Category Archives: parenting

Between Two Janes

I live my life between two Janes – the one who, fifty-nine years ago, carried me in her womb and the one whom, twenty-three years ago, I carried in mine.

Each time, nine months were allotted for the careful, hope-filled process of holy creation. The dreams dreamt then and the prayers prayed then were couched between bouts of cravings and occasional kicks. A hovering of sorts between what could be known and what could be imagined.

Girls having girls. A mom named Jane. A granddaughter named accordingly. And a woman in between holding hands with both of them, knowing that she stands on privileged soil.

It seems fitting that my mom would have a namesake – a Jane that walks in her shadow being shaped by the life that lives in between.

My life.

I am a collection of stories from the life that my parents built together – Chuck and Jane, the Killians now for sixty-four years. When asked about the seemingly odd coupling of the two, my mom has been known to say, “Chuck needed an audience, and I was willing to listen.” Not a lot has changed in these six plus decades between them. Mom is still keeping audience with dad. Jane is still loving Chuck most excellently, but the dialogue has changed. Dad is no longer adding his words; mom, in contrast to the first five decades of their life together, is writing and speaking the final lines of their story.

And those words?

Nothing short of extraordinary. Beautiful wisdom. Strong and certain. Ninety years’ worth of knowing things, perceiving things, pondering things, speaking things. An everlasting witness that waits patiently for the taking. Her spoken deliberations are always on time. My mom doesn’t waste a single word. Instead, she means what she says, and what she says, is, indeed, a gift to be treasured.

The first Jane who held my hands is the wisest woman I have ever known because she holds hands quietly with her Creator. She stands between Jesus and me and has been a bridge connecting my heart to his. I sensed this early on in my life; I knew that I could always trust my mother’s faith.

In recent days, I have needed her witness, her wisdom and her words. I’ve held tightly onto my mother’s hands while (more loosely) holding onto my daughter’s hands, believing that I, too, might become a bridge of sorts between my two Janes. A link between the heart of a grandmother to the heart of her granddaughter so that a holy transfer of wisdom (which so often seems to elude me) might transpire.

I think this is the gift I am most grateful for this Thanksgiving – the hands of the two Janes who bookend my life. One full of wisdom; one well on her way. Both Janes full of grace, kindness, warmth and genuineness. Both Janes still making me laugh. Both Janes still praying for and with me. Both Janes still teaching me how to be holy … how to stay connected to my Creator.

Both Janes still willing to hold my hands.

Faith Elaine in between Eleanor Jane and Amelia Jane – a chord of three strands.

Privileged soil indeed.

May God keep the three of us so duly tethered until we all walk the shores of heaven together. I love you both, my two Janes. As always…

Peace for the journey,

on waiting for the bus…

The LORD will guard your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forever. (Psalm 121:8)

I’ve been watching them for ten months now – a father/daughter duo during their morning routine. Their everyday schedule coincides with mine. The 11-mile trek from my front door to my office door takes a usual path – country roads, four-way stops, grazing cows, fields of harvest and an occasional stopped school bus.

This is where our worlds intersect. I don’t know them by name. I only know them by their actions. Each time I’ve seen them together, the scene paints similarly. Around 7:19 AM, I get stuck behind Harnett County bus #249 as it rolls to a stop on the road adjacent to their property. The pair is usually waiting together, a dad and his daughter. Occasionally, she makes a sprint to the bus from her front door, but not without her father sprinting in tow.

He’s always there … with her. Rain or shine. Early or late. On time or just killing time.

This daddy waits with his daughter.

I cannot fully know the motives behind his waiting. Perhaps it’s her safety that warrants his participation. Maybe he just wants to send her off with a few extra words of daily encouragement. Regardless of the reasons for his being there in these early morning moments of her every single day, the fact remains that there hasn’t been an occasion in ten months when I’ve seen one without the other. Daddy and daughter are a team.

My hunch is that his motivation isn’t anchored solely in parental duty but, rather, is rooted more in parental privilege.

This daddy understands the value of their kinship and his responsibility therein.

Soon enough, she’ll be on her own, not needing her father’s chaperoning to make it to the bus. Before long, those final glances between them will fade, maybe even feel less necessary. She will grow in ways that can be seen and measured. He will grow in a way not easily detected by the human eye, only felt deeply within. Growth pains come with parenting – his pain perhaps more pointed and precise than hers.

Still and yet, he’s all in. He risks the pain because he treasures the person – his child.

He loves her because she is an extension of him – a profound, sketched-out mystery by the very hand and heart of God. In giving us children, the Father gives us an example of the length and width, breadth and depth of his love for us … a hands-on, living, breathing, and growing paint-by-number portrait of heavenly affection. This love expression is not always perfected in human exchange, but every now and again, it comes pretty close to revealing this most profound mystery –

the love between a father and his daughter.

The love between a heavenly Father and his child.

He’s always there … with us. Rain or shine. Early or late. On time or just killing time.

He watches over our evenings, and when the morning arrives, he walks us to the bus stop. He waits with us because he loves us, both duty and privilege weighing equally in the matter. God does what good fathers do.

He loves us up close – seasons when having him near us brings reassurance, strength, wisdom and calm.

He loves us from afar – seasons when his presence seems less necessary. When our backward glances fail to find his forward ones. When our growing pains come at the expense of his own.

He loves us because we are an extension of him. Regardless of whether we see him or not, our eyesight doesn’t preclude the reality of his presence.

God is always with us.

Faithful is our Father. Precious is his presence. What privilege we hold to be held in his sights!

For what it’s worth, this is the word picture and the holy rumination that’s been chasing my heart for many months now. Today was the day to put pen to paper. I pray it’s an encouragement for your heart as well. As always…

Peace for the journey,

the restless ache of night…

“When you come to the door, kiss me on the cheek so that I know I am safe.”

I found the piece of paper inside my red diary. I keep treasured notes from days gone by tucked inside its pages. The diary was a Christmas gift to me in 1974. The note inside? Well, it was gift to me in 2012, written by my ten-year-old daughter who needed to know that she was safely tucked in and remembered by her momma. In writing the note, she put her faith into action, knowing that her slumber would more than likely precede the kiss. But the promise of a kiss, the certainty of a final “tucking in” was just enough to soothe the restless ache of night.

I imagine I did kiss her that night. I don’t remember the occasion leading up to the letter’s writing; but I remember seeing the note gently lying outside her bedroom door and thinking to myself,

“I’m going to need this someday. I’m going to tuck this one away.”

And here I am, eight years later, needing it now. Like my daughter, my heart cries out for safety–a tucking in beneath the covers and the covering of a gentle kiss–something just strong enough and tender enough to soothe the reckless ache of my night.

Perhaps that is what led me to make a spontaneous journey to see my folks today. They reside in a senior living community that could, at any moment, be put under quarantine because of the coronavirus. I’m glad I went. We shared a meal and some conversation, and before I left, I did something I’ve never done before. I took my daddy’s hands in mine, and I clipped his nails. Not because he couldn’t, but because I wanted to … wanted to tenderly touch the hands that first held mine. The hands that cradled me. The hands that raised me. The hands that blessed me. The hands that, time and again, tucked me in as a youth and reminded me that I was safe, that I was under the watchful gaze and the tender care of a daddy who loved me very much.

He still does. And while today’s “tucking in” didn’t include a bedtime ritual, the same sentiment was shared between us. Today, we tucked each other in tightly, reminding one another that we are both safe. That even in the restless ache of this night season, our faith is strong. Today, Daddy and I wrote our own note to our Father, a prayer that harkens back to a little girl’s wish from eight years ago:

When you come to the door tonight, Father, when you tiptoe down the hall and see us in our fitful slumbering, kiss us on the cheek so that we’ll know we are safe. Remember we are here. Remember we are hurting. Remember we sometimes get spooked by the shadows surrounding us. Hem us in tightly, behind and before, and place your blanket of peace over the restless ache of our night.

Maybe tonight you seek the same assurance that my daughter sought so long ago … the same I sought today. Perhaps the restless ache of night has gotten the best of you. You’re hurting; you’re worried; the shadows around and the shadows within are dimming faith’s light. It’s been a long time since you’ve experienced a tender tucking in and a sweet slumber therein. You need to know that you are safe; you need to know that your Daddy is watching over you. You need to know that your Father is within reach.

He is, friend. He’s just down the hall, and he’s on his way to your door right now. He has seen your note, and he has noted your need. The restless ache of your night is no match for the peaceful salve of his touch.

He is here, and you are safe. Rest confidently and faithfully in his arms tonight. As always…

Peace for the journey,

a letter to my grand-girl

Dear Grand-girl (aka ‘Lil Miss Woods),

I’ve been thinking a long time about what kind of gift I could give you on your birthday – that very first day when you emerge from the safety of your darkened cocoon into the explosive light of the world you’ll soon call home. Another pink “welcome to the world” onesie, along with a matching “I’m the Grandma” t-shirt doesn’t quite fit the moment, so I think I’ll take a pass on those at this time. (But at some point, don’t be surprised if I’m decorated from head to toe in granny wear, a trait for which you can thank the Olsen side of your family tree. They love a good party and any occasion that allows them to dress up the moment with lavish expressions of wonderment and love.)

No, at this time in your life you don’t need more things to clutter your thinking. Instead, what you most need is the steady and certain love of a family that will never let you go–long and wide and high and deep stretches from the arms that will cradle your beginning and that will carry you forward for the rest of your life.

You’ve got that in us. We’re a sturdy bunch, a motley crew of misfits at times, but a crew strengthened and ready for your road ahead. Why ready? Well, we’ve spent our entire lives growing up so that we might better help you to do the same. Every single one of us have labored and strived all the days of our lives beneath the light and shadow of the Almighty–the Father who has knit you together in your precious momma’s womb. We’ve lived with God. We’ve walked with God. We’ve worked on our faith, and we know to whom we belong. God’s arms are the ones now cradling you in safety. Soon he’ll delivery you into ours. What mystery! What trust! What grace!

As your grandmother, I won’t always be ringside for some of your milestones. I’ll probably miss a lot of them, and I’m mostly OK with that. Those moments belong to you and your parents. And I know they’ll be great ones because I, too, have sat ringside to every milestone of the four kids God has entrusted me to raise … your dad, Nick, your Uncle Colton, your Uncle Jadon, and your Aunt Amelia. Their baptisms, their birthdays, their ballgames, their recitals, their break ups, their first days of driving, their graduations, their marriages, their tears, their fears. Their successes and their occasional failures. Their questions, their doubts, and their settled conclusions. It’s all been on a learning curve for me as a mom, but it has been and will remain the most exceptional privilege of my fifty-three years on this earth.

Wanna know a little secret about your dad? He made me a mom on April 11, 1989, the day after my 23rd birthday. He arrived two weeks prior to his due-date. I knew nothing about being a parent. Zilch. I had a lot of growing up to do myself, and for the last thirty years, I like to say that your dad and I have been growing up together. As he was learning to walk as a toddler, I was learning the fine art of walking as a mom. I still am.

And now, because of you, your parents will have the delicate and delightful privilege of further personal growth because they’ll grow alongside you. You will teach them their parenting skills. God has hand-picked you … entrusted you … as their training manual, and I am not one bit worried about their qualifications. They are rock stars.

Your dad is strong, thoughtful, courageous, contemplative, passionate, faithful, a gifted communicator, and he is truthful (perhaps one of the qualities I admire most about him). A person of truth is a person unafraid of exposure. It takes a long time to cultivate that kind of integrity (some of us spend our entire lives endeavoring to get there), but your dad seemed to be born with a generous portion of it in his DNA. He can’t help but tell the truth, even when it costs him some of his pride (and he’s got a lot of that too, but you’ll help him with that). He will never leave you. He is devoted to you and to your mom. And because Nick’s not a time waster, I always said that he would marry the first woman he seriously dated because he wasn’t going to prattle away a single moment on a girl he hadn’t already decided was worth the investment. I was right.

To give his heart wholeheartedly to one woman, your mom, is one of the greatest gifts he’s already given you. But even more important than his devotion to your mother, your father is devoted to your Creator, and beneath that light and shadow, he will carefully guard his own deposit of faith entrusted to him at an early age so that, in time, you’ll be collecting a faith your own.

As a mom, I have learned this most important truth, and now as your grandmother, I will endeavor to live it out more fully:

My job, my legacy, is to drop enough breadcrumbs of faith along the trodden path of this life so that all of my children, that you and the other grand-girls and grand-boys who will eventually fill up our family tree, can safely find your way home … back into the hands of the One who authored your life and who promises to perfect it.

And now, a word or two about your mom. I don’t know her nearly as well as I know your dad, but in the short time we’ve done life together, I am solidly convinced about her character and her commitment to raise you up with deep roots. Your mom’s strength is equal to your dad’s. She’s a home-grown, home-town girl whose sense of family anchors deeply within that Appalachian soil where she took her first steps. She’s smart (I mean really smart – she’s a professor with a PhD and everything and can produce an academic paper worthy of publication as easily as she drinks a cup of water). She’s clever, witty and can hold her own when it comes to matching wills with your father. She’s quiet, but when she speaks, we listen in because we know we’re going to get something more, another little piece of the puzzle that tells us who she is. I imagine that in these days of growing up alongside you, your mom will reveal even bigger pieces of her story to us, and I think those revelations will blow our minds. She’ll be the doorkeeper of your home, closely guarding who’s coming in and even more so, your going out. She’s a secret-keeper, and while I’m on the complete opposite end of that spectrum, I think her ability to hold things more closely to her heart (to not vocally share every blessed thought that comes into her mind) will help you to learn how to govern your own thoughts, your words, your actions.

Both of your parents already love you unconditionally. The relationship that you share with them will probably be the most important, framed picture in your home, the best snapshot that captures how Jesus really does love us all … that agape love which puts “best interest over self- interest” (you can read all about that kind of loving in 1 Corinthians 13. Uncle Jadon will be happy to break it down for you. He loves God’s Word, and he’ll love answering all your questions). This kind of love is an important picture to hang in your heart, and it has been through this lens (this love that I have for my four children) that I have finally been able to grasp just an inkling of how much I am loved by God. Best interest over self-interest … the Calvary story. One I will tell you more about in coming days. Consider this letter the prologue. 

So sweet precious grand-girl, you who I have not yet seen with my eyes, you whose name has not yet been revealed to the world, I am at a better place of peace in my life because you are now in it. God has seen you. God knows your name, and very soon we’ll start writing the chapters of your life together. And when you can’t find the words to your story, I’ll help you look for them. When the chapters don’t make sense in isolation, I’ll remind you of the bigger picture … that all good stories have a clear beginning, a mostly muddled middle, and, ultimately, a grand conclusion. When the pen you’re holding in your hand loses its ink, when the well from which you draw the lines of your story seemingly dries up, come over to mine and borrow some. My well runs long and wide and high and deep. I’ll lend you my strength because this fragile world you’re entering into, the one where you will write your legacy, will require it. Don’t let that reality scare you. Instead, let it challenge you, embolden you, because this I promise you …

God has already given you everything you need to make it through this delicate dance called life. He’s given you the promise of his presence, and he’s given you the present of our presence. Presence is the best gift we can give you on the advent of your arrival. You’re one of us now. Your name has been carved into the family tree, smack dab in the middle of our names. Our signatures surround yours. We’ll watch over you, and by God’s grace, we’ll all leave a trail of breadcrumbs so that you might most clearly and most easily find your way home.

And as always, may God forever bestow upon you, over you and beneath you, before and behind you, his peace for the journey. There’s no better place to grow up. 

I love you,
Your granny

getting on the bus with your children

First day of school – 1996

 

Several years ago, one of our church members cornered me in the hallway and seriously asked me if I would be interested in teaching a parenting class. I had to hold back the laughter as I (just as seriously) declined her offer.

“I’m not your girl. I don’t think most of my parenting tips would be welcomed. I’m old school to the core. In fact, I’ve told all my children to send me their future therapy bills when they get older as they’ll probably wind up on a psychologist’s couch one day because of me. Plus, the jury’s still out regarding my kids. Talk to me in ten years, and we’ll see where they’re at.”

Well, ten years have come and gone. And just a few days ago, someone made a comment to me about my four kids (now ages 29, 27, 18, 16) … about how “good” they are. Naturally, I beamed inside, quietly remembering the earlier request for me to teach a parenting class.

Oh folks, it’s only by the grace of God that these kids have turned out remotely “good.” Truly. If anyone shouldn’t have had four kids, it would be me. I’m a daily mess. In many ways I’m still “not your girl” as it pertains to parenting tips. But in talking with Billy last night and wondering what one tip (besides daily prayer and putting your kids smack dab in the middle of strong and fierce believers in Jesus Christ) might prove helpful to those of you in the middle of “growing up” some little ones, I came up with this. It didn’t originate with me, but it is something I’ve held onto ever since technology began to infiltrate every nook and cranny of our daily lives. Are you ready? Here goes…

When you hand your kids a phone, you are handing them the world.

Go ahead and read that again. Let it sink in.

When you hand your kids a phone, you are handing them the world.

Think about it this way.

You get little Johnny or Susie ready for the day. They’re fed, clothed, and let’s say, have a pack full of $$$ strapped to their backs. You take them to the nearest bus station, buy them a one-way ticket to anywhere, kiss them goodbye, maybe even say a prayer, and send them on their way to a big adventure. You’re excited for their new-found freedom, and so are they! Yippee. Johnny and Susie are growing up. Their independence stuns you, and you give yourself a pat on the back. They’re on their way.

To where?

Who knows, but they’re going.

The only problem is (well really there are a ton of them at this point), Johnny and Susie are five years old, maybe 10. Heck, maybe even 15. For sure they’re ready, right?

But before the day is out, you slowly begin to realize you’ve lost your child. You have no idea where they’re at, where they’ve been, who’ve they’ve talked to, who they’re with, or when they’ll return.

They are just gone. Hard to find. Lost and, by now, listening to anyone who might be inclined to offer some free advice on how to get back home. And you wonder where it all went wrong.

As it goes with Johnny and Susie on the bus, so it goes with technology.

When you hand your kids a phone you are handing them the world.

So you, as a good parent (not a perfect one mind you, but a good one), have a responsibility and a choice to make. Are you going to get on the bus with them in the morning, be in their space and in their day of wild exploration, or are you going to trust them to navigate safely through a big city … a really big world … and return to you in one piece?

It’s your choice to make. I know which one I made all those many years ago and the one I’m still making today.

I get on the bus with my kids, every single day. I know who they’re texting, and I’m not above reading those texts when necessary. We don’t do secret apps on our phone where messages mysteriously disappear (seriously, parents, don’t you get this?) and, to date, my teenagers don’t have social media accounts. They might someday, and when they do, they’ll better be able to take that bus ride by themselves. But for now, they’re still under my roof, and I still take seriously my role as their mom–to shepherd and shape their hearts safely through to adulthood.

So, there you go, folks. After reading this, you might agree with my earlier assessment about my parenting skills. I may not “be your girl.” That’s OK. I didn’t ask to be. But I’d be neglectful of this nagging feeling I’ve had in my head and on my heart all day if I didn’t tell you one last time…

Get on the bus with your kids before you lose them to the world. You only get one ride with your child, and it’s a short one. As always…

Peace for the journey,

(1-09-19/allrightsreserved.)

error: Content is protected !!