Category Archives: family fun

living with a 92%…

My son came home sobbing yesterday.

“I can’t do it again, mom. It’s not fair. I missed one problem on my Math test… one problem, and she’s making me take it all over again. And she said it would be harder … 28 problems instead of 12. I made a 92%, and it wasn’t enough, mom. I can’t do this.”

He kept repeating the phrase as he collapsed onto his bed in a heap of tears.

“One problem… one stupid problem.”

It was then that I had a problem… an angry kind of problem. A problem that wasn’t going to work itself through quietly. This time, I would not ignore the injustice. This time, I would speak up on behalf of my son and his diligent efforts at trying to “make the grade”… his grade … the fifth grade.

Jadon has a learning disability, not unlike many of his peers. It’s been difficult to adequately diagnose his issues over the years. Some term it dyslexia; others ADHD. Still others, a combination of both and then some. I’m not convinced about his labels. There doesn’t seem to be one that accurately describes his problem. Consequently, I spend a lot of time trying to educate his teachers about how to best educate him. This learning process, both for him and them, doesn’t always flow smoothly. Case in point? Yesterday’s debacle.

We’d spent a lot of at-home hours preparing for this Math test. Angles, parallel lines, polygons and the like had been on the after-school menu for several days. S.E.V.E.R.A.L. D.A.Y.S. Those of you who have kids with similar issues get this one. No small amount of blood, sweat, and tears were shed in preparation for this test, not to mention all the other tests that are being crammed into these final days of the nine weeks. Accordingly, we would have been happy to take our 92% (yes, I said “ours” as this learning process is a collective effort) and walk away with a smile. Instead, Jadon’s achievement was met with disapproval and with his tears as he realized, yet again, that a 92% was not enough to appease his teacher’s expectations. Those who scored a 100% received a pass on a second test; those who didn’t score perfectly will sit for another try at it this morning.

And I am angry. Not because there isn’t merit in trying to do better (especially for those who bombed the test) but because a 92% is Jadon’s better and should be celebrated rather than diminished.

Is this where it begins, readers? When did we start believing that our 92%’s aren’t good enough? Did it start in our younger years at school? Maybe even earlier in our homes when the beds weren’t made perfectly, the toys weren’t organized correctly, the dishes weren’t rinsed properly, the clothes not folded correctly? When did our best efforts at living life, accomplishing life, become not good enough? Further still, who gets to make that determination?

I’ve spent my lifetime feeling the weightiness of my 92%’s. Rather than celebrating my achievements, I’ve languished in my desire for perfection. Rarely have I been satisfied with the outcomes of my efforts, and there have been others who’ve been all too willing to agree with my personal assessments. There have been times when a 92% just didn’t cut it.

As a daughter.
As a sister.
As a student.
As a wife.
As a preacher’s wife… twice.
As a mother.
As a friend.
As a writer.
As a homemaker.
As a teacher.
As a speaker.
As a patient.
As a survivor.
As a Christian.

Time and time again, when my best efforts didn’t warrant personal celebration. Times when I was forced to take a second test, a third one, in hopes of getting it right, making my grade, all the while choking through my tears,

I can’t do this … it’s not fair. One stupid problem … one stifling obstacle keeping me from a 100%. I’m not good enough, not smart enough, not spiritual enough to past this test. My learning disabilities are preventing my perfection.

Perfection. Isn’t it time we move past our notions regarding our 100%’s and start living in the realities of our 92’s? Sweet ones, hear me on this one. Our perfection is coming. Each day that we live with Jesus Christ and his Holy Spirit as our compass, we move further along in the process of our perfection. From glory to glory, one beautiful, God-shaped step at a time. We’re getting there, being conformed into his likeness with every deliberate faith-filled choice we make and with every heaven-filled grace we’re given. We’re getting there. But, until we do, wouldn’t it be gloriously freeing if we could celebrate our best efforts … our 92%’s? Why must we continually force an expectation on ourselves and others that is impossible to achieve on the front side of heaven?

Would it be alright for us to celebrate the gains today rather than to unnecessarily focus on our almost’s? Is one stupid problem tripping you up and limiting today’s effectiveness, today’s joy? I know that we should always strive to be and to do our best, to be God’s best. To tell you to live lesser would be a false teaching and not in line with biblical standards. But when our best levels at a 92%, couldn’t we just acknowledge that achievement with joy and call it a win? Call it enough?

I don’t know what test you’ve recently scored a less than perfect grade on. I don’t have to look too far back in my history to find mine. But as I see it today, I’m willing to afford some grace to the situation and to realize that all is not lost with my 92%. In fact, there’s been some great gain because of it. I’m not perfect, not yet, but I’m closer today than I was yesterday, and so are you.

Give your best at living life today. Give it all in the name of Jesus Christ, and then let it be enough. A 92% in God’s book is pretty darn close to glory. Keep to it, friends, knowing that the grace of God is working in your heart and life to finish you home perfectly. Look toward that end while taking the time to celebrate the progression. I love your 92% and so does our Father. As always…

Peace for the journey,

coming home to daddy’s arms…

My dad is the funniest man I know. Not the stand-up comedic kind of funny, but the everyday conversation kind of funny. As the man walketh, so does his humor. Those of you who know him well, know this to be true. Those of you who know me well, know this also to be true of me. I know this shocks some of you. I’ve even heard it from some of you upon meeting me for the first time.

Elaine, I thought you’d be this serious, contemplative type of person who sits around all day thinking profound thoughts about God. Instead, you’re funny.

I’ve never been offended by the conclusion. After all, I write about some fairly heavy stuff here at “peace for the journey.” But I like knowing that I can be both—contemplative and humorous. I have my father to thank for this genetic DNA. My daddy makes me think and makes me laugh, sometimes within the span of a few minutes. He’s the most generous man I know, giving the best of himself away to all who cross his path. He’s not impressed with things, more importantly, not impressed with himself. He is, however, impressed by the story. Your story; my story; God’s story.

My daddy sees God everywhere, because my daddy is connected to life. To joys and pains equally. To highs and lows. Griefs and graces. Sorrows and celebrations. Regardless of the occasion, my dad has discovered how to live with a balanced perspective. My father lives contentedly and always tempers the tough times with large doses of humor.

I’m so glad I still have him around. He was the first man to ever hold me, to ever love me. The first man to wipe my tears, to tell me bedtime stories, to pray the prayers that all good parents should be praying with their children. He was the only man who loved me when others would not … could not. And his were the arms that stretched wide-open for me and welcomed me home after a long season of loveless wandering in the wilderness. In doing so, my daddy told me the story of Jesus all over again. That one moment in my personal history did more to script the eternal witness of God into my life than any other.

And so, today, I tell you again this story I’ve told you before via this video that I posted on my one-year blogging anniversary, nearly three years ago. It’s a bit painful for me to watch it, considering the many miles that have been walked in the time since first posting it. But one thing, one thread remains the same to this day.

My daddy is still stretching his arms wide-open to welcome me home. He’s still making me laugh, still telling me stories. Still connected to the world, and still making sure that I know the way back to Jesus. Today, I honor my father by sharing this witness again. He’d want you to know that, even if you’ve never had an earthly daddy to love you, you have a heavenly Father who loves you perfectly and whose arms are stretched wide on your behalf.

I love you, daddy, for so many reasons, but none more so than for telling me … showing me God. You tell him well!

~Lansey 

a trunk full of love…

Love blooms… September 10, 1996

I love my husband. He speaks life into my weariness and watches over my heart as if it were his own. When the crumbling begins, he comes alongside me to tenderly cradle my pain and to keep it safe from further intrusion. I cannot measure the worthiness of such a gift. Over the course of our marriage, even well before we said our “I do’s,” my Billy was loving me the Jesus way—the Ephesians 5:25 way. Without his protection and his careful attention to the details of the “all” that makes up me, I’d be off-balance and more confused. I’d be lesser of a woman, lesser of God’s woman, and I would be lonely. Thank God for the good sense that fostered my saying, “I do” nearly fifteen years ago. Thank God for the current emotions that have finally caught up to my reasoned decision back then.

Billy and I are in love. It’s an easy love these days, but this hasn’t always been the case. We’ve grown into our love, and today I thought it would be a worthy use of time (and ink) to reflect back on that day when I knew that I knew that I knew that I loved Billy Olsen. I thought maybe you’d like to come along for the ride.

The year was 1996. The autumn colors had just begun their descent onto the rolling hills of the Kentucky bluegrass. Soccer season was in full swing for my two young sons, adding to my burgeoning load as a single mother. My days were spent working at Asbury Theological Seminary; my nights spent managing the lives of my children. It was a good season of living for us, added to by the fact that a certain preacher-in-training had taken an interest in the three of us—a strong interest. At this point, Billy and I had been dating for several months. Early on, he professed his love for me; I, however, was a bit more cautious about declaring the intentions of my heart.

Until that day.

A call came into my office in the morning. Billy was checking on me and interested in seeing what our evening plans might include. Soccer and grocery shopping ranked high on the agenda. This wouldn’t be a good date night. Too much to do; too many responsibilities pressing their urgency into an already full schedule. There would be no wining and dining for us that evening. Just more of Billy living with the realities of dating a single mom. Romance would have to wait, or so it seemed. Prior to finishing the work day, I received a second call from Billy.

“Elaine, I know tonight isn’t a good night for us to get together. I know how busy and how tired you are. I’m fine with that, but do me a favor before heading out to soccer practice. When you get home from work, be sure to look in the trunk of your car. I’ve put a little surprise in there for you.”

I thanked him for his kindness and assured him of my cooperation. Billy was brilliant when it came to surprises. I, however, fell short of remembering to look for his that particular day. The afternoon routine quickly moved in and any prior anticipation about the contents of my trunk was buried beneath homework, soccer cleats, and the gathering of grocery coupons. It was only after my sons and I were buckled into the car and had begun our descent down the driveway that I remembered my surprise. I thought about delaying its unveiling until we reached our destination, but fearing that the surprise might wilt or melt, I put the car in park.

“Boys, we’ve got to check something before we leave. Billy left me a surprise in the trunk, and I need to get it out before we leave for practice.”

The three of us unbuckled our seatbelts and made our way around to the trunk. What could it be? What had his love for me done for me this time around? What measure of romance could he cram into the back of my ’94 Nissan Sentra? Would it really be enough to move me past my hesitation of love’s declaration and closer to saying “yes” to a forever with this preacher-in-training?

It was enough to move me, friends.

When I opened up the trunk, there wasn’t a bouquet of flowers awaiting my collection. No chocolate in sight. Nothing I could wear; no perfume to sweeten me. In fact, most would say there was nothing romantic about the gift inside, but I would say differently. That particular day, Billy Olsen surprised me with a token of love that emphasized his willingness to take care of my boys and me.

He’d done my grocery shopping… packed my trunk with many of the non-perishables that he knew we used on a regular basis. From cereal to soap to laundry detergent and beyond. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and in that single moment, my heart swelled with love for a preacher-in-training named Billy Olsen. On that day, I thought to myself…

Billy Olsen may not have a job yet; his hair is long, he hates wearing shoes, and his clothes are always wrinkled. Granted, without knowing his heart, I probably wouldn’t pick him out of a line-up as future-husband material. But I’m pretty sure that his love for me will keep him doing these kinds of things for me for a long time. When I’m eighty, he’ll still be going to the grocery for me; he’s still going to watch over me, maybe even change my diapers if need be. Billy Olsen is the keeping kind. The real deal. He won’t let me down. He’s always going to love me and my boys, no matter the cost. Billy Olsen is here to stay.

Billy’s generosity that day had been the best kind of loving, sweetest kind of romance moment that I had ever been given. And here he is, some fifteen years later, loving and serving our marriage with the same level of genuine romance that was displayed on that autumn night during our courtin’ days. Billy still calls to check on me, goes to the grocery for me, and has (on occasion) had to lend a hand at cleaning me. I don’t mind telling you this, because I happen to think that I’ve snatched one of the last good, godly men left on this earth. If every man would love his wife this way—the way that Christ loves the church—then there would be far more women willing to love the same.

Billy and I share a good love. I probably could have survived with less, but God saw to it that I would flourish with more. Our love feels like life and grace and hope to my heart, and I’m so grateful that I get to wrap my arms around its tender comfort today.

And Billy… if you’re reading this… would you mind picking up some milk, eggs, butter, and a full box of encouragement on your way home? No one can stock a pantry… no man can strengthen a heart quite like you! I love you, my preacher-for-real.

~elaine
When has someone filled your “trunk” with love? How might you do the same for someone else this week?

STRONG… {the Word of God has spoken}

My son came home early from school one day this week. Allergies and a corresponding headache were to blame. I quickly developed a headache of my own when I realized the mountain of homework that resulted from his premature departure from the classroom.

Ugh. Big Ugh. Guttural Ugh.

Homework and I are not friends. It is a constant drain on the energy in our household, most of us boasting a few scars from the woundings that have taken place over the years. I’ve been through the fifth grade with my children three times now. Four if you count the first time when I was a student in Mrs. Hitch’s classroom at Wilmore Elementary. Images of having to wear a red velvet dress and white sandals for a speech contest flash through my mind. So does the image of Mrs. Hitch disciplining me for chasing Robbie L. around the classroom in order to pounce on him for teasing me about said dress. Unlike my son, I didn’t have an educational learning issue—just a people one. I’ll let you decide which is worse.

But I digress. Back to homework, to a poorly feeling boy, and to his mother who was less than thrilled about completing missed assignments. We started with the easiest—Math. Worked our way through the worst–History, Science, and Language–rounding the bend with Bible. Yes, Bible. Our kids attend a Christian school. Having never worked through a Bible lesson with him before, my curiosity was peeked. The day’s lesson?

Bible tracts. What they are, how they’re used, and the overriding hope and purpose behind a small piece of paper that is easily transferred into the hands of total strangers. The lesson emphasized the powerful effect of a tract by citing examples of real, life-changing encounters that have happened as a direct result of a tract being received. The lesson also made mention of the fact that, with these examples, few words were spoken between the individuals in the exchange. Simply a transfer of material between two hearts, two hands. The question for the student (and for this less than cooperative mother/teacher) was, “What does this tell you about what’s written on the tract?”

Both of us sat with the question for a few minutes, and then I asked my son again.

“Jadon, if this small piece of paper, written with a few words from God’s Word, has the power to change a heart and lead a person to surrendering his/her life to Jesus Christ, then what does it say about the words on this tract?”

He thought for a long time. I could tell the wheels were turning in a right and proper direction, and then he responded … better than I thought he might.

“Strong. They’re strong words, mom. If they can change a heart, then they are strong.”

Lesson learned by a boy. Lesson re-learned by a grown woman.

Powerful and effective is the Word of God, strong enough to stand on its own, with or without my own words alongside. God’s Word doesn’t need my words to make it true, to make it right, to make it worthy. Sometimes fewer words from my lips is the better course of action when it comes to the dispensation of God’s truth. Sometimes human dialogue, wordy platitudes, and self-impressed knowledge can hinder truth’s progress. Sometimes it’s just better to let the strong Word of God breathe.

Strong. There’s strength there, friends. When was the last time you released God’s Word into the air, into the heart of a loved one, a family member, a stranger and let it breathe without your manipulation?

I trust in the strength of God’s Word, and I am humbled by the privilege and charge that has been entrusted to me as a child of the King to share it with others. I may not always share it eloquently; more than likely I’ll stumble and bumble my way through the process. But in the end, God’s Word will stand. Not by my might, but by the power and strength of the Mighty One whose Word cannot be undone. Only realized as truth.

Realize Him, this weekend. Recognize Him. Remember Him. Release Him. He will do the rest. As always…

Peace for the journey,
~elaine

a new year of learning…

And so … we begin again.

Quite a contrast to where we were standing a year ago. A year ago, our nerves were raw with anticipation and expectation for the beginning of a new academic year. New school; new teachers; new friends; new everything. Brother handled the transition better than sister. She couldn’t even eat her breakfast a year ago. Today? A big bowl of Cookie Crisp and smiles to go around.

What’s the difference? Why the shift from stress to relief, not just for our baby girl but for all of us on this beginning day of the school year?

One reason. The once “new and unfamiliar” feels more like “old and familiar.” Like habit. Like routine. Like safety. A previous year’s worth of education in a new school has earned our trust, and all of us are better prepared for the learning that is sure to take place in the upcoming year.

As my children enter into their 4th and 5th grade classrooms this morning, they do so with confidence. Alongside them, I re-enter my own classroom. I haven’t a clue what the curriculum will include this year, but I’m willing (like my children) to strap on my book bag, pack my lunch, and sharpen my pencils. Several years’ worth of education in the classroom of life has earned my trust, and my confidence rests solely on the Teacher behind the lectern. I pray not a minute wasted and for a teachable heart willing to receive and apply the instruction from the Father’s heart.

Old and familiar, yet new and necessary. Like habit. Like routine. Like safety.

Even so, Lord Jesus, I come to the classroom today. Show me your heart. Teach me your ways. Strengthen my frame. Lengthen my days. The curriculum belongs to you; the learning belongs to me. Humbly I submit my mind, heart, and soul into your loving tutelage. Amen.

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