family fun | Elaine Olsen

a day worth celebrating

September 10, 2010

Quietly, we waited for her. Our hearts tethered to one another in a way we’ve never known… never tasted throughout our thirteen years of marriage. Few words were spoken between us. They seemed less necessary in those moments—almost intrusive. Instead, we just looked at one another, knowing that in a few moments, our lives would take another turn—a reality we knew was coming, yet one not adequately prepared for—

the look of my new body.

Tenderly, Nurse Beth unwrapped my dressings. Beneath the bandages was a week-long hidden mystery—a fright I refused to address in the days preceding its unveiling. It wasn’t as hideous as I had imagined. It was what it is—

a new me packaged a little differently in an old flesh.

Together we cried. I knew that we would. And when I looked into his eyes, I saw something I didn’t think was possible. I saw a deeper love, a renewed love, a love that courageously took my heart, yet again, as his own, and spoke a rich renewal into the deepest fiber of the deepest part of me.

My man loves me, and I love him. Today we celebrate the gift of life—both his and mine. Today he turns 43. Today I share that life with him, knowing that my cancer has not gotten the best of me and that, God willing, we’ll have several more birthday celebrations in the years to come. He tells me that it is enough of a gift—that he doesn’t need stuff. He just needs me—the new me, and that I am his birthday blessing.

Friends, the results of our Dr.’s visit yesterday confirms the preliminary conclusion from surgery. My breast cancer is staged at a IIA level (tumor is between 2-5 centimeters but hasn’t spread to the axillary lymph nodes). The three sentinel lymph nodes (the first lymph nodes closest to the tumor before it spreads to the rest of the body) that were removed and tested for cancer all came back clean with no signs of spreading. Accordingly, radiation will not be a part of my follow-up treatment plan. A chemotherapy regimen will be determined in the very near future and underway after I’ve had a few weeks of healing.

Just yesterday, I was asked by a friend as to the reasons behind my choice for a swift, aggressive approach to treating the cancer. My answer (although I’m not sure a question like that really warrants an answer) was firm, swift, and full of conviction.

I want to live.

Why?

The reasons are three-fold.

#1. I am committed to the spiritual growth of my family. I want to give my children some years… some more time to get grown and to get established in their faith. I want to be part of that shaping process. I don’t want my kids to receive their modeling from outside influences. I want to be that influence because I happen to believe that Godly parents do more to further a child’s heart toward a life with God than alternate persuasions.

#2. I am committed to the earthly tenure I’ve been given. Life is a precious gift and worthy of preserving. I am convinced that I was created with a good…a God-purpose in mind. For as long as I have breath, I am wholly devoted to that purpose—to preserving the temple that is on loan to me so that I can live out…

#3. My commitment to know God more with each passing day and then, out of that knowing, lead others to know the same. I want to do more for God’s kingdom, more toward advancing the cause of the Gospel. I know that his truth can march on without me, but it feels right and good and holy wonderful to be part of the story—the telling of it and living it therein.

That’s why I chose and will continue to choose to face my cancer with a fightin’ spirit. That’s why a double mastectomy was an easy choice for me. That’s why chemotherapy and any other therapy will be embraced without reservation in the days to come.

Not because I am attached to my flesh, but rather because I am attached to my life—a God-fearing, gettin’-down-to-Jesus-business, kind of life. If I’m living for any other reason—if I choose to aggressively fight my cancer so that I might extend my life in order to enjoy the fleeting, temporal/fleshly pleasures of this life—then I have chosen poorly, with wrong motives at the helm. This world has nothing for me; like the Apostle Paul, for me “to live is Christ; to die is gain.” Either way, I get God, and that, my friends, is the proper perspective from which to view each new day that is granted to our care and guardianship.

Today, my husband’s birthday is granted therein. And while I haven’t been able to do any shopping along these lines, I’m thinking many kind and good thoughts toward him. He’s been an unimaginable friend and lover to me in these last few weeks. Thirteen years ago, God saw better my need for him than I did. God pushed me to the altar to accept the gift of Billy. And just this morning, he took my hands in his again, helped me into the shower and cleaned my ailing flesh.

And I have never loved him more. And he loved me back. And I am grateful for this man who willingly chose me and allowed me to take his name as my own. As a way of honoring this special day, I want to share with you a poem my Uncle Bill wrote in honor of Billy’s birthday. I imagine your knowing my man more intimately would render greater appreciation for the tenderness of Uncle Bill’s words, but this isn’t just for you, friends. It’s mostly for my Billy. Would you join me in celebrating the gift of his life this day?

{the killian siblings from l to r, Uncle Bill, my daddy Chuck, Aunt Patty, Uncle George}

Billy at 43

Lord, it’s Sunday morning,

and Billy has to preach –

boy turns 43 on the 10th.

Wife and four children –

facing mighty tough times,

but, Lord, it’s Sunday morning,

and Billy has to preach.

Help him to carve out the truth –

the truth from his text

and his subtext. Prayin’ for him,

Lord; if he gets the Sunday off,

he’ll still be giving it up for others –

man of compassion like this

doesn’t shut down when hurtin’ –

so, Lord help this Billy man,

cause on Friday he turns 43.

Lord, when I was 43

I just done sobered up,

never coulda faced

what this preacher man handles –

a new parish, a family in pain,

and his own heart broken

but with a faith that sustains.

And here we have

his former parish

coming out in droves

to say We love ya,

and family and friends

from around the world

are holding this holy home

in a protective love that releases

the deepest cry,

and it is that cry, Lord,

that will see us through.

Yes, as I was sayin’ –

it’s Sunday morning, Lord,

and Billy has to preach.

{william killian

written for billy olsen

for his forty-third birthday

faithful husband

and sweetheart

to my precious niece

elaine

sunday september four

two thousand ten}

It’s Sunday morning, Lord, and we all have to preach! Help us to preach you well. As always,

Peace for the journey,

"a little bit of money…"

August 9, 2010

My daughter celebrated her 8th birthday this past week. At the top of her wish list?

A little bit of money (her words, not mine).

I read her list aloud to my precious group of “ancients” back in my former town (I had to return this week for a Dr.’s visit, scheduling it on a Tuesday to make sure I didn’t miss the weekly lunch gathering). When I finished reading her list, not only were there chuckles a plenty, but also there was money flying at me from every direction.

“Give this to Amelia… a little bit of money from me, one of the ancients.”

On and on it arrived into my lap, and in the end, Amelia had more than a little bit of money. She had forty-two dollars worth of money! Needless to say, her heart smiled big as she opened up her unexpected treasure. The moment reminded me, yet again, of an important truth regarding our God and his surprises.

He always surpasses our expectations. He can’t help himself. He’s God. Exceeding expectations is a quality built into his character.

We can’t always see it; further still, there are seasons when we refuse to believe it. I know. I’ve been there recently. My little bit of money has seemed paltry at times. Accordingly, I’ve kept my expectations pretty low. These are the steps I’ve lived. I’m not proud of them. I’m just keeping it real with you.

But so is God… keeping it real. And just this morning, he surprised me with a little bit of something…

Himself… right around 11:45 AM while sitting amongst the few saints gathered in corporate worship at Christ UMC.

I don’t know if it was the text that was being preached from John 4—the interchange between Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well. Or, perhaps the preacher—he has a way of making my heart skip a beat from time to time. Or, maybe the fact that my family was gathered all around me. Regardless of the externals, somewhere around 11:45 AM, my husband’s words admonished us to consider “true worship” and the “audience of One” who awaited our worship on Sunday mornings—the One who rends the heavens in order to get a closer look at the two or three gathered to entreat the Lover of their souls. As the words were falling from his lips, I felt the tremor of all creation radiating through my body. From head to toe, outward and in full measure, the Spirit of God resonated with his Spirit living in me, and I was surprised by the gift.

Not just a little bit of God. A whole big bunch of God. And for the first time since being in my new house of worship, I felt a pulse—the living, breathing pulse of heaven, convincing me that God is alive and active and on the move amongst our lampstand. I think others felt it as well, and I am glad for some corporate understanding at this level. I don’t think God’s pulse beats in isolation. There’s something about the gathering of two or three hearts in unified purpose that seems to manifest the presence of the Almighty—one of the primary reasons for our “doing church” as a family.

“I’m counting on the probability that when our Sunday gatherings commence, there will be at least two or three others who have gathered with a similar intention. I want my children [as well as myself] to be in the path of other believers, giving them the opportunity for the sacred intersection of their hearts with the heart of the living God, who knit them together in his likeness.” (pg. 135, “peace for the journey: in the pleasure of his company”).

God is not “dead” in this place. God’s pulse has never been absent from this new congregation. Rather, God’s just been waiting for his children to put his presence at the top of their wish list. To dare to ask for a little bit of himself in hopes and in expectation for eventual fulfillment. Today, I received an inclination of just what that might mean for all of us in the days to come—one sacred dollar at a time, collected and gathered over time, until our laps are overloaded with joy and merriment for the lavish outpouring from his heart into ours. He just can’t help himself. He’s God, and exceeding our expectations is built into his character.

Today, you and I stand on the threshold of a new week. Many are the plans we’ve made; many of them based on necessity, on survival, on making it through another 24/7. Some of us enter the week full of expectation; some with little more than limited hope to make it through. Some of us have God’s presence at the top of our wish list; some of us have asked for lesser things. Regardless of what we’ve asked for or how the level of our anticipation currently measures, God, too, stands at the threshold of our new week. He walks it with us; not apart from us, and if we could get an inclination of just how much he wants to bless us with the revelation of his presence, I’m certain that we’d ask for more. Not just a little bit of God, but rather a whole big bunch of him. That kind of asking is in keeping with our God and his “real.” That’s just how much he wants to be known by his children.

Oh for faith to ask him for more. For faith to trust him more. For faith to expect his more. For faith to unwrap his more. May God extend his heart of mercy into your faith this week and surprise you with a little bit of himself until his pulse multiplies and gathers to become the great expectation of your heart.

Let’s unwrap our awesome God together. I’d love to know how our Father reveals his presence to you this week. As always…

Peace for the journey,

~elaine

PS: The winners for Sandi Patty’s new book will be announced with my next post. There’s still time to enter. Just add a comment to that post, and you’re in! Shalom.

"Let the boy run…"

June 7, 2010

As I rounded the corner of mile two on my usual jogging route, I noticed them walking toward me—two middle-school boys getting off the bus… two brothers making their way to the home less than a quarter of a mile from the bus drop. I’ve seen them before; even chatted with them on occasion, but all I received from them in that moment was their cursory nod as they made their approach. It was obvious to me the debate going on between them. I noticed the increasing, accelerated paces that accompanied their “out of the corner of the eye” glances toward one another. A race was about to happen, but not before they passed my observation.

I must have served as their starting line, because as soon as they made it beyond my right shoulder, the competition was on. I don’t know who won the race; the older brother is bigger with a longer stride, but the younger is thinner and perhaps harbors just enough determination to claim victory over his older brother every now and again. I chuckled as they passed, having seen this kind of competitive spirit in my own sons over the years. It has both annoyed me and blessed me, always reminding me of the subtle differences that seem to exist between boys and girls.

I continued with my jog for another mile and with the “chewing” on these differences when a thought occurred to me. A voice really. A whisper that simply and profoundly declared…

Let the boy run, Elaine. Let the boy run.

If there is one thing this woman knows, it’s boys. I live with four of them—one manly boy, two semi-manly boys, and one wishing he were anywhere within shooting range of the older three! There’s just something in them that says “get to the finish line first.” Whether it’s a foot race to the front door, a sprint to claim the front seat of the van, a drive to the hoop, the front runner for the hot shower or for morning pancakes, boys have it in them to be first. When it comes to racing, all other considerations are pushed aside. My boys can’t seem to help themselves. They simply were made for the running.

Let the boy run, Elaine. Let the boy run.

I’ve thought a lot about this whisper over the past couple of days since it first entered into my heart. Thought a lot about all of the ways I’ve tried to squelch the “run” in my boys over the years. As a single mom of two young sons, it was easy for me to justify my taking the lead in all of our matters. When they wanted to run in those younger days, it bothered me. I didn’t understand boys back then; I just tried to control them for fear that I would lose them. Since Billy’s coming into my life, I better understand the nature of the manly “run”; he’s brought depth and insight into the equation. Still and yet, there’s a part of me that cannot fully appreciate the pace of a boy’s heart—the boy’s drive to be first, be strong, be in the lead, be in charge. So much of what they’re wired to be is how I’m wired as well. Thus, the rub. Thus the need for a whisper from time to time reminding me to…

Let the boy run.

I want my boys to run, all of them. I want them to be fully man and fully alive to the paces of their genetic and spiritual predisposition. I don’t want them to wait to run until they’ve passed my shoulder and I can no longer enjoy the display of their manly fortitude. I want them to run in front of me while I can yet witness their strength. I want to see them grow and become and develop into the strong leaders that God has called them to be. I don’t want them to be hindered by my need to be in control; rather, I want them to run past me, all the while because of me and my willingness to tie up their laces, to walk them to the starting line, and then to cheer them onto victory. At my age and in this season of life, I might be running alongside them; not to beat them this time around, but rather to enjoy them and to champion them into doing what they were always meant to do.

To run.

It’s not been an easy conclusion to arrive at; my parents raised me to be a strong, independent woman, unafraid of her shadow and not easily swayed by man’s opinion. I am thankful for the sturdy sense of identity that was embedded into me long before I knew what it was to share a home with a boy, much less four of them. But after years of living with their witness, they’re growing on me, and I am beginning to appreciate their innate need for speed and for the lead.

Let the boy run, Elaine. Let the boy run.

By God’s grace, I hope to follow through on this whisper of heaven. Something tells me I might need the strength of my four boys in the days to come… might need their courage and their pace to buoy me along in my journey toward home. I’m glad I have them. As I grow older, I become less tolerant of my need to be in charge and more willing to concede my front-runner status to those whose legs are better able to handle the pace of life. It’s taken me a long season to get there, and I imagine that I will always prefer my running shoes to high heels. But for now, I’m enjoying the sprint to manhood that is taking place under my roof. It makes me glad to be a woman… to know the differences that exist between me and my four boys and to be perfectly content with the distinction.

And so I say to you, my four boys—Billy, Nick, Colton, and Jadon—

Run boys. Run swiftly and let this wife and mother take it all in. I look forward to watching the race in the days to come and to cheering you on to victory. Home is just around the bend, less than a quarter of a mile from this moment, and the pace you now keep will be worth the company you will then keep for all of eternity.

Let the boy in you run strong. Let the man in you finish well.

This woman loves you and delights in living this life with you. May you now and forever always know…

Peace for the journey,

Preacher Billy’s moving tips…

June 4, 2010

Because every now and again… we all need a good laugh. Find something to laugh about this weekend, friends. In the meantime, here’s my man making me laugh. Oh, how I love a good tear-producing, snortin’ out loud, kind of laugh. I’ll see you on the other side of some boxes and some rest.

on "going to the woodshed"

June 1, 2010

I have a story I want to tell you; not because there’s anything particularly spiritual about it all, at least not at this point. Perhaps before it’s over there might be a small nugget’s worth of something to cradle as your own, but for now, this story belongs to my daughter because, long after I’m gone, I want her to have it to cradle for always.

Miss Amelia. She is the caboose of our immediate family, following in line after her three older brothers. They tell me she doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

I don’t see it as much as they do; I don’t look for it… don’t search for all the ways that she might resemble me. I just live with her, love her the best I can and am occasionally mindful of what they profess to see.

Me in her; her in me.

Like a few days after she was born when I cradled her closely to my chest and looked into her eyes. They fixed on me, almost as if she was giving me permission to glance into the depths of her soul. For a brief moment, I peeked in and had the strangest feeling that I was looking at a mirrored reflection of myself. The memory is as vivid to me now as it was nearly eight years ago.

Me in her; her in me.

Like a few weeks ago when her daddy called me on the way home from picking her up at school. Apparently there was an issue in the hall bathroom… something about a potty mouth and her not being able to take good instruction from the teacher the first time around.

Me in her; her in me.

Like the moment after receiving the call when I met her at the back door and sent her upstairs to “think it over” before talking it out. Knowing that her momma was disappointed, her eyes brimmed with tears searching for any measure of initial grace that might be extended to her on the front side of discipline.

Me in her; her in me.

Like the commotion that followed her bedroom ascent; her unable to handle the isolation and silence and feeling the need to fix the problem herself, all the while making sure that I took notice of her angst.

Me in her; her in me.

Like in the one-sided conversation that followed her “thinking it over” when she met me on the stairs half-way. Me coming up; her coming down.

“Stop right there, Mommy (upright hand directed at me). Before you say anything you need to know something. I’ve already washed my mouth out with soap, and I’ve already spanked myself. And just in case you’re wondering… it really, really hurt.” (Her words; not mine.)

Me in her; her in me.

I stifled my laughter until later, acknowledging to her that the discipline seemed to have fit the crime and that we were good to go for the rest of the day. We hugged; she moved on, and I was left alone to ponder the exchange between us.

I’ve been thinking about it ever since. We are quite the dramatic pairing. We live our lives out loud and with full emotion at every turn. Few are the days void of our laughter and our tears. Never are we silent, and rarely are we ever alone. If it’s true, if in fact my daughter doesn’t fall too far from the maternal tree, then I am not surprised about the extraordinary lengths that she was willing to travel in order to punish herself. It’s a technique I’ve perfected over the years—personal flogging for personal sin that, if not carefully guarded, can easily become a personal pastime for me.

I’m not as bad as I used to be, but every now again, when I pursue sin over personal holiness, I’m quick to find the bar of soap and the paddle, even though all I’ve been charged with is the “thinking it over.” Rather than taking a cue from my Father in regards to my taking a breather in the isolation and quiet of an upper chamber, I busy myself with trying to find some grace via the route of my good intentions. I rely on personal understanding rather than God’s understanding, and more often than not, the self-inflicted wounds I apply aren’t in keeping with the crime… aren’t in keeping with my Daddy’s grace.

I wonder if you understand; if, in fact, you know what it is to take yourself to the woodshed over your sins. That maybe you, like my daughter and myself, don’t fall too far from the same tree. That sometimes it is easier to receive punishment than it is to receive our Father’s compassion. Could it be that we have grown so attached to our need for penalty that we altogether miss the grace of the cross? I’m not saying or thinking that our sins don’t come without consequence. But what I am wondering is…

Who are we to decide that consequence? Are we the ones to measure out mercy or to put parameters around pardon? When is enough, enough? What discipline could we offer on behalf of our sins that would equal our Daddy’s forgiveness? Does one spanking suffice? Would two or ten or twenty years’ worth of woodshed drama be adequate to cover the gaping distance between our bad and God’s good? Our need and God’s sufficiency? When does hurt, hurt enough, and why in the world do we burden ourselves with the awesome responsibility of keeping score?

Me in her; her in me; perhaps… you in us.

I think, in part, this is where the story moves from solely belonging to me and my daughter to belonging to you as well. I’ve been to the woodshed in recent days, friends. I imagine some of you could say the same. Maybe some of you are there tonight. Do me a favor…

Put the soap back in the dish; hang the paddle back on the nail, and simply sit in silence with your Daddy. He’s already ascended the stairs on your behalf, and I imagine that he has a word or two of grace to offer to your hurting heart.

“Stop right there, child. Before you say anything further, do anything further, you need to know something. I’ve already been to the woodshed for you. And just in case you’re wondering, it really, really hurt. And just in case you’ve forgotten, you’re really, really worth it.”

Him in us; us in Him. And none of us too very far from the family tree. As always…

Peace for the journey,

PS: My heart is strangely stirred this night… these last few posts have come from both a place of poverty of soul and fullness of spirit. Some of you won’t understand that; I’m not sure I understand it all myself, but of this I am certain. God is moving in my heart, and he longs to speak to me. Accordingly, I must move closer for a listen. I’ve walked with God long enough to know when he is calling… long enough to know that I don’t want to miss a single moment of intimacy with him… certain enough to know that something good is around the corner. I pray all of this and more for each one of you tonight. I’ll see you on the other side of God’s burning bush. Shalom.

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