living God’s truth | Elaine Olsen

Do You Hear What I Hear?

December 19, 2008

UPDATE ON CD WINNER BELOW…

“Do you not know? Have you not heard? The LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. …” (Isaiah 40:28a).

Do you hear what I hear?

I wish you could have.

Heard what I heard.

Last night at the Durham Performing Arts Center.

Piano man extraordinaire, Jim Brickman, and his ensemble cast including…

*the earthy and gutsy voice of Anne Cochran.
*the pure and tranquil voice of Canadian sensation Mark Masri.
*the raw, unedited, yet perfectly tuned six-string electric violin belonging to Tracy Silverman.
*the rich and full orchestration of the accompanying North Carolina Symphony Orchestra.

To give words to such an event risks lessening the experience, but I thought I should try … at least in part.

Last evening’s “night on the town” was a gift to me. One I had been planning for months. I am a Jim Brickman fan. His music takes me places. His artistry is a rare gift. A mix of God-given talent coupled with a willingness to tend to that gift. And when the two merge as one, when the divine enabling mixes with the fleshly obedience, the result is breathtaking. Life changing. The stuff of kingdom living as it was meant to breathe and to walk on this side of eternity.

Thus, when I heard that Jim would be performing nearby, I purchased four tickets. Two for Billy and me. Two for my parents. A surprise for the people who know me best and who, perhaps, love me the most. Some pauses are worth the pocketbook, friends. Last night was one of them.

From the first note on the keyboard, to the final bow of our host, I sat spellbound. Perched on the edge of my expectation, I could have lingered for hours. The Christmas carols were in full bloom, along with some of Mr. Brickman’s most endearing melodies. Two hours and a few tissues later, it was over.

Still and yet, the music and the memory lingers.

The totality of participating in something far grander than my limited attempts at living accordingly is worth the pennies that I pinched to take me there. To see and to hear the fullness of artistry in motion and in living color is a rare and precious privilege for this home-spun girl clothed with a heart full of dreams and a past full of heartaches.

Last night was about believing. About recapturing the hope that scripts my heart with the truth that my life was meant to sing its worth, even as it has for my new musical friends. And while I don’t know where they are in their faith journeys … if they even understand from where their giftedness roots … I believe they have some inclination.

Who can sing the witness of the Savior’s birth while harboring the totality of darkness within? At least they were willing to allow their gifts–their voices and their instruments–to be the stage for the Song of the season.

The Christ Child. The Joy to the world. The Hark behind the angels voices. The Babe of the silent night. The most important Gift under our trees and upon his own this Christmas season.

As Christians, we all house the immortal, invisible, highest ranking and soul-changing Spirit of this living Gift. He makes his humble home within our feeble flesh. It doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t seem right; still and yet, he has allowed his musical score its voice via ours.

Through our songs. Our words. Our pens. Our work. Our homes. Our churches. Our kindnesses. Our love.

Regardless of your capacity to carry a tune or to play an instrument, your Father has endowed you with a gifting all your own. Yours doesn’t necessarily look like mine, and mine? Well it’s taken me the better part of forty-two years to be settled on the fact that mine doesn’t have to voice like yours.

As children, created in the image of the Most High God, we house the seeds of eternity within (Ecc. 3:11). And when those seeds are coupled with our willingness to tend to this unmerited yet freely given divine favor, the results are breathtaking. Life changing. The stuff of kingdom living as it was meant to breathe and to walk on this side of eternity.

Do you hear what I hear? Greater still, are you walking the truth of that hearing? I wish that you would. It is your privilege to do so. It is mine, also. Thus, may we all endeavor to walk the obedience of such a sacred listening.

God continues to write his musical score through the likes of you and me. And that, my friends, is the best Gift of Christmas we will unwrap in this and in every season of our lives. As always,

PS: Congratulations to Cheryl B. for winning an autographed copy of Jim’s “Homecoming” Christmas CD (my personal favorite). Please snail mail me your email Cheryl.

An Upwards Abundance

December 18, 2008

“Lift up your heads, O you gates; be lifted up, you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in. Who is this King of glory? The LORD strong and mighty, the LORD mighty in battle. Lift up your heads, O you gates; lift them up, you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in. Who is he, this King of glory? The LORD Almighty—he is the King of glory. (Psalm 24:7-10).

We’re not an “up” people. We should be, but all too often, we choose the lateral.

After all, lateral is easier. Less dizzy on the focus and less straining on the neck. However, a life lived at the lateral level never levels with the lavish of heaven. It may walk straight and in step with tradition, but rarely does it boast the bounty of an upward endowment. Whenever we refuse a rising glance, we risk missing our Father’s descending glory.

His bounty and his abundance, raining down upon us to bless us, relieve us, assure us, and to personally love us in a way that is tenderly bestowed upon us because of our upwards invitation.

How much of our Father’s grandeur have we missed because of our lazy and horizontal approach to “doing life” with him? I shudder to think upon such foolishness in my own heart and life because today, I personally witnessed the abundance of my Father’s raining blessing.

Literally.

We’ve lived in our current home for almost five years. Two pecan trees border our back yard. Year after year, we dread the Fall raking because of the remnants they leave behind.

Rotten pecans.

Inie, my friend down the road, also has a couple of pecan trees. Year after year, she collects them as her treasures rather than trash. She shells them, packages them, and then sells them for a profit. And while she’s always been quick to share her bounty with me, I’ve always been a bit envious of her budding trees while mine remain my annual hassle.

I’ve been thinking about them as of late. The weather hasn’t permitted a back yard’s raking. Consequently, the pecans have become gravel beneath my feet as I make my way through the back yard to my running path. I’ve nearly lost my religion on a few occasions. Pecans make for a slippery slope if one is not careful to notice their pebbled existence. Today was no different.

My foot caught a pecan, and my ankle entreated a familiar twist.

“Darn those pecans. It’s time to rake this carnage away.”

No sooner were the words out of my mouth when I noticed something different on the grassy surroundings. Intermingled with the rotten was a crop of seemingly new pecans. Their color and texture were different from the others. They looked like Inie’s. Not only did they resemble Inie’s pecans, they tasted like them too.

Healthy pecans.

Falling unnoticed and unappreciated from the tree in my backyard. Hiding amidst the rotten, yet visible to the one intent on the find. On the looking up and on the noticing of God’s bounty clinging in submission to the vine and waiting on the Father’s holy nod of approval for the drop into my backyard.

For weeks now, I’ve refused the upward glance. Not because I didn’t desire the bounty of my trees, but simply because I no longer believed in the possibility of them bearing any fruit. I’ve grown accustomed to my under producing trees.

As it is with my pecan tree, so it goes with my faith. A faith that hinges on the fruit of a single tree.

A Calvary tree whose raining glory spawns an abundance that landscapes humanity with the color and texture of grace. With the taste of a ruby red wine that bleeds pure and drinks remembrance. With the health and vibrancy of a clinging submission that waited until his Father’s hold nod of approval allowed him his drop into my heart.

How often have I refused the possibility of that tree? How many times have I chosen the lateral over the upwards because, quite frankly, the rising glance has been too straining on my understanding and required a submission that I was unwilling to relinquish? What is the abundance that I have “settled” for rather than receiving the abundance that my Father has determined on my behalf out of his riches in glory? When have I believed less, received less, simply because I have reasoned his tree to mean less?

The fact is, Jesus Christ and his glory often remains the unnoticed and unappreciated raining abundance of heaven in my life. Instead of looking up to receive his descending glory, I’ve grown accustomed to a downward approach–to the rotten, worldly abundance that landscapes each day and that entreats my feeble feet to a most treacherous dance.

And therein lies the rub.

Looking down … living down … never yields the fullness of heaven. Heaven’s bounty can only be gained by looking up and by living with an upwards approach to doing life with Jesus. Can he be found amongst the rotten?

What do you think? Where have you seen him today? If you’re like me, perhaps you’ve seen him amongst the rotten and within the lateral. He came and lived among us—lives among us—for this exact purpose. To be seen and felt and tasted in a world that is experiencing a swift and final decay. God doesn’t mind descending into our lateral.

But he’s easier to find in the “up.” His glory is less cluttered, less trampled and more distinguishable when it rains … reigns … in solo.

I don’t know how long my pecan tree will continue to rain its treasure down upon me. Winter will soon walk her cold, and the limbs will stand empty for a season. Still and yet, my Father spurs my vigilance toward an upwards glance. He reminds me that Spring will soon follow. New buds will come and new fruit will begin to grow its abundance. And while I may never glean the harvest of healthy pecans from this tree again, I will never make the mistake of assuming its limbs no longer house the possibility.

God authors its possibility. He authors mine. His abundance has fallen into my life once again. My “up” and his “down” have been the sacred joining that has allowed my King’s glory a raining upon and within me that boasts the truth of heaven.

“Lift up your heads, O you gates; lift them up, you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in. Who is he, this King of glory? The LORD Almighty—he is the King of glory.”

He is yours. He is mine. The glorious fruit of his Father’s Vine. Look up and receive your kingdom inheritance this day.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of his abiding and promised Holy Spirit, Amen.

~elaine

Well, friends, not sure how much I’ll be around in the next week. I’ll be doing what most of us will be doing…being reindeers when necessary and just generally being filled up with all the stuff that makes Christmas, Christmas. I’ll be checking in with you and maybe even posting some further pictures and, perhaps, some more thoughts from my father, “Chuck”. Rest assured, that as I count my blessings of 2008, meeting many of you and furthering our friendships through blogland and otherwise has been one of the richest treasures of the past year. I love you each one and consider it my joy and privilege to be yoked alongside you in this season of our lives. Keep looking up. Our Father has some blessing he wants to rain down into your heart. Shalom!

Walking our Heritage

December 16, 2008

“And everyone went to his own town to register. So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. (Luke 2:3-5).

We walk our heritage. What roots us moves us. Our family lineage reveals our steps. Past, present, future. Whatever our “was” has shaped our “is,” and now we journey its truth. And if we know the truth of Truth, then our steps are forged and shaped by the confines of a wooden cradle.

Both at Bethlehem, and then at Calvary.

Neither could contain him, yet both were the necessary pause of his sacred heart. I cannot fathom the worth of such surrender, but I am trying. It’s been difficult for me this year. I’m not sure as to the reason why, but regardless of the struggle, my obedience remains steadfast.

Each day I awake with my feet pointed eastward and my eyes cast to the sky. My heart looks for signs and wonders and lingers in the hope of catching a single glimpse of heaven’s Applause—the One who slipped into my heart, even as he did his mother’s on the night of his birth. Every now and again I witness the splendor of that hope. This past weekend held a few such moments.

On Saturday, my family, alongside the members of our adult choir, pilgrimed through the hallways of four local nursing homes. We sang our faith as we went. Carols—one of the purest measures of the Christmas tradition that remains untouched, despite the worlds attempts to the contrary.

One by one, doors began to open. Smiles began to form. Minds that have long since closed off their capacity for reasoning began to mouth the words in unison with ours. I saw tears. I wept some of my own. Hugged necks. Gave good wishes and watched my young children walk their heritage in a way that would tug at the heart strings of even the most cynical. Why make the journey?

Because we are a Jesus people, and the family bloodline runs deep. He has called us to the hallways of life. To the least of these who need to remember the hope of a long forgotten story that is closer now to its conclusion than it has ever been. Especially for them as they stand on the edges of their “next.” Perhaps the reason behind their smiles. Greater still, the reason for their remembrance of the words.

There’s something about the song, friends, that never loses its power … that forever holds its worth. That always speaks the Truth.

After leaving our group, we decided to continue our pilgrimage and stopped at a local church to view a live Nativity scene. We watched as a real baby struggled in the cold and with the confines of his own wooden cradle. I imagined, alongside the imaginations of my children, what it must have been like on the night of our dear Savior’s birth. Less noisy, I’m sure. Surrounding highways don’t bode well for atmosphere. Certainly less cameras, unless you count the eyes of heaven. Most assuredly, that first Bethlehem night embodied more light than the illumination of my flash photography. I’m quite certain that the angels created a brilliancy untouched by human comparison. Still and yet, for all of the ways this manger scene fell short of the real, it came through on the one measure that mattered.

Remembrance.

And we Jesus people were better off for the time spent walking the memories of our family bloodline. A story that no longer belongs to one couple, but instead belongs to all of humanity. To you and to me. To those who’ve come before and to those who are soon to follow. To all who are willing to cradle the baby Jesus close to their hearts and claim him as their own.

There’s something about that remembrance that never loses it power … that forever holds its worth. That always speaks the Truth.

Our final stop of the evening took us to a well-lighted neighborhood, notorious for huge participation in the Christmas season. House after house. Scene after scene. A festival of lights, and a feast for the senses. Our favorite house sits toward the back; the owners go to great lengths to tell Christ’s story in completion. From the angel announcing the wombed arrival of Jesus to Mary, to Bethlehem’s cradle, to Calvary’s cross, to Easter’s resurrection. Each scene is worthy of deliberate pause.

Thus, we obliged. Stopped the van long enough to linger in the moment and for me to take a few pictures. When I returned to the car, my daughter was in tears. When I asked her as to the reason for her wet, she replied, “Mommy, I don’t want Jesus to have to die again.” Her heart was hurting, and I understood. I don’t think she has ever seen a depiction of Christ’s crucifixion that grabbed her emotions at the level that this one did.

The story came to life for baby girl as she witnessed her family bloodline in deeper measure. She’s only just begun to trace her roots, but the cross’ hold is one that never loses it power … that forever holds its worth. That always speaks the Truth.

Indeed, we walked our heritage this past weekend, and it wasn’t hard to see Jesus. He came to us in a song, in our remembrance of his birth, and through the tears of child whose faith is being shaped by a Father who intends for her steps to be forged by the necessary pause of his sacred heart–Calvary’s pause.

An intention that calls to each one of us from the cradle and from the cross and that beckons our feet homeward to remember our bloodlines and to register our names. That is the truth of Truth. That is the walk of Christmas. May we all, like Joseph, return in expectant obedience to the scene of our Bethlehem beginnings. It’s our privileged right to do so, for we are of the family of the Most High God, and a baby—his Son—awaits his birth in our hearts and through our witness.

Come quickly to Bethlehem this day. Your salvation draweth nigh. Seek him now, while he still may be found. As always,

~elaine

PS: The “Ancients” are coming for lunch at my house on Tuesday, and you know how I love my ancients! Wish you could share the table with us. Shalom.

Loving Deposits

December 12, 2008

“Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth. … Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.” (1 John 3:18, 4:7-8).

I went to the bank to make a deposit this morning. It is a doing I’ve been doing for a long season.

As a child, I would often accompany my father to the bank and watch him make his deposits. They were occasions filled with greetings and laughter and the simple joys that came with growing up in a small town where everyone knew my daddy’s name and offered me, because I was his daughter, the obligatory nod of approval. I always walked out with a lollipop. Most banks still honor the tradition—a small punctuation of thanks for the exchange of trust between client and banker.

I appreciate my bank even as my father appreciated his. And lest you think it was and is all about the transaction of money, bank visits with my father exceeded the customary function of the visit. Deposits were, indeed, the order of the day. Not solely in terms of cash, but more fully in terms of something far greater.

People.

When daddy went to the bank, he did so knowing that there would be on occasion for him to invest his love into the lives of others. In fact, going anywhere with my father yielded such a platform. He’s a people person with a generous heart to match. Watching him love is one of the noblest classrooms that I have attended as a student of the human race. His hugeness of heart for humanity is where mine began. And while his capacity for loving easily eclipses mine, I caught his spirit early on, and it’s been working out its perfection in me ever since.

Loving pure and loving big. The overriding and constant prayer of my heart.

When I examine the outgrowth of the fruit of the Spirit as scripted in Galatians 5:22-26, love stands at the helm. Without it, every other manifestation of the Spirit’s seeding breathes less. And when I walk in understanding of the magnitude of the Gift I’ve been given, I am humbled by the reality that my love often walks lacking.

The Purpose Driven Life has coined the mantra “It’s not about you,” but the purpose driven Elaine usually banks to the contrary. On my best days, there is still an awful lot of me in the mix. Thus, the constant prayer of my heart for the filling up and the spilling forth of God’s immeasurable love, not mine. Left to myself, my love deposits less—impure and small and of little worth in my Father’s kingdom economy.

My words and my pen may voice big, but at the end of the day, have my actions proved accordingly? I don’t want to simply write love, I want to live love … what my friend, California Kristen, would call “being the evidence.” Am I the living and breathing witness of God’s reach to humanity, or am I simply keeping my investments … my deposits … close to the vest? Are my transactions with others limited to the safe and the perfunctory, or do they extend to the deeper level of a heart to heart exchange?

Good questions to ponder this day. Not for condemnation’s sake but for eternity’s.

What we do with God’s love matters. If loving comes naturally to you, if the outgrowth of your inward pulse speaks love, lives love, and unwraps love in lavish measure, then there is something of our God living in you. You may not fully understand where your propensity for loving comes from, but its anchor holds in heaven, gripped by the hands of the Almighty Father who’s always been in the business of making deposits.

For our gain and for his glory.

God is love. He has gifted us with the capacity for knowing his love and for being his love to others. And while it sometimes might be more convenient and less messy to skip the process, as Christians, love is our requirement. No one gets a pass on this exam. Rather, it will be the measure of heaven’s reward.

“God is love. When we take up permanent residence in a life of love, we live in God and God lives in us. This way, love has the run of the house, becomes at home and mature in us, so that we’re free of worry on Judgment Day—our standing in the world is identical with Christ’s.” (1 John 4:17, The Message).

When love “runs the house,” love rules the heart. And a heart ruled by love is a heart that is welcomed by a world in need of its deposit. Be it…

in the bank.
at the check out line.
in the doctor’s office.
at a school program.
in a courtroom.
in a classroom.
in a restaurant.
in our pews.
around our tables.
at the bedside of loved ones.

Wherever our journey leads, love in action is the one investment that seeds eternally. Thus, a doing I’ve been doing for a long season. A bank “deposit” that not only nourishes the flesh, but also tends to the soul as well.

Perhaps this day, in some small or huge way, there is “bank” awaiting your loving deposit. It probably won’t look like mine; no matter. God’s love breathes in all shapes and sizes and dimensions to fit specific needs. Your requirement is simply to come alongside his heart and to complete the process. To put action behind the thought and to “be the evidence” of your Father’s residency within.

It’s the stuff of small town living with a focus toward big kingdom gain. A day in the life of a believer, where laughter and joy abounds because others recognize our heavenly Father by name and give us the obligatory nod as his children. A sacred punctuation for the exchange of trust between man and his Maker. Between me and my God. Thus, I pray…

Help me to love, Father, even as you love. Fill me to overflow, and keep me making deposits accordingly—into the lives of others for their gain and for your increasing glory. You have entrusted me with the gift of your love. Let my actions and my obedience breathe with the witness of such a lavish endowment. And when I am tempted to love less, to invest safer and to the withdrawal therein, remind me of my family bloodlines that trace back to heaven and that require my privileged participation in the matter. Let your love run my house and rule my heart this day. Amen.

Copyright © December 2008 – Elaine Olsen. All rights reserved.

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To make a “deposit” like I did this morning, please visit Indiana Krisen at “Over the Backyard Fence” for this recipe of pumpkin crisp.Worth the baking, friends. I promise! Shalom.

A Night’s Pause … A Morning’s Grace

December 6, 2008

*Note: update on winners below.

I am awake this morning. Earlier than I want to be. I could have used a few extra hours of sleep, but my dreams took a turn for the worse and forced my notice …

“You are better than this, Elaine. You don’t have to go there.”

“But I want to, Lord, just for a few moments.”

“You can make that choice, daughter. But in doing so, realize that you don’t travel this road unaccompanied. You travel it with me and with my knowing.”

And with that brief exchange, I am undone, as I remember my grace and just exactly what price was paid for its rightful place in history. No dream or action rendered accordingly is worth the blood that was shed on my behalf.

Dreams.

They are our occasional portion. We don’t ask for them. They simply find us. Dreams give us some limited permission to flesh out the unspoken seedings of our heart. For good or for ill, dreams allow us walks down roads we might not otherwise journey. Roads that are sometimes welcome; roads that are sometimes better left untraveled.

The latter has been my swallow this morning. In the moment and as it played itself out on the stage of my unconsciousness, it tasted sweet. But unconsciousness quickly turned to conscious awareness, and with that discovery, I had a choice to make—

To nurse the dream with thoughts of action or to surrender its hold to the cross of Jesus. And while others might voice their “let it go” and “it’s just a dream”…

I know better. What surfaces in the night can quickly become the sin that plagues the heart and the mind during the day. Better to surrender quickly. To confess and to allow grace its rightful place in my heart. Hardly seems fair; after all, I didn’t go to bed asking for a forgotten desire to rouse from its designated grave and to sing her song onto the stage of my thoughts. I went to bed with Jesus on my mind and with his song in my heart.

An odd coupling—Jesus and my sin. But then again, maybe not. Maybe just exactly as this life was meant to walk. My sin … his notice.

Why do I tell you this? Why do I cloak myself with a brilliantly bright computer screen in this dark hour to pen my confession?

In part, because confession is good for the soul. Bringing a night’s pause into the light diffuses the mystery of sin’s grip.

In greater part, because I want you to realize that for all of the ways that my life breathes with the witness and understanding of Jesus Christ, there remains a thorn of sorts. A portion of selfish flesh that continues to work itself out in me. Sometimes great. Sometimes small, but nevertheless still present. Still nagging. Still requiring my surrender and my increasing thankfulness for God’s grace that simply covereth.

I imagine that these fleshly thorns of mine will continue their prick. For as long as I tarry in this frame, there remains a tension between my earthly cloaking and my heavenly one. Remember God’s Plow and My Longing?

But in this moment, in this hour as the sun begins its approach to my soul, the thorn pricks less … bleeds less and reminds me that the battle hasn’t been lost in the night. It began there, but it finishes with the reminder of a sun’s illumination—a Son’s Light—and I am forever grateful for another day to be a better person.

To make better choices and to grow in my faith and understanding of all things sacred.

I don’t know how this strikes you today. I don’t know if anyone needs the witness of my penned confession. But if my feelings serve me correctly (for there are many occasions when they serve me incorrectly and to my contrary…), I imagine that there is some worth in bringing their voice to paper. Thus, I offer my heart and my pen and ask God to use them both as only he can.

For his glory. For his gain. For his grace that bled and shed its portion so that we could rise above our flesh and walk in victory over our sin.

It’s a good day to walk with Jesus, friends. I don’t know how your agenda reads, but I plan on squeezing in a lot of Christmas preparations around my thoughts of him.

An odd coupling—Christmas preparation and Jesus. But then again, maybe not. Maybe just exactly as this life was meant to walk. My preparation … his arrival. Thus I pray,

Come, Lord Jesus, and illuminate my heart with the truth of your grace. Thank you for a night’s pause and for the witness of your cross even there … in the midst of my dreaming and my thinking that sin cannot find me. It did, but so did you, and I am humbled by your willingness to meet me and challenge me with the higher road. In this moment, I choose better. When the next moment arrives, prick my heart with the same awareness of my “now” so that my path walks higher and greater and beyond where I am today. Thank you for Calvary. Thank you for Christmas. Grace and Expectation. An extraordinary gift to me in this morning. Amen.

~elaine

Congrats to Sassy Granny, Yolanda, and Debbie for winning a copy of Sara Grove’s O Holy Night Cd. Girls, please email me your snail mail so that I can get it to you in quick order. Shalom.

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