three of us would crawl up on the couch with grandma Killian’s quilt and fight for the warmth and love of its cover.

In my Montana home, each of us would have our own hiding place. I would choose the attic room as my escape. In this place of escape I would hold myself captive. I would create new adventures on paper. I would search out the true meaning of my journey on this earth.

I could do that in Montana because in Montana, there is plenty of room for the search.

If I could move to Montana, I would own a pick-up truck. I would take my truck to the market whenever I needed food or just some company. I would park in my spot and visit the local meeting place, full of sojourners like myself, who understand the beauty of the simple life we share in Montana. I would stop at the post office to collect my remembrances from days gone by, and I would send out some new memories for those who’ve never been to my Montana.

If I could move to Montana, I would find a country church where I could sing my songs on Sunday mornings. I would voice the endless love of Jesus to everyone within earshot. In Montana, I could sing with great resolve and strength because the soil there is strong, vibrant, full of hearty livin’ and earthy understanding. The windows of my church would be open and the hills would dance to the delight of the message. In Montana, everything living could hear my voice.

In Montana ... everything would understand why I had to sing.

When Christmas came to Montana, the boys and I would venture to our back yard and cut the chosen Christmas tree. We’d make decorations out of materials we’d found during our annual pilgrimage in Montana, and when we needed a break, we’d sit around the tree and drink more cocoa. We’d hang our stockings on the fireplace, and we’d listen to our favorite holiday music. We’d have lots of friends over to celebrate the season. We’d take our truck into town to see the lights and visit the stores.

If I could move to Montana, I’d learn to love more. Montana would be a good place for the three of us to learn about love. To learn about acceptance—accepting life and others and what it means to be accepted. We’d love so much that hate would never enter our home.

In Montana, I’d learn to love animals. In Montana, there are enough animals to love.

If I could move to Montana, I wouldn’t worry about “things” as much. In Montana, I would raise my boys to be “real.” In Montana, I would get healthy. In Montana, life would be simple. In Montana, dreams would be within reach.

If I could move to Montana, I would. But I live in Kentucky.

In Kentucky, there are no flannel shirts. There is no truck. There is no attic room, or no small country church. The Christmas tree will be bought at the grocery store, and I’ll never own an animal.

I may not ever live in Montana. But in my mind, I go there quite often. I hold onto Grandma’s quilt and dream my dreams for a more peaceful time.

Perhaps you understand. Perhaps we all have times where we long to be in Montana. Perhaps Montana is not big enough for all of us dreamers.

So, I will sing my songs in Kentucky. And maybe, just maybe, the wind will carry my songs over the miles to my long awaited Montana home. And they will wait for me there until I have the strength to make the journey myself.

Montana.

Someday.

Maybe today.

***

As always, sweet friends, God's peace for the journey ... wherever your feet are walking this weekend. I love you.

Copyright © October 2009 – Elaine Olsen

on leaving the "wilderness"...

We've just put God's punctuation mark on our fall Bible study. I thought you'd like to see some of the sweet faces that shared the last seven weeks with me. Truly, they are more than I deserve--God's gift to me in this season of my life. As we leave the "wilderness," we do so knowing that we leave with God's peace and blessing and promise to walk the next steps with us.

It's my joy to do "real" life with these sisters, face-to-face. I look forward to a spring's reconvening of the saints. Same time; same place; same fellowship; same God! Keep to it sisters. I love you!

PS: Don't forget about Heidi's "candle in the dark" giveaway. Click here to visit and to bless a missionary.

a Sunday's better...

9:10 AM. Wal-Mart. Check-out line. This morning. Sunday morning.

I didn’t want to be there. I try and avoid Sundays and Wal-Mart, but when my children informed me that today was the day they’d be packing their Samaritan’s Purse, Christmas shoeboxes during the Sunday School hour, well, what’s a mother to do?

I tried scrounging through drawers and all the places where I sometimes stash “extras”—left-over goodies for spare occasions requiring a quick gift. Somehow, I didn’t think the children in the remote villages of Africa would appreciate scented candles and bath salts while their friends were unwrapping toy cars, balls, and bubble gum. So after a brief “interior” debate with myself regarding a trip to Wal-Mart prior to Sunday worship, I loaded the kids in the van for the one-mile trip down the road.

Having a Wal-Mart close by is a great convenience for this mom, especially on a day when she doesn’t want her kids (umm… the preacher’s kids) to be the only ones not participating in the Christmas mission project. We quickly loaded our arms with some dollar goodies and made our way to the “express lane.” One of the advantages of going to Wal-Mart on a Sunday morning (if there could be an advantage) is that the crowds are sparse and the "express" check-out really lives up to its billing.

The cashier scanned my items and was bagging them when I noticed another Sunday shopper in line behind us. He wasn’t buying toys for shoeboxes. He was buying a black belt to go with his black suit and shiny tie—a pretty clear give-away that he was headed somewhere requiring more than the typical sweats and t-shirts of the other shoppers I’d seen. Not one for “quiet” check-out experiences, I took a chance on the fact that he was heading to church, and said…

“Would you look at this kids … here’s a man needing a new belt for church.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ve got to give Sunday my best.”

“Of course you do; I’d certainly hate for you to lose your britches during worship!”

He chuckled; we small talked a bit more, and on my way out the door, I shouted back to him…

“Enjoy your Jesus today.”

“Back at you, ma’am. Back at you.”

We parted with smiles and as friends, knowing that we shared some common ground on this Sunday morning. At Wal-Mart. At 9:10 AM. In a check-out line. On a day when we shouldn’t have been worried about such inconveniences, yet a day when we both made a decision to give God our best.

Not our left-overs. Not scented candles when toys would be better. Not a frayed piece of leather when some fresh rawhide would look better ... serve better … present itself better because Sundays are intended for our better.

I’ve been thinking about that “better” for the better part of the day; it has both annoyed me and delighted me.

Annoyed me because, in many ways, I think we’ve gotten away from “better” on Sundays. It seems as if “good enough” and second-rate has become the accepted norm rather than the exception. When did that happen? When did we first decide to trade in our “best” as it pertains to our worship for a watered down approach to the process? When did “raggedy and rumpled” replace “spit and polish”? Why is it we don’t bring our “better” to worship on Sundays?

Delighted me because, in many ways, I realize I don’t hold the answers to it all. What I deem “better” is somewhat relative—a personal application regarding my expectations for the Lord’s Day and how I think it should be approached, should be absorbed, should be celebrated, should be revered. I can tell you that in my thinking about Sundays, there is little room for a Wal-Mart run. Still and yet, I’m delighted by the fact that I’m not bound by legalism, but a bit bothered that I’m not—

bound to something better. Some way of “doing” the Sabbath better that exceeds the world’s view of a Sunday’s worth.

As I stood with my young children this morning in the front pew singing “How Great Thou Art,” tears filled my eyes and stung my heart. My arms cradled their shoulders as I watched each one of them run their fingers along the stanzas of the hymn, trying their best to keep up with the pace of the piano. We’ve been working on this for a long season … this learning of how to sing a hymn from an actual hymnal and how to join our voices in unison with the other congregants who’ve come to worship. It may sound a bit rustic, a bit perfunctory to some of you, but it seemed to me that they were giving God their best … “doing” their best to understand this tradition of church worship that I hold dear, and one that I fear will soon be obsolete.

While standing there, I also thought about him. My new Wal-Mart friend standing somewhere in a church of his own in another part of town, wearing his new belt and worshipping the same God as me. I imagined his worship being a bit different from mine, but his heart? Perhaps more similar to mine than the world would imagine. A heart that was willing to make a pit-stop prior to worship in order to “give Sunday his best.”

To give Jesus his best. Not because he had to, but rather because he wanted to. Because somewhere in his past, at some point in his “growing up” years, someone took the time to teach him about Sundays and about giving Sundays something more than his “good enough.”

God is worthy of more than our “good enough’s,” friends. Worthy of more than our disheveled approach to approaching his presence. Certainly, God invites us to come as we are to the throne of grace, knowing that his grace is the only worthy covering for our sin-stained hearts. But when our “coming as we are” is based on our laziness rather than on our desire for holiness, then we’ve missed the mark. We’ve misunderstood the hugeness of the “Who” it is we’ve come to worship. If we really “got” that, then I imagine our check-out lines would be filled with our endeavoring to give God our best.

Annoyed and delighted. That’s where I am in the matter of worship. Wanting to do better, realizing that my better could never be enough to match the honor and glory my Father deserves. I’m going to work on this, this week. Would you be willing to do the same? To examine your worship and your Sundays and your “giving it your best” before the heart of our Father? If we truly want to live better, than we must be willing to examine our hearts further. Otherwise, we meld into a Christian cultural norm that no longer stands out, but rather blends in with a world that was never intended to serve as our norm.

Enjoy your Jesus this week. And should your feet find their place in a check-out line, take time to notice the people around you. To speak to the people around you. To give them some of your time, your conversation, your laughter, your prayers. The kingdom of God happens there just as much as it does in our pews. Perhaps even more so. As always…

peace for the journey,

Copyright © October 2009 – Elaine Olsen

light

For all of God's missionaries, at home and abroad, who carry his candle to dispel the world's darkness.

“If I say, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,’ even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you.” (Psalm 139:11-12).

We overslept this morning. The alarm didn’t ring because the alarm wasn’t set. 6:15 AM came and went with nary a nod of acknowledgement from my household. 7:30 fared better. By 7:30, we were all awake. And had it not been for one thing, I imagine we might still be sleeping.

Light.

The culprit behind our reprimand … our notice … our awareness that a new day has been gloriously granted to us, despite our willingness to forego the fanfare.

Try as we may, we cannot escape light’s grip. We can pull the blinds and draw the curtains so as to diminish its brilliance, but we cannot eliminate its arrival. Light simply and profoundly comes.

To awaken us from our slumber.
To rouse us from our laziness.
To raise us up from our lying down.
To stir our spirits toward action.
To heighten our awareness.
To warm us from the chill of a night’s embrace.
To free us from the confines of our covers.
To gift us with the beauty of a new day.
To remind us that not even the darkest shade of night is permanent.

Light comes to bear witness to the illumination of God’s presence in our lives. Darkness isn’t safe from the penetration of God’s candle—God’s flicker of hope. There is no darkness that comes to us that doesn’t carry its contrast in close proximity. Light always harbors in the shadows of a night’s pause, readying itself for a grand and sacred interruption into the darkness.

And lest we think there are days when “light” forgets to come—days when light decides to “take a pass” regarding its purpose—there hasn’t been a day since the beginning of time when “light” didn’t shine its witness. Not one. Light may seem hidden, removed and obscured from our visioning, but light is ever-present because light is the living characteristic of a living Creator who lives in our every day. He cannot be separated from his creation, and he never “takes a pass” on his days.

Light follows God wherever he goes. And today, he goes where you go. Where I go. Where my kids go and where his saints go. Even where the sinners go. Why? Because for light to be light, for light to shine its worth and harbor the full spectrum of its truthful meaning, it must be available in the darkest of nights to the darkest of souls.

I’m not one who believes that light is selective in its appearing, is choosy and is particular about where it shines. And while it is true that “God is light and in him there is no darkness at all,” (see 1 John 1:5) the greater truth is that God’s light has come to dispel that very darkness; to replace the night’s isolation with the witness of a day’s illumination.

Even the darkest of nights is as light to Jesus Christ. Only he is able to mediate his way through the lingering depth of a night’s pause to light a candle in honor of a new day … a new way … a new heart … a new forever.

Fourteen years ago, my light—Jesus Christ—traveled the depth of a night’s long lingering in order to interrupt my darkness with the flicker of his sustaining truth. That single candle of hope carried to me in the “dark night of my soul” now burns with the flaming intensity of a miracle. Had God not arrived in my life at that moment, had he allowed the sun a longer season of slumber, I’m pretty sure that the darkness would have been my continuing consumption.

But like my morning this morning, I could not escape light’s grip. For a long season I’d been pulling down the shades in hopes of hiding my sin and of keeping the Son’s brilliance from illuminating my darkness, but my darkness was as light to Jesus. My darkness was the navigational GPS he used to get to me. God found me in my slumber and invited me to the arrival and hope of a new day.

I’m so glad that I had the good sense to wipe away the sleep from my eyes in order to pay attention to the light in his. I’m so thankful that Light didn’t “take a pass” on my darkness but, instead, chose to walk the length and breadth of my sin in order to flame a candle in my honor.

Arise and shine, fellow pilgrims, for your Light has come. May the candle he lights in your honor this day be the fueling behind your future flames, the likes of which this world has never seen. Burn brightly with God’s truth and God’s witness this weekend. What a privilege to carry my candle alongside yours. As always…

peace for the journey,

PS: Go visit my friend, Heidi (click here), to learn about an upcoming opportunity to spread the light of Jesus into the far corners of our world.

Now, go light your world...

sacred preservation...

I was fully prepared to write another post today, a post that God has graciously allowed me to tuck away for a season; maybe forever. Today he gave me a “pass” on something. Today his favor has come to me and my household in tangible measure, and I am humbled and grateful for his notice.

This is my man.


He is my strength and has been my able arms over the past week. We’ve created a beautiful home together. When God gave me Billy, he gave me a portion of heavenly grace—love as love was meant to be received. I’ve never known a better earthly love. Sure, my parents love me unconditionally. Parents do that, at least they should. But when another human being makes the choice to love unconditionally, well, that’s the stuff of earth’s movement, of hell’s frustration, and of heaven's notice.

Our love has deepened over the past week; I look forward to more seasons with my man. To marking our grey hairs together and our ills and aches as well. I love you, Billy.

These are my children.


They are the reason behind my pressing on and pressing in to Jesus. The more I know him, the more I’m able to give him to them. They deserve my faithful pursuit of God. They are and will continue to be the recipients of my earnest chase and capture of the Divine. I love you, Nick, Colton, Jadon, and Amelia.

And you, blog readers, you are my friends. I have no doubts that the peace I’ve known over the past week has come to me in large part through the prayers of the saints. You are those saints. You know who you are. I called upon you for prayer, and your prayers have been felt … been heard and been answered.

Today I got a “pass” from God, and that is enough for me. Day to day living with Jesus is all that is required of us. Not tomorrow; not next week, but this very moment we hold in our hands. God reserves the right to all of those moments, no matter their length of earthly time.

When I awoke in the early morning hours, God impressed upon me a few words that I would like to share with you as I close. I thought them profound, even before I got my “pass.” I still think that to be the case…

“It doesn’t matter how long God chooses to preserve my earthly life. What matters is how I choose to preserve him in the earthly life I’ve been given.”

Preserve him well this week, and I will do the same. Nothing in this life, and I mean nothing, is worth losing the flavor of Jesus in us, on us, through us, all around us. Nothing. Tend to his divine preservation within your heart this day, knowing that the aroma you spread has the capacity to shake the foundations of hell. In doing so, the heavens sing their refrain, as our Father bends low for a listen. As always…

peace for the journey~

how might I pray?

People sometimes ask me how they can pray for me. Not often, but every now and again. I’m very appreciative when they do because I know there is deep sincerity attached to the asking. There’s something about having my name lifted before the throne of heaven that reassures me, connects me, attaches me to the Sacred in stronger measure.

Personally, I think we should ask the question more … be more available with our willingness and our petitions on behalf of one another. We’re good at “saying so”, but are we deliberate with our “doing so”?

Not always. Guilty as charged. My well-meaning isn’t always followed up by my well-doing; I’ve tried to be mindful of that before speaking my allegiance regarding my prayers. I know my human limitations and my frailty where prayer is concerned and, therefore, I try and not make prayer an “offering” of my heart to others unless I’m willing to back it up with my words.

That’s just what works for me. How does it work for you? Is your faithfulness to pray in keeping with your promises to pray? When we say that we will pray, but we don’t, what’s gained? Who wins? What’s the point?

Good intentions?

Our good intentions never land anyone’s needs before the throne of God, at least not from our lips. Saying we’ll pray has become a casual word-toss in our Christian circles. It fits with the rhetoric of a faith journey. But prayer is more than rhetoric. Prayer is the intimate connection between our hearts and our Father’s. Our prayers are the words that pave the road from our spirit to his. What we say to him matters; what we don’t matters as well. It’s all entwined together … our words and our silence. The truest truth of our heart weaves intricately in between the two.

I don’t write these words to lecture you. If anyone needs a good lecturing, it’s me. I simply want to do better in my prayer life; I want to operate my heart from a place of sincere understanding and willingness to stand in your stead in your time of need. I want the same in return.

We give one another a great gift when we move ourselves away from the computer screen, get down on our knees, and spend some time in intentional prayer for each other. Not only are our hearts refreshed, but there is movement that occurs in the heavenlies that might not otherwise happen when our words intersect with the heart of the Father.

And I, for one, could use some heavenly “movement” today. How about you? Are there some things in your life that need a special mention before the throne? I’m asking because I’m committing my heart to prayer in your behalf this week. If you’d like to do the same for me, here are my thoughts in keeping in line with the Apostle Paul’s…

Pray also for me, that whenever I open my mouth, words may be given me so that I will fearlessly make known the mystery of the gospel, for which I am an ambassador in chains. Pray that I may declare it fearlessly, as I should. (Ephesians 6:19-20).

Do you realize that we’re all chained to something? If I’m going to be chained to anything, I want my chains to link directly back to the gospel of Jesus Christ. I want my words, my actions, my thoughts, my “going out” and my “coming in”, my lying down and my getting up to be fully entrenched with the ministry of the kingdom.

Sure, there are other needs that are ever-present in my life, but if I could request but one thing for the road ahead, this is it.

A mouth filled with the words of Jesus, fearlessly spoken on behalf of his good name and his good grace. This is how you can pray for me this week. How might I pray for you?

As always,

PS: I'll be MIA for the week, but I will be faithful in my prayers for you. Please leave your requests in the comment section. Shalom.

a noble hero

I want to tell you about a real hero tonight; not the one getting all the press in the media for his efforts at the peace-making process.

My hero sits alone this evening, on the front porch of her home in a rocking chair, reeling from the extreme after-effects of having been brutally attacked by a neighboring dog on Monday morning. After returning home from taking her two young children to school, she noticed the dog on her front porch. Normally, he was chained two doors down, but today he enjoyed open range in the neighborhood.

Wanting to help out her neighbors, my friend went inside to retrieve her rain coat with the idea of walking the dog back home. When she returned to the porch, the dog was gone. She continued down the sidewalk to knock on the owners' door in order to inform them of their dog’s “loosened” estate.

She never made it. Instead, the dog leaped out from his hiddenness and began a ten-minute assault on her fragile frame. She was no match for his 130 pounds. He tossed her like a rag doll, mutilating her flesh while she screamed out her resistance. The owners of the dog emerged to their front porch, shouting out the dog’s name but never stepping a foot in her direction to help. Another neighboring man ran to her aid with shovel in hand and began to beat back the vicious animal.

When the police arrived, the dog aimed his attack in their direction. Fortunately, they were well armed and rectified the situation in swift order. His attacking days are over, but the wounds he inflicted remain. Long after her flesh has healed, long after the process of reconstructive surgery is over, the wounding my friend has received will write as scars into her history. I imagine the pain from Monday’s attack will live in her memory for a long season.

As I sat with her on the porch this evening, I saw her strength displayed through her words, despite the flowered memorial erected to the dog just feet away from her front lawn. It sickened me to see it and reminded me of how shaded the lenses have become in our society. How we prize self-preservation over another’s pain and suffering. How callous we sometimes are in our blatant disregard for our brothers and sisters who live next door, and who, occasionally need our shovels instead of our shouts.


Where are the hands that are willing to get dirty on behalf of someone in need? Where are the hearts that are willing to bleed so that a neighbor can go free from the vicious clenches of the enemy? How far are we willing to go to save the life of a human being? Is our shouting enough? Is our wishing it wouldn’t happen enough? When evil comes knocking at a neighbor’s door, do we retreat to the shadows of our dens and our morning talk shows, or do we launch an attack of our own despite the risks involved?

I don’t have to tell you what my friend would do. Time and again, she’s proven to these neighbors and others her kindness and her desire to live in community with them. As a single mom, life has sometimes been an uphill struggle. We share some common ground, and I know how hard these years can be. How challenging life can live while going it alone and being expected to do it all ... to be it all, for everyone.

It’s a confusing mess, most days. A tireless reach into the deep storehouses of emotional, physical, and spiritual reserves in order to keep the wheels turning, the bills paid, and the lunches packed. There are countless hours of fretting over children, worrying over plumbing, and hoping beyond hope that the tires will last another thousand miles before needing replacements. The days start early and end late, and the doors stay locked … carefully guarded for fear of an unseen enemy who lurks just beyond the safety of a latch.

As single moms (and speaking as one who used to be one) we rarely score brownie points with society, church included. In fact, we mostly score their pity, or worse yet, their rejection. After all, we’re half of what we used to be. We blew it. We screwed it up and didn’t stay where we were supposed to stay. Never mind the other half who did his part in breaking the commitment. No, as single moms we carry it all, and it’s not fair; most days it hurts like crazy and calls for a strength beyond our capabilities.

Some days, like today, it calls for even more. A strength beyond that strength, and I am telling you I witnessed that strength tonight in my friend; I was moved to a place of awe and worship in my own spirit for the gift of God’s abiding presence and comfort despite man’s neglect along those lines. Tonight, my friend rocked on her porch while nursing the pains of her wounds that stretched from head to toe and back again. She’s got a rough road ahead of her, but she’s got an awesome God to carry her.

I don’t think she fully knows just how strong he can be, but I do, and he is already ministering to her in ways she never expected. Her faith is growing; she can’t see it now, but she’ll see it soon. And when she does, she’ll be in awe of the way she was able to endure her suffering and to emerge on the other side of it with a measure of grace and dignity that leaves, even her calloused neighbors, stunned and shamed with regret.

No one else may be handing her a prize tonight, but I, for one, think she deserves more than she’s been given. Her story is worthy of a headline (not the one printed in the local paper this past Tuesday morning). No, her story is worthy of far greater … a living memorial written by the very hand of her loving Savior. He’s writing it now, and one day soon, she’ll be the recipient of his commendation, and all of this mess that now serves as her life will make sense and will read as a masterpiece worthy of the throne room of heaven.

I love you friend. I love you single moms. You hang in there, and most importantly, you hold tightly to our Jesus. He loves you and has an extraordinary plan for your tomorrows. And should you ever need more than a shout, I’ve got my shovel ready and sitting on go. Together, with our God, we’ll fight the enemy, and we will win. It’s his promise to us. It’s my promise to you.

You are my noble hero this night, and your strength has called my heart to worship and to praise. Sleep well, brave friend, knowing that tomorrow awaits your courage. God created the morning for warriors like you. Go forth in the power that is yours because of your rightful inheritance as a daughter of the Most High God. Stand strong; remain vigilant, and fix your eyes on the horizon up ahead. Your salvation is closer now than he has ever been. As always…

peace for the journey,

the purest place...

The purest place.

The place from which I want to write my words. Greater still, the place from which I want to live my life. To write and live otherwise is hypocrisy.

Hypocrite. The word hupokrites meaning “one who acts pretentiously, a counterfeit, one who assumes and speaks or acts under a feigned character; a dissembler, pretender.”

I’m not a pretender; I live out loud before my God and before you. The me you find here isn’t the sanitized, polished version of me. Some are uncomfortable with that; some would rather see me otherwise. No, what you find here is a woman on the road toward perfection. Some days getting it right; most days living beneath that “right”. If there is any good living in me, it is solely based on the sanitization that has come to me through the blood and righteousness of Jesus Christ. He, alone, is my worthiness.

To write from a place of perfection is to never write at all. If “having it all figured out” were the prerequisite for blog entries, then none of us should ever pick up the pen again. I’m not kidding. What kingdom profit is there in our pretending? What can be gained from prettying up our “pictures” other than to stroke our egos via the compliments of others? I don’t want to write from a place of pretension. I don’t want to read it as well. I just want to live real and to be in a community of people who feel the same way.

This means, there will be days when I struggle…

with Sundays.
with worship.
with sin.
with disappointments.
with regrets.
with anger.
with love.
with parenting.
with selfishness.
with unkind words.
with unclean thoughts.
with unforgiveness.
with _____________.

This also means there will be days when I joyously overflow…

with Sundays.
with worship.
with freedom.
with hope.
with promise.
with kindness.
with love.
with parenting.
with selflessness.
with encouragement.
with purity of thought.
with grace.
with ______________.

You’ll find it all when you come here because my all is what I have to give you, not some sanitized version therein. This is my life; my walk of grace; my journey toward peace. No one thing, one experience, one difficulty gets a pass. It’s all open ground for God’s kingdom purposes.

Our days and nights, nights and days, are filled with the stuff of our becoming. Our moving closer into the image of Christ. Our being shaped and fitted for a bridal gown worthy of the aisle of heaven. We don’t get that dressing overnight, friends. In fact, until we shed this flesh, we live each day exposed, half-dressed for the entire world to see. I think God has created our flesh for public disclosure. In doing so, you and I become a living witness and testimony to the power of God’s transforming work in our lives.

But we’ve perfected our cover-ups, and they are easily detected by God and others. It’s painful to watch, painful to read, painful because there is no healing, no moving onto perfection, as long as the hiding of our “stuff” takes precedence over the exposure therein.

I’m not suggesting that your “putting it all out there” in a public forum is the best way for you to work through your problems; some issues are better dealt with in the privacy of your own sacred space with God. Some things are too raw for public viewing. What I am suggesting, though, is that when you and I do take the steps to “work out” our salvation with our words and our honest approach to the process, grace and kindness should be the portion we afford one another; not judgment or condemnation.

The purest place. The inner chamber where the living God resides and where faith’s illumination and grace’s redeeming work is accomplished.

If we cannot write our words from that place because we fear the words of others in this place, then we live as hypocrites. Counterfeits. Characters on a stage that, when the curtain is drawn and the applause has subsided, go home to live in isolation and emptiness. And I, for one, refuse to resign my life to isolation.

I choose exposure. To God and to you. For some of you, that’s not an easy swallow. Your palate prefers a smoother, more digestible menu. I understand, and I graciously excuse you from the table. But for the few of you who’ve made it this far, who’ve hung with me and who think there just might be something to this “being real” with one another, then stick around. There’s more to come because, God willing, I have a few more seasons to walk. And whether I want them to or not, words find me on the path. Fill me, and then force me to pen them for public disclosure.

The sustaining prayer of my heart is that when I do dip the pen into the inkwell of my thoughts—when I choose public disclosure over private rumination—my words will write from the purest place within. The place where my heart intersects with the heart of God and where the resulting conclusion births kingdom seed.

You are my friends. I value your presence in my life. I value your life. This isn’t a game for me, and certainly isn’t about painting you a perfect picture. It’s solely about living God’s truth out loud and on purpose with the hope of encouraging your heart to do the same.

May the words of my mouth, and the meditations of my heart, always be found acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer. Amen. So be it. As always…

peace for the journey,

"hupokrites" from... Spiros Zodhiates, The Complete Word Study Dictionary Old Testament (Chattanooga: AMG Publishers, 1992), 1423-1424.

a simpler season of Sundays

{me and sis in a simpler season}

“Could you just come for me?”

The clarity of his question startled me. I wasn’t expecting it in my early morning hours. Instead, I was content to marinate the thoughts that assaulted me as I awoke from a restless night’s slumber, one enhanced by the fact that my young adult sons arrived home around 2:00 AM following a U2 concert.

I’m not a good sleeper. On any given night, I’m glad to receive a solid, four to five hours. So when the routine tumbles out the window for any number of reasons, I’m toast. Add to it a lot of miscellaneous extras and a Sunday morning routine that calls for more chaos than usual, well, you can imagine the thoughts I was harboring.

Cranky thoughts. Deliberate thoughts. Thoughts that serve no good purpose other than to whip me into an emotional frenzy prior to my car ever arriving in the church parking lot. And while this attitude isn’t a good fit for any of us who hold worship as sacrosanct and as a deeply-rooted tenet of our Christian experience, the truth is that there are some Sundays when I approach church with resentment rather than with expectation.

Some Sundays proffer more like work rather than worship. Anybody else?

When I was a child, I loved going to church, and most days, I still do. My parents didn’t have to twist my arm or coax my participation. Church is what we did; it still is. Not because we’re bound by legalism, but rather because we’re bound to the One who entreats our communal participation with other believers.

While growing up, church seemed less complicated. For me, it meant seeing my friends, sharing some laughs, and celebrating the simplicity of being together… and actually liking it. Somewhere along the way and as I grew older, church became more tricky. More problematic. More thorny and more self-centered. As my intellect grew alongside of my flesh, so did my ideas about how things should work. How church should be. How services should flow. How people should act and how preachers should preach.

After forty-three years of “doing church”, I’ve amassed a rather lengthy list of “shoulds”. I recognize this in me, and for the most part, the list has been drastically reduced and tempered by the gracious grace of God. But every now and again, it flares, and rather than approaching church with sacred expectation, I come through its doors with an expectation of failure—my deciding on the front end of worship that the “menu” for the morning’s events aren’t going to pass muster with my prerequisites. On those Sundays, my heart is hardened by the preliminary thoughts preceding my arrival, thus blocking my heart’s soil from the tilling of a Father’s love.

I don’t like it. It’s not pretty. It’s certainly not befitting for this woman who is in desperate pursuit of her God; still and yet, this is where I found myself this morning. A struggle I don’t want and one that sometimes gets the best of me.

Sometimes, but not today. Today, God interrupted my preceding thoughts with a thought of his own. A question he voiced early on in the unspoken banter that was taking place between me, myself, and I.

“Could you just come for me?”

A clear, simple, direct question posed to me from the heart of God, just as clearly as I’ve ever heard his “voice” within me. And with those six words, the matter was settled.

“Yes, God, I’ll come for you.”

I cannot tell you much else about my morning other than those six words from him and my six words of response. They kept repeating themselves over and over again throughout the morning and the rest of my day, drowning out any refrain to the contrary. It’s been a rich gift to me and helped me to refocus my thoughts around the true meaning of worship.

Today hasn’t been about coming to church. Today has been all about coming to God. About responding to the call from the King for an intimacy that cannot be found via our “shoulds” and menus and the complicated ways we approach the worship process. True intimacy and worship comes from an obedient heart that is willing to push aside cranky thoughts in order to receive the hand of fellowship from Almighty God.

Today, my church experience found its way back to a simpler season… a time when Sundays didn’t require my work, only my willing participation. My expectations were exceeded, and my hope was renewed.

Couldn’t we all use a dose of sacred simplicity? Of getting back to a basic understanding that church isn’t all about us, and instead, really is all about our coming to God? I know you’ve heard it before (I’m pretty sure it was the premise of a recent, best-selling Christian book…), but today, I’ve lived it again fully, with a fresh perspective and a newness of heart that have stoked my heart for continuing compliance.

“Yes, God, I’ll come for you.”

May all of our thoughts, cranky and otherwise, be settled by these six words of chosen and joyful obedience, not just on Sundays, but on everyday that is given us through the gracious grace of Father God. Walk your week well, friends. Walk it toward Jesus. As always,

peace for the journey,

PS: My good friend, Elizabeth, has written a post regarding her Sunday worship. Apparently, we've had a similar day. You can read it HERE!

hunger pains...

Not long ago, my friend Beth asked her blog readers a question…

What are you eating at your house?

My response?

Condiments.

Ketchup. Mustard. Mayonnaise and relish. The meat to go with? Well, it was the end of the month, and as the family budget dictates, the cupboards wear thin by month’s end. Really, it’s not as bad as all that, but for any family living on a budget (and a single-income one at that), you “get” where I’m coming from.

We stretch our dollars to the max and then some, and are continually grateful for God’s ample provision that never fails to show up in time and on time. We’ve never been without. But there are days when my wants cry out for more.

• For fullness instead of depletion.
• For increase instead of decrease.
• For variety instead of monotony.
• For more instead of less.

Condiments serve little purpose when standing alone. They are best appreciated when serving their intended purpose—as a flavor, a topping; as a way of trimming the delicacy that lies beneath.

Meat. The main course. The stuff that fills us, that keeps us moving and upright and full of energy for the day ahead. Without it, we live less. We grow thin and irritable and become consumed by a gnawing ache that surpasses any reasonable response in the matter. Bare cupboard living never suffices the hungering needs of our flesh. Condiments serve temporarily and leave us wanting for more. They weren’t meant to fill, only to flavor.

As it goes with our flesh, so it goes with our faith. Bare cupboard living speaks to the hungering condition of our souls. As we expend our resources on the front side of our bounty, without pausing to refuel on the backside, we ultimately find ourselves empty and depleted. Left unattended, our hunger can morph into a prickly dissonance that quickly forces our confusion rather than bringing us around to a trusting, God-filled conclusion.

We banter about, moving from one moment to the next attempting to fill our plates with the temporal flavors from the condiment bar, all the while missing out on the main course that awaits our choosing. Hungering confusion breeds hasty consumption, and haste never births lasting fulfillment. There are no quick fixes to a famished soul. Lasting satiation comes from a willing duration at the feet of the Father.

What he gives us there is main … is meat … is the richest of fare, without need of further flavoring. God doesn’t fill us with end-of-the-month left-overs and extras. Instead, his food serves fully and completely, leaving us satisfied and prepared for the day ahead. Our hunger spaces evenly when fed through the hands of God. When fed elsewhere, our hunger lingers, never tasting the heavenly portion that was intended for our overflow.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve had my fill of condiments in recent days. Thankfully, God has sent a new month to our household and to my soul. Both are in need of refueling. I plan on trading in some ketchup for some kingdom feasting! My hunger indicates my need, and my need tells me to park my plate beneath the truth of God’s Word for the filling.

And just in case you’re wondering, the buffet is open to all. Leave your relish behind and join me at the table of God’s grace this weekend. His ladle serves hot, and his Word satisfies abundantly. As always…

peace for the journey,