Category Archives: rest

my 7th year with God . . .

 

The 7th year.

It already means so very much to me, this intentional 52-week journey I’m taking with Alicia Chole as my mentor. I’m not always able or willing to put words to this adventure which (in a short time) has become so very precious to me—my season of rest with God. Holy ground; sacred stirrings; truth revealed, in this . . .

My 7th year.

Why has it taken me so long to arrive here? To give my soul room enough for pause and reflection and to allow all that has been my journey up to this point and all that will be my story in coming days to merge as one at this place, this field—this deliberate rest where I can finally begin to see, to breathe, to be? Why, indeed!

This is a time of trust for me, not that all of my other times didn’t qualify. But, perhaps, more than all of those past seasons of faith, this is the one time when I might be able to trust fully in the unseen hands and plans of the Father. To expect him for the seeds not yet planted and the harvest not yet sown, believing that they are there, simmering in the heart of God waiting, waiting, waiting . . .

With the 7th year.

God waiting with me, not apart from me. And therein, the soil of my soul is tilled with possibility. What might be birthed from what has been? This is a worthy pondering, one that I’m able to sit with as I give myself permission to live with God’s 7th year. When we give the 7th year its due, we receive its intended witness. Until then, we’re just playing games with God’s instructions.

 

“The Lord said to Moses on Mount Sinai, … ‘When you enter the land I am going to give you, the land itself must observe a sabbath to the Lord. For six years sow your fields, and for six year prune your vineyards and gather their crops. But in the seventh year the land is to have a Sabbath of rest, a Sabbath to the Lord. Do not sow your fields or prune your vineyards.’”(Lev. 25:1-4)

 

As I look upon the seemingly barren landscape in front me and as I consider the overly cluttered field behind me, I cannot help but wonder what will grow here in this next year as I become more committed, more intentional about who gets to walk upon this sacred ground and what is planted therein.

I can make that choice. I get to choose who and what has access to this little patch of land beneath my heart.

God, help me to make wise choices. God, keep me from over-cluttering. God, uproot the unlovely, the brokenness, and the thorns. God, refresh this heartland with the water of your Word and with the tears of your mercy. God, open up my eyes to see what you see, and blind my eyes to that which is better left hidden. God, throw out your grace before me; blanket this barren field with the seeds of your eternal love so that everywhere I step, every move I make is immersed in your heavenly devotion toward me. God, enable me to take hold of that which I’ve yet to grasp, and strengthen my resolve for the hard work of rest.

The 7th year.

My 7th year with God.

It’s going to be something. It’s already been something. And to think, I have eleven months to go. What might God do with my next eleven months? I haven’t a clue, but I’m ready to rest my way to them and through them. Indeed, it’s going to be something! As always . . .

Peace for the journey,

PS: If you’d like to learn more about how you might be a part of the 7th Year – 52 week e-journey, click here. Your 52 week journey can begin at any time during the year. Why not consider grabbing a few friends and walking it out together? In addition to the 7th year, I’m also participating in Alicia’s Leadership Investment Intensive/Mentoring. You can find out about it by clicking here!

safely through till morning

“Because the LORD kept vigil that night… ” (Exodus 12:42)

 

A few weeks ago, our elderly neighbor, Mr. Jim, called us in the middle of the night. We’d instructed him to do so should a need arise. It did. His bride of sixty years plus had fallen in the bathroom, and he couldn’t get her back on her feet. Billy was able to help out and to save our neighbors another 911 call.

Since that time, I check on them every morning. Not with a phone call or a visit but, instead, with a single glance out my window. I look for the familiar lamplight in their den. If it’s glowing, I breathe a sigh of relief. The lustrous warmth from behind their window pane tells me one thing.

They made it safely through the night till morning.

In many ways their certainty serves as mine. I, too, made it safely through the night till morning. Seeing their light reflects back on that fact that my lamplight is also burning… lit and fueled by a night’s worth of resting. I cannot see it as it’s happening—this collection of rest that gathers in the folds of my flesh as I slumber in the dark. But each new morning, I’m reminded that what I cannot see happening in the dark—cannot manage nor manipulate while in an altered state of consciousness—is often the strength that carries me through the daylight hours.

God is the Keeper of that darkness. God superintends the gathering and collection of strength as I rest. I’m not always comfortable with the conditions of that rest. Many have been the nights when I’ve fought the constraints of my darkness, wrestled with the unknown realities of nighttime, only to arrive depleted by dawn’s arrival. Rather than giving in to a normal, nocturnal cycle, I rally against it. I burn a candle in defiance, refusing to let the night do its work in me. Those are times of lesser faith… lesser trust in the God who keeps vigil for me.

Oh to be a woman of faith who doesn’t run from the darkness but, instead, who believes God to see her safely through till morning. A “kept” woman—kept safe, kept warm, kept closely, kept wholly by the Father who draws his children closely to his heart and who uses their darkness as the growing field of a tremendous, unshakeable trust.

I’ve been through a dark night, friends. A long, drawn-out season of nocturnal growth. As the dawn approaches, I don’t feel as rested as I’d like. Some night seasons require more than others. But of one thing I am certain…

I am stronger for the night I have known, because God has kept vigil for me.

A dark night with a vigilant God grows a stronger spirit. God is the candle that stands in the shadows of our sleep and that keeps our hearts fueled for the arrival of dawn. A new day, a new season to live as a certain witness to the night’s growth that has preceded it.

Today, I’m a witness. You are as well. We’ve made it through another night, and our candles are still burning. You may not be aware of it, but you have a few neighbors—a friend, a family member, a co-worker, a stranger—who are looking through their windows into yours this morning to make sure that your lamplight is on. Your light is important to them. It shines as a testimony to a night’s rest, a night’s trust, a night’s growth, a night’s vigilance by a loving God. He kept you then; he keeps you still.

Thanks be to God for the keeping, reaching hold of grace! God is growing his kingdom in you and through you… even in the darkness. The light from your window strengthens me. Thank you for allowing me a look inward from time to time. As always…

Peace for the journey,
elaine

on holding the suitcase…

on holding the suitcase…

“You hold the flowers, Elaine, I’ll handle the suitcase.”

This is what God wants me to know this day, nearly a year after he impressed it into my soul. It was the statement that led to this…


Most everything about the front cover of my book was intentionally planned.

The ripe wheat.
The evening sky.
The path with a bend in the road.
Trees in the distance, framing the scene.
Enough blue heaven to hold the title.
The kids… my kids.
The similar nature of their clothing.
The shadows they cast.
The holding of hands.
The look between them.
The beat-up suitcase.
My son carrying that suitcase.
The Gerber daisies.
My daughter carrying those daisies.

What I didn’t plan on back then was the outcome… the completed look… the finished product… the culminating portrait that paints a message all its own. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then this cover releases the witness of at least a million or so; not because I had anything to do with it, but rather because God did. Long before the fifty-two reflections made their way into the interior, God had been working on the exterior. Only God can paint the eternal witness of a single moment. From his vantage point, he sees the bigger picture—the end result—and without hesitation, he picks up the paintbrush and works his truth into the mix.

I have no idea what God intends to do with this cover or with the written contents that reside within. I only know that the impression he put into my soul a year ago, is one that remains this day. It will remain for my children and their children, on down the line for generations to come. A worthy word for them and for all of us who are treading this earthly sod with a healthy respect for the temporal nature of the soil beneath our feet and for the season that lies ahead… the one just beyond the bend in our “down the road.”

“You hold the flowers, child, I’ll handle the suitcase.”

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light (Matt. 11:28-20).

I’ll handle the suitcase; you take charge of the flowers.

It’s all that God has assigned to us this day… the picking and the holding of his generous grace.

He can handle the wholly… holy… rest of it.


You’ve got a bigger picture, friends, and our Father can be trusted with the paintbrush. Believe him for it today, and thanks, Sheri, for the prompt. I needed it. As always…

peace for the journey,

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Contentment

Contentment

“‘… in quietness and trust is your strength.’” (Isaiah 30:15).


Contentment.

How long has it been since you’ve experienced the sheer joy of resting in the contentment of a moment?

I saw it in my daughter the other day. I took a picture.

With a good book in one hand, a good drink in the other, she partook of a moment so few of us fully understand. I’m pretty sure she didn’t understand it herself. Her mind has yet to wrap itself around such wisdom. Age is her viable excuse; what’s mine? I’m forty-three and still searching for understanding. What’s yours?

Let me tell you what I received from that moment (other than the gift of an adorable picture I’ll have for years to come). Amelia’s contentment didn’t stem from the rich narrative of her newly acquired book or the even richer “makings” of her beverage.

Her contentment came from being able to enjoy them both without worrying about who’s in the driver’s seat.

No worries about the road ahead. No concerns about the upcoming “stop” signs and signals, the merging traffic, the oncoming vehicles, the potential accidents waiting to happen. No fear about what’s in front, what looms behind, what lies on either side of her cradled confinement.

No, when Amelia took to her reading and her drinking, she did so with the full confidence that her chauffeur would carry her fragile frame from point “A” to point “B,” allowing her the freedom to enjoy the ride.

In quietness and trust she made a big assumption. She assumed she didn’t have to worry about her safety. She assumed her only responsibility was to enjoy the moment she’d been given—the one including a good book and an even better drink.

The simple faith of a child.

We’d all do well to take a look backward at an earlier season of living when life walked easier because our trust believed better. We needed less proof back then about the road ahead. We simply lived it as it arrived because we assumed that our chauffeur had us covered.

He’s got us covered, friends. Sit back and enjoy the ride this weekend. The good book and a good drink awaits your quietness and trust in the good God who is “holy” intent on getting you from point “now” to point “forever.” As always,

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Copyright © June 2009 – elaine olsen

On Empty…

I see Christ’s face before me tonight. There is a deep need in me to do so. My world is spinning fast, and my commitments are firm in their insistence. I haven’t slept well for days, and my nerves harbor on the edge of collapse.

I am tired, friends. The kind of tired that searches for answers but can never seem to take hold of the right one. I imagine you understand. Who of us hasn’t lived through a tired season or two in recent days?

Still and yet, there is no retirement for me as a mother, a wife, a friend, a follower of Jesus Christ. I don’t get to quit because my feelings tell me to do so. I get the privilege of “walking it through.” Yes, privilege. To see my life’s work as otherwise—to value it less than what God intends—is to till the seeds of discontent. And when tilling those seeds becomes more important than accepting my privileged participation as a member of the human race, then sure disaster lies on the horizon.

Thus, the rub. How do I balance exhaustion and privilege? Where is the dividing line between what I am called to do and what I feel that I can no longer do? When does taking care of my need become more important than taking care of the needs of others?

This is the current struggle of my heart. I could keep it to myself … bury it in hopes of being able to ride this wave a bit longer, but what does it profit me to stuff my angst? I’ve never been able to reason that as helpful. Rather, I believe that confession is very good for the soul. In choosing to do so, I believe that there is someone else … perhaps even you … who needs the witness of my admission.

My weakness to strengthen you. Yours to strengthen me. This doesn’t make for an easy understanding; it simply and profoundly “is” what the body of Christ does.

We depend.
We befriend.
We bend.
We lend.
We tend.
We mend.
We comprehend…

so that in the end, the body grows stronger. Walks better. Shines brighter and lives purer.

For all of the struggle that feeds my flesh this night, I willingly embrace the high and holy privilege of being yoked alongside of you. I’m part of something bigger than what exists inside of me. My life is not lived in isolation, even when I reason solitude to be the better option.

Sometimes, it is the better option. Sometimes not. Wisdom comes from knowing the difference between the two. Tonight, wisdom tells me that my exhaustion mandates a much needed pause—at least until I get a good night’s sleep and a heavy dose of doing “little to nothing” for a few days.

Come Monday, summer kicks into full swing over here. I haven’t yet decided how I feel about all of that (although I have an inclination or two). I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, thanks for your understanding. I covet your prayers and need your friendship now more than ever before.

You are some of best parts of my day. God did me an incredible favor when he decided to intersect my life with yours. Words fail to adequately express my deep love and fondest affection for all of you who make my walk a richer pilgrimage. Keep to the road friends. Keep to Jesus, and I’ll see you on the other side of some rest. As always,

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