Category Archives: dad

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. 

On Threading a Needle Toward Holiness

Student, Ken Collins and Dad at Baltic Seminary

Holiness.

I’ve been chewing on this one today … gnawing away and swallowing bites of something I don’t fully understand but something, nonetheless, I deeply desire –

to be like Jesus.

Getting there isn’t easy. The way of holiness often includes our weaknesses – the stuff within that needs to be rooted without. Exposure of those weaknesses is sometimes painful but can also be beautiful in ways that we never anticipated on the front side of disclosure.

Let me explain.

I want to thread a needle for you and show you a fascinating, most striking mosaic that is part of my story and that warms my heart deeply today in a space that fully needs the witness of its strength.

Not long ago, Jadon sent me a link to series of Wesleyan Theology lectures given by Dr. Ken Collins at the Baltic Methodist Theological Seminary in Estonia (dated 2019). Dr. Collins is a professor at Asbury Theological Seminary who once shared those hallowed hallways alongside my father-professor, Dr. Chuck Killian – two men linking arms to bear witness to the seminary’s motto “The Whole Bible for the Whole World.”

Ken Collins is now one of Jadon’s professors, along with being his mentor for candidacy in the Global Methodist Church. Ken is a world-renowned scholar in all things Methodism and communicates this passion with clarity and originality. Jadon likes his teaching style and, needing to fill my mind with good, God-thoughts, I decided to listen in.

The connectional thread of Jadon being at Asbury and being mentored by one of my father’s friends from ATS is mosaic enough to make me sit back and admire God’s providence in my family’s lives. But that’s not the thread that had me leaning in for a closer look today. Instead, and more deeply, the realization hit me about the lectern from which Ken taught – a classroom in Estonia in a seminary that my father helped establish.

In August 1994, my daddy taught the very first class at the Baltic Methodist Theological Seminary on the subject of “practical theology” to fifty-four eager students, hungry to fulfill their part in the Great Commission.

From the website:

The facilities in Apteegi Street were extremely cramped. The single classroom was full from the start. Students sat on simple chairs, and took notes with their books on their knees. The dining area did not have sufficient seats, and so for lunch or coffee students were sitting on the stairs and in the window sills. The library was in a broom closet. Open the door and there was the librarian at her desk, with a few books on a shelf. Most of the books were in boxes in the basement. The office for the President, Dean, secretary and all the faculty was a partitioned area approximately 1.5metres (5 feet) wide by 4 meters (12 feet) long.

Students and faculty were literally rubbing shoulders all day, a closeness that created a very warm atmosphere. As well, the excitement generated by the newness of theological study made the Seminary tingle with excitement. Many of the first students were mature Christians and self-taught pastors who had dreamt of freedom during long years of communist occupation and of the chance to study and practice their faith free from oppression and persecution.

The more I listened to Dr. Collins speak about John Wesley and holiness, set against backdrop of the Baltic Methodist Theological Seminary, the more deeply my spirit was enlivened to the Spirit of God. A day that (for me) began in darkness suddenly shifted to a day full of light.

A day full of remembering my legacy. A day full of cultivating hope. A day of forgetting the hard purge of holiness and, instead, a day of relinquishing to its flames. Why?

Because there’s too much on the line by not submitting my life to Christ’s crucible.

What my daddy has left behind and what Ken Collins continues to do through his teaching and with my son is, indeed, a needle worth threading. I cannot fully put my finger on it, but my pulsing heart tells me that I’m on to something.

Daddy has long since left the hallways of Asbury Seminary and the Baltic Seminary. But there’s a piece of him still there in both places. Jadon in the former and Ken Collins in the latter. The echoes from both spaces deafen my ears with a ring of the eternal and paint a mosaic worthy of the throne room of heaven. Heaven, alone, counts the lives transformed by the faithfulness of a few willing servants.

What has happened in the past and what is happening in the present is, indeed, holy. From the inside out and the outside in, God makes himself known to his children. He shows up, sometimes unexpectedly, sometimes on a day when the darkness threatens to snuff out the light, and challenges us to go deeper with him toward a better life of freedom and understanding.

Oh yes, I want to be like Jesus, even when getting there is hard. Today, I think I moved a little closer in that direction. Today I traded in my vain imaginations for better thinking – a mind fixed on Jesus and what he wants me to know rather than on how the world and its people make me feel. 

So, thanks be to God, to my daddy, to Jadon and to Ken Collins. Their work toward holiness has offered me a way forward toward mine.

The Whole Bible for the Whole World. Right here where I am. Right there where you are. May the kindness of God, the truth of his Son Jesus Christ, and the strength of his Holy Spirit rest on us all and pull us closer to his image this day. As always…

Peace for the journey,

Wes and Joy Griffin, along with my parents at 1st Baltic Seminary graduation

 

[accessed 7-05-2024, https://www.emkts.ee/index.php/en/general/history]

a walk with dad

What do you do on the day after the most painful day of your life?

I’ll tell you what I did. I drove thirty miles down the road to Lake Benson Park by myself. I walked that familiar trail, over and over again, soaking in the sights and sounds and warmth of the sun. Why?

Because it’s all I knew to do – the closest way I could think of to get to the man I am now separated from…

My dad.

We used to walk that trail together – too many times to count. That trail is Garner, NC – it’s where I fell in love with the town that my mother and dad called home for many years. Whenever I round that familiar bend and spy that weathered red barn set against the backdrop of that sparkling lake, well, my soul breathes better. It feels like home … like mom and dad. Like I could hop in the car and be around their kitchen table in under three minutes.

Mom and dad don’t live in Garner anymore. They moved to Raleigh at the end of 2019 to a senior living community. And then 2020 happened. And then a continuing series of events that could not be helped that have finally culminated in the event that has caused us all great heartache and sorrow.

Yesterday, my mom walked dad down to a different wing of their senior retirement community where some assessing will be done regarding my dad’s care going forward. Accordingly, my mother (along with the rest of us) are separated from my father for the first time in our lives and for a time yet-to-be-determined.

I hope it’s not for long; my spirit tells me it will be longer than any of us would like.

And because of COVID restrictions, visits are limited to one person, one hour a week. To hell with it – really. It’s time for COVID and all its wretchedness to move back to the place from whence it came – to the bowels of hell.

History will not be kind to COVID-19 and all its separation rules, especially as it pertains to the elderly who aren’t sick and who’ve plunged a needle into their arms in hopes of having any measure of freedom. It will go down as one of the cruelest, most inhumane treatments ever perpetrated on humanity. It is wrong; it is evil; it is not living to live apart from those you love. Woe to the men and women who are arbitrarily making ill-fitted rules that keep loved ones apart at, perhaps, the most vulnerable times in their lives.

I believe this to the core of my being; I’ll preach it until my breath is gone. I’ll die on that hill, friends.

And so tonight, on the night after the most painful day of my life, my dad is sitting alone in a new room, probably wondering where we all went. Maybe not. I hope he’s not fully aware of the separation. But the rest of us are … fully aware of it all.

My hands are tied. Sometimes pain cannot be escaped but only embraced as a consequence of a less-than-desirable solution to a complex problem that really doesn’t have any good answers despite our praying toward that end.

And I have prayed … and prayed. Thought and thought. Rammed my will part-way through an impenetrable wall only to be left bloodied and bruised by good intentions.

The deepest desire of my heart is for my parents to have the best care going forward. It is the most natural impulse of my heart to honor the ones who gave me a good beginning by giving them a spectacular ending to their earthly journey – to hold their hands tightly, securely, courageously. To walk them home to Jesus with dignity. That’s how it should be; however, that may not be how it goes.

Accordingly, to date, the most painful day of my life.

I am in good company. I am moved tonight by a similar scene on a Judean hillside 2000 years ago. Jesus, in one of his final acts of love before his death on a cross, wanted to make sure that his mother had a good ending:

“When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, ‘Dear woman, here is your son,’ and to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ From that time on, this disciple took her into his home.” (John 19:26-27)

In the middle of his doing the work that he came to, while all the sins of the world (past, present, and future) were being strapped to his back and were ripping his flesh apart from top to bottom, Jesus looked beyond his personal pain and noticed his mother’s. It was the most natural impulse of his heart, to make sure that the woman who gave him his very good earthly beginning would, indeed, have a very good ending of her own.

There’s a kinship there on that soil … between Jesus and me. The love he had for his parents mirrors the love I have for mine. I would trade all of my earthly possessions in this moment to fix the separation that now exists between us all. Worldly things mean nothing compared to the eternal reward of getting home safely … securely … hand-in-hand with the ones given to our charge and keep.

That would be bliss. That would be best. And that is how I will continue to pray… for a better ending for the man and the woman I call mom and dad. What was served up yesterday ain’t it – not even close. Instead, it was wretched, terrible, and everything I had hoped it would not be.

So wherever daddy is tonight, I pray that through the gift of the companioning Holy Spirit’s presence in his life, he’ll know deep down the love we all have for him. I pray that, when he looks at our pictures, he’ll remember that we’re here for him, even though we’re separated from him.

And while I will never again have daddy’s companionship while walking around Lake Benson Park, and though I may not get the privilege of walking him home to Jesus hand in hand, he and I will have the fields of heaven to walk through together.

I know this to be true; our citizenship is certain. Of all the gifts he has ever given to me, this is the best one – the gift of Jesus Christ and my eternal residency therein.

That’s my small sliver of silver lining, friends. The only one I can find tonight. It will pull me through to tomorrow.

For those of you who know my folks and some of our story, we appreciate your prayers for brighter days. Would you speak a little favor on my dad and mom tonight? I do heartily believe in the power of prayer, and I know that God’s peace is available to us all.

I just haven’t been able to take hold of it recently.

#muchlove,

Back in 2014, Mayor Ronnie Williams of Garner interviewed my dad as “one of the great people of Garner.” You’ll enjoy seeing that interview by CLICKING HERE!

Carpe Diem (seizing the day with my dad)

Carpe Diem. Seize the Day. It’s one of my daddy’s favorite sayings ever since viewing one of his favorite movies, Dead Poet’s Society. I reminded him of it yesterday in our visit together. I’m not sure if he remembers the movie, but he remembers the shirt. Even more so, he remembers the sentiment; daddy always wants to seize the day even as he struggles to remember what day it actually is.

Dad loved that movie; I think he saw a lot of himself in Robin Williams’s portrayal of John Keating, an unconventional teacher who used poetry to inspire his students to greater heights of expression and creativity.

Like Keating, my daddy is known for his story-telling. “One of the best” they say. Sometimes his stories are hand-made; sometimes, he borrows from others. As a child, I assumed everybody’s dad had that same capacity to spin words into magic. It never occurred to me that his ability was, in fact, a unique gifting from God. Over the years, I’ve come to realize and appreciate that uniqueness about my father, especially now when his words have started to fade.

These days, daddy doesn’t tell me many stories; instead, I’m telling them to him.

“Daddy, remember when …?”

Thankfully, he still does to a degree … remember when. He simply needs a prompt or two or ten therein. Eventually, we get there together, to a memory that brings the old sparkle back to his beautiful blue eyes. And when that happens, the magic returns; for a few minutes, I’m able to set aside my new role as a care-giver in exchange for my old role as simply a child of a story-teller.

Carpe Diem. Seize the day.

Life shifts like seasons.

Winter’s retreat. Spring’s new. Summer’s heat. Fall’s release.

A cycle of transformation. Sometimes swiftly; sometimes more slowly. Almost always, simultaneously.

Moments have the capacity to hold so very much – a full cycle of seasons that grow a heart in all the right ways. And maybe, in the end, that will be the greatest story ever told –

a heart transformed in all the right ways by a full cycle of seasons.

Indeed, very magical.

Carpe Diem. Seize the day.

So…

Thank you, Daddy, for telling me your stories – for capturing shifting seasons with just the right words. For doing so with flare, with imagination, with sparkle, and with understanding. For seizing the day, the moments in so many rich, “Chuck Killian” kinds of ways. You’ve come full cycle, living the words you’ve spoken … a heart transformed in all the right ways.

“One of the best,” they say.

One of the best, I know.

In the end and by God’s grace, I hope to hold one too –

a great story of my own … a heart transformed in all the right ways. 

I can’t think of a better legacy for either one of us to leave.

Let’s keep telling stories; let’s keep seizing our moments. Let’s keep walking home together.

The best is yet to be. 

I love you, 
Lainse

Rehearse Your History with God

“Rehearse your history with God.”

This was my recommendation to my family last night as we sat around the dinner table. Our discussions lean toward the “heavy” these days. So much going on in the world. Chaos, confusion, concerns. You know. And out of that deep well of heaviness, I drew forth these words:

“In times like these, family, we need to rehearse our history with God. Trace his faithfulness. Trust in his goodness.”

Billy acknowledged my words with words that my father used to say to me … “You know, Elaine, that’ll preach.”

A smile passed between Billy and me, and then the internal gnawing began within my soul … the rehearsing of my history with God.

There’s a lot to recall, to reflect upon, to remember. Instead of focusing on recent memories, I dug further into my past – twenty-five years in retrospect.

As a single mother of two young boys, I made the decision to return home to Wilmore, KY. If “home is where the heart is,” then I definitely made the right choice to move back to the Bluegrass. Wilmore is the place where I first trusted God and began my long obedience with him. Most importantly, Wilmore was where my parents were living, and I needed the safety, acceptance, and love afforded me therein.

I also needed a job. After a disappointing interview with a Christian school down the road (one where the questions were centered more around the reasons for my divorce rather than my qualifications as an educator), I decided to apply for a job at Asbury Theological Seminary – the vocational home of both of my parents. Dr. Kenneth Kinghorn was looking for an administrative assistant; he’d known me as a child, and now he would better know me as an adult. The interview process went forward, and within a week, I had a job. And while I mostly didn’t have a clue what it meant to be an administrative assistant, I did know that, for the first time in a long while, I was safe. Dr. K had given me a chance to start over, to further “grow up” and mend my heart in an environment that had earlier shaped my beginning days of faith.

For three years, I sat under the great favor of Dr. Kinghorn. He protected me, challenged me, walked alongside me while never judging me. He stocked the supply closet with Diet Dr. Peppers, and he lovingly allowed me long lunches with the Beeson girls (you know who you are), as well as daily walks to my mother’s office on the other side of campus. When the bi-weekly chapel hour came, he put the closed sign on the office door and said, “Let’s go.” When my boys showed up at my office after getting off the bus from school, he ended my work day early. When asked for his counsel, he wisely engaged. He daily prayed over me and, on occasion, trusted me with campus “intel” reserved for the privileged few. He didn’t micro-manage my work nor meddle in my personal affairs. Instead, Dr. Kinghorn allowed me the privilege of personal healing according to God’s time table and his immeasurable grace.

Dr. Kinghorn wasn’t the only one. There were many moments throughout my three years at ATS filled with similar privilege. Dr. Ellsworth Kalas’s mentoring moments – his sermon and directives from Moses on Mt. Nebo. Dr. Steve Seamands’s Ash Wednesday service where a quote from Omar Cabrera took center stage in my heart. The day Reg Johnson handed me an envelope with cash inside – the exact amount I needed to cover an unexpected bill. Bill Goold’s after-chapel walk with me, asking me how my “desert season” was going. Maxie Dunnam – a president never too busy for a hug or a word of soul-stirring encouragement. Albin Whitworth’s exuberance, laughter, and invites for the boys to come and swim at his pool.

The list goes on – I suppose not enough room (or time) in this space to record my thoughts. But in my time of remembering today, in rehearsing my history with God from this limited segment of my past, a tender truth is emerging:

Not all men cast stones. Some men carry them instead.

Stones not to harm the guilty, but rather stones to heal the broken-hearted. To stack and to build a better future rather than to hurl and to re-injure a wounded past.

In that season so long ago, I couldn’t fully appreciate the stones that those giant men of faith were carrying on my behalf. But in rehearsing my history with God today, I am overwhelmed with their willingness to do so. Perhaps they did it, in part, out of their great love for my dad, Chuck Killian. No doubt, because of their great love for their heavenly Father. And just maybe, there was a little part of them that knew something of grace because of their own histories with God. Regardless of their reasons, twenty-five years later, I am stunned by their intentional generosity toward me.

Not all men cast stones. Some men carry them instead.

Indeed.

So today, friends, if you’re feeling heaviness of heart, if confusion is creeping in and around your spirit, I encourage you (even as I am encouraging myself) to rehearse your history with God. Look for the stone carriers from your past, your present. Remember them; be grateful; do likewise.

There’s a broken heart nearby who needs the benefit of your strength and the grace of your history with God.

Those who have ears to hear, let them hear. As always …

Peace for the journey,

(7.11.2020. All rights reserved.)

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