one so blessed...

She is precious beyond words and a pure delight to my heart. Her name is Joanne, serving up her cup of blogging flavor over at One So Blessed. Beginning Monday, February 1st, Joanne will be hosting a month's worth of guest interviews. You can read about some of them here.

I first "sort of" encountered Joanne back at She Speaks in 2008. We both attended a class on "how to plan a powerful, effective 15-minute publisher meeting." The speaker offered many helpful tips, especially for those of us who had never been in a 15-minute publisher meeting... effective or otherwise! I left the class feeling flustered, thankful for the information, but worried about my assimilating the material into my first effective, 15-minute publisher meeting which loomed on the very near horizon. While sitting on the couch outside the classroom, I perused my notes and noticed a tearful gal on a couch within close proximity. She seemed as perplexed as me about the entire process; I wish I could have given her some of my energy at that time, but you know...

my first effective 15-minute publisher meeting!

There wasn't time to offer her a Kleenex and some of my Harry and David's chocolate I'd brought with me (Joy ate most of them anyway). I left her with her tears as I scurried off to my effective 15-minute publisher meeting, and while I would see her occasionally throughout the weekend, we never had the occasion to sit and talk.

A great regret on my part.

Since that time, we've talked frequently. Apparently, neither of us had an incredibly effective 15-minute publisher meeting, but we learned a lot that weekend.

About dreams.

About writing.

About how our dreams are weaved intricately into our writing.

About some of the hard knocks of the publishing industry.

About friendships that survive those hard knocks.

About phones that diminish the distance between hearts.

About laughter that strips away barriers connecting an East Coast gal with a West Coast one.

About the tie that binds our hearts in love.

About Jesus who keeps us, loves us and cares for us, even when the "future" isn't painting a clear picture... especially in regards to our writing.

About the worthiness of sacred investment--of making a kingdom deposit into someone's life, even when that deposit is something as small as a comment or a prayer.

Stuff like that.

And that kind of learning, friends, can't be learned in a pre-conference seminar. That kind of learning exceeds a ten-step plan for success and simply relies on the human need for companionship as its teacher.

People are a fascinating business. We've all got a story to tell, and no one is more qualified to write that story than the one to whom it belongs. For nearly two years, I've been "reading" Joanne's story, and she's been "reading" mine. I am the better for having her in my life; I hope she could say the same about me. The greatest investment we will ever make into God's kingdom agenda can never be quantified or measured by the outcome of an effective 15-minute publisher meeting. Kingdom investing happens when we take the time to personally invest our time and energies into the lives of the King's created.

Joanne qualifies. So do the twenty-eight guests she will be highlighting at her blog in the month of February. So do you. So let's get busy getting to know one another better; let's stop the rushing with our blog hopping and take time to sit at the table with one another, enjoying a cup of flavor served up as only you, the writer, are qualified to serve it.

You fill my life with variety, and you enlarge my heart for Jesus. Blogging isn't a game for me, friends. This is big part of my using the gift that God has given me to give back to him in some measure the "hugeness" that he's so lavishly bestowed upon me. I count it a privilege to come alongside of you in small and big ways as the Lord allows. Would you join me this February at Joanne's place? Her table has been set with enough seating for us all. As always...

peace for the journey,

PS: I'm closing comments on this post so that you can head directly over to Joanne's and leave one there; plus, there's a give-away--real coffee... the good kind! Shalom.

moving past my "average"...

“Dear friends, now we are children of God, and what we will be has not yet been made known. But we know that when he appears, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is.” (1 John 3:2)

Her words spoke the penchant of her heart…

“Mommy, I want to be just like you.”

“No you don’t baby, you want to be better. You want you to live better. I’m just average.”

“Yes, I do mommy. I want to grow up to be just like you. What’s average?”

***

And I am undone with the conversation.

Average. A word I occasionally use to jokingly refer to my raw capabilities as a human being. It usually lands me a chuckle, but last night it landed me a question.

“What’s average?”

According to Merriam-Webster.com, average is “a single value that summarizes or represents the general significance of a set of unequal values.”

I don’t know what bugs me the most about this definition… the “single value that summarizes” part or the “general significance of a set of unequal values” part. Single value and general significance aren’t phrases in keeping with human value. The term “average” is best assigned to mathematical calculations, not people. Still and yet, it is a word all too common in our vernacular when describing the human condition, the human performance, the human beings created with an eternal pulse and an eternal end in mind.

When I look into the eyes of my young daughter, I see nothing “average.” No single value that summarizes her or classifies her as generally significant. She far exceeds any mathematical label or quantifying therein.

I am not always so kind with myself.

When I look into the eyes staring back at me in the mirror, I am sometimes tempted to use that word. Average seems a good median to balance out the times when I’ve gotten it very right and the occasions when I’ve lived it very wrong. And while I’m not content to allow my daughter this kind of labeling, all too often I am content to wear it as my name tag. It may not stick on me in the “visible” for others to see, but when given room and stage enough to shout its witness within the interior of my soul, my “average” moves outward.

“For out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks” (Matthew 12:34).

My mouth spoke it last night. Casually at first; more painfully as the night wore on. I am not past the moment, friends. I’ve wrestled with it all night and into these morning hours. The sun has given its exclamation to a new day, and the Son has given his exclamation to a new and living way. A way that walks in truth and that leaves no room for talk of “general significance” or one “single value that summarizes.”

There’s nothing general about God and his love for his created people, no one single sin that summarizes the whole. When we lower the standard on ourselves, when “average” becomes the label rather than the righteousness that belongs to us as children of the Most High God, then we demean the grace of the cross. Christ’s blood bled far too costly and too red to allow us a meager labeling of ourselves. What he did there canceled out human averaging. What he did there exponentially exceeded the worst of human sin, thus allowing every believing heart a labeling beyond the “average.”

Redeemed. Forgiven. Beloved. Accepted. Treasured. Righteous. Sought After. Living Temple. Heir. Friend. Light. Overcomer. Mighty Warrior. Holy. Consecrated. Treasure-Keeper. Truth-Teller. Grace-Dispenser.

Indeed, there is nothing “average” about the labels that Christ intends for us to wear. On our own and left to personal averaging along these lines, we’ll never do enough good to cancel out our bad so as to move us from our mediocrity. But when Jesus and his atoning sacrifice are added to the paltry lot we bring to the table, then our “general significance” takes a bow to our eternal significance. With salvation we put to death the former self in order to walk with God’s new labels, none of which root in “average”; all of which root in the Divine.

And so, today I wrestle with my labels. I think back on the previous night’s conversation, and I am touched by a daughter who sees something in me that I rarely see in myself. She sees someone she wants to be; she doesn’t remember all the times I’ve gotten it wrong. She simply and lovingly remembers all the times I’ve lived it right. She sees beyond my “average,” and I am thankful today for the reminder of heaven’s grace that has come to me through her adoration. May it come to you as well.

Don’t let a single value—a single sin or past regret—summarize your steps this day. You are not generally significant to our God. You are extraordinarily contemplated, crafted and designed to hold the life-giving pulse of God’s Spirit within your feeble flesh. And that, fellow pilgrims, bumps you up from your average status into excellence.

Excellent. Wear God's label well; live it all the more. By his strength, I will live the same. As always…

peace for the journey,



PS: I won't be around here for a few days; I'll want to be here, but I have a great many preparations to make for our upcoming Bible study, a retreat to attend, and some writing to do in my current WIP. I'll be back next week with more of our "breakfast on the beach with Jesus." Until then, may God's love for you and joy over you move you past your "average" into his "excellence." Shalom.

Breakfast on the Beach with Jesus (part two): answering what we're asked

“Early in the morning, Jesus stood on the shore, but the disciples did not realize that it was Jesus. He called out to them, ‘Friends, haven’t you any fish?’ ‘No,’ they answered. He said, ‘Throw your net on the right side of the boat and you will find some.’ When they did, they were unable to haul the net in because of the large amount of fish.” (John 21:4-6).

“Elaine, haven’t you any fish?”

“No, Lord, and to be honest with you, I don’t much feel like fishing today.”

“Well, you’re already in the boat; why not throw your net on the right side and see what’s stirring beneath those seemingly empty waters.”

“I’m tired; I’ve been at this for a long time. I can’t believe there’s anything to gain by my fishing, but because you say so, I will cast my net in your direction.”

***

And so I do, and here I am… casting my net this morning upon the waters of my “usual.” I may not be in a boat on the Galilean waters, but, like the disciples, I’m doing today what I normally do most days… living the life I usually live, while holding the resurrecting truth of Jesus within my heart and wondering where he’d have me “cast” it this day.

We’ve all been charged with the fishing, friends—with the casting of Christ’s net in a right and good direction. Everyone who harbors the truth of Jesus within and is anchored to God’s grace is assigned with the task of liberally dispensing that truth and grace to others so that they might hold truth as their own. Our fishing reels and rods are uniquely designed with our giftings in mind. Not everyone will cast their nets from a boat; some will cast them from a pulpit, from a classroom, from a hospital, from an office. Some from music, from acting, from persuasive speech, from words. Some from a soup kitchen, a barber shop, a check-out line, a prison cell. Some from a kitchen, a garden, a sewing room, a mailroom.

It matters not the venue we’ve been given. What matters is engaging with God’s question when it is given.

“Friends, haven’t you any fish?”

It was a fair question for Jesus to ask his disciples from the beach that morning. After all, they’d heard it before... in those beginning days when Christ first challenged them to no longer catch fish, but to catch men. They responded to his call by throwing their nets at his command and, eventually, throwing down their nets to follow after the sound of his voice and the heart of his eternal matters. In doing so, their hearts were intricately woven to his and were willing to move forward with his “next” for their lives. But as so often is the case with Christ’s calling upon lives—theirs and ours—the “next” sometimes seems vague, veiled and not yet perfectly clear to the believing heart.

Like Peter, John, and the rest of the fishing crew, we default to fishing in familiar waters without the parallel direction from our Father. Those waters may be well-intentioned ones, well-deserving of some time and attention. But if not directed to fish there, if instead we choose to cast our nets there without God’s corresponding “thumbs up,” then like our brothers of yesterday, we often walk away from those expeditions with empty nets and the subsequent “drain” that comes from casting those nets on the wrong waters.

Jesus didn’t tell his disciples to stop fishing and to immediately come to shore. No, what he told them was to cast their nets on the right side of the boat… the better side of the boat where, apparently, there were 153 eager fish awaiting a net’s retrieval. It was then that the disciples’ eyes were opened to the revelation of who awaited them on the shore.

When they fished in the “right” direction, God increased their return by 153 percent. Sit with that concept for a moment and with God’s initial question, and allow them to speak a fresh word into your soul this morning.

“Haven’t you any fish?”

When God asks a question of his children in Scripture, he’s asking it of us as well. His questions are his invitations to us to join him sacred conversation. He means for them to jump off the pages of our Bibles to become a “now” word for us as we go about our ordinary lives with an extraordinary Friend. Questions are God’s way of casting his reel and rod into the depths of our hearts and minds so that we might further probe them for an honest answer.

If I look around me this morning, I see little evidence of a net’s catch. I see dust accumulating on wooden furniture, a basket of clothes needing washed, remnants of last night’s popcorn fest on my living room carpet, and a dining room table filled with miscellaneous “stuff” that needs my eventual attention. Good waters to tend to, but not waters that will yield the kind of catch that God’s after this day. I could have given in to their immediate insistence—could have walked away from Christ’s question in order to accomplish my ever-growing “to do” list, but in doing so, I would have missed an opportunity to cast my net in a good and right direction—one in keeping with God’s kingdom agenda.

The net has been thrown, friends; the words have been written. I believe that you reside somewhere on the “right” side of my morning expedition. May God reside there as well, tending to your heart and in your answering of his question as only he can.

“Haven’t you any fish?”

Throw your nets on the right side of the boat today, and see if our Father’s faithfulness isn’t waiting there to fill them.

Fish well this week. Fish for the kingdom. I’ll see you on the shore where we will share in the bounty of a good and right obedience. As always…

peace for the journey,

PS: Where is God telling you to cast your net this day? What right and good direction has God allowed you kingdom influence in this season of living? When has the "catch" he's given you exceeded your expectation? I'd love to hear a witness along these lines

Summer

{for Summer... who made it home to Canaan today}

It occurs to me this evening that earthquakes come in all shapes and sizes. And while the world’s eyes have been focused on Haiti’s earthquake over the past week, my eyes have been fixed on the one occurring beneath the surface of my own little piece of ground… the place I call home… the woman I call friend.

The ground beneath her has been shaking for the past four months, but her faith? Well, not easily shaken. And while leukemia has not been kind to her, her Father’s strength has been exceedingly kind. She has weathered her quake with all the dignity and grace of heaven. Some would say the cancer got the best of her, but I would say differently. Today, cancer had no say in the matter, because today the quake beneath her feet ceased in its shaking as she made her grand entrance to the throne of her Savior’s feet where she will worship him forever.

For those of us left behind, especially for her precious sons and adoring husband, the ground still shakes. The collective grief of our small community is palpable and strong. We’ve made this walk before. I’ve made this walk before—three times in the last two years. Cancer and its havoc is an all too familiar struggling in our neck of the world. For whatever reason, and God only knows (believe me when I tell you that I’ve asked him), our county claims some of the highest cancer statistics for our state. Everyone in our community has been touched by the disease at some point along the way.

Still and yet, familiarity doesn’t make the journey any easier. Each situation exceeds statistical data. Each road of suffering is unique and personally labeled with a name, a family, a life lived, a grief felt. There’s nothing neat and tidy about cancer. Nothing we can quickly and perfectly pack away even as we lower another casket into the ground.

Death and its corresponding mystery shake the earth beneath our feet. It reminds us all (whether we’re willing to own it or not) about the temporal nature of our flesh. About the eternal nature of our spirits. And that kind of reminder, friends, is sometimes a hard reckoning with which to engage. Why? Because of the searing pain that interjects its witness into the mix. Because of the questions that coincide with the grief. Because of the empty chair at the dinner table reserved for the one who has preceded us in death. And when all of that (the reckoning, the pain, the questions, the grief, and the empty chair) collide, the earth beneath our feet moves in witness to the internal wrestling of our souls. I don’t imagine there’s a Richter scale big enough to gauge that kind of rumbling.

As it should be. The burying of a loved one cannot be quantified and measured by human standards, only painfully felt at the deepest, rawest level of the human condition. We’ll try to quantify it; try to put some manageable parameters around it so as to better control the pain. Perhaps, this is needful… a necessary component to the grief process that enables us a measure of comfort during these days of unedited grief. My own heart stands as a witness to that this night.

Writing my heart helps me. Words enable me to put parameters around my feelings. To reign in my thoughts and the emotions which are spinning at full speed. Words, and all the pondering that goes into penning them, help me to re-focus my heart around the one truth that exceeds the pain of the moment. And that truth, friends, doesn’t in any way resemble a grave. That truth is a King and a kingdom and a beautiful, entirely whole, thirty-nine-year-old woman running through heaven’s meadows, partaking in the rightful promise that belongs to her as an heir of the Most High God.

Cancer did not get the final word. God did, and all of hell shuddered at the sound of his voice.

“Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?”

May the God of all comfort, the God of everlasting peace, the God who collects our tears in a bottle and holds them close to his heart, the God who promises life beyond the casket, the God who numbered our days long before one of them came into being, the God who is well-familiar with all of our griefs and sufferings, the God who conquered death and the grave…

be the God who peels back the layers of heaven tonight to give us a glimpse of forever and to remind us, each one, that this is not our home.

He is.

And he is coming soon.

And his is a kingdom not easily shaken.

I love you “T” family. And I love the woman you so willing and graciously shared with this world. Her witness lives on in you. Winter’s bite will soon be over. Summer is just around the bend.

peace for the journey,

Breakfast on the Beach with Jesus (part one): doing what we do

“Afterward Jesus appeared again to his disciples, by the Sea of Tiberias. It happened this way: Simon Peter, Thomas (called Didymus), Nathanael from Cana in Galilee, the sons of Zebedee, and two other disciples were together. ‘I’m going out to fish,’ Simon Peter told them, and they said, ‘We’ll go with you.’ (John 21:1-3).

I’ve been pondering this passage for a long season. It grips me in so many ways from so many different angles. John 21 is chock full of meaty information, rich fodder for pulpits willing to preach it and bookstores willing to stock it. I imagine you have been privy to as much as I have along these lines. Collectively, we’ve probably “heard” it all over the years. Hearing has never been our problem. Our problem is absorption, a problem James clearly identifies as a “looking at our faces in the mirror, then quickly forgetting what we look like” kind of problem (James 1:23-25).

We hear the Word, but do we do the Word? Do we allow it absorption into our hearts so that our nourishment therein exacts a result in the process?

Guilty as charged; thus, my wanting to do the Word better… to live it better. Not for “doing’s” sake, but rather for kingdom’s sake—for moving onward and upward toward holiness and my perfection. Along those lines, I’m going to be fleshing out some thoughtful considerations via my pen. Writing those considerations often solidifies them in my heart. To ponder without putting any action behind that pondering is a waste of time for me, for I am woefully prone to my forgetting. But to frame that pondering with some words… well, chances are I’ll remember it, at least have it at my fingertips for recall down the road.

I keep a file folder on my desk that is filled with previous thoughts I’ve scribbled down on particular Biblical topics—skeletal thoughts that need some corresponding “flesh” at some point down the road. After perusing my folder’s contents yesterday, I came across three stapled sheets worth of thoughts that I had written back in the fall and now duly labeled with a sticky note that simply said “breakfast.”

And so I begin with that one word and what it means within the context of this passage and, correspondingly, what it means within the context of my soul. I do not live in isolation from this story. I wasn’t there as it occurred in living color; neither were you. But we live it today, even as the disciples lived it 2000 years ago. That’s the powerful witness of God’s sustaining Word. It never grows tired or empty or void of purpose. It is an accomplishing, active Word intended for our transformation in 2010.

And so I begin… with breakfast.

With breaking my “fast” from Jesus. Truly, if we only gleaned one “teaching” from John 21, this one is enough to bring hope to a heart that is longing for intimate fellowship with the Divine. John 21 has less to do with the route we take to “get to Jesus” and more to do with the route he takes to “get to us.” No one comes to the Father except through him (John 14:6). We think differently most days… we think it’s all about us and the steps we take to get to Jesus, and, indeed, there is great wealth that comes to us because of our posturing our hearts toward that end. But all of our posturing and managing of our schedules to get to Jesus means very little if he isn’t already there as we arrive. Jesus understands, better than us, our need to break our fast from him. Accordingly and faithfully, he sets a table over some hot coals, preparing for our presence, even though our presence remains off shore and, most days, unaware of our great need for his sustenance.

“It happened this way…” (oh, I can barely get past those four words, for they speak a message all their own—something about the authenticity of God’s Word and his wanting us to know the exact details of how this moment in Scripture actually “went down”)…

Simon and a few others had gathered in their grief, in their moments beyond the witness of the empty grave, yet unable to move forward with much of anything simply because that “much” wasn’t as clearly defined as they needed it to be.

Ever been there? Ever stood on the other side of Christ’s resurrecting truth, yet felt completely overwhelmed by the revelation and your responsibility therein? In our need for quick understanding, we reason that Peter and the others should have known what to do with the resurrecting truth of their Lord… should have immediately taken its witness and began in the unpacking of its merits to those walking around with deficient understanding. But Christ’s work in them—his directional “next” for them—had yet to be clearly defined. Emotional chaos was their compass, and is so often the case when emotions chart our course, we default to doing the one thing we’re most comfortable doing.

For Peter it was fishing; for us, a great many other “doings.” It’s natural, even reasonable for us to land in a place of “comfortable” while sorting out our emotions and our determinations regarding what to do with the weighty revelation of Calvary. Christ understands our chaos, even as he understood the disciples’ chaos so long ago. He stands ringside and watches it unfold, even as he stokes the fires of a breakfast that will yield the answers… the peace… the directional good our hearts are hungering for.

Long before we ever hold those answers as our own, our Savior tenderly cradles them as his own. Thoughtfully, he places them over burning embers, tending to them and cooking them to completion, so that when our feet find their way to the beach, there is food enough to fill the gnawing ache that has consumed us in the night.

As we default to doing what we naturally do in times of confusion, Jesus Christ defaults to doing what he always does, despite our confusion. He prepares a table of rich intimacy for us that will not only feed us, but that will gradually transform us for his high and holy purposes.

God sees us in our “doing” this day, friends. We may not be aware of his watchful glances from the shore, but he finds us, no matter our doings, no matter the chaos going on around us. And for some incredible reason beyond my understanding, he loves me still, despite my lack of awareness regarding the breakfast that he’s cooking on my behalf and the table he’s preparing in anticipation of my arrival to shore.

Christ’s preparations for intimate fellowship and sacred discipleship exceed ours. In fact, his preparations precede ours. We may come to the table thinking that our obedience is what yields the filling of our stomachs; but the truth is, our Savior has been up all night preparing for the feast, waiting for the moment when we will break our fast and dine in his presence.

Today, as we go about “doing what we do” and Christ goes about “doing what he does”, let us be mindful of the sacred intersection between the two. If you haven’t stepped on shore today to break your fast from Jesus, know that his fire burns in eager anticipation for your arrival and with ample food to satisfy your hungering need.

I know. He’s fed me well this morning.

As always…

peace for the journey,

Copyright © January 2010 – Elaine Olsen

on "going public" with Jesus...

“As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and lighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.’” (Matthew 3:16-17).

Today we celebrated “the Baptism of the Lord” in our worship service. I didn’t know that this particular event in Jesus’ life received a Sunday all its own, even though I’ve been doing this “liturgical” dance with the Methodists all of my life. Christ’s baptism certainly is worthy of remembrance as are all his moments, but this one in particular marked the beginning of something special.

It marked Christ’s beginning journey to the cross—his public ministry on this earth. What began in the Jordan would climax at Calvary. When John baptized Jesus in keeping with the fulfillment of Scripture, God introduced his Son to the world with a few words of sacred commendation. With his affirming love and with his “well-pleased.” The Holy Spirit lighted upon Jesus in the form of a dove, empowering him to walk the earthly road assigned to him.

Today, my preacher (a.k.a. “my man”) admonished us to “remember our baptism” as well. To acknowledge that moment from our past when we first “went public” with the grace of God. My public moment came as a young adolescent, kneeling at the altar railing of the Wilmore United Methodist Church. Dr. David Seamands spoke the moment over me. I remember my white dress, the one I desperately searched for because it was so very important to me to look pure—to be adorned in white raiment in keeping with the sacred occasion. A few friends joined me at the altar that day. They other details have long since faded from memory, but I do remember thinking that this occasion was something more than in keeping with religious protocol. It was a day that marked the beginning of something bigger in my own journey… a walk to the cross of sorts, where my heart and life identified with the heart and life of Jesus Christ at a deeper level.

Long before I ever felt the “wetness” of Dr. Seamands’ hands upon my head, God’s grace was working on my behalf. There has never been a time in my life when Jesus wasn’t real to me. He’s always been present; always been part of my thoughts. He began the sacred conversation with my soul at the earliest of ages. It continues to this day, and I cannot imagine my life without him.

I suppose there have been seasons when I tried… tried to live free from him. Times when I deliberately chose flesh over faith, but even in those moments of willful rebellion, the conversation continued. Muffled some days because of my freely chosen decisions, but present nonetheless. Jesus Christ has kept me, friends, all the days of my forty-three years. He is the reason I have peace in my heart. He is the reason I gather with the saints on a Sunday morning to reflect and remember, rejoice and relive the single truth that has claimed me and transformed me.

Today I remembered Christ’s baptism. I remembered my own. I dipped my hand into the water and clutched remembrance to my chest. I knelt at the altar again and considered my “long ago and far away.” I considered Christ’s as well, and I was thankful for his “entering into” that Jordan River so that I could, one day, enter into my very own moment of “going public” with God.

Please don’t misunderstand me. Baptism, for me, exceeds religious practice. I understand the huge denominational divide that separates our views along these lines. I simply don’t get hung up on it. God’s grace and his Son’s moment at the Jordan are too big to allow me to linger in my limited understanding therein. Some of you are dearly devoted to Jesus Christ and have never had a moment of “going public” with your heart. No water has sprinkled its wetness upon your head; your body hasn’t been submerged in a baptistery, much less the Jordan River. Let me assure you of this…

You are no less precious in our Father’s eyes. If Christ has entered into your broken and weary estate, if you have received him as your Lord and Savior, then you have “gone public” with your Jesus. You have been baptized with the renewing power of his Holy Spirit. When it comes to the matter of our hearts, we answer only to One. And if your heart belongs to the King, then all of heaven rejoices and bends low to offer their chorused applause. Your wetness on the inside far exceeds any public display of “wet” on the outside.

Does that mean that “baptism” is nothing, that it accomplishes nothing, isn’t important or not an appropriate response to the working of the Holy Spirit within us? Not at all. Baptism is an outward and visible sign of an inward working of grace. It is one of the ways we “go public” with our Jesus and our profession of faith. And I happen to believe that “going public” with Jesus is always in keeping with his plans for the crucified life. A life that identifies, in part, with the Savior who went public with his commitment to the cross so that you and I could better walk our commitment accordingly.

Today I remembered my baptism, I remembered Christ’s as well. Tomorrow I pray to remember the same—to never walk a single day without the grace of Calvary pulsing through my veins. I want my life to be the lavish expression of the life that he lived and breathed and walked and surrendered some 2000 years ago on my behalf. To offer any less to him, is to live less. And the last time I checked, “less” didn’t fit with God’s agenda of more.

It’s been a long time since my “long ago and far away” moment of “going public” with Jesus. There are few remaining persons in my life who actually remember that moment. I don’t imagine they think on it very often. The water that poured down my head has long since dried up, and the godly man who put it there? Well, he walked home to Jesus not long ago. But there is One who thinks on it very often. His memory is clear, and his rejoicing still resounds throughout all of heaven to announce that I am his, that his working grace continues on my behalf, and that the indwelling power of his Holy Spirit has found a good and spacious rest within my soul.

{lisa leonard designs}

I am the living temple of God’s living Spirit. So are you. In wearing him, we wear our “going public” display of his witness for all the world to see.

Wear your baptism this week, friends. Remember it well, and walk it into a world that needs the pulse of Calvary moving through its midst. As always…

peace for the journey,

PS: Friends, please refrain from allowing our comments to become a heated debate regarding the practice of baptism. This is not my intent with this post, but rather to allow us remembrance and reflection regarding the importance of wearing our "baptism"--whatever that has been for us--as a living witness to the world. Shalom.

Copyright © January 2010 – Elaine Olsen

"Over-easy, please..."

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." (Matthew 11:28-30)

“Over-easy, Lord. That is how I’d like my eggs this morning…”

Anybody else?

I’m afraid I’ve little words of importance for you this A.M. except to say that a night’s worth of worry has cost me. Indeed, it didn’t add any hours to my life; instead the worry that kept me awake and that has my stomach in knots this morning has extracted from my life. I can’t have back the previous eight hours. All I can do now is surrender them to a life lived “less” than what my Father had intended.

And then I move on. Move on with a better perspective about the hours that lie in front of me.

God’s burdens, his worries and concerns over his creation?

Easy, light, well within his capacity to deal with them… all of them. So taking his cue, I’m laying them down in his lap, and I’m pressing forward. I give him my “well-done” portion of worry that’s been simmering in the pan overnight in exchange for a plate that’s filled with over-easy. I cannot afford another eight hours like the previous ones. How about you? Could you use some over-easy this morning… this day?

Then join me at the table of grace and give thanks to God for his expertise in the kitchen. I understand that eggs are his specialty.

I love and appreciate you, each one. Your investment in my life makes me want to be a better writer, thinker, friend, pursuer of Peace, and sojourner on the road of grace. May you find them both, Peace and grace as you walk your life these next eight hours. As always…

peace for the journey,

PS: The winner of Shirley’s book (your choice) is #23, Christy Rose! Congrats, Christy. Please send me your snail mail, along with your choice of book. To find out more about Shirley and her books, click here. Shalom.

Mike

{image compliments of freefoto.com}

He’s found his way into my thoughts this morning. I can’t imagine why. I certainly wouldn’t have brought him to my remembrance on my own accord. I had other plans for my devotional time with God, but then I read these words from Sarah Young’s Jesus Lives:

“In the presence of a loving, strong father even the most frightened child eventually calms down. You have a perfectly loving, infinitely strong Father, so bring your fears freely to Him.” (Sarah Young, Jesus Lives, Thomas Nelson-2009, pg.28)

And then there he was. A boy named Mike. A boy from my adolescent years. An “unlovely” boy. Smelly, unkempt, poorly dressed, even more poorly mannered. His impulsive behavior and inappropriate responses to those around him quickly labeled him as the “creature” amongst us. Most of us feared him; not because he was overly mean or vindictive in character, but simply because he was different. Mike didn’t fit the high school “norm.” In that season of my life, it was a stretch for me to think of him fitting into any kind of societal “norm.” Mike was the most abnormal boy I knew. I never really saw him as anything more, and I was content with the labels that we had assigned him.

Until that day. The day he rode the bus home with me.

For whatever reason, the bus schedule had been revised. When Mike got on my bus at the end of the school day, we all assumed he’d made a misstep in his afternoon routine. The driver assured us otherwise. Mike would now be on our route for pick-up and delivery. I don’t remember talking to him that day. Most days I avoided him for fear that any interaction between us might signal to him my desire for something further. I do remember smelling him that day, wishing quietly to myself that he had chosen a seat further back on the bus. After what seemed to be forever, the bus stopped on a dusty road, and Mike made his move to the front door.

He exited, and I watched him as he went. Watched him for a long time as he walked along that one-lane path which would eventually land him home—a small farm house barely fit for human consumption. In that moment, I realized something I hadn’t realized before.

Mike had a home. Had a life apart from all the teasing and trouble that followed him throughout the school day. Had a family who loved him, claimed him, and did their level best to support him despite his struggles at being “normal.” The Mike I witnessed everyday at school was only a scratching at the surface of who he really was. There was so much more to this person that I didn’t understand. So much of a life that existed apart from me… a life I would never know, all because I was too afraid to cross the great divide that existed between my world and his.

I wish I could say that Mike and I became friends. We didn’t. I do remember my being more courteous and kind to Mike after that day. Saying hello; waving good-bye, occasionally including him in casual, bus conversation. Mostly, I kept my distance, but now with a little more love and understanding in my heart for him. More grace and more compassion.

I don’t know what happened to Mike. Maybe some of you who shared those days with me do. I’d love an update. But this one thing I do know.

Mike is everywhere. We don’t have to look very hard to find a person who makes a strange fit with our “norm.” The smelly, unkempt are right beneath our noses, within reach and more than ready for some love from someone who has taken the time to imagine them beyond the labels that consume them. Someone who is willing to cross that great divide and offer them the hand of fellowship and the heart of God.

And while my tangible, physical life never cried out for rescue as Mike’s perhaps did, my inward life cried out in accordance with Mike’s voice. For someone willing to cross that great divide and to offer me the hand and heart of sacred fellowship. And because Someone did, I realize that Mike and I aren’t as different as I once thought we were. All of us, every last one of us, are in need of that kind of rescue, friends. All of us need a safe place to run home to—a family who loves us, claims and supports us, most days in spite of us.

God has given us one another to be that body of grace. We are God’s church. A church not based on denomination and regulation, but rather on the one truth that cuts through all the peripheral rest of it to stand alone as the sole requirement for membership into God’s kingdom.

Faith in Jesus Christ. Faith in who he is and in what he has done through his shed blood on the cross.

Jesus is the common thread that links all hearts to home. Perhaps the reason my heart stirred for Mike nearly three decades ago as I watched him exit his school life to embrace his safe life. It certainly is the reason my heart stirs this morning. For all the Mike’s of this world. For those who’ve yet to realize that there is a safe place to land at the end of the day… at the end of this life. And lest we think we’re so far removed from them, all of us at some point in our journeys were the smelly, unkempt, poorly mannered creatures roaming God’s earth in need of God’s rescue.

How thankful I am for the Savior who found me, who bridged the chasm between my great need and his great grace to say “hello” to me and to invite me into the sacred conversation that continues to this day. It’s been a good morning to ride the bus with Jesus, friends. If you’ve yet to climb aboard, there are plenty of seats awaiting your need. As always…

peace for the journey,

PS: I will draw a winner to Shirley's book with my next post. I haven't forgotten...

the elephant in the room...

“Sow for yourselves righteousness, reap the fruit of unfailing love, and break up your unplowed ground; for it is time to seek the LORD until he comes and showers righteousness on you.” (Hosea 10:12).

He spoke some words to me this morning, somewhere between my dreaming and my waking.

Not God.

An elephant.

Yes, that’s what I wrote. An elephant. Yesterday’s headline news about a woman and her child being killed by a mother elephant intent on protecting her African turf somehow made its way into my dreaming. Instead of this woman being chased by an angry elephant, I was the object of his fury. Funny how that happens. Reality merging with the subconscious, all playing itself out upon the stage of our slumbering. All making sense in the moment, calling on emotion to interject its full witness throughout.

The emotions in that moment for me?

Panic. Fear. Retreat.

Thank heavens for the makeshift rest area that existed feet away from my frightful encounter. It sheltered me in one of its two, crudely fashioned stalls, concealing my presence from the formidable beast which seemed, for the moment, a bit confused as to my whereabouts. I practiced being hidden until she rudely entered in. Apparently bamboo doors aren’t equal to the strength of an angry, momma elephant.

I kept quiet, eyeing her mammoth frame through the narrow slit in the stall door. Rather than knocking the entire structure to the ground, she turned her head and drew near to my fright. Her eye was big. Her eye was penetrating. Her eye was eyeing me, dressing me down and reading me through that narrow slit—a space now ample enough for her intervention and my swift destruction.

She didn’t go there; instead she spoke there.

"Run, run, back to the place where you came from. Then this country can go back to being what it has always been, drab and undisturbed."

An elephant’s exact words to my slumbering soul. I’m not kidding, and for what it’s worth, I wrote them down. In fact, I carried them to church. Been thinking about them all day long.

~About drab and undisturbed ground.

~About the brave few who are willing to walk its breadth in faith believing that their feet were meant to go there.

~About breaking up the unplowed ground of a dreary and untouched soil.

~About an angry elephant who’d rather leave things as they are; keep the “baby” protected and unaffected by outside influence.

~About lives that live out their days unaltered because no one dared to step out for their sakes… speak up for kingdom’s sake.

~About those who let the threats of the enemy keep them immobilized in fear and from moving into the spacious place deeded to them by a gracious and very good God.

~About a country that remains as it is because no one dreamed beyond its borders.

Stuff like that. All marinating inside my head and ruminating within my heart for an entire day. And tonight I’m wondering where that line is between dreaming and waking. Between what’s imagined and what’s real. Between voices that author from heaven and threats that author from hell. Located somewhere in an elephant’s words to me, I find them both… hell’s threat and heaven’s hope.

"Run, run, back to the place where you came from. Then this country can go back to being what it has always been, drab and undisturbed."

Hear the threat. Hear the hope.

The hope precedes the threat. Without hope—without the anticipation of what might be discovered because of what will be disturbed—then there would be no angry elephant in the room. And lest we haven’t noticed in recent days, there’s an angry elephant in the room, friends. Rather than sidestep him, avoid him and pretend that he doesn’t exist, don’t you think it’s time we deal with him? His threats? His false impressions regarding what’s his and what’s not?

Makeshift stalls are poor excuses for spiritual progress. They are exactly as they were created to be... a temporary dwelling to stall your forward progress. If fear is what has led you there, what is keeping you there, then an elephant’s anger has raged successfully. You’re right where she… where he wants you to be. As he wants you to live.

Unproductive. Ineffective. Incapable of “disturbing” the ground beneath your feet, unplowed or otherwise.

It is time to disturb the ground beneath your feet, sisters and brothers in Christ. It is time to face the elephant in the room. Time to look the angry momma squarely in the eye and echo back to her some familiar words…

Run, run, back to the place where you came from. Then this country can go back to being what it has always been.

God’s.

I don’t know what that means to you today. It’s meant a great deal to me. I have a feeling it just might be the right encouragement for someone who’s stuck in a makeshift stall right now, stuck in fear and more than willing to concede some sacred ground to an angry elephant rather than claim that soil as kingdom inheritance. If so, then receive my dream as yours, and carry the truth of its witness into your week. You and I were empowered with God’s Spirit to deal with our elephants. Let us not walk God’s earth in fear. Let us, instead, disturb it for his sake and for his heaven's gain.

In the name of the Father who created us, the Son who paid the highest price to redeem us, and the Holy Spirit who tabernacles within us, Amen. So be it.

peace for the journey,

Copyright © January 2010 – Elaine Olsen

my half-lived day...

{photo compliments of Shirley}

We all woke up this morning with a message written across our hearts, either penned by our hand or by God’s.

What was your message? Mine?

Well, I’m gonna live this day better than yesterday, Lord. Through your strength and by your grace, I’m gonna live this one better.

And I have lived it better. God’s presence has been genuine and his hands gentle to me. It’s only 2:30 in the afternoon. I’ve made my bed, done some laundry, wrote 1,400 words in my WIP, ran four miles, and had a bath. Oh, I almost forgot… I’ve also had numerous e-mail chats with my Kentucky friend, Shirley, who is graciously lending her creative eye and photographs to a project I’m working on. Have you ever stopped by to visit her to read her heart and to see our world through her photographic lens? You’re missing something if you haven’t. She’s as home grown and genuine as they come. I’m not sure how our paths first crossed; perhaps, through Exemplify. Regardless of the prompt, I’m glad it arrived. She is a gracious portion of God’s love on this earth. I am the better for having her life intertwined with mine.

I don’t know how the rest of this day is going to play out. My kids arrive home in swift order. There will be homework to manage. A meal to make… well, to imagine (oh Billy, sweet man of mine, what’s on the menu tonight?). Dishes to clean. Baths to administer. Books to read and perhaps a movie to watch with my older boys before their pilgrimages back to college. Yes, I’ve got an “idea” as to how this day is going to end. Getting there from this moment seems a short leap, but when I do… when I close my eyes on this day, if I don’t do a single thing more than what I’ve currently done up to this point, then today has already been a better day than yesterday.

Today, I woke up to a good message. Tomorrow, I pray to wake accordingly.

What was your message this morning? Cut honestly through to the truth of the matter, and wrestle with your answer. Did you wake up to pain? To heartache? To joy? To expectation? To your “here we go again, Lord” or “I can’t possibly face my life right now.” Your answer tells you a great deal about who is holding the pen.

If your morning message wasn’t what you wanted it to be, then re-write it. Yes, re-write it. Right now. If you could do your 6:30 AM wake-up call all over again, how would you want your message to write?

How thankful I am for a God who allows me re-writes, right smack dab in the middle of my day. I don’t have to wait until tomorrow to start again. Neither do you. God is the Author of our blessed “do it better’s” no matter the time of the day we feel his prompt along these lines. The key to doing it better resides with God’s pen, not ours. So do yourself a favor…

Hand him the pen. Allow God his moments with your heart in order to re-write the rest of your day. It matters not if you’re reading this at 10:00 PM or 10:00 AM or any other hour in between. What matters is the moment you call right now and the message you want attached to your right now.

I value your right now. So does our heavenly Father. May his lavish love and continuing presence be your portion as you march your way through the rest of this day, living the message he’s written onto your heart.

Now, let’s see…

I can add “writing a blog post” to a day that continues to live better than yesterday. I’m on a roll. There is more day left to live. I think I’ll get busy living it. As always…

peace for the journey,

PS: Leave me a comment about the “message” of your heart this day, and you’ll be entered to win one of Shirley’s latest photo/devotional books, Meditations of an Autumn Heart or Simply Light (your pick). You can preview them by clicking on these links. Also, take time to visit Shirley and her work at Sketches of a Common Life. She’s anything but common, friends. Shalom.

returning light...

"You, O LORD, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light." (Psalm 18:28)

God’s returning light.

It’s returning to me after a long six-week season of diminishing dimness. Not elimination; God’s light always flames within me, but there are times when it decreases in its intensity. Not because of anything he’s done, but rather because life and its many messy circumstances have flickers all their own. A heart has a hard time highlighting them both; thus, when one takes the stage—flames fuller and burns brighter—the other retreats to the wings and waits its turn.

It’s God’s turn in my life, friends, and I feel the intensity of his flame returning in me. It matters not the situations that led to his light’s retreat. It began around Thanksgiving and continued its solid march through the month of December. In many ways, I had to break free from Christmas in order to live my Christmas. I realize that in writing this, some of you will be confused and left to your imaginations as to what I could possibly mean. But I think if you live with that statement for a few minutes, understanding will come.

Christmas wasn’t designed for its cramming into a confined calendar slot. Christmas was meant for a twelve month existence. For me (and this is Elaine talking for herself), I live the witness of Christmas better in the eleven months preceding its planned remembrance. Those months are less messy for me, less crowded, less programmed. And while Christmas isn’t to blame for my season of recent struggle, they happened to share the same month. I imagine there are others who could voice the same.

Through it all, I pressed into my faith because that is what faith does. It presses into known truth—a truth that relies on God’s strength to carry us through to resolution. Faith carries us in times of darkness. Faith anchors us, holds us, reminds us that on the other side of smoldering embers lies the hot breath of a Holy God who bends at the ready to flame them into significance.

My life has hosted many seasons of diminishing flames like this past one. I don’t imagine it will be my last. And while I don’t welcome them, I’m better prepared for them because I’ve lived each one of them successfully through to victory. To feeling the warmth of God’s returning light and to embracing the dawn as dawn was meant to be embraced.

With celebration ... anticipation … high and holy expectation for the day that births anew with unlimited opportunities to unpack my God further. That is how I awoke this morning; by his grace, tomorrow will birth the same.

It’s good to be in fellowship with a God who understands the seasons of our lives, who walks them with us despite our willingness to walk them in isolation. Without the embers of his enduring love, our struggling seasons suffer deeper, linger longer, fester wider. There is little hope of emerging victory when we fail to tend to the wick of God’s sacred flame within us.

I’ve tended to that wick, even when my flesh cried out its resistance. I prayed about it, wrote about, spoke to God about it, and read about it in his holy Word. God's Word is replete with a people who have stood where I have stood. They, too, pressed into their faith in order to move past their flesh.

God’s returning light. It’s found its way to my soul again, and I am eternally grateful for the mustard seed’s worth of faith within me that pushed me through to victory.

I don’t know where you are in your journey with God right now. Perhaps your faith is burning brightly with little wiggle room for doubt. If so, thank God for his continuing illumination. Perhaps your faith flickers with intermittent warmth and sporadic guidance, just enough to quell your worries regarding its diminishment. If so, pray to God for clearer vision and for firmer resolve. Perhaps your faith is down to a few smoldering embers as other “lights” have taken to the stage to voice their opposition. If so, cling to God as if your life depended on it.

Our lives depend on it, friends, on him no matter the season we’re walking. Without his continuing presence in our lives, we have little hope of emerging from the darkness. Thus, keep pressing into our faithful God. Keep running with him; keep walking beside him; keep crawling toward him, all the way through to final victory. I know it’s not an easy journey. In fact, “easy” doesn’t fit with an extraordinary faith. But extraordinary is exactly what we’ve been given. The heart of our Father could give no less. “Less” isn’t in keeping with his character.

I love you, am willing to pray for you, and am writing you my heart this day because it is all that I have to give to you. It seems to me that, perhaps, at least one of you needs the witness of my last six weeks. If so, know this...

God is approaching your soul in this very moment. His light is returning to you, even as the dawn is approaching its birth, and God’s hot and very holy breath would like nothing more than to fan into flame the embers of your struggling faith. May our good Father grant you, precious one, the witness of his presence as you close your eyes to slumber this night. As always…

peace for the journey,

PS: I don't know when I'll be here again. As the Lord prompts my heart, I will be faithful to add a few words and post them here. I'm giving intentional focus to my latest WIP with a goal of finishing by February's end. I would appreciate your prayers along those lines. In the meantime, if you have a special prayer request you'd be willing to entrust to me, I'd be most privileged to receive it. You are the reason I keep to my pen. Shalom.

Copyright © January 2010 – Elaine Olsen

"unpack me"... a night Visitor re-visits

{Hadn't planned on being here today; hadn't planned on writing today. Some days, however, our experiences call for some words, some remembrance. This was one of them. Maybe I wrote them for you as well. Shalom.}

“But when he, the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all truth. He will not speak on his own; he will speak only what he hears, and he will tell you what is yet to come. He will bring glory to me by taking from what is mine and making it known to you.” –John 16:13-14

“Unpack me.”

Words that haunt me eleven hours beyond the moment they first enveloped me. Somewhere along 1:30 AM, I awoke with the startling awareness that God’s presence was within reach. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him… the kind of feeling that frightens me, all the while enlivening me. A deep, rich peace surrounding me, calling for my attention and my willingness to entreat the “voice” of my Father. Past experience has taught me not to run from his voice, but instead, to wait for it.

This time, it was immediate. Not audible in the exterior, but loud and clear in my interior. I groped for the pen and notebook that resides on my bedside bookshelf and scribbled down these words in the dark:

“There is none so mysterious as the One standing in this room with you at this very minute.”

“Then what am I to do with you, Lord?”

“Unpack me.”

As quickly as the words arrived, they stopped; the pen and paper found their way home, and I snuggled deeper beneath the cover of night, cradling the gift I’d just been given—

The voice of God.

It arrived on the heels of an evening prayer where I’d wrestled some things out with my Father on my face and with some ample tears to chorus my questions. Questions about his character and his trustworthiness as they pertain to my life. Dangerous questions to ask, yet ones I needed to articulate because my faith had been challenged along these lines earlier in the week (thanks, friend, for the call, the faith, and the prod).

Can I trust the character of God? What is sum total of God’s character? Am I operating from his reality—the truest truth—or from a reality based on my perceptions regarding his interaction in my life? Can I know the character of God, and if so, how do I get there? How do I piece together a better understanding of who he is, so that I can begin to operate my faith from there rather than from a place of skewed awareness? Could it be that a lack of faith stems from ignorance regarding the true nature of faith’s Creator—faith’s Author and Perfecter?

Dangerous questions, yet ones that my Father was willing to entreat on my behalf last evening, because when it comes to his character and his child’s willingness to know him more fully, he bends low to listen, even further to deliver his answer.

“Unpack me.”

And with his voice, I discover something most distinctive about the character of my God.

He is near, and he wants to be known. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have taken the time to startle my soul from slumber and give witness to his mysteriousness, all the while allowing me an unpacking of him therein.

Are we meant to hold mystery and revelation all in the same moment?

Apparently so.

I held it last evening; it holds me today. It leads me to worship. It moves me to faith.

Perhaps today, at the beginning of a new beginning, you have some similar questions for our Father. Perhaps you languish in your understanding of God’s character. Perhaps you’re wondering if he can be trusted with your life. Perhaps you’ve seen much, lived through much, fought through much, to the point where your “much” seems too much in keeping with the character of a good God. Your faith is shaken, and you’re heart is asking...

“What am I to do with you, Lord?”

If that is the earnest and honest and purest plea of your heart, would you be willing to leave it with our Father? I don’t have the answers to all of your questions; I certainly haven’t found the answers to all of mine. But I know where to bring them. I trust the character of God enough to know that he receives them, hears them, ponders them, and then in his own time, his own way—

He answers them.

Sometimes in a whisper. Sometimes through a loud roar in the midst of loud day. Sometimes in the reading of his Word. Sometimes at the altar of grace. Sometimes through another’s kindness. Sometimes in a storm. Sometimes in peaceful waters, and sometimes in the middle of the night—bending low and standing bedside to honor the request of his daughter’s heart.

All the times, I think, through a simple two word command that leads all hearts to a greater point of sacred understanding.

“Unpack me.”

Are you willing to move past the questions, friends, into a greater revelation of our Father’s character? I am willing because today I hold the worth of a night’s pause with a night Visitor. I don’t imagine I shall ever recover; I'm certain that I don’t want to...

ever recover from God.

Let’s unpack him together in 2010. It would be my privilege to come alongside you in your night’s pause to entreat the voice of our King. As always…

peace for the journey,

Copyright © January 2010 – Elaine Olsen

Happy New Year, 2010

Just a quick greeting from my heart to yours to welcome in the New Year. Thanks to Pamela at In His Graces for, once again, prompting my listening to God in regards to an anchor verse for 2010.

"Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body." (1 Corinthians 6:19-20)

Would love to hear how God is directing your thoughts for the upcoming year. As always...

peace for the journey,