living God’s truth | Elaine Olsen

Where the Heart Is…

June 23, 2009

I sensed my son’s immediate discomfort with the statement spoken to him by a local parishioner while waiting in the check-out line at Wal-Mart:

“Sure bet you’re glad to be back home.”

Nicholas squirmed for a gracious response.

“Yes, sir. It’s good to be home.”

Even as he spoke it, I felt the painful cut that seared his heart with more clarified precision than that of a sharpened knife. The words weren’t intended to hurt, but they did. They reminded my son of everything he’s been trying to process since returning home from Bolivia.

If home is where the heart is, then my son’s home (at least for the “right now”) resides somewhere in the remote mountainous village of Tacachia, Bolivia. He spent the better part of a week walking its soil and tending to its harvest–a harvest that exceeded the fruit of the land to include the fruit of relationships.

The Kory Wawanaka Children’s Home (an orphanage sustained through the Methodist Church of Bolivia) houses nineteen orphaned children, ranging in ages from three to thirteen. When Nick first visited their community last year, the orphanage had four residents. Newly licensed for operation, the home has experienced strong growth in every way during the past twelve months.

It was especially meaningful for Nick to witness the growth of the past year. The “pulse” behind the work there is strong and evident, stirring his heart for further involvement.

“I want to go back, mom. And not just for a week. I want to stay longer next time.”

Next time.

My heart can barely get around these past “two times.” Still and yet, I listened to him pour his heart out over cheeseburgers and fries during a mother and son outing. I knew it was coming, this unwrapping of his feelings. Even as his emotions welled with the “telling”, mine welled with the listening.

God is moving Nick’s heart in a new direction. The shaping that’s taking place is what I’ve prayed for his entire life. In fact, I’ve prayed that prayer for all of my children over the years.

That they would, each one, know early on in their lives what God would have for them. That they would walk in their calling in their twenties rather than waiting until their forties to figure it all out. That they wouldn’t spend their days wondering about what they were supposed to be doing but rather would spend them knowing that whatever they were doing, they were doing so with an eternal purpose in mind. A kingdom purpose.

That they would find God, sense God, believe God, and know God in the everyday and mundane of a life that doesn’t always make sense but that is content to walk hand in hand with One who possesses perfect sense and understanding for the road ahead.

That they would listen to the promptings of God’s Spirit within and not brush it off as a momentary whim or selfish fancy. That they would, in fact, trust in the truth they’ve been given as children of the Most High God. A truth that tells them God is living and active and moving on their behalf and that because of this “constant working” they shouldn’t be surprised when he shows up on the scene of their lives, prompting them to keep in step with his leading.

God is faithfully answering those prayers for Nick. I heard it in his words and saw it in his eyes as we shared a table and bared our hearts to one another. And while Nick has always imagined his life to be headed in a certain direction, God is asking him to imagine bigger. To dream better; to see beyond his raw capabilities and to, instead, take hold of his sacredly bestowed giftings.

That kind of living, friends, is where it’s at. God has planted his own seeds of promise within our lives. When we begin to see those seeds harvest toward kingdom gain, then our hearts, like my son’s, welcome the growth of a new soil. In fact, our souls can’t help but cry out for it. For the untilled lands of an untouched country that is completely and “holy” surrendered to the idea of God’s unlimited possibilities.

As we connect with that kind of “heart-stirring”—when we begin to see our lives framed within the context of a greater good rather than within the parameters we’ve so carefully and comfortably created for ourselves—then we walk our part in the Great Commission. We walk our callings; no matter the location; no matter our age; no matter if we have the credentials or the education to go alongside.

We simply and profoundly walk our faith with all the confidence of heaven as our guide. We don’t worry about the particulars. The details belong to God. But the steps?

Well, they are ours to journey, whether here or abroad. When walked with the Creator, every step moves us closer to him … to heaven, where the final proclamation of our earthly life will resound in perfect unison with perfect wisdom…

“Yes Sir, it’s good to be home.”

No tears; no pain; no more wondering about our callings. Just rest for our hearts in the place where they were always intended to land.

Home.

By the grace of God I’ll get there; by his grace so will Nick, so will my other children. So will you. Thus, I pray…

Thank you, Father, for meeting us in this day. For showing up on foreign soil to till our hearts for kingdom purpose. For allowing us the “wrestling” of some things that further shape our understanding about how you intend for our lives to live. Give us the courage to “work the thing out” before you, with you, depending on you so that because of you, we come to a greater place of obedience to you. Use our pain to teach us Father, even when it hurts and our preferences call out for its burial. Meet us in those deep places; stir us all the more, and keep us to the pilgrimage of a final grace that will walk us home and welcome us fully. Amen.

PS: I’m in the mountains this week; the picture above stands as my witness. Nick has promised me a post regarding his own thoughts about his trip. I hope to have it by week’s end, along with some pictures. Shalom.

The River’s Edge

June 19, 2009

“He said to me, ‘Son of man, stand up on your feet and I will speak to you.’ As he spoke, the Spirit came into me and raised me to my feet, and I heard him speaking to me.” (Ezekiel 2:1-2).

The Spirit of the living God lifts us. Raises us. Enables us and strengthens us to receive the sacred words from a Father’s throne.

Without the Spirit, our posture remains prostrate, heads buried beneath the weight of an Almighty glory that exceeds our capacity for receiving. Coming into unified fellowship with the presence of God requires the strength and understanding of his Spirit alongside.

Without him, we lie as limp. Without him, we live the same.

God hasn’t called us to limp living—to shuffling our way through this world with nothing more than the cravings of our sinful nature to guide us. No, God has called us to an extraordinary existence with his Spirit as our guide and with his thoughts at the helm.

We will never live God’s “extraordinary” without our first entreating the witness of his Spirit.

Ruwach. The wind and breath of the triune God. He was there in the beginning, hovering and bending over the waters of the dark and deep. Waiting; contemplating, gathering steam and energizing Father God’s thoughts into action.

As New Testament believers, we often chronicle his beginnings with Pentecost. In doing so, we short change the truth of the Trinity. Just because his mention is seemingly less frequent in the Old Testament doesn’t mean that he wasn’t there.

He’s there. He’s always been here. Even as God IS, he IS. There is no separation between God and his Spirit. We receive him fully when we accept his Son, Jesus Christ, unto ourselves.

God is a package deal. Most days, however, we don’t live with that understanding. Instead, we settle for less because our hearts and minds refuse to believe that the God “up there” is actually the God “in here”—within our hearts. We are the place where he chooses to make his home despite our confusion in keeping him abroad.

So often we are like the Israelites who gathered at the River Kebar in their exile with their stubborn unbelief in tow. Like them, we can trace our royal bloodlines; we live with the truth that we are, in fact, the children of God. Still and yet, we refuse the fullness of just exactly what that means. In doing so, we wear the same labels as that of our spiritual ancestors.

Rebellious. Obstinate. Stiff-necked. Difficult. Unyielding. Hardened, and ultimately, exiled.

We miss the mark when we miss the fullness of the triune God. Before long, we, too, find ourselves stranded at the river’s edge wondering as to what went wrong and how many steps it will take for us to return to the Promised Land of our yesterdays.

This week, I’ve stood at the River Kebar, looking into the distance and searching for the presence of my Almighty God. I’ve longed for the breath of his Spirit to blow across my arid soul and to speak life into my “limp and lame.” And just this morning, when I finally bowed low enough and long enough, I felt the flutter of a gentle breeze blow across my heart.

Faint at first but louder with every moment that I kept my silence and allowed God his voice. As he spoke, his Spirit came into me and raised me to my feet, enabling me to hear some truth I’ve been hoping to hear for a long season.

He reminded me that his Spirit is for me. He’s for you too. Without him, we live as limp. friends. With him, we live extraordinary. Why? Because God’s Spirit gives and lives with all the generosity of heaven. He…

Controls us (Romans 8:6).

Enlivens us (Job 33:4, John 6:63, Romans 8:6).

Teaches us (Nehemiah 9:30, Isaiah 50:4, John 16:13, 1 Corinthians 2:13).

Reminds us (John 14:26).

Bears fruit through us (Galatians 5:22-23, Hebrews 2:4).

Intercedes for us (Romans 8:26-27).

Transforms us (2 Corinthians 3:17-19).

Completes us (2 Thessalonians 2:13).

Frees us (2 Corinthians 3:17).

Raises us (Ezekiel 2:1-2, 3:24).

Corrects us (Nehemiah 9:30).

Follows us (Psalm 139:7).

Remains on us (Isaiah 44:3, 61:1, Luke 1:35, 4:18).

Leads us (Matthew 4:1).

Counsels us (John 14:26).

Strengthens us (Acts 1:8, 1 Corinthians 2:4).

Fills us (Acts 4:31, 9:17, Ephesians 5:13).

Reveals to us (1 Corinthians 2:9-10).

Resides in us (1 Corinthians 6:19, 2 Corinthians 1:22, 1 John 3:24).

Defends us (Ephesians 6:17).

Speaks for us (1 Corinthians 2:13, 2 Peter 1:21).

Identifies us (Romans 8:15-16, 2 Corinthians 3:3, 5:5).

Indeed, the Spirit of God raises us up to live at a higher level than what is customary and expected. When allowed—when anticipated and expected—he transforms our everyday lives into his everlasting purpose that exceeds an existence at the river’s edge to engage the roar and pulse of a river’s ride.

That’s where I want to live with God. Riding the river’s wild in sacred trust rather than limping along the river’s edge in temporal doubt. Perhaps, this day, you want to live the same.

If so, I encourage you to further investigate the role of the Holy Spirit in your life by a deeper examination of the list above. Receive the truth and witness of what you’ve been given through the shed blood of Jesus Christ on the cross. Walk in that truth, knowing that even as he hovered over his waters in the beginning, he hovers over your heart just now…

waiting; contemplating, gathering steam and energizing Father God’s thoughts into action.

May you feel the breath of God’s good Spirit beneath your feet today. Rise and partake of his extraordinary presence. As always,

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PS: The winners DJ Cole’s CD, Your Grace, are Lisa from Sharing Life with Lisa (#9) and Heidi (#22). Congratulations ladies. Please send me your addresses once again.

A Fine Child

June 10, 2009

“Now a man of the house of Levi married a Levite woman, and she became pregnant and gave birth to a son. When she saw that he was a fine child, she hid him for three months. But when she could hide him no longer, she got a papyrus basket for him and coated it with tar and pitch. Then she placed the child in it and put it among the reeds along the bank of the Nile. His sister stood at a distance to see what would happen to him.” (Exodus 2:1-4).

The Nile is a difficult “letting go.” A hard release. A gut-wrenching surrender.

It was for Moses’ parents. It is for me.

Tonight I stand on the riverbank of the Nile and watch my son from a distance as he boards a plane at Raleigh-Durham International Airport, heading toward the mountainous regions of Bolivia. He will spend ten days at an orphanage, tilling the land, repairing the chicken coops, working on latrines, and playing a pick-up game of soccer on every occasion.

He will bathe little; sleep even less. Stomach Bolivian delicacies and try his best to speak the language he’s been intensely studying as his college minor. He’ll make me proud, of that I am sure. Others will love him, of that I am more certain.

And while all of this makes my heart smile with gratitude for the man he is becoming, there is a pang of sadness for me. Not because I desire to keep Nick to myself, but rather because I won’t be alongside to watch the unfolding of this “fine child” before the eyes of others. Moments and memories that I’d like to scrapbook for myself will be given as a remembrance to those who stand further down the river’s bank, eagerly awaiting his arrival and anticipating his participation in their lives.

I see the bigger picture; it’s been growing in me for a long season. God has amply supplied me with a series of “letting go’s” that continue to shape my heart for sacred surrender. They always make me cry, and I’ve never shied away from their wet. I simply allow the tears a spacious place to land in order to water the growth of my tender soil … my fragile soul. I pray them not to be too much, but rather just enough to seed my pain with some purpose.

It’s a good prayer to pray, especially because our “letting go’s” are going to arrive. It is the way of a forward journey, regardless of our willingness to stand still and not move one moment beyond this one. How much better would it be to allow our moments of “needful release” to birth in us a sacred shaping that will serve a better end—both ours and God’s.

Moses’ parents understood this better than most. They were commended for their faithful release and duly memorialized for it in the Hebrews “hall of faith”:

“By faith Moses’ parents hid him for three months after he was born, because they saw that he was not an ordinary child, and they were not afraid of the king’s edict.” (Hebrews 11:23).

By faith, they hid their son. By faith, they released their son. By faith, they watched their son from a distance. By faith, they understood that their son was no ordinary child, but rather a “fine child” destined for a better end than that of most of his contemporaries.

By faith, we should equally trust our Father with the release of our children to the River Nile.

They’re all “fine.” Special and beautiful and worthy of the nod of heaven. Like Moses’ parents, from the moment they’re born, we hide them. Shelter them beneath our wings because we understand that while heaven has marked them with eternity, hell has marked them otherwise. For destruction—as ordinary, expendable, unremarkable, and worthy of the nothing more than a swift slaughter simply because they carry the bloodlines of a King.

But three months passes quickly. Eighteen years for most of us. For a few of us, a painful and difficult less. For a few of us, a painful and struggling more. Still and yet, there comes for all of us a moment at the river’s edge. A time of release when we must find our peace at a distance and trust that Father God has something bigger and something beyond us that awaits our children on the other side of our hard surrender.

We may not see his wisdom in it all; rarely do we catch a full glimpse of our children’s forever. But occasionally we have an inkling—a heavenly whisper reminding us that, indeed, there is a wisdom that exceeds understanding. A “more” that is coming because of our willingness to “let go” and “let God.”

Tonight, I “let go” again of the son I dearly love. It won’t be the last time my heart is called upon to make such a surrender. But I do so in the spirit and strength of my spiritual ancestors who better understood the painful trust of a difficult release. Thus, I speak these words of release to my Nick as he flies the night sky and as I try to find him there, amidst the stars and dark that separates our flesh…

Go with God this night, my son. Sail the Nile with all the trust of heaven to guide you, shape you, strengthen you, and mold you into the man that God has intended for you to be. I will be keeping watch, but my arms aren’t long enough to catch you this time. God has orchestrated events accordingly. He means for me to stand on the riverbank while you engage with the wild and wet of a river that calls for your participation. You are a fine child, and you were meant for more than my arms. You were meant for the world. Embrace it, and it will embrace you. It’s time that others discover the wealth of who you are.

And just in case they don’t, if for some reason they reach any other conclusion, you can be certain that I’ll be waiting at the river’s edge to welcome you home and to remind you of just how extraordinary you truly are. I love you, Nick. I’ll see you on the other side of your river’s ride.

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Prelude to Genesis

June 7, 2009

“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.” (Genesis 1:1-2).

Thought precedes action.

Always.

We may not be aware of the processes that coordinate behind the scenes to fuel our accomplishments, but they are there. Existing and simmering to bring about the plans of our heart … to walk the dreams of our creative impulse.

Thoughts are the stuff of creation. Without them, our lives walk accidental, void of purpose, and full of happenstance. And if that’s the case, if life is but an inadvertent pause birthed through inconsequential measure, then God is no longer needed. Rather, he is relegated to the role of an occasional participant in the Creation story when we need the story to make sense. When our thoughts force us to fill in the blanks of our beginning with some semblance of reason.

How callous we’ve become in our approach to our Genesis—to the whispers of all things Edenic that breathe a story much bigger than the one to which we’ve grown accustomed.

Six days of creative impulse and then a seventh to sit back and to reflect.

Doesn’t quite do the process justice, does it? We think it does. We’ve perfected our telling of said process, and on most days, I am quite content with a faith that walks so simply. But in doing so, in accepting the “flannel graph” version of Creation as presented to me in my youth, I miss the depth and the breadth of a beautiful pondering.

I miss God’s thoughts in the process, and to miss God’s thoughts in any process is to neglect one of his most sacred gifts to us as his children—

to think with the mind of Christ (1 Corinthians 2:9-16).

Thus, rather than sitting on the backside of Creation’s completion … rather than pulling up a chair on a seventh day to sit and ponder the fruition of a week’s hard labor … I carry my chair to the front side of our beginnings. To the moments that gathered and filled and served as the prelude to our Genesis.

They are there, not figments of a wild maybe, but real moments that are yet to be recorded by man’s pen but that are fully scripted in the annals of heaven. Our God is eternal, and with Him is our beginning, our end, and our every breath in between. Accordingly, as the pages of our Genesis unfold, we find Him already present.

Waiting. Hovering. Contemplating the dark and the deep, the formless and the void, knowing that out of his cauldron of wet, he would pour forth and plant the fruition of his thoughts.

Somewhere between seemingly nothing and everything, God lingered with his thoughts and with the endless possibilities that were his to write. To create and to birth. To fashion and to form. To measure and to mold. To perceive and then to paint.

See God there, staring into the face of the deep and monitoring the reflection of his thoughts as they gaze back at him. Pause and consider the moment. Linger long enough and full enough to grasp, at least in part, the magnitude of your beginnings.

There, amidst the ripples of blue skies and earth’s grass, stars and galaxies, flamingos and bluebirds, peach trees and rose bushes, amidst the swirls and inklings of all manner of species, comes another ripple. Your ripple. Your face, presenting itself as a possibility on the canvas of God’s forever. Your life reflecting back into the face of your Creator.

Imagine that moment, and if you’re still standing, find your knees and your gratitude for the truth of such a beholding. Long before you imagined your Father, he imagined you and lovingly decided that, indeed, you would play an important role in his creation. That you would bare his likeness and that his “goodness” would be declared over you, even though he knew you would be prone to declaring otherwise.

Your created life didn’t begin inadvertently. It began with the thoughts of God, long ago and far way in a distant dark and wet that hosted his hovering and that boasted his canvas. You aren’t his accidental impulse. You are his intentional pause—his deliberate holding until such a time as this when your seed of his Genesis’ prelude has finally bloomed into the living witness of his creative genius.

That, my friends, is what pulling up your chair to the front side of creation will get you. A truth that exceeds your sixth day arrival. And while some would argue that God worked up to our creation—that somehow after five days of a busy work week he finally yielded his best—I would say that his best was birthed long before that sixth day ever arrived. Why?

Because thought precedes action.

Always.

In our minds and in God’s. And since his mind exceeds ours and his actions all the more, our faith should grow in the belief that we are and have always been seeded with his eternity. Indeed, it is a story that is much bigger than our occasional flannel graphs and our reasoned grasp. May God grant us the wisdom and the willingness to walk its depth and to speak its grace with the whispers of the Genesis prelude pulsing in our hearts as we go. Thus, I pray…

Thank you, Father, for thinking up me. For pausing long enough to count my ripple worthy of your kingdom canvas. I cannot fathom such grace, such favor on my behalf; nonetheless, you’ve allowed my voice a melody or two alongside yours, and I am undone with the gift. Thank you for the blood of your Son that counts me worthy of any measure of kingdom influence. You, alone, harbor the seeds of my beginning and the punctuation of my end. You’ve seen it all; you know it all, from the prelude of Genesis until now, throughout forever. May I always harbor the certain and secure faith that comes from such a sacred knowing. Amen.

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PS: This article recently appeared in the March Issue of “Exemplify” (an on-line ezine). To download the June issue and read other back issues, click here.

Waiting

June 3, 2009

“I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.” (Psalm 27:12-14).

Today has been a day of routine waiting. From the moment my feet hit the floor, it’s been full speed ahead, pushing the various duties of my life through the motions and then some more. It’s not been bad … just full.

In the midst of my commotion, God gave me a couple of moments. Moments I would have missed had I not been waiting. As I consider them now, they seem a better trade for the stress of my waiting.

First, I met Jenny and her infant daughter, Lily Ann. Like me, they were waiting in the office of a local oral surgeon. I was waiting for a consult with the doctor; they were waiting for “husband and dad” to emerge from his wisdom teeth surgery. After perusing magazines for over an hour, I finally put down the “Good Housekeeping” and made my way over to the couch where they were sitting.

Lily Ann was a delight. At six months old, she coos and smiles at the top her game. I couldn’t escape her drool or big blue eyes. Her mother, Jenny, was quite eager for me to engage with her beautiful daughter. At just twenty years of age, Jenny could have easily been my daughter. We talked and laughed and shared a couch for a good thirty minutes before her being called to pick up her husband at the side door of the building.

Prior to her departure, I told her about our church; she told me that since moving to the area five months ago (they are a military family from Athens, GA), she and her husband have been “looking” for a church. She grew up Baptist; I grew up Methodist, and when she asked me if we were close to being the “same,” I assured her that we were—that, in fact, God doesn’t look at our denominations. God looks at our hearts. I passed her my card, and we parted as friends.

One moment I would have missed had I not been waiting.

Moment two came on the floor of a local resale shop. My son was trying on clothes for his upcoming trip to Bolivia. I was contemplating my tired when a woman emerged from the double doors at the back of the shop. She made her way over to me and asked for my opinion about the two objects she held in her hands.

One was a polka-dotted cookie jar; one was an ornate flower vase, blue with gold etching. With some hesitancy, she stated her request…

“Which one do you think will hold more sand?”

“Excuse me, sand? What are using this for?”

“Well, my brother died yesterday; we’re having him cremated and will be taking him to the river to scatter his ashes. Which one do you think might work better?”

“Tell me what you think and then tell me something about your brother.”

And with that, the floodgates opened as Geneva spent the next fifteen minutes describing to me the events of the previous twenty-four hours. Bill died in his wheelchair while talking with a friend at his assisted living facility. Dead at the age of sixty-two without warning, leaving behind at least one grieving sister who was in search of his “casket” in a resale shop.

I hugged Geneva, told her I would be praying for her throughout the day and then encouraged her to leave the cookie jar and vase behind and head to “Michael’s” for her purchase. If I could, I would have gone with her, but this was not my journey to make. This was simply a divine moment given to me in order to “enter into” someone else’s pain.

One moment I would have missed had I not been waiting.

Jenny, her daughter Lily Ann, and Geneva. Three of God’s precious children waiting for me on the road of life today. I am not surprised by their arrival to my world; instead, I am profoundly thankful for the sacred intersection that allowed me a few moments of connection between my heart and theirs. What a privilege and blessing it was to be able to seed some comfort and love on behalf of the kingdom. God will do with it what he will; I am content to leave the outcome in his best-intentioned hands.

Moments. Split fragments of time that call for our notice and our willingness to engage with the heart of God’s people. We may not see them coming, but when they arrive, may we all have the good sense and the kingdom perspective to call them worthy of our attention and intervention.

Perhaps this day, you’ve known a “wait.” If not, I’m fairly confident that one is on your way. What you do with that “wait” is up to you. As for me, I’d rather spend it on behalf of a people who need to know the lavish love of my exceedingly good God. And while I don’t relish a long lingering in the doctor’s office or an unscheduled stop at the resale shop, I pause today to consider what I would have missed by not receiving their requirement.

I think this day better lived because of them; I think my heart all the more.

Live your moments like you mean them, friends. Make them count for something more than what they seem. As always,

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