Between Two Janes

I live my life between two Janes – the one who, fifty-nine years ago, carried me in her womb and the one whom, twenty-three years ago, I carried in mine.

Each time, nine months were allotted for the careful, hope-filled process of holy creation. The dreams dreamt then and the prayers prayed then were couched between bouts of cravings and occasional kicks. A hovering of sorts between what could be known and what could be imagined.

Girls having girls. A mom named Jane. A granddaughter named accordingly. And a woman in between holding hands with both of them, knowing that she stands on privileged soil.

It seems fitting that my mom would have a namesake – a Jane that walks in her shadow being shaped by the life that lives in between.

My life.

I am a collection of stories from the life that my parents built together – Chuck and Jane, the Killians now for sixty-four years. When asked about the seemingly odd coupling of the two, my mom has been known to say, “Chuck needed an audience, and I was willing to listen.” Not a lot has changed in these six plus decades between them. Mom is still keeping audience with dad. Jane is still loving Chuck most excellently, but the dialogue has changed. Dad is no longer adding his words; mom, in contrast to the first five decades of their life together, is writing and speaking the final lines of their story.

And those words?

Nothing short of extraordinary. Beautiful wisdom. Strong and certain. Ninety years’ worth of knowing things, perceiving things, pondering things, speaking things. An everlasting witness that waits patiently for the taking. Her spoken deliberations are always on time. My mom doesn’t waste a single word. Instead, she means what she says, and what she says, is, indeed, a gift to be treasured.

The first Jane who held my hands is the wisest woman I have ever known because she holds hands quietly with her Creator. She stands between Jesus and me and has been a bridge connecting my heart to his. I sensed this early on in my life; I knew that I could always trust my mother’s faith.

In recent days, I have needed her witness, her wisdom and her words. I’ve held tightly onto my mother’s hands while (more loosely) holding onto my daughter’s hands, believing that I, too, might become a bridge of sorts between my two Janes. A link between the heart of a grandmother to the heart of her granddaughter so that a holy transfer of wisdom (which so often seems to elude me) might transpire.

I think this is the gift I am most grateful for this Thanksgiving – the hands of the two Janes who bookend my life. One full of wisdom; one well on her way. Both Janes full of grace, kindness, warmth and genuineness. Both Janes still making me laugh. Both Janes still praying for and with me. Both Janes still teaching me how to be holy … how to stay connected to my Creator.

Both Janes still willing to hold my hands.

Faith Elaine in between Eleanor Jane and Amelia Jane – a chord of three strands.

Privileged soil indeed.

May God keep the three of us so duly tethered until we all walk the shores of heaven together. I love you both, my two Janes. As always…

Peace for the journey,

a cord of three strands

What’s the strongest weapon in your arsenal of faith against the forces of evil and wickedness in the world? What do you most rely upon when standing on the front lines of a spiritual battle?

Prayer? Bible reading? Fasting? Witnessing? Worship? Steadfastness?

Sometimes you enter the fray of spiritual warfare – pick up your sword, swing harder, push further, engage more fiercely – because your survival depends on it.

Sometimes you enter the battle because someone else’s life depends on it. Spiritually, you’re faring pretty well, but your neighbor isn’t. Accordingly, you lend your strength to the battle to secure the victory.

But what do you do when it’s not “you” you’re fighting for, or when it’s not “them?” What if it’s “us” you’re fighting for – a corporate battle where you stand for yourself while standing for another on the front lines for faith? What spiritual weapons bode well in battle where the warriors are weak in their faith and strong in their sin?

What then?

My life as a spiritual warrior has not always had this dual focus. Mostly, I scrap and scrape and claw my way through the battle for self’s sake. Rarely am I looking around mid-combat thinking about those who might need my victory as much as I do. There’s my battle. There’s your battle. But our battle where our struggles unite to fight for a good faith, a stronger one? My weakness coupled with your weakness doesn’t seem like a winning battle strategy. Mostly, it just feels like losing.

Or so it seems.

Lately, this profound truth has come into sharp focus for me.

I am fighting for victory over personal sin. My friend is too. A similar, shared struggle between an aged veteran of faith and a fledgling lamb just beginning the walk therein. And while my great desire is to overcome my sin, I am realizing that more is at stake in this battle than just my personal triumph. Her victory hangs in the balance as well. And she needs me to be an overcomer.

When my spiritual success becomes the fuel for someone else’s success, then warfare feels weightier, more necessary – amped up and more vital.

Prayer? Bible reading? Fasting? Witnessing? Worship? Steadfastness?

Yes. Of course. All of this and lots of it. These are the spiritual disciplines of mighty warriors in the faith. And if that’s all we ever have, then we have enough to win the battle.

But sometimes, God in his grace, gives us more – a further weapon to wield in times of struggle.

He gives us one another – the weapon of presence.

“Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.” (Ecc. 3:12)

A weakened me plus a weakened you plus Jesus = game on. This is a winning strategy to overcome wickedness in the world and wickedness within. A cord of divine strength that advances boldly, holds tightly and fights fiercely through to victory.

For seasoned veterans in the faith, even those of us who still struggle with sin, the weapon of our presence on the battlefield is a gift we give to those who are newer (maybe even younger) recruits on the gospel road.

Yes, bring your prayers. Bring your Bible. Bring your witness and your worship. But most importantly …

Bring yourself.

Plant your feet next to your friend. Link arms with one another and with Jesus. And for the kingdom’s sake, advance in holy expectation.

In the end, when the battle is over and the victory won, perhaps what will be remembered most about the triumph will have less to do with holy practices and more to do with holy presence on the field, both yours and God’s.

Be present in the fray, friends. Join ranks with your struggling brothers and sisters. Don’t ignore the pleas of those who’ve yet to experience victory. In helping them secure their freedom from sin, you may even end up securing yours.

This battle belongs to us all. May God give us the wisdom, the will, and the humility to step courageously forward for service. As always…

Peace for the journey,

Father’s Day with Chuck and Francis Asbury

I thought about my dad this morning while listening to Jeffrey Rickman’s podcast. Rickman referenced this quote attributed to Francis Asbury (a pioneer in American Methodism) – thoughts about the holy and sacred privilege of preaching. On limited occasions when Asbury’s name is referenced, my mind always trails back to my dad. He wrote a play about Asbury’s life and presented it at Asbury Seminary and other locations on multiple occasions; the play was the outgrowth of one of dad’s sabbatical seasons while teaching at the seminary.

Fast forward a few years to 2002 when I was 7 ½ months pregnant with Amelia. Dad and mom took me, Nick and Colton, on a trip to Washington D.C. It was June, and it was hot. We did a lot of walking on that trip, saw a lot of historical markers, and collected treasured memories. One of those memories included my father’s relentless quest to find Francis Asbury’s statue in the heart of D.C. Dad had few details about its location, only that it was somewhere in the Mount Pleasant neighborhood near 16th Street. The only saving grace about that quest (did I mention we had done a lot of walking in high heat) is that dad rented an air-conditioned taxi. The five of us crammed into the taxi, and our driver began the search. After several unsuccessful pass-throughs of the neighborhood, we had almost given up when Colton looked out the window and said, “Is that it?” He pointed to an obscure, easy to miss, statue that was shrouded in tall grass across the street from our vehicle. Francis had been found!

We piled out of the taxi to take a picture and to survey Henry Augustus Lukeman’s work from 1921. Our visit was brief (the taxi meter was running), far shorter than our quest to get there. The box was checked. Dad was happy, and two little boys (along with their very pregnant mom) were thrilled that this historical pilgrimage had finally come to an end.

The “finding” of the statue, no doubt, fueled dad’s celebration of the life and witness of Francis Asbury, a preacher who, over the course of 45 years, traveled 275,000 miles over wilderness terrain to bring the good news of heaven down to the ground. Asbury’s faith and his passion rooted his mission. He had “seen heaven” as well as the “bottomless pit” and was determined to preach the truth therein.

As it goes with Asbury, so it goes with my dad, Chuck – a man who has spent his life traveling the wilderness road in search of lost pilgrims who have yet to catch a glimpse of heaven. Dad has seen both – the bottomless despair of the pit and the glorious hope of heaven. He knows the difference between the two. For 87 years, he has lived this difference.

These are hard days for those of us who’ve traveled with him along the way. His words, once so eloquently delivered, have turned into an occasional hum. Every now and again, we hear a chuckle. When we do, we smile because we know the man behind the laughter. Wherever dad was, there was always laughter. And honest conversations. Listening in and leaning in for more. Tears and prayers and generosity. Abundant generosity. If you know Chuck, you are nodding your head right about now. He is all this and so much more.

And so, another Father’s Day is in the record book. It’s been a glorious 59 years of being Chuck Killian’s daughter. I thank him for pointing me to heaven, especially in those seasons of my life when I was determined to wallow in the pit. Because of daddy’s love, I know what it is to be loved by Jesus. He is the tie that binds our hearts together forever – an everlasting future where, together, our mouths will be freed to praise, our feet unshackled to dance, and our lips loosened to laugh.

I love you, daddy. Happy Father’s Day. And remember… the best is yet to be. 

#14 – “God Will Take You Across the River”

November 14, 2010

An excerpt from Beyond the Scars  (pp. 153-155) to mark the 14th anniversary of my survivorship.

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As I near the end of this writing project, there is a lump in my throat, my heart as well. I’ve been saving this particular writing for a few weeks now, reserving if for a time such as this – an almost-ending time. This thought seared through to my heart one evening while I was out taking a walk with my daughter. It is a heart truth that simply and profoundly says,

“God will take you across the river.”

Let me explain. 

As our walks go, my nine-year–old daughter rides her bike while I pitifully endeavor to keep up with her pace. She’s usually far ahead of me; I’m mostly fine with her taking the lead as long as she follows this one, simple rule: she must wait for me before “crossing the river.”

The river – that’s the term we use to describe the intersections of streets in our neighborhood, including the corners and the stopping points where we “look both ways before crossing the street.” She isn’t allowed to move forward with that crossing until I give her the go-ahead.

“Wait for me, Amelia, before crossing the river.”

She’s always faithful to wait, always eager to move ahead, but willing to linger for her mother’s official word. Funny thing: she constantly arrives at the crossings before I do, at least until a few weeks ago, when I beat her. She had stopped her forward motion to remove a pebble from her shoe; I kept moving while she did surgery. I could hear her saying, “Wait for me!” as I moved along. Her words didn’t stop me, but then she said something that did.

“Mommy, please wait for me before crossing the river. You can’t cross the river without me.”

Like a bolt of lightning from God’s heart to mine, I was struck by the profundity of her words. I couldn’t move. Instead, I just cried, and when she arrived at my side and inquired about the reason behind my tears, I spoke some truth over her precious young heart. “There may come a day, sweet one, when you’ll have to cross this river without me. But rest assured, God will walk it with you. He’s gone ahead of us both, and he’ll make sure that we land safely on the other side.”

It seemed enough of a reason to quell her curiosity in that moment, although I’m certain she didn’t feel the ground beneath her feet shaking in the same way I felt it quaking. Her heart’s not quite ready to undertake the weightiness of such truth. Nevertheless, I spoke it, and today I write it, believing that somewhere down the road, she’ll retrieve this memory from my pen and better understand the fullness of what I’m saying – how I’m trying to live my life faith forward, with not a single crumb of doubt left in my wake.

Whenever that day comes for me – my crossing-over day – I don’t want there to be any lingering questions as to what I believed and where I’m headed. Mind you, I’m not in much of a hurry to take on the Jordan River, not yet. My heart is still closely attached to the promises I’m living on this side of Canaan. The life I share with my husband and my four children is a good life to live. It is a life worth fighting for, and then, as God so chooses, a life to lay down in favor of the greener pastures and perfect promises of the land just beyond this one – a home across the river.

Until then, I want to fully live each day as it arrives. I want to give my children some years, some more time to get grown and get established in their faith. I want to be part of that shaping process. In addition, I am committed to the earthly tenure I’ve been given. Life is a precious gift and worth preserving. God created me with a purpose in mind, and for as long as I have breath, I am wholly devoted to that purpose – to know God more with each passing day and then, out of that knowing, to lead others to know the same. Kingdom truth can march on without me, but it feels right and good and sacred to be part of the story – the telling of it and living it therein.

Yes, I still have some earthly attachments. Life on this side of the river has been a good landscape in which to grow my kingdom heart. I’ll keep walking the streets with my daughter and crossing the rivers with her for as long as I’m given the privilege. But I’ll always do so with an eye fixed on forever. I’ll keep telling her about Canaan, keep reminding her about home and about the God who has crossed all rivers in front of her, making certain of her safe arrival on the other side. It’s what I must do. It’s all I know to do. It’s how I must live – fully committed to the journey at large.

I don’t know where you are today. Maybe you’re standing on the edge of your Jordan, preparing your heart for a difficult crossing. Maybe you’re far away from the water’s edge, riding your bike and keeping pace with limited understanding. Maybe, like I am, you’re somewhere in between, approaching the river, yet still far enough away that you have time for further conversations – important living words that impart God’s kingdom seed into the soil of a future generation. Wherever you are, today is still today, and there is still time to take the hand of Jesus and trust him with the crossing that’s ahead.

God will take you across the river. No one else can. No one else deserves the privilege because no one else can land you safely on the other side. I cannot carry you there any more than I can carry my daughter with me as I go. I can only point you to the one who can. The one who has walked it before us and whose name is written on the deed to Canaan. Only God can offer such glorious hope to our wounded, fearful, and often discouraged hearts. Canaan is God’s Promised Land to give. And because of his Son’s surrender to a cross, we all have a share in that inheritance.

Today’s a good day to take a walk with someone you love. Take the lead, or fall in step behind, but as you arrive at the “rivers” along your path, take a hand. Cross the river together, and remember the hand and heart of the one who has crossed it before you.

God will take you across the river, readers. And should we never meet on this side of the Jordan, I’ll be standing on the shores of Canaan, awaiting your arrival. Safe passage. Keep to the road of faith. Thus, I pray…

To stand at the Jordan and look over to Canaan, Lord, is a glorious revelation of grace. Thank  you for all the reminders of promise that come to us; they help us move forward with perspective. Canaan seems so far in coming, yet we know it’s but a moment from now. Thank you for crossing the river ahead of us, for making our path straight, and for securing our safe passage prior to our departure. Father, our attachments to our earthly tenures are strong. Sometimes we’re unwilling to let go of them because of the pain attached to the release. Temper the pain with the truth of what awaits us, and gladden our hearts with expectation for the forever the we will share together. Amen. 

©F. Elaine Olsen. All rights reserved. 

Gleanings from a Year in the Classroom

Sometimes you need an extra week.

Sometimes two weeks is not enough for you to take hold of a new thing or for a new thing to take hold of you.

Sometimes…

New things need extra doses of grace and understanding … and time.

Let me explain.

As my children were growing up, they encountered many seasons of new things, none more so than when they took their first jobs at age sixteen (yes, all of them) and when they went to college. Those occasions were often fraught with worry and questions about making these transitions. My advice to them?

“Give it two weeks. Things aren’t supposed to make sense at the beginning, but after two weeks, you’ll settle into a routine. You’ll know what your boss wants … what your teacher wants. After two weeks, you’ll feel better, be more settled, more in the flow. Give it two weeks and give yourself some grace as you walk it through.”

Sage advice some would say, especially from a battle-tested mom who’s weathered her own share of new things over the years. Or so it seems.

Over the past year, my advice has come back around to haunt me … taunt me as I transitioned to a new job at Campbell University. In those beginning days of employment, I would often hear my daughter echo the same sentiment over my fledgling transition into my new role:

“Give it two weeks, Mom. You know what you always say – things will feel better in two weeks. Just hang on.”

Well, two weeks came and went, and I was struggling. At an age when many women are looking toward retirement, I went looking for a new job. What I quickly found out is that, while advancing age often begets wisdom, age doesn’t always keep pace with changing trends and technology. The latter often outpaces the former.

It’s been a year now since my vocational transition. My two weeks have turned into fifty-two, and today I do feel better, I am more settled, and the workflow seems more natural than it did in those beginning weeks. Campbell University has been kind to me and afforded me green pastures to grow within and alongside some extraordinary people.

Today I am reflecting on that growth, and I have a list of sorts … a few insights that are not necessarily new to me but ones that have been reinforced for me during my time here. They aren’t particularly ground-breaking or soul-stirring revelations, but I thought I would share them with you. Perhaps there is some encouragement (even laughter) to be found with their revealing, especially if you’re in a time of transition.

So… 11 gleanings from 52 weeks of pasturing in this place:

#1 – Don’t wait on people to find you. Go find your people.

Here’s where age and accumulated wisdom bear fruit.

News Flash: The world isn’t waiting to find you; the world’s too busy to notice you. If you want “in,” you’d better jump in with a big splash and a big smile. Let people know you are there, and that you’re not afraid to get a little wet. Soon, you won’t feel like a fish out of water; instead, you’ll be swimming alongside some of the best of them.

#2 – People are still people.

A vocational shift doesn’t eliminate personalities; it simply provides a different stage upon which you can act your part alongside a new cast of characters. Wherever humans gather, drama follows. There will be a hero, maybe even a villain, a supporting cast and a host of “extras” to fill the stage. You may not get to choose the performers, but you can certainly master your role in the script. Learn your lines, act your scenes, take your cues and (for goodness sakes) when the curtain drops, leave the stage. The spotlight is reserved for a few, but the curtain call highlights the many. Find your place therein.

#3 – Slow days are for uncluttering.

When you “didn’t get the memo” about not coming to work, and you’re the only one in the building, take a moment to look around. Instead of noticing the silence, notice the opportunity. Busy days often build cluttered lives – cluttered file cabinets, messy drawers, accumulated artifacts and dusty desktops. When a day affords you a pause from routine, use the day to lessen your mess. Your busy days will thank you.

#4 – A candy dish fosters community.

Fill a dish with candy, and, before long, you’ll have a room full of friends. Preferences reign at the candy dish. From Jolly Ranchers™ to Smarties™ to Kit Kats™ to Tootsie Rolls™ to Lifesavers™. Not everyone chooses the same candy; but everyone convenes at the same dish. A single dish balances the workplace in a simple way that reaps relational dividends beyond the momentary satisfaction of a sweet tooth.

#5 – Prayer is the universal language.

A candy dish offers community with one another, but a prayer offers communion with the living God. Offer both. One satisfies temporarily; the other satisfies eternally.

#6 – Take the stairs.

In strengthening your legs, you strengthen your heart. You increase your flexibility and relieve stress in the process. Take time for the ascent; the climb is worth the compensation.

#7 – Guard your tongue.

My father once told me, “Not every thought that comes into your head needs to come out of your mouth, Elaine.” He’s right; it’s been a costly lesson at times, one that I’m still learning. Certainly, thoughts are the makings of good conversation, but some thoughts are better held personally and deeply within without utterance. And by the way, political speak is almost always divisive; it leaves a lasting impression. If you want to keep a good one about your co-workers and vice versa, speak less on the matter. Eat more candy instead (see #4).

#8 – College kids still need a mom.

The new-found sense of independence that comes from being away from home doesn’t mean that home isn’t needed. Be a mom (or a dad) to those whose hearts are caught between wanting the freedom of a young adult and craving the security of being a child. If you’re on a college campus or have younger people sitting beneath your influence, lean into your battle-tested interior. You’re a pro at being older and wiser. Lend your strength and your hugs to others.

#9 – People are more important than personal power, promotions or preferences.

Don’t underestimate the value of a person by overestimating your value. Stepping over or on someone to step up your game is costly – a price-tag that often exceeds dollars and cents by bankrupting a soul.

#10 – Not all learning takes place in a classroom.

Some students sit behind desks, answer phones, fix light bulbs, mow the grass, make the food and clean the toilets. A life well-lived is a life well-learned. Be kind to your classmates. We share the road of learning.

And lastly…

#11 – An old dog really can learn a few new tricks.

Despite changing trends and technology, I have been able to learn a few new things in these past 52 weeks at Campbell. The key? I think it has something to do with humility – being able to laugh at yourself and realizing that you don’t know everything but that, by God’s very good design, you can lean into your learning. It’s not been a very graceful process for me, but at every turn it has been grace-filled.

God has loved me well by leading me here to these green pastures. This new thing has finally taken hold of me, and for that, I am grateful.

So, if today you, like me, are in need of an extra week or 52 weeks to find your footing, give yourself permission and grace enough to let time runs its course. May God draw close to you, hold you, strengthen and encourage you to keep moving forward. Your new things will eventually become your old things, and you will feel better, be more settled in your spirit and more comfortable with the flow of the life unfolding around you.

Hang on, friend. Greener pastures are up ahead. As always…

Peace for the journey,

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