Category Archives: family fun

Noticing Love

“Early in the morning, Jesus stood on the shore, but the disciples did not realize that is was Jesus.” (John 21:4).

He saw her across the dimly lit restaurant. He hadn’t seen her in over a year. Last year, they shared a first grade classroom. Today, they shared only vague remembrances of one another. He’s stayed put. She’s moved on to another school.

After brief words of conversation with her family, we made our way back to the table. My eight year old son gave his best efforts at coloring the sombrero on his children’s menu and then hand delivered his gift to his friend. Moments later, she responded by doing the same. Back and forth, waves and glances, until the hour was complete, and we said our good-byes.

On the way out to our car, my son shared his thoughts with me.

“Mom, you know I kind of like that girl.”

“Son, you haven’t seen that girl in over a year, and you didn’t even remember her name. I think you’re confused.”

“No, mom, I really do like that girl.”

“How can that be, son? You’ve never even talked about her before.”

“Mom, I know when I like somebody. I’ve had love before.”

“Really? When?”

“In K4.”

And with that proclamation, the conversation ended and the contemplation began.

I’ve had love before … in K4.

What my son was saying was that this “inkling” that he felt … this notion of emotion … wasn’t the usual everyday kind of love that he carried for his friends. This was a different kind of love. A love that tugs deeper, breathes bolder, and speaks its insistence over top of the others. An unfolding type of love that, when “presented” to a heart, calls for its notice.

Jadon noticed, and tonight he has me wondering if I do the same—

Notice love when love comes knocking.

The disciples didn’t notice Love’s knocking … not at first. The confusion resulting from competing stories about his death and their hopes deferred in keeping with that death, kept their hearts at a distance; the sea was deep enough to hold their uncertainty and wide enough to harbor Love’s recognition at bay.

But then Love called, offering an invitation of familiarity—a common conversation that collided with past remembrances. Something about catching fish and casting nets and the “right” side of a boat. And with that summons and subsequent obedience, Love struck a chord deep within their hearts, calling forth a recognizable “inkling” that beckoned them shoreward to share in a meal and to bask in a few moments of tender reunion.

The gathering would be brief, but it would be more than enough time to amply seed them with the truth of Love’s embrace—a three-fold asking, a three-fold response, and a three-fold commissioning to go and to feed the Father’ sheep out of the overflow of Love’s consumption. That was the heart of the matter on a day set aside for God’s presenting Love.

When the disciples walked away from the shore’s table, they knew they had tasted Love. Why? Because like my son, they’d known Love before. They shared a classroom with him in an earlier season. He had been their teacher; they had been his willing pupils, and in the end, the kingdom of God was best served by the sacred collision of their hearts with his.

Thus, a question a two for your heart this night.

Do you notice Love when Love comes knocking? When was the last time that Love stopped your heart in its tracks and forced your perception? If Love were sitting across from you in a dimly lit restaurant, would you feel his pull and look up from your table to search out Love’s glance? Would you color Love a picture? Would you then deliver it in hopes of receiving Love back?

Or has your love for Love grown cold, distant and harboring within the waters of an uncertain tomorrow? Have you given up on Love’s embrace? Have you forgotten the sound of Love’s beckoning call? Has life hammered its cruelty so loudly that you are deafened and blinded by the truth of Love’s approach?

It’s easy to miss Love, especially when our hearts are prone to a constant wandering. If we choose the world’s classroom over God’s classroom, then we choose our handicap. Love is always presenting himself … always passing our way … always sending his notes of affection to our tables. But if we haven’t logged in some hours under his tutelage, rarely will he garner our notice. Instead, we offer him our neglect, leaving the table with but a whisper of a vague recognition that was always meant to last longer.

We could leave better, friends. God intends for us to leave with a heart full of Love’s recollection. With a pulse that shouts,

“I’ve been with Love today because I’ve known Love before.”

That is the heart of the matter for our everyday … noticing Love when Love comes knocking because Love has been our companion all along.

My prayer for your life and mine is for a blatant and sacred intersection between Love’s heart and ours. I pray for eyes to see him when he walks in a room. I pray for hearts to receive him when he knocks at the door. I pray for ears to hear him when he calls from the shore. And I pray for the “yes” to answer him when he asks for our more.

May the holy and gracious presenting Love of a Father’s heart be your portion as you walk this week. It is his joy to give you the abiding truth and fellowship of heaven’s native Son. As always,

post signature

Copyright © May 2009 – Elaine Olsen

PS: If you want to spend some more time in God’s classroom via a long ago breakfast on the shores of Galilee, then hop over to John 21 and let the truth of that moment be the truth of your moment with Jesus today. The winner of Kennisha Hill’s “Simply Wisdom” is Joye at The Joyeful Journey. Congrats, Joye. Please send me your snail mail via my email, and I will send you Kennisha’s book. Shalom.

Ruby Tuesdays: A Mighty Woman (part seven)

Ruby Tuesdays: A Mighty Woman (part seven)

“She is like the merchant ships, bringing her food from afar.” (Proverbs 31:14).

In 1957, my mom walked across the stage of Bob Jones University and received her degree in “home economics.” You heard me … “home economics.” She would later go on to share her wealth of wisdom with less than appreciative junior high and high school students. She wouldn’t teach long, at least not within the walls of a school building.

But today, some fifty years down the road, class was, once again, in session. Mom still teaching; a student still learning. The classroom? Her kitchen. The subject matter?

Freezer jam.

Strawberry jam. Jam that’s been rolling around on my taste buds for the past thirty years. I suppose that I should have learned her techniques earlier. Heaven knows, I’ve been ringside to the canning process on multiple occasions. But rather than learning her secrets as my own, I’ve been content to simply “borrow” from the fruits of her labor and to stock my freezer accordingly.

She’s always been willing for me to do so. That’s what mother’s do … feed their children, at least they should. My mom has been faithful to that doing for forty-three years now. I can always count on her to give me her best when it comes to both the bounty of her table and the overflow of her heart. She is generous on both counts.

Mom has always had a knack for making the most out of our dining table. Undoubtedly there were seasons throughout my growing up years that required her creativity alongside a fledgling budget. Meals were always balanced with ingenuity and, on occasion, were beautifully decorated by some extras. But the jam? It was always in ample supply at mealtime.

I am thankful for that. We all need some staples in our lives—some things around our nightly tables that can be counted upon to be in attendance. The main course might vary, but the “sure and the certain” should remain. Why? Well, because we are a people in need of some sure and some certain.

When we arrive at the end of our “9 to 5’s” and gather up our “empty” for the “feeding”, it’s good to imbibe the comfort of some certain. A mighty woman … a woman worthy of a ruby’s bestowing … is a woman who brings some sure and some certain into the lives of those who sit under her influence.

She searches for it; watches for it. Runs to the market for it; banks on it. The intention behind her labor springs from a heart that understands that her table serves better when it is dressed with the comfort of certainty.

My mother gave that to me; she still does. She did so today as she watched and hovered and taught and sowed some of her wisdom within the soil of my understanding. Every now and then, I saw a glint in her eye; I certainly heard it in her voice. There was something insistent and purposeful about it all, and I was blessed to sit under her tutelage.

After the process was finished, I found a scrap sheet of paper and began to write down all the “extras” that weren’t scripted into the recipe. Extras that add to the mix and make for a better outcome. Extras that belong to a mother’s wisdom and a mother’s love that are willing to share tips and secrets and “how to’s” for the dressing up of an extraordinary table. Extras that I hope to one day share with my daughter when, in a season to come, she sits in my kitchen to receive her heritage—

the sure and certain of a family’s faith that’s been sitting down at the table of grace every night with the sure and certain of some jam alongside.

Jam and Jesus. An acceptable conclusion to a day’s doing. An ample seeding for a night’s rest.

May it be so for each one of us this day. Thus, I pray…

Bring us, Father, the sure and certain of heaven’s wisdom and truth as we gather our hearts in worship around your table in this hour. Teach us for we are stubborn in our learning. Show us for we are blind in our seeing. Sow into us all of your extras that make our lives shine with the witness of having sat under your tutelage. Thank you for bringing us your “food from afar” and for feeding us with all the tender care of a Father’s great love. Strengthen our hearts to mirror the same for our families, our friends, our country, our world. Amen.

Copyright © May 2009 – Elaine Olsen

post signature

 

PS: Please join us for more Ruby Tuesdays’ post over at Refreshmoments. We’d love to see more participation. Mary explains it all over at her place. Also, the winner of Celia Whittler’s “One Wish for You” is skoots1mom. Please send me your snail mail, and I will get your book/cd to you in swift order. Shalom.

beyond the sippy cup…for Colton

beyond the sippy cup…for Colton

When you were young, you were prone to accidents. I thought age would cure it. I kept waiting for it to happen … a season of maturation that would nip said tendencies in the bud.Soon, you’ll turn eighteen, and albeit your accidents mask differently these days, you’ve still got a knack for knocking things over, tripping on rugs, and leaving a trail of milk and cereal while on the way to the couch. We used to tease you that you would be taking your sippy cup with you to the prom.


Tonight, you proved me wrong. I looked for it. I didn’t see it. Instead I saw something different. I saw a young man on his first date, struggling to “get it right,” all the while making his mother proud. There were a few tenuous moments while working the Velcro to attach the corsage, but in the end, you … my boy … gave me a lovely remembrance.


We’ve come a long way son; together we’ve struggled in our maturing, but always have we loved. And I love the man that you are becoming.


Thank you for letting me mother you for a season longer. Soon you will walk across that stage and then, walk on … on to a next that walks, in part, without me. I know you’re ready. I’m not quite there. But just in case I forget to say it in the flurry of the next few weeks…

It’s been my privilege to call you son and to watch you grow beyond your need for sippy cups. You stand at the edge of an extraordinary “next.” Your God has made sure of that, and I will continue to applaud each milestone with all the proud and joy that this mother’s heart can hold.


I love you, Colton. Tonight, you made my heart smile. Deeply. Richly. Far beyond what I ever imagined possible all those years ago. Thanks for allowing me to love you imperfectly. Thank you for forgiving me accordingly.Your best days are ahead of you; walk them … live them … like you mean it, and may you always know in Jesus Christ,

post signature

a mother’s grip … a Father’s shadow

a mother’s grip … a Father’s shadow

“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the LORD, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’” (Psalm 91:1-2).

I noticed it today while perusing my family Easter photos.

My grip on my son’s arm. Fingers that were content to grab rather than to gently frame. It is a telling photo, friends. One that speaks a witness as to the current condition of my heart. Mine is a heart gripped by the fragments of a broken trust. A heart that is afraid to believe that all is, indeed, well with my soul and that all will continue to live well in the days to come.

God is my shelter, my rest, my refuge and my fortress. In Him, alone, I need to put my trust. I don’t always do it, but I need to; thus, I will speak it, even if I don’t always fully feel it. Why?

Because it is the truth. God’s truth. And His truth is based on fact, not on emotions. If emotions were the rule of the day—the foundation behind our reasoning—our building of anything is as naught and crumbles to a quick death and dust accordingly. That is why truth exists apart from feeling. Feelings often come as a rich flavoring to truth but cannot be relied upon to paint a whole and accurate picture.

I know. I spent most of my forty-three years painting an inadequate faith. Over the past few weeks I’ve been faithful to add a few more brushstrokes to the mediocrity. It doesn’t paint extraordinary, friends. Instead, it paints usual, average, customary and just plain ordinary. Perhaps even less.

There are reasons behind my less. There always are. We don’t live less faith because we suddenly decide that “less” is a better swallow than “more”; there is always a driving force behind our less, and for me, that force has been rooted in a deliberate and difficult inward pause to examine the passage of time.

How quickly it comes; how easily it goes, and how fleeting is its remembrance once it has passed.

I notice it more profoundly these days. Age does that. Having a son turn twenty does that. Having a second child graduate from high school does that. Having conversations with aging parents does that. Having a daughter who has finally become too heavy to carry does that. Having a reflection that wrinkles and a frame that wearies does that. On and on I could chronicle the ways in which I’ve noticed the uncompromising and severity of a clock’s ticking.

And while I’ve long wished for the passage of time in younger seasons, this is the season when keeping it contained seems more urgent, more pressing and increasingly, more necessary. This is the time when the hugs squeeze tighter, the grip holds firmer, and when the words “I love you” speak clearer. Forty-three years of passing the time have given me a gift of sorts.

The gift of understanding … of realizing just how profound each moment should live. Consequently, when it’s not living … when moments collect and accumulate and are lived like moments to burn … well, I struggle. It seems they should, each one, live better—breathe with meaning and walk on purpose.

Good in theory; more difficult in the carry through. Why?

Because we somehow have fooled ourselves into thinking that time is ours to control. That another day is ours to live. That what was left undone in our today can be taken care of in our tomorrow. That moments can be replicated, redone and replenished because forty-three years have afforded us the witness of their abundance. That tomorrow … that next week and next year … well, there will be more.

That’s the difficult tug of my heart, friends. The struggle of my trust in this season of living. I want more moments that matter. I want to be a conscientious time-spender. I want to capture time, not squander it. I want to profoundly seed my light and influence into the lives of those around me, and then I want to watch them grow and multiply and burgeon beyond my initial investment.

What I want is time. What I’ve been given?

This moment in time. Right now. My isolated heart beat. My breath that goes in and out of me like a vapor. That’s it.

There are likely to be a few more beyond this one, but who am I to say? Who are you to make me that promise? God holds our bookends, friends. Our beginnings and our ends. In between, we are given but a few moments of influence on this earthen sod. They are passing in swift order and will soon be the history of another generation to remember.

And while it shouldn’t make me sad, while God doesn’t intend for me to stay mired in my emotions regarding time, He’s allowed me a moment in this season of living to pause before its authority over my life and over the lives of those I hold dearest.

It is a worthy pause, and as I continue to mine its worth, I do so seeing another picture emerge from an Easter family photograph. Zooming out from my initial grip on my son’s arm, I see something else. I see a shadow. A father’s arm … a husband’s arm that frames both my son and me into the bigger picture. It is a telling photo that speaks a witness as to the current and always condition of my Father’s heart.

A sheltering love; a shadowing rest. A refuge and a fortress Who holds time as a friend, and Who holds me within its grip for good reason and for extraordinary purpose. This is a picture I can trust. This is a faith I can believe. This is the sheltering that I need, thus I pray…

Keep me there, Father, nestled within your shadow and content to abide close near your heart. Frame my life within the timing of your will. You’ve given me my beginning; continue to shelter me as I journey toward my end. You are that end, God. May the moments that I walk forward from this one be filled with the shadowing truth that all moments walked with you, walk living and on purpose. Thank you for a Love that will not let me go. Amen.

Copyright © April 2009 – Elaine Olsen

post signature

error: Content is protected !!