Peace for the Journey | Elaine Olsen

This Moment…

November 5, 2008

“For the eyes of the LORD range throughout the earth to strengthen those whose hearts are fully committed to him.” (2 Chronicles 16:9).

Perspective.

Remember?

I woke up this morning, just as I have for the past forty-two years. With some moments and with an opportunity to make those moments count. To seed them with eternal thoughts and eternal doings or to limit them by ignoring the possibility of their worth.

I bet you woke in similar stride. If you’re reading this, then you did and, now, you have come to see what I have to say in the matter. A matter that matters for the kingdom, but not one that will impede the process. Rather, one that has been part of the process all along and has finally been given to us for the unwrapping.

Thank God. Seriously. Thank Him for the unveiling of an answer that has kept us captive to our “what if’s” for a long season.

Had I hoped for a different outcome? Yes. Did I weep some tears for the unborn child? You bet. But I did something else in addition to my disappointment. I gathered my family sometime after midnight, and we surrendered our tears in prayer to God. We laid our hopes and dreams and fears before the throne of heaven, knowing that our Father heard, understood, and then, listened to him as he asked for our understanding in the matter.

For a higher perspective that yields faith, obedience, and a heart that is willing to seed mercy and grace accordingly. For hands that are willing to get down in the soil and get to the business—God’s business—that exceeds a shift in Congress or the new residents of the White House. It includes them, but they are not the sum total of the whole.

They are part of the bigger picture, and alongside my country, I choose to stay focused on the role I’ve been given to play and the chapter I’ve been given to write. No one can do that for me. My story is mine to live, and these next few moments are mine to give to the world … to God. To stand and to kneel as the bridge between the two.

It is my joy and my privilege to do so. Thus, I pray for peace. Search for peace. Receive my peace, and go forward from this one moment, walking with peace. Peace is not some far off possibility or longed for conclusion. Peace shattered the night sky over 2000 years ago with the cries of his feeble flesh and his divinely rooted purpose.

A purpose that included moments of walking out the role he’d been given to walk, on an earthen soil he’d been given to save. Is Peace ringing his hands this morning? Is Peace heading to the local bar to drown his sorrows? Is Peace chaotically assembling his army for a showdown? Is Peace spreading more gossip seeded in fear? Is that the Peace you know?

If so, then may I be so bold to suggest that true peace will never be your portion?

Time for perspective, friends. Time for reframing and for some soul searching in the matter. Time for remembering who you are and who you belong to and for believing in a stronger and higher purpose that exceeds this one moment; not separated from this one moment, but rather lived in unison with a greater unseen whole that is walking its story in perfect cadence with our Father’s clock.

I love America. I love the fact that I’ve been given the privilege to call it my home. Do I think we are off course and could use a strong and bold revival in our land? I’m praying for it because I fully believe we are due its arrival. We are a needy and selfish people, both inside and outside of the church. Some of us our licking our wounds today. Some of us our celebrating a shift in leadership who has promised far more than any single person is capable of accomplishing.

Human nature is like that … always thinking it is up to us to solve the problems and the sin in the world. Too much of a load for any one man to carry. But One did. All the way to Calvary and back, fulfilling the role he had been given to play. The story he had been given to write.

His name is not Mr. President. His name is King Jesus, and he, alone, is my Peace this day. He’s yours too.

Pray for him. Seek him while he yet may be found. And then walk with him, in this moment and in the next, until all moments are gathered and collected and laid to final rest within the boundaries of a garden’s rest. Heaven. Forever.

A final unwrapping of a gift and an unveiling of an answer that has kept us captive to our “what if’s” for a long season. So be it, even so come.

Live it like you mean it, friends. This moment is yours to seed for eternity’s gain. As always,

Early Memories (part two): the find and the fear

November 3, 2008

Please take time to read the previous post for context. This is my follow up response.

“‘The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field. Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.’” (Matthew 13:44-46).

Hartsville, Indiana.

The soil of my beginnings. The landscape that houses my earliest memories.

My mind traveled to Hartsville this past weekend. My father’s words always have a way of taking me to places—to new levels of understanding often tucked away in the old and in the unseen, yet, when scratched, become the itch that cannot be ignored. I’ve thought a lot about my early memories and Sam Keen’s words…

“Tell me your three earliest memories and I will tell you what you are working on right now.”

I’ve plumbed the depths of my remembrances; some have yielded pleasant. Some not so much. And as it pertains to my now, I’ve come to two conclusions about those early imprints—those firmly rooted memories and about how they, perhaps, continue their shaping of my current.

1. The find.

One of my earliest memories can be traced back to this picture–an Easter egg hunt at the ripe age of nearly three. Some would argue me too young to remember, but the images in my mind from that day are real and vivid. I can still feel the heat of the sun and the squirm of my hand inside of my mother’s grip. The decorations of the Easter basket were held together with straight pins, pricking my tiny fingers with just enough annoyance to relegate my attention away from the task at hand.

The find. The candy and the eggs. The hidden treasure that required my participation.

My anticipation was heightened by the flock of other children intent on doing the same. Even at my young age, there was a deep sense of urgency for the find. I was disturbed by the waiting for the horn to sound, signaling the beginning of the hunt. I was even more disturbed by the possibility of not being able to get my hands on the prize.

The memory holds little else for me beyond these initial moments of waiting, but once the signal sounded, my heart and my feet raced forward for the find. I don’t remember the prize that I took away from that event. Perhaps the memory in and of itself, is the prize.

The find. The urgency for the hunt. The concern that somehow I would be overlooked and unable to get my hands on the promised treasure of Easter.

Could it be that I’ve never quite escaped my need for the search?

2. The fear.

Hartsville also housed the beginnings of my fear.

In that season, my father was in graduate school and my mother worked part-time; thus, my sister and I were sometimes left in the care of babysitters. One of our favorites was Beulah. I liked going to Beulah’s house, but going to Beulah’s meant being away from my parents. I remember standing on her front porch, furiously waving to my father as he drove away. Because of his absence, tears filled my eyes as an unhealthy sense of fear filled my heart.

For all of the reasons that I loved Beulah, they weren’t enough to warrant any joy at being left in her care. I’m not sure as to the reasons why, but the insecurities secured in me during that season were the beginnings of a deeply rooted fear that has followed me for nearly four decades.

Could it be that I’ve never quite escaped from my fear of being left behind—forgotten about and deemed as the “lesser priority” of well-intentioned goals?

The find and the fear. Two urgent and pressing memories that surfaced for me this past weekend as I contemplated what I might, perhaps, “…be working on now.”

One replaces the other. The more I find the treasure of Easter, the less I fear being left behind. The hunt for Jesus—the digging and the intentional search for the kingdom of heaven—always yields a peace that surpasses any fear that surfaces to the contrary. I know this to be true, for I am an Easter person.

I’ve walked the road to Calvary and found the greatest treasure of eternal Truth seeded in its soil and harvested in his resurrection. Jesus didn’t walk the road home to his Father so that I could stand on earth’s porch in fear of his never returning. No, he walked home so that I could follow accordingly, with a faith that replaces fear and with a joy that comes from being trusted with the sacred find.

When we find forever, friends, and when we cherish it as the greatest holding of our hearts, we need not fear his return on our behalf. He’s coming, and it won’t be long. Fear tells us that it will be, but faith reassures us that our waiting is but a breath—a single pause between our flawed memories and our sure and soon-to-be, eternal realities.

Now we see dimly. Live dimly, and remember dimly. But soon, we shall fully see. Fully live and fully understand how our beginnings—our early remembrances—have shaped us and equipped us for the kingdom find that has always been our Father’s intention. Thus I pray,

For memories and their shaping, Father, I thank you. Never let the “truth” of my past replace the truth of who you are. The former is flawed, whereas you are perfect. When I am tempted to be shackled by the restraints of imperfect remembrances, increase my vision for my perfected end. As I live my life in process, I ask for your guiding hand and divine wisdom to be my teacher. Where there is fear, replace it with faith. And when I cry tears, wipe them away with the truth of your return. Today, I cast my eyes to the Eastward sky, knowing that you soon will break my stare with the glorious revelation of your return. Even so, come quickly, Lord Jesus. Amen.

PS: For any of you who would like to be put on my father’s weekly email list, please email me separately with your address. I will pass it on to him. Shalom.

Early Memories…Lingering Lessons

November 1, 2008

My dad is one of the best human beings I know. He is a gifted communicator, a passionate preacher, and hands-down…

the best story teller I’ve ever come across. When I was a child, I spent many nights being whisked away to imaginary places via his one-of-kind narratives. Over the years, I have come to appreciate his flare for the dramatic as it pertained to his make-believe stories, but more importantly, as it pertains to the Story–the one that levels real and provocative and life-giving everytime it is heard. My father’s heart beats for his Father, and thus, it is my privilege to share a little bit of his writing with you this weekend.

My dad (most affectionately known as Chuck to friends and as “paps” to his grandkids) writes a weekly word to his friends. The piece below was sent to me today, and I wanted to share it with you. It got me thinking (my father’s words always have a propensity to voice accordingly) about my early memories and how they seeded their story into mine–even 42 years down the road.

So without further fanfare … meet Chuck. My dad. The first man who ever held me in his arms and spoke his love into my heart. Enjoy hearing from his today.

Sam Keen is a noted author who has given us many quotable quotes, like:

- “We are always in the process of writing and rewriting the story of our lives, forming our experiences into a narrative that makes sense.”

- “Darkness is the place where you find renewal.”

- “Your questions are your quest. As you ask, shall you be.”

“Love isn’t finding a perfect person. It’s seeing an imperfect person perfectly.”

Well, there is one more quote I would like to give you. I was in a workshop with Sam Keen a few years ago and the memorable quote from that workshop was, “Tell me your three earliest memories and I will tell you what you are working on right now.”

My earliest memories? Let me give it try.

1. Dr. Thompson and his black bag

I was four years old. I had what they called “the old fashioned measles”, with a temperature of 105 degrees. I was told years later that Mom and Grandma hovered over me for days, wiping my fevered brow, fearing for my life. That I don’t remember, but what I do remember is Dr. Thompson, standing at the front door with his little black medical bag, talking to Mom. Years later, I was told that it was a grim conversation. The doctor was not only concerned about my survival, but that the high temperature could be harmful to the brain.

My first memory had to do with fear; fear of dying.

2. The tar-papered house

That is how my parents’ first home was described to us kids—a tar-papered house on Sam Hay’s farm. I remember the day they took us to the place where the house once stood. All I could see was a patch of sandy soil filled with sand burrs. They told us about their furniture, too; orange crates for cabinets and an old pot-bellied stove. It was that stove that got our attention as Mom told us about the fire.

She told me that on the night of the fire, she needed to go to her parents’ home for an errand and had debated whether she should just leave me sleeping in the cradle or wake me and bundle me up. She decided on the latter and took George, Patty, and me along. When we returned the house was in flames. Again, I could have died that night.

While I obviously didn’t remember that night, I do remember that day when the story was told and how I was revisited with a fear, a fear of not being in the world.

3. First grade with Miss Wilma

I was five when I started first grade. Mother persuaded school officials to allow me to register at five, even though I wouldn’t be six until January. All the details are sketchy but I do recall some embarrassment for having been punished for writing with my left hand. Miss Wilma worked hard to get me to change my writing hand. This infuriated my mother and she made a special trip to the school to inform Miss Wilma that Charlie can write with his left hand if he wants to. And that was the end of that.

Could it be that in that early experience there was programmed in me a sense of insecurity, a feeling that there was something wrong with me, that being left-handed made me strange and odd, and that I was somewhat inferior to others?

Well, there you have it–three of my earliest remembrances. Was Sam Keen right? Am I still working on those issues? I suppose I am.

Ernest Becker in his book, “The Denial of Death”, states that the fear of death is at the heart of all our fears. Philosophically and theologically, I am at peace with the rhythms of life, but there is still this ‘nag’ about what Shakespeare said, “…that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns, puzzles the will.”

And this whole business of trying to measure up to other people’s expectations, like “I will write right handed if you want me to” is a statement about relinquishment of my own Chuck Killian-ness; affecting self-confidence and self-assurance. From time to time, those old tapes have reared their ugly head.

Those ‘old tapes’ had numerous occasions for bringing on disaster. But they also have been the very places for joyful deliverance, forgiveness, and healing. It was out of the ‘dark night of my own soul’ that I was forced to remember. As Elie Wiesel said, “To forget extends the exile, but in remembrance comes liberation.”

Sam Keen was right, “Darkness is the place where you find renewal.” I am still a fierce believer in the “Light that shines in the darkness, and the darkness will never be able to put it out.” (John 1:3-9). How blessed is one who finds light in the dark places!

~Chuck

For those of you who would like to read a little further about my father, please click here to read a post I wrote about his marvelous gift to me … his voice. Have a blessed weekend. Shalom.
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A Final Look at Anonymous

October 29, 2008

“Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.” (Hebrews 10:23-25).

Four and a half years worth of Bible study makes for some memories. Memories that include a whole lot of…

Homework.
Tuesday nights.
Fellowship.
Food.
Prayer.
Discussion.
Commitment.

Most importantly, memories that seed with a whole lot a Jesus. He, alone, is the one reason that keeps most of us coming back for more, study after study, year after year.

We’ve completed eleven different studies since my family’s arrival here almost five years ago. I knew before I arrived that God had clearly called me to facilitate the process. A couple of years prior, I had a head on collision with the power and transforming work of God’s Word. He profoundly interrupted my life with the truth of Scripture, and my hunger was palpable.

When I learned that we would be making another pastoral move, my heart welled with anticipation for the possibility of bringing God’s truth to others in a more tangible way. My zeal was well matched by a group of women who were hungry for the same. Together, we have laughed and cried and prayed our way through some difficult seasons. We’ve come to know and love Beth Moore, Nancy Leigh DeMoss, Jennifer Rothschild, and most recently, our precious Alicia Britt Chole.

I introduced Alicia to our group several weeks ago via her book Anonymous: Jesus’ Hidden Years and Yours. To say this study has been transformational in our lives, both corporately and individually, is to say too little, yet somehow tonight I struggle to find the right words. Alicia has given us the permission to celebrate our hidden years … to respect them, to embrace them, and to understand their sacred worth as it pertains to our intimacy with Jesus Christ.

I am forever marked by the truth of her study and by the time that I spent walking it with over fifty women. Jesus has been the overriding focus of our hearts these past seven weeks, and I finish this time with a rich fullness and deep thankfulness for all of my God-ordained seasons. Whether in the bloom of Spring, the heat of Summer, the stripping of Fall, or the barren of Winter, all seasons with the Father are served as the main course and are to be partaken of accordingly.

We have partaken, and our season of study has come to a close. Tuesday nights are free and clear for the fellowship hall of Pine Forest UMC … at least for a couple of months. We’ll be back. Friends and Jesus have a way of creating a hunger for more of the same. I, for one, can’t wait to reconvene with my sisters in January.

I love these women. As a pastor’s wife, it can sometimes be difficult to find your “home” in a place you never even imagined your feet would pause. These women have made it their mission to invite me into theirs. They are home for me, and even though we’ve closed shop temporarily, when January rolls around and the scent of Tuesday nights once again fills the air, I’ll be ready to break some holy bread around the table with my family. I won’t worry about them being available. They will be.

For they have learned, even as I have learned, that God is simply and profoundly…

too good to be neglected. He is worth our time and our best efforts at attending to the process of our sacred becoming.

So Tuesday night gals, I want you to know that I love you and that I would have missed a great deal had the Bishop not decided to send Preacher Billy and his family to you! You have shown me a side of heaven that is rarely glimpsed on this side of eternity. I carry you all in my heart, even as I know that you hold me close in yours. Doing life with Jesus alongside the likes of you has been one of the richest blessings my life has known.

Let us keep on doing it, and all the more, for as long as we pilgrim this road together. Until we meet again, whether here or there…

~elaine

Now, bloggie friends, I want to share a pitifully captured video from a portion of our final study with you. This visual is not great (we are still living in the age of a non-digital camcorder…my wish lish for Christmas has just increased) but I wanted you to at least hear my voice–no mocking of the southern accent please. Not because I have anything overly profound to say, but simply because it gives you a more complete picture of the writer of this blog. Please disregard my husband’s attempts at “fading” in and out, and pay close attention to my friend, Michelle, who is a professional interpreter for the deaf. At the end of her song, it fades, but then returns for a brief final look of my incredible Tuesday night gals. We made the tape for Alicia and is much better quality when viewing it as a DVD. Anyway, enough apologies. Enjoy the song.

The Forest for the Trees…

October 27, 2008

I dedicate this piece to my friend, Melinda at “Traveling the Road Home”, who graciously afforded me the use of this picture from one of her recent trips. It grabbed me the moment I saw it on her blog, and it has taken me a few days to put some words around it. I pray they speak its witness accordingly. Thanks, friend.

“Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. This is what the ancients were commended for.” (Hebrews 11:1-2).

What do you see when you look at this picture?

I see beauty. I see between. I see beyond.

My eyes refuse the focus of the cluttered clustering trees and instead focus on the entirety of the painted landscape. Rather than get bogged down in the details, I breathe in the witness of a well-planned masterpiece …

the forest instead of the trees.

The full and lush of a long ago planting, seeded by the hands of nature and through the intent of a loving God who visions at a higher level than me. Who paints with a perfected end in mind rather than settling for a partial finish. Who gives careful attention to the details so that the finished product breathes with the life and vitality of exacting and necessary brushstrokes. Who gives us his creation to teach us something about eternal visioning and forever focus.

Faith.

Lived and walked in the details, all the way through to the end—to the other side of the forest where clutter gives way to spacious living. Where shadowed existences give way to God’s lighted embrace, and where the backward glance at the trees left behind fills in the gaps about seasons previously misunderstood.

The ancients of Hebrews 11 understood about faith and the potential cluttering therein. They were commended for their focus … for seeing the forest as their bridge to home rather than as an obstacle to prevent their arrival. Refusing to be overwhelmed by the maze of tangled brambles and knotted roots along the way, they set their eyes on the faint glimmers of a finish that sparkled its radiance light through the dim masking of branches and foliage.

Their vision leveled toward completion.

“All of these people were living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance. And they admitted that they were aliens and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.” (Hebrews 11:13-16).

A city … just beyond the trees. A better country that houses the perfected end of the process that we now walk. A permanent dwelling where the din and lies of the forest are replaced with the splendor of God’s eternal peace and truthful witness.

Friends, if ever we needed the witness of eternity’s truth, it is now. We are walking through a tree-laden season of volatile living. The chaos and clutter of an electoral process is leaving most of us confused and pointedly focused on the trees that obstacle rather than on the forest that divinely shapes. Our minds landscape with the ugly and contrary nature of a temporary foliage that refuses to budge and that so easily trips.

We fight understanding as we soldier on. We refuse to bend and to bow to the trees’ cloistering for fear that in doing so, we will never make it beyond their branchy embrace. Rather than concede to the process of our perfection via difficult trees, we slash at their bark with our words, with our hateful intent, and with our neglect to love.

We fear the outcome, even though the outcome was never ours to fear. What happens in our country over the next few weeks does matter. It is important. But our perfected end, and God’s sovereignty in the matter, isn’t so fragile that it cannot abide an Obama or a McCain presidency.

God has never intended for our focus to stop mid-forest. To freeze frame on a single tree or on a single event in history that was only ever intended to be one miniscule part of the whole. The enemy would like nothing better than to stop us in our tracks and to have us think that the next president will be our savior. The truth is…

No man or woman will ever or could ever hold that title.

There is only One who is worthy of such an honor. His pilgrimage through the forest would require that his Father journey deep into its dark in order to cut the one tree that would house and hold his surrender. He did, so that our requirement would be less. So that we could walk it through to the other side with temporal wounds that bleed less and never lasting. Christ didn’t journey without forethought. He walked with one purpose in mind.

The forest for the trees.

The beauty, between, and beyond of a portrait that was painted long before he allowed us any voice or any vote in the matter.

Is God concerned about our now? Perhaps, but only as it pertains to his completed masterpiece. Is God involved in our now? Absolutely, because what he has in mind is a canvas that is brushstroked with the truth of his ample sacrifice—an end that is painted with the blood of Calvary’s grace. And that, precious readers, will always warrant his attention and his brush.

We are almost home, nearly finished and nearly perfect. God is after our beauty, both individually and collectively as a people. No thing or no one person will thwart his kingdom agenda. No matter the trappings and confinement of a few temporary trees … no matter the outcome of a presidential election … God’s light is still shining through the branches of our dim and our confusion. He is calling us through to the other side, and one day soon, our backward glance will afford us a beautiful understanding for the cluttered shaping that we now walk.

Fear not, our Father has allowed us our trees so that his forest will boast the punctuated splendor of a few faithful hearts—hearts that are trusting and fully content to leave the painting up to him. Thus I pray,

When I am fearful, Lord, with the confusion from the trees that surround my life, remind me of the forest that houses the completeness of your plan. Illuminate each step with the light of your forward focus that will keep me moving in the right direction and in the full assurance of what awaits me on the other side. This season is my season—one that you have ordained for my steps and for the steps of the country that I call home. Keep us, Father, in perfect rhythm with your will. And when I am tempted to consign such understanding to the fragile minds of men, forgive me for assigning them with too much. You, alone, are the King of my heart and my life. Only you can carry me on to my perfection and to your intended end. Humbly, I bow to the beauty of your trees this night. Amen.