WIP

“As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another” (Proverbs 27:17).

Silence.

It really is golden.

At least it seems that way to me in this moment. Tonight, I’m sitting in my parent’s living room, forty-five miles away from the usual noise of my very chaotic and everyday life. My dad has vacated to an upstairs bedroom where he’s watching the All-Star game. Mom and me?

Well, we’re where we usually are … in our recliners downstairs, channel surfing for a good movie to entertain us when the nine o’clock hour arrives. Slim pickin’s, I’m afraid. Thus, we’ve settled in for more of what we’ve been doing for most of the afternoon…

editing my WIP (that’s writer lingo for “work in progress”).

There’s no better editor, friends, and the price is right. I’m pretty sure my mother’s been dotting her “i’s” and crossing her “t’s” from the womb. Nothing slips past her grammatical eye; at least I hope it doesn’t. Not this time. This time, I need it to count. This time, I need her critical input because I want my “work in progress” to be its best. To read its best. To put its best “words” forward in order to point others back the Word … Jesus Christ.

Mother is well-suited for the job. She’s been editing my life for the past forty-three years, always keeping my “sentences” in check and watching out for my “danglings” in whatever form they may come (I know, mom, it’s not a word, but it seems to fit with the flow of things … please forgive).

She’s been my critical eye because, quite honestly, I’ve needed her to be. She’s not intrusive; far from it. She’s simply available for the edit. She wants my life to read its best and for me to put my best “words” forward in order to point others back to the Word.

Isn’t that a worthy calling? A high and noble calling, not just for a mother but for all of us? To always be in the process of a life’s edit so as to “read” at level best, pointing others back to the person of Jesus Christ?

Most assuredly, we won’t “catch” everything. Even the best manuscripts boast an occasional typo or two or dozen that slip past the scrutiny of an expert editor like my mother. Typos are part of our humanity, reminding us that full perfection lies just out of reach and on the other side of a final edit. But does that mean we shouldn’t try? That we shouldn’t allow our words and our lives some raw exposure before a few trusted people and allow them a critical eye in the process of our becoming?

Our “becoming” was designed with corporate input in mind, for the back and forth editing of each other’s lives. Never as a tool for diminishing a life’s worth, but as an instrument for moving that life toward a better perfection. A better read. A better WIP, filled with words and plots and intrigue that catches the attention and interest of the reader and points him/her back to Jesus.

I want an edited life friends. Average and adequate no longer interest me. I’m after better. In fact, I’d settle for a best-seller. My book may never make that list, but in the end, the book is just extra. What matters to me is my life, and I’m counting on it “reading” better in a week’s time than how it reads today.

To get there, I choose exposure.

To my mom and my dad. To my husband and my children. To my church and my community. To strangers and friends alike. To God, the Spirit and the Son. To everyone and to each situation, I offer my life for the edit.

I may not always willingly receive the revisions, but by God’s grace and with his help, I endeavor to grow with the process. To be a WIP, opened for the reading and, hopefully, with words enough to point others back Jesus.

He is the Author and Perfecter, the Finisher of my manuscript. Even so, come and write my life this night, Lord Jesus. Thus, I pray…

For a mother who edits, I thank you, Lord. For a Father who edits, all the more! I don’t know the final plans you have for my current WIP, but I am forever grateful for the end you have planned for my life. Write me and revise me according to that end, not mine. Give me the wisdom to bend to your pen and the humility to bow to your correction. I want to be your best read. I want my life to point others back to you. Edit me for kingdom purposes, and keep me ever mindful of the privilege I hold in having you as my Publisher. Amen.

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Joy Comes…

Joy comes.


It came for me tonight as I chased the sunset to its rest. This evening, my feet carried me far and fast with the gentle breeze of a better wind. Tonight I ran with the Spirit, and we were moving in praise to the God who authors each day and scripts it with his living witness at every turn (you wouldn’t have believed my pace, Runner Mom).

It came for me this morning in a Sunday’s worship service. Today, I chased the ice-cream truck (thanks, Laura, for your post); my son led me there. He gave us all a glimpse into his heart as he chronicled a few memories from the pulpit about his recent trip to Bolivia.

It came for me in the hugs from my church family, all of whom genuinely enjoy being together in worship on Sunday mornings. How many churches can say that? Today we needed to be there for so many reasons, not the least of which was to gather our hearts in tender pause as we try to gather our bearings after experiencing such a tremendous grief.

It came for me in you, dear friends. The collective mass of you who took the time to pray for us all and leave your comforting thoughts in the comment section. Your time before the throne has been profoundly felt by me and by Beth’s family. You didn’t have to, but you did; I’m continually amazed by the way God is using our cyber connections to bring praise to his Name. He, alone, is worthy of our pens.

We could write about many things, and, indeed, we should. Our lives are not immune from the “everydayness” that creeps in and takes over. But God is there in every one of our days. The key for us is to be more intentional about looking for him.

As my son put it so well this morning…

“We may not always see God coming, … but boy, once he crosses your path, he sure is a sight to behold.”

Joy comes.

On Sundays. On Mondays. In Bolivia. In church. In hugs. In a graveyard. In a run. In a sunset. In sleep. In the rising of the sun. In the resurrection of the Son!

Joy comes.

Look and see; behold and believe. There’s more to this moment than meets the eye.

As always,

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PS: I’m adding a video clip from this morning’s service. Unlike his mother, my son has a softer tone to his speech, so turn up the volume if you want a listen. I realize that most of you won’t have the time; that’s fine. I’ve put this here, as I put many things here on my blog, as a “touchstone” of remembrance. My “thus far, the Lord has helped us.” So I do this for our family (paps, are you watching?) and for you if you would like to listen to the witness of an amazing God who is ever in the process of shaping his children and bringing his joy. Shalom.

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

 

Licking the Plate Clean

Licking the Plate Clean

“Taste and see that the LORD is good; blessed is the man who takes refuge in him” (Psalm 34:8).


He tasted yesterday. In fact, he took things a step further.

He licked the plate clean … literally. Let me explain.

Following our Sunday morning services yesterday, I took some time to linger with a friend on the couch outside the sanctuary. In the midst of our fairly emotional conversation, I noticed a group of people approaching our perimeter.

My people.

Husband, daughter, and son, all carrying the remnants from our earlier moments of Holy Communion around the altar. Plates, chalices, left-over bread and juice being dutifully carried by two of my people. One of my people, my son, was holding his plate sideways and to his mouth. He was licking the plate.

Mid-problem solving, I paused my conversation with my friend and stated…

“Would you look at that?! My son is licking the communion plate. I’m sure he’s broken at least a hundred rules as it pertains to the “taking” of communion.”

My husband looked over his shoulder and commented back to me…

“I’m sure there are worse things he could be doing.”

We all had a good laugh, except my son who was too busy trying to consume a final flavor of the sacred bread. Indeed, there are worse things he could be doing. This wasn’t one of them; in fact, I think this “doing” to be a very good thing, and here’s why.

My son’s licking of the plate indicated a prior understanding regarding the worth of the plate’s contents. Had sardines been the fare of our previous altar moments, I don’t think he’d have been so eager to lick the plate, much less carry it. No, what he carried in his hands was a tasty left-over, a good portion of a good remembrance.

The small piece of bread that passed through his mouth and onto his taste buds moments earlier was enough to warrant his desire for more. When he decided to “help himself” to the remains, he didn’t do so with any religious rituals in mind. He simply did so because of his hunger. How thankful I am for his earthly father who saw past ritual and allowed my son a feast.

How thankful I am for my heavenly Father who sees the same; who allows the same.

God created us with the feast in mind, friends. He intends for us to be hungry. To know and feel the deep ache that cries out for more. More bread. More filling. More Jesus. More truth. The closer we come to table of grace, the more we grow in our understanding of just how sacred the sacrament is.

I don’t imagine my son fully understands or appreciates the “worth” behind such moments. I’m not sure I do, but this I do know. He knows Jesus; he knows church, and he is beginning in his appreciation for some of the traditions of the church. It doesn’t matter to me if he absorbs it all now; what matters to me is his tasting along those lines.

And he would tell you all today, this day after a Sunday’s sacred remembrance, that church tasted really “good” yesterday.

The body that was broken. The blood that was shed. Our “more than enough” to keep us well-fed in the moment and in the posture for receiving more down the road. May we all be found “licking the plate” this week. Thus, I pray…

Thank you, Father, for your Word that feeds us. For the everlasting remembrance of the everlasting moment that still breathes new and viable for the hungering ache of a hurting world. You are our Sustainer, Lord, in times of feast and in seasons of famine. Rain down the bread of heaven each and every day so that we can be filled with the true and lasting sustenance of heaven’s bounty. Thank you for a child who isn’t afraid to explore that bounty. May our hearts be found as willing. Amen.

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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

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