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#solid60

”A solid 60.”

That was her answer to me when I asked her to guess my age. Without hesitation and with all the confidence of a young twenty something, she was certain in her guess. And if her guess was offered up to me in the last week, I would have been impressed.

But it wasn’t. The conversation in question happened two years ago. I was 58 at the time. She was embarrassed, and we’ve all been laughing about it ever since.

Today, though…

I am a solid 60. Today is my birthday, and I have the shirt to prove it.

So, what does that mean? How does that define? What does a #solid60 look like … live like?

I have a few thoughts.

Firstly, being a #solid60 has less to do with the density of a sixty-year-old body and more to do with a rich accumulation of life experiences. Layers of a life are built over decades, a thickness that cannot be gained in brevity. Certainly, a moment in time can profoundly impact the trajectory of one’s path. But one moment added to another moment over the course of 60 years equals a solid repository of witness that isn’t always easily dissected (or appreciated) by a curious world.

I am the sum total of my moments. When you meet me, you get them all – a solid package of 60 years’ worth of moments. Today I have the privilege of reflecting on my collection therein. So do you. No matter your age, today you’re building toward something solid. The fullness of who you are and who you are becoming anchors its growth in the reality of your accumulated moments.

If solid is what you’re after, then live your moments well; build with intention and in expectation.

Secondly, being a #solid60 has less to do with what I have done to reach this milestone and everything to do with what God has done. If accumulated moments are the ingredients of a solid life, then heaven’s grace is the glue that holds them all together. Dissect any portion of my story and you will find the free and flowing grace of God. It bleeds onto every page of my witness. Without God’s elaborate grace over me, there would be nothing solid to kick at, no lasting substance to hold. Just a life of vapor that has no foundational value and one that quickly fades into nothingness.

If solid is what you’re after, then invite God into your story. Allow his grace to flow into and throughout all your moments so that they might be solidified into a monument of eternal glory that points others toward home.

Thirdly, being a #solid60 has less to do with the moments that have been lived to date and much more to do with the moments that are to come. At sixty, I am privileged to still know the active love and witness of my parents. All my life, from my beginning days on an Easter Sunday morning until this day, my 60th birthday, my dad has held firmly to the truth that “The best is yet to be.” For several years now, he’s been unable to articulate those words to me; still and yet, every time I’m with him, I know that daddy is anchored there in that place of “best.” We see through a glass dimly; he is moving ever closer to beholding perfectly what his soul is longing for. And I know … solidly know … what he knows.

Every single moment prior to this one – the strong accumulation and development of a solid life – is pulling us forward toward our forever with Jesus. A solid life is never solely about the “now.” Instead, a solid life always includes the “then.”

If solid is what you’re after, keep your “then” in mind.

Lastly (as an added bonus and because I could go on and on, but there always has to be a lastly), being a #solid60 has less to do with sadness and much more to do with the gladness of heart. Another gem I received from daddy is his sense of humor. He told me to always keep laughter as a part of my story. It has served me well. Really well. In the worst of times, I can always laugh; others seem to laugh when I’m around (like two years ago, when we all had a good chuckle about my being a #solid60).

If accumulated moments, God’s grace, and a focus on forever are the makings of a solid life, then the bonus of laughter sprinkled within is like the hot fudge on top of a favorite scoop of ice cream … sweet and satisfying.

If solid is what you’re after, keep laughing.

And so, if you see me today or any day in the next year and you’re wondering about my age,

I’m a #solid60.

Shaped by my moments.
Laced with grace.
Focused on forever.
Laughing as I go.

Keep it solid, friends. Thanks for writing your lines into my story. I’ll see you in the next chapter. As always…

Peace for the journey,

Father’s Day with Chuck and Francis Asbury

I thought about my dad this morning while listening to Jeffrey Rickman’s podcast. Rickman referenced this quote attributed to Francis Asbury (a pioneer in American Methodism) – thoughts about the holy and sacred privilege of preaching. On limited occasions when Asbury’s name is referenced, my mind always trails back to my dad. He wrote a play about Asbury’s life and presented it at Asbury Seminary and other locations on multiple occasions; the play was the outgrowth of one of dad’s sabbatical seasons while teaching at the seminary.

Fast forward a few years to 2002 when I was 7 ½ months pregnant with Amelia. Dad and mom took me, Nick and Colton, on a trip to Washington D.C. It was June, and it was hot. We did a lot of walking on that trip, saw a lot of historical markers, and collected treasured memories. One of those memories included my father’s relentless quest to find Francis Asbury’s statue in the heart of D.C. Dad had few details about its location, only that it was somewhere in the Mount Pleasant neighborhood near 16th Street. The only saving grace about that quest (did I mention we had done a lot of walking in high heat) is that dad rented an air-conditioned taxi. The five of us crammed into the taxi, and our driver began the search. After several unsuccessful pass-throughs of the neighborhood, we had almost given up when Colton looked out the window and said, “Is that it?” He pointed to an obscure, easy to miss, statue that was shrouded in tall grass across the street from our vehicle. Francis had been found!

We piled out of the taxi to take a picture and to survey Henry Augustus Lukeman’s work from 1921. Our visit was brief (the taxi meter was running), far shorter than our quest to get there. The box was checked. Dad was happy, and two little boys (along with their very pregnant mom) were thrilled that this historical pilgrimage had finally come to an end.

The “finding” of the statue, no doubt, fueled dad’s celebration of the life and witness of Francis Asbury, a preacher who, over the course of 45 years, traveled 275,000 miles over wilderness terrain to bring the good news of heaven down to the ground. Asbury’s faith and his passion rooted his mission. He had “seen heaven” as well as the “bottomless pit” and was determined to preach the truth therein.

As it goes with Asbury, so it goes with my dad, Chuck – a man who has spent his life traveling the wilderness road in search of lost pilgrims who have yet to catch a glimpse of heaven. Dad has seen both – the bottomless despair of the pit and the glorious hope of heaven. He knows the difference between the two. For 87 years, he has lived this difference.

These are hard days for those of us who’ve traveled with him along the way. His words, once so eloquently delivered, have turned into an occasional hum. Every now and again, we hear a chuckle. When we do, we smile because we know the man behind the laughter. Wherever dad was, there was always laughter. And honest conversations. Listening in and leaning in for more. Tears and prayers and generosity. Abundant generosity. If you know Chuck, you are nodding your head right about now. He is all this and so much more.

And so, another Father’s Day is in the record book. It’s been a glorious 59 years of being Chuck Killian’s daughter. I thank him for pointing me to heaven, especially in those seasons of my life when I was determined to wallow in the pit. Because of daddy’s love, I know what it is to be loved by Jesus. He is the tie that binds our hearts together forever – an everlasting future where, together, our mouths will be freed to praise, our feet unshackled to dance, and our lips loosened to laugh.

I love you, daddy. Happy Father’s Day. And remember… the best is yet to be. 

#14 – “God Will Take You Across the River”

November 14, 2010

An excerpt from Beyond the Scars  (pp. 153-155) to mark the 14th anniversary of my survivorship.

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As I near the end of this writing project, there is a lump in my throat, my heart as well. I’ve been saving this particular writing for a few weeks now, reserving if for a time such as this – an almost-ending time. This thought seared through to my heart one evening while I was out taking a walk with my daughter. It is a heart truth that simply and profoundly says,

“God will take you across the river.”

Let me explain. 

As our walks go, my nine-year–old daughter rides her bike while I pitifully endeavor to keep up with her pace. She’s usually far ahead of me; I’m mostly fine with her taking the lead as long as she follows this one, simple rule: she must wait for me before “crossing the river.”

The river – that’s the term we use to describe the intersections of streets in our neighborhood, including the corners and the stopping points where we “look both ways before crossing the street.” She isn’t allowed to move forward with that crossing until I give her the go-ahead.

“Wait for me, Amelia, before crossing the river.”

She’s always faithful to wait, always eager to move ahead, but willing to linger for her mother’s official word. Funny thing: she constantly arrives at the crossings before I do, at least until a few weeks ago, when I beat her. She had stopped her forward motion to remove a pebble from her shoe; I kept moving while she did surgery. I could hear her saying, “Wait for me!” as I moved along. Her words didn’t stop me, but then she said something that did.

“Mommy, please wait for me before crossing the river. You can’t cross the river without me.”

Like a bolt of lightning from God’s heart to mine, I was struck by the profundity of her words. I couldn’t move. Instead, I just cried, and when she arrived at my side and inquired about the reason behind my tears, I spoke some truth over her precious young heart. “There may come a day, sweet one, when you’ll have to cross this river without me. But rest assured, God will walk it with you. He’s gone ahead of us both, and he’ll make sure that we land safely on the other side.”

It seemed enough of a reason to quell her curiosity in that moment, although I’m certain she didn’t feel the ground beneath her feet shaking in the same way I felt it quaking. Her heart’s not quite ready to undertake the weightiness of such truth. Nevertheless, I spoke it, and today I write it, believing that somewhere down the road, she’ll retrieve this memory from my pen and better understand the fullness of what I’m saying – how I’m trying to live my life faith forward, with not a single crumb of doubt left in my wake.

Whenever that day comes for me – my crossing-over day – I don’t want there to be any lingering questions as to what I believed and where I’m headed. Mind you, I’m not in much of a hurry to take on the Jordan River, not yet. My heart is still closely attached to the promises I’m living on this side of Canaan. The life I share with my husband and my four children is a good life to live. It is a life worth fighting for, and then, as God so chooses, a life to lay down in favor of the greener pastures and perfect promises of the land just beyond this one – a home across the river.

Until then, I want to fully live each day as it arrives. I want to give my children some years, some more time to get grown and get established in their faith. I want to be part of that shaping process. In addition, I am committed to the earthly tenure I’ve been given. Life is a precious gift and worth preserving. God created me with a purpose in mind, and for as long as I have breath, I am wholly devoted to that purpose – to know God more with each passing day and then, out of that knowing, to lead others to know the same. Kingdom truth can march on without me, but it feels right and good and sacred to be part of the story – the telling of it and living it therein.

Yes, I still have some earthly attachments. Life on this side of the river has been a good landscape in which to grow my kingdom heart. I’ll keep walking the streets with my daughter and crossing the rivers with her for as long as I’m given the privilege. But I’ll always do so with an eye fixed on forever. I’ll keep telling her about Canaan, keep reminding her about home and about the God who has crossed all rivers in front of her, making certain of her safe arrival on the other side. It’s what I must do. It’s all I know to do. It’s how I must live – fully committed to the journey at large.

I don’t know where you are today. Maybe you’re standing on the edge of your Jordan, preparing your heart for a difficult crossing. Maybe you’re far away from the water’s edge, riding your bike and keeping pace with limited understanding. Maybe, like I am, you’re somewhere in between, approaching the river, yet still far enough away that you have time for further conversations – important living words that impart God’s kingdom seed into the soil of a future generation. Wherever you are, today is still today, and there is still time to take the hand of Jesus and trust him with the crossing that’s ahead.

God will take you across the river. No one else can. No one else deserves the privilege because no one else can land you safely on the other side. I cannot carry you there any more than I can carry my daughter with me as I go. I can only point you to the one who can. The one who has walked it before us and whose name is written on the deed to Canaan. Only God can offer such glorious hope to our wounded, fearful, and often discouraged hearts. Canaan is God’s Promised Land to give. And because of his Son’s surrender to a cross, we all have a share in that inheritance.

Today’s a good day to take a walk with someone you love. Take the lead, or fall in step behind, but as you arrive at the “rivers” along your path, take a hand. Cross the river together, and remember the hand and heart of the one who has crossed it before you.

God will take you across the river, readers. And should we never meet on this side of the Jordan, I’ll be standing on the shores of Canaan, awaiting your arrival. Safe passage. Keep to the road of faith. Thus, I pray…

To stand at the Jordan and look over to Canaan, Lord, is a glorious revelation of grace. Thank  you for all the reminders of promise that come to us; they help us move forward with perspective. Canaan seems so far in coming, yet we know it’s but a moment from now. Thank you for crossing the river ahead of us, for making our path straight, and for securing our safe passage prior to our departure. Father, our attachments to our earthly tenures are strong. Sometimes we’re unwilling to let go of them because of the pain attached to the release. Temper the pain with the truth of what awaits us, and gladden our hearts with expectation for the forever the we will share together. Amen. 

©F. Elaine Olsen. All rights reserved. 

Storyteller

God is the Master Storyteller.

He writes good lines, thinks long-term, and fills up our books with chapters unimaginable to us on the front side of their unfolding.

Don’t believe me? Well, let me tell you a story…

There is a memory I am holding today. It’s a bit shadowy around the edges as I was only 5 or 6 years old, but with clarity I recall the scene; in particular, I remember the person – a boy named “K.” K and I attended the same church with our parents and often found ourselves around a table in a Sunday School classroom.

On this particular Sunday morning, I met K for the first time. He was energetic, happy and full of joy. I sensed that he was somehow different from the rest of us, but no one seemed to mind. I would grow in my understanding of K over the years regarding his uniqueness as well as his challenges. As we grew older, I saw him less, understanding that his life and mine would never walk the same path forward – that our childhood connection would remain solidly fixed in my memories with an occasional present-day rumination about his current whereabouts.

I wonder what ever happened to K?

Well, I know what happened to K.

Fast forward through fifty years of living. Through moves – nine relocations in three states. Through marriages. Through babies. Through graduations. Through college drop offs. Through two extraordinary daughters-in-law. Through grandkids. Through disease. Through the trauma of almost losing a child – a son named Jadon. All the way through to this moment, to today.

This is where I hit the pause button, because it is now when the lines of God’s story get really interesting.

Tonight, my son Jadon will walk to K’s house, sit around his table for an evening, break bread with him and begin a journey as companions – a friendship (once removed) that began 50 years ago with K and I in a Sunday school classroom, dancing around in circles.

Six months ago, Billy and I took Jadon to Wilmore, KY, and dropped him off to begin his seminary training at Asbury. Our hearts remain tender with the separation. Our hearts also overflow with joy knowing that Jadon is where he needs to be to continue his journey in a place that holds everlasting significance for me.

My dad was a professor at Asbury Seminary, beginning in 1970 and continuing for over 40 years. My mother? The registrar at Asbury Seminary. My husband? A graduate of Asbury Seminary. I cut my spiritual teeth running the hallways of that hallowed institution, along with the hallways of the Wilmore United Methodist Church (the church where Jadon is now the youth pastor). What was sown and grown inside of me in that season is a history that continues to write the lines of my present-day story. Deeply so.

Not long ago, a college friend who is closely connected to K’s family reached out to me about Jadon’s possible interest in working with K. Throughout the years, she and I have kept in touch through social media; she closely followed along with Jadon’s miraculous recovery from a 2018 traumatic brain injury. After a few conversations with her, an initial meeting with K and some further training, Jadon begins in his new role this evening.

And I am caught in the moment, in the magic and mystery of God’s story-telling skills.

Fifty years ago, I danced around a Sunday school classroom with K. And God looked on. I wondered if he smiled and thought…

Just wait, Elaine, about fifty years from now. Have I got a story to tell you!

Funny how our lives write the witness of God’s faithfulness … glorious really. How what we cannot see now … imagine now … is but the heavenly word bank from which the Master Storyteller chooses the words to write an eternal, best-seller.

God is faithful. He will not leave our stories unfinished without a witness. He’s watching from a far, maybe even smiling because…

He knows what he is doing. He knows how to weave our past into our future in beautiful measure. Maybe there’s strength in that truth for you tonight. Keep rehearsing your history with God and looking for all the ways that your former steps inform your current ones.

Rest alongside the Storyteller. He who began a very good work in you is faithful to complete it. Trust Him for the finish.

Word has it that endings are his specialty. As always…

Peace for the journey,

A Silver Celebration

I like growing old alongside Billy.

That’s what I told a friend not long ago. I’ve not always thought about our life together with such sentimentality. Twenty-five years ago, growing old wasn’t on my radar. I was just a bride walking down the aisle toward the man and toward a future that could not be predicted, only lived out with the belief that marriage was, in fact, a good decision for me and my two sons.

Of course, there were plenty of folks in the room validating our choice – a cacophony of voices rooting for us from the sidelines, along with Dr. Ellsworth Kalas awaiting our arrival at the end of the aisle. What a gift he gave us that day, validating our budding love by reminding us of a wedding in Cana where the best wine was saved for last! But there were other voices as well in that season … a few who dared to share their concerns. There was the well-meaning friend who stopped by my office one afternoon and likened our courtship to a combination of peanut butter and cheese, an odd coupling. And then there was the well-respected professor who refused to counsel us because he had already decided that Billy and I, as a couple, were not marriage material.

Twenty-five years of marriage have a way of dulling the naysayers. Today we laugh at the memory. I confess, though, that in those beginning days of solidifying our union, I probably gave those well-meaning voices too much rental space in my mind. At times, Billy and I were an odd coupling, struggling to build a life together on nothing more than the firm covenant we had made to one another, to God, and to our boys on that sultry July afternoon at the altar of First Methodist Church in Lexington, KY.

Emotions weren’t enough to carry us through to this moment – a silver wedding anniversary. Covenant-keeping was.

And today, twenty-five years down the road, Billy and I are growing old together in a most beautiful way – a well-respected love tethered by a long season of deliberate choices that have weathered us, tested us and, ultimately, elevated us to a place of surety, strength, and safety. My gut tells me we’re going to lean heavily into that strength in the season to come; seems like a few clouds might be gathering on the horizon. 

Come what may, one of the things I hold most certain and close in my heart (perhaps the benefit of twenty-five years of covenant-keeping) – for as long as I am allowed, I will walk forward with my hand in Billy’s. He is my home. For better or worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and health, for as long as we both shall live.

We’re a team, Billy Olsen, and I am honored and blessed to be your aging bride.

I really do like growing old alongside you.

Happy Anniversary,

Background Music by Bebo Norman – “A Page is Turned” 

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