Category Archives: pain

on being a "Luke"…

on being a "Luke"…

{for Nancy, my “Luke” today}

“Do your best to come to me quickly, for Demas, because he loved this word, has deserted me and has gone to Thessalonica. … Only Luke is with me.” (2 Timothy 4:9-11).
The words from his pen haunt me now, even though nearly two thousand years have passed since they were first inked onto parchment.
Only Luke.
Two words that paint a vivid portrait of comfort and pain all in the same brushstroke. To have a Luke is a special gift. To have only one, especially in times of intense suffering, is a difficult abiding. Why? Because sometimes our pain needs more than one Luke. Sometimes our prisons and our shackles, our tumors and our tumult better benefit from corporate comfort rather than the solitary efforts of the one. Sometimes we need the beauty of a bouquet rather than the bloom of a single rose. Sometimes… our woundings cry out with more need, more desire, more desperation than can be aptly handled by a single saint.
Sometimes, my good friends, we need the church.
You have been the church for me over the past six weeks. To chronicle the fullness of what that has meant would take too long and would, more than likely, leave out a few important mentions. I don’t want to risk it. You mean too much to me. Safe to say, I’ve felt the corporate touch of heaven’s hands in manifold measure. As God has prompted you, you’ve been obedient to yield to those promptings. Calls, cards, gifts, food, face-to-face visits, prayers… the list is endless. Your love has come in waves, ebbs and flows and currents that allow me to pause in between the pulse to reflect, contemplate, and be thankful.
I wish I could open up my heart so that you could peer inward for a closer look at the work of the cross. If I could, I have no doubt that any reservations you might have had regarding the faithfulness of God would be put to rest once and for all. You’d see him there, spilling over every crevice and gully of my being and filling me up to over flow. You might even get wet in the process.
But I can’t… physically cut open my heart and let you see. Instead, I give you my word… my many words in hopes that you’ll believe me when I say…
I am better for having you in my life than if our paths should have never crossed.
You’ve expanded my understanding about grace and God and about what it means to be a fervent pilgrim on the road home to Jesus. You’ve watered my feet and my soul with your servant’s posture, and you’ve walked a mile or two or ten in my shoes just because you could. Not because you had to, but because Jesus lives in you, and it is your pleasure to do so. I don’t fully understand you willingness, but I receive it as yet another undeserving grace from a God who keeps on giving, despite my readiness to sometimes hoard the blessings therein.
So thank you… for being the church. And thank you for being a Luke when God called upon to be one. For walking alongside my cancer and for sitting ringside to my pain. For offering your gifts and for bringing your “little” to the table so that at the end of the day, any king would be proud to pull up and chair and partake of the gracious plenty. I don’t know why you love me so much, but I am your willing recipient for this season. I only pray that when your turn comes—when prison bars and pain find their way to your heart—I’ll be as gracious in my giving to you.
To being your Luke. Or your Nancy (above picture)—a faraway friend who willingly receives your spur of the moment visit in order to gift you a haircut. And some gel to make that free haircut cuter. And some barbeque from the freezer to feed your family for the week. And some hugs and tears and prayers just because we’re friends.
Me your Luke. You my Paul.
Me your Paul. You my Luke.
I imagine that each one of us can claim one position or the other—the posture of a prisoner or the posture of a servant. I don’t know where you’re at today, but I do know that our pain belongs to one another. It is a gift we give to each other—the sharing of our pain—for God never intended for us to go it alone in this world. He means for us to live as one beneath the watchful gaze of heaven. When we get that… when we really take hold of what it means to bend and to bow, to wash and to serve all because of the One who first gave us the blueprint on loving, then hell’s determined purpose is vanquished and victory belongs to the King.
Tomorrow is another day to live your kingdom conferment. Someone will cross your path that needs the love and commitment of a Luke. Be that Luke, friends. Continue being and doing what you’ve been and done for me over these past weeks. And should you be the one in need, never fear to ask for more. To pen your words of request to our Father and then to make sure that letter gets into the hands of the saints. If there’s one thing I’ve been privileged to witness in the course of my cancer it is the unmerited, lavish love of God through his people.
I never knew it to be so strong. I never knew it to be so long and wide, high and deep. It stretches across my soul this night, even throughout the world. Even to a remote church in Estonia, but that’s another post for next time. Until we arrive there, may the love and peace of Christ rule in your hearts, and may the outward expression of that seeding intersect with a heart in need of receiving its nourishment. As always…
Peace for the journey,

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Layers…

Layers…

This morning, I found myself wishing that I was anywhere else but there… in that sterile environment, awaiting my turn at the scan machine. The milky cocktail I was given to drink (at least a quart by my estimation) messed with my stomach, more so with my mind. The “IV”? Just another reminder to me that pricks and pokes and prods will be the order of the day for the season to come.
And it was cold. And I was shivering… even through the two layers of warm blankets kindly extended to me by the radiologist.
Tears found their way down my cheeks on several occasions, and when I went into the round doughnut to play “dead” for at least forty minutes, my arms were strapped to my side. I had to remind my radiologist of my recent double-mastectomy that currently limits my range of motion. Holding my arms in the normal posture (over my head) was out of the question, thus the large velcro binding that fastened them to my side. And while I know in my head that this is nothing compared to what is coming in just a few days, it all felt too much, too scary, too “out-of-the-way” for the path that I’m on.
And I wished that it was over. All of it. That, perhaps, I could skip this “layer” and let my heart “catch up with the last layer” before moving on. That what is would quickly morph into what was and that my life didn’t have to walk this particular bend in the road.
But then ten o’clock arrived. Needles were removed; warmth re-established; hunger abated by a cookie at the cancer lounge before my departure. And I was thankful for the finish, for completing this layer and for its finishing work in me. I’m not keen on repeating it, but something tells me it’s now woven into my story and should it require an encore somewhere down the road, it will hold less mystery and more normalcy for my pilgrim heart.
Thanks for your prayers. Thanks for allowing your heart to walk this layer with me. I want to leave you with a beautiful “gift” my Uncle Bill gave to me this week… another poem! Laura, I know you’re laughing out loud, because you know my penchant for poetry in general. But this one is special—written from a tenderness and depth of understanding that pulls at my pain while alleviating it… all in the same breath.
What layers are you living this day, my good, kind, and compassionate friends?
Live them with the end in mind. As always…
Peace for the journey,
~elaine
Layers –
whether it’s a cake
or a life,
layers.
Time takes time
to do its thing,
layers.
Chapters, changes,
just-around-the-corner
challenges,
layers.
Sometimes they stack up
too fast, too high,
and when we try to peel them back
the new ones get in the way,
layers.
Lord, please hold the next one –
I would like to catch up
with the last one.
I’m lost in the
layers.
From a far,
the strata of my life is textured
with beautiful pain
that cries me to sleep
into a perfect dream,
a dream of
layers,
of colors that will not quit,
of sound and scent
that usher me toward the Holy
and helps me lean into the morning,
into the
layers
of a new day
where awareness whispers
My gratitude is greater than my pain,
my attitude is whole, and I shall remain…
Elaine – now and forevermore –
layered with a joyous childhood,
enriched through study,
toughened by circumstance,
blessed with romance,
fulfilled by family,
and completed by faith –
yes, I am Faith Elaine Killian Woods Olsen,
and don’t you forget it!
In those five names,
there are enough
 
layers
 
to carry me for a thousand years.
{written by Bill Killian, Sr.
a poem for Elaine Olsen, my niece
Sunday, September 19, 2010}

chapters…

Chapters.

We all have them. Our life stories are made up of them. Segments and seasons of our journeys adequately chronicled and punctuated, each ending half-way down a blank page, indicating to us and to the reader that another segue is about to begin. Not that what has been written up to this point doesn’t spill over into the next chapter; life certainly spills over. Rather we live with the understanding that some seasons must find their ending before a new one can find its beginning. Such is the case with my cancer. Yesterday both marked an ending of one chapter and the beginning of another one.

Yesterday, I made a final visit to my surgical oncologist, Dr. Habal, in Greenville. The evening prior, I made two honeybun cakes to deliver to him and the wonderful staff that supports him in his work. I also wrote a card, expressing to them my grateful thanks for their taking good care of me in this portion of my journey. For answering every phone call with energy, time, and grace. For handing me a tissue when need be. For being pleasant at every turn. For treating me as a person, not as a paycheck. For making sure that my “bad news” was delivered and processed in a good way, and mostly, for being willing to laugh at my jokes, cry at my words, and hug me as I left. Before my visit was over, I’d met everyone in that office, making sure to tell each one of them that, “What you do here matters. Every good and kind gesture is a gift you give to a family who has, possibly, just been given the worst news of their lives. Keep doing it; you do it so well.”

They thanked me, most of them through tears, and I felt incredibly blessed for having had this heart intersection—mine with theirs. I won’t return to their practice for another five months. In the meantime, I’ll begin living the next chapter of my cancer journey a little closer to home.

Introduce Dr. Bakri and the medical oncology team at Cape Fear Valley Regional Hospital. Over the next 4-5 months, I’ll be spending some time in their care as they manage my chemotherapy regimen. And while I am completely satisfied that my care will be given high priority and consideration, the “climate” in that place is a departure from the “climate” of Dr. Habal’s. It feels more clinical… more distant… more programmed… less warm. Perhaps it was the chemo chairs I saw lining a dimly lit wall; perhaps the patients bravely inhabiting those chairs. Maybe it was the dated wallpaper or tiled floors that added to my angst. Maybe it was the sobering reality that came from an hour plus discussion with Dr. Bakri—a reality that says “This is far from over and that reoccurrence is a strong possibility without treatment, 1/3 lesser with treatment.”

Reoccurrence. I hadn’t thought much about that. What I had previously thought was a relatively “done deal” (and naively so) is far from done, and the idea of having to undergo further needle pricks, stomach sickness, losing my hair in addition to losing my breasts—well, all was overwhelming. Rather than leaving that place with thankful tears and hugs all around, I left with my own tears of sadness and with a single man at my side who was feeling his own depth of pain.

My next chapter. I don’t much feel like baking a honeybun cake for anyone at this point, at least not yet. I imagine that once the mystery of it all unfolds, and I am a bit more comfortable in my taking up residency in one of those chairs, my heart will relax, opening up again to love and to invest in the hearts of those who sit beside me and those who are given charge over me. It takes a few pages to get into the meat of a new chapter. I’ll not write this one off yet, nor am I afforded the luxury of skipping it. Instead, I’ll plow through it, one word at a time… one sentence after another, one page at a time, until I see that ending half-page come into focus, indicating to me that another segue stands on the horizon. By the time I reach this chapter’s end, I pray that, like my fondness for the chapter titled Dr. Habal, I’ll have a similar fondness for Dr. Bakri.

To get there… to arrive at fondness…I understand that it’s mostly up to me. To my deliberate investment on the front end and along the way. To actively seeking out opportunities to interject God’s kingdom witness into my new environment, be it something as small as a smile or something as big as a conversation. Acceptance of a new chapter in my personal journey goes a long way toward making it matter… toward having it make sense. It’s the same with all of us.

Many of you are standing on the threshold of unimaginable change:

New job.

Physical change of address.

Divorce.

Marriage;

Parenthood.

Death of a loved one.

Kids leaving home for the first time.

Caring for ailing parents.

Caring for an ailing spouse.

New ministry opportunity.

New church.

New sickness.

New relationship.

__________________.

A new chapter is about to commence and, perhaps, like me, you’re having a hard time seeing past all the words, punctuation, and paragraphs that fill the upcoming pages. You want it to make sense, want to love it and claim it, live it and name it. But you can’t… not yet.

But you will… very soon. And if you’re intentional about investing yourself into the mix on the front side of the chapter, then you can be certain that when the chapter finishes, you will have lived it like you meant it. You will have done the hard thing of being engaged with your life—every letter, word, sentence, and paragraph. I imagine that some of the pages will live pretty “hard” for us. We won’t always feel like honeybun cakes and hugs and smiles. With every chapter comes a twist or two, a turn—an unexpected “reality” in the middle of daily expectations. I’ve had an ample tasting of the unexpected in recent days. But I’ve also tasted ample portions of something else…

Tons of grace, peace, joy, laughter, love, acceptance, sacred understanding, and a rich intimacy with God, family, friend, and stranger alike. These have been the blessings of my cancer thus far. And while I might have chosen for them to come to me via another route, I’m not sure if an easier avenue would have granted me enough desire to be as deliberate with regards to my investing. Pain and suffering have a way of bringing sacred desire to the forefront of our intentions. Pain can cultivate Godly perspective, and while I don’t believe for a second that God has allowed me this pain out of some desire to punish me or to get me in line with his will, I do believe that he can use this pain to shape me in order to influence those who will cross my cancer path in the days to come.

My next chapter. It has begun. It will continue for a season, and for as long as the Lord allows the ink to write, I’ll make sure to keep you updated… a few pages at a time. May the chapter you’re about to finish and the one you’re about to begin be filled with heavenly perspective and perfect Peace, Jesus Christ.

What you do here matters. Keep doing it; you do it so well! As always…

Peace for the journey,

~elaine

enough…

enough…


I tucked her under my arm and drew her close to my heart as I whispered,

This is enough, God. This is enough. This is real love… true love; love not based on performance or preference but loved based on personhood… on the truth that I am her mother and that fact, alone, is enough to warrant her affection.

Thank God she doesn’t wait until I get it right—until I jump through enough hoops or stroke her ego in hopes of negotiating her favor. She gives me her favor regardless. She loves me, most days in spite of me, because God has put it in heart to do so. He’s put it in the hearts of my other children as well.

I am a well-loved mother. A well-loved wife. A well-loved daughter. God has surrounded me with a select circle of connections to remind me, in part, of his unconditional love toward me. Through them, I come to better understand God’s “enough.” His enough continually spills forth on my behalf because I am his child, his created delight, his joy and his crown. Never once has he forgotten me, neglected me, forsaken or abandoned me.

God’s love isn’t based on my performance or on his personal preferences, but rather based on my personhood… on the truth that I am his child and that fact, alone, is enough to warrant his everlasting affection toward me.

God loves me because it is in heart to do so, and tonight I am grateful for his unchanging nature and all-powerful ability to keep to the task of loving me, preferring me, especially on days when it seems that the world prefers otherwise. Today, I stand on the truth of who I am in Jesus Christ.

Loved.
Chosen.
Adored.
Preferred.
Royal.
Dear.
Heiress.
Forgiven.
Beautiful.
Righteous.
Needed.
Longed for.
Bride.

This is who you are as well. The world may beg to differ, may stand in line to voice otherwise. I understand. But rather than believing them, would you be willing, even as I am willing, to cast those lies into the pit of hell where they belong and, instead, cloak ourselves with the mantle of what our King has to say in the matter? His witness is the one that counts, friends, not the testimonies of those whose “love” for us is tainted by fleshly focus and personal preferences.

We will never be able to exceed people’s expectations of us. Most days, we’ll fall quite short of what they want, but with Jesus, we find our balance. We exceed human expectation because his expectations for us aren’t based on us, but rather on his Spirit living within us. And when we walk in cooperation with his Spirit, when we understand that “greater is he that is in us than he that is in the world,” then we are able to walk above and beyond the expectations that are being leveled in our direction.

True love comes from God. Every now and again, we taste it via humanity. Most often, though, we miss is because of humanity. If we’re not careful, we’ll “live” there… settle in there, instead of settling in the place of sacred understanding. This is a dismal response to the truth of what God intends for our lives.

I want to love truly. I want to be truly loved. I want to love God’s way; I want to be loved God’s way. And while I cannot control the loving responses of others, with God’s help, I can control mine. I want my love to be enough for my children, my spouse, my friends, my world. I want them and you to be able to tuck my love in tightly and voice it as enough—as comforting, as peaceful, as certain, and as re-assuring as you need it to be.

I don’t want to base my love for you on your performance or my personal preferences; instead, I want the fact of your personhood—your “created in the image of God” status—to be the basis for my affection. I’m not fully there, but I am working on it. By God’s grace and through his Spirit, true love will become my norm rather than my exception.

It’s been a hard day to love, friends. At this point, I’m not sure how to move beyond my feelings, but I am confident of this…

I’ve got a family who loves me, and a God who loves me all the more, and it is enough to carry me through the night. The sun will rise in the morning to bring its witness to the day, and the Son will rise in my heart to bring his witness to my authenticity.

And that is enough. He is enough.

Living in his enough this night…

PS: I need your help… ASAP… I scrolled back through some of my previous older posts (from August of this year backward and am noticing that my comments are being deleted by someone). I have a suspicion it’s coming from a URL in Mountainview, California. I’m not sure this is a blogger issue or not, but if this is coming from another hacker, I’m on to you and will continue to pursue this until I get an answer. Anyone else having this issue?

Copyright © December 2009 – Elaine Olsen

A Hurting Heart…

A Hurting Heart…

I suppose I owe you post. It’s been a few days; still and yet, I’m struggling for my words. My heart isn’t here.

My heart is there, underneath a blue tent that shelters the freshly dug grave of my friend, Beth.

My heart is in a hospital room, where Beth’s daughter has just, this morning, given birth to a little girl who will only know her grandmother through the memories given to her by others.

My heart is in a home where a husband walks in isolation from his bride of twenty-five years, bumping into remembrances at every turn.

My heart is with two parents who valiantly and gracefully walked hand in hand to bury their daughter; a walk no parent should have to make.

My heart is with extended family, brothers, in-laws, aunt and uncles and cousins enough to fill a sanctuary—all of whom are trying to make sense out of a “life gone too soon.”

My heart is there, everywhere but here. Still and yet, I come and offer it to you for you are my friends, also. I imagine that there are many of you who are walking your own road of grief this day. Life is dishing you out a heavy portion of pain, and you are unsure about what to do with it; how to manage it; where to stuff it, and how to move on from it.

You walk in good company. You are not alone in your weariness of heart of soul. Like you … like so many others … I am walking with my pain. And while it pales in comparison to the grief of a family who knew Beth longer and loved her deeper, it still hurts and leaves me with a few lingering questions.

I won’t tackle these questions today; at least not publicly. Some conversations are best reserved for the private intimacy between Father and child. My faith isn’t based on my questions. My faith supersedes my questions. The questions are simply the road map God uses to draw my heart closer to his.

Graciously, he allows them. Humbly I ask them. Patiently, I wait for the answers. I believe they will come; if not fully, then with at least enough understanding to carry me through to the other side, when “partial” will give way to “complete.”

I can live with that, friends, because I firmly believe that when it’s time for me to “know,” I’ll know. Until then, God’s peace is my guiding comfort. He’s ready and available to me for the asking.

Thus, I ask for peace to cover my questions, my hurts and the hurts of Beth’s loved ones. I don’t ask for “down the road,” I ask for now … for this moment. God is faithful to supply his touch one moment at a time until they collect and gather and become an hour lived in peace. An entire day walked in peace. A week, a month, a year, a lifetime that punctuates with the truth that God’s peace is possible, is real and is active in the hearts of those who bow low enough and long enough to drink from its well.

I’m bowing today. There is peace to be tasted from God’s cup. May you know his ample portion as well. As always,

Peace for the Journey,

~elaine

 

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