on pulling weeds

He knelt down in the gravel, purposefully digging in the rock bed that houses the welcome sign for the entrance to my neighborhood. His presence there was unexpected. He was, after all, part of the work crew responsible for digging ditches and placing new gas lines on the road connecting to my street. His job description didn’t include the added responsibility of weeding neglected rock beds; still and yet, he applied himself to the task. It didn’t take him long. A few pulls at the loosely tethered vines with a subsequent toss in the ditch was all it took to clean up the entryway. I nodded my thanks to him as I walked by. He simply smiled and got back to digging ditches.

And here I am, a couple of months later, still thinking about that scene. About neglected rock beds full of weeds. About an unexpected participant in the clean up process. About long hours beneath the heat of summer and ditches being dug. About walkers walking by. About welcome signs and what they really say about neighborhoods … what they really say about me.

You see, I am not so unlike that sign at the front of my neighborhood. I, too, have a welcome mat at the front door of my heart. The heated days of a summer gone by, coupled with the random seedlings that have landed in my rocky soil, have yielded some unwanted, yet tolerated weeds. Most days, I’ve walked right by them, barely noticing their growth. Weeds, after all, start small. Over time, however, they needle their way in and around the foundational cracks that cradle my heart. Left unattended, their intrusion grows to full height, and the beauty that once proclaimed a proper “welcome” is shrouded, instead, by the overgrowth of thorns and thistles never intended for sacred soil.

In these times of neglect, when what has grown in and around me remains unseen by me, I need an attentive ditch digger to come along and to offer his knees as well as his hands to the task of removal. Sometimes it takes a set of outside eyes to see what my inside soul is longing for …

A heart free from weedy entanglements.

What about you? What does your welcome mat look like today? Is your heart free from intrusion or is it, like mine, in need of a weeding by the Ditch Digger?

Each and every day the Maker of our lives walks by the front door of our hearts. He notices things that we often do not. He sees the soil beneath our feet, the rocks along our paths, the bricks that build our lives, the seeds that blow our way, and all the plantings therein. He applauds the beauty, but he applies himself to the ugly. He notices our weeds, and every now and again, his disdain for them leads him to cross the road, to bend the knee, and to apply his holy hands to their removal.

It’s been awhile now since I’ve allowed the Ditch Digger to dig without restraint within the soil of my heart. He is welcome here today. And while some of his pulls might be painful, ultimately, they will be fruitful.

A cleaned up welcome mat for a world that needs a solid place to stand. An entryway into an eternal kingdom. God’s neighborhood, where the streets are golden and where all are welcome. Thus, I pray…

Even so, let it begin with me, Lord. Come and dig out the weeds that have grown up in and around my heart over the summer months. Rid this sacred soil of anything that is preventing fruitfulness, that is choking out my faith, that is covering up your mercy, your grace, and your welcome through me to others. I see through a glass dimly, but you see perfectly. Humbly I ask you to root out the unseen and to replace it with a holy cleanness that reflects the radiance of your heavenly hands. Thank you for being in the neighborhood and for being willing to notice my need. Amen.

a flower for Inez (“Inie”) Perkins

a favorite flower from a friend in one of her vases

We said good-bye to her last evening. Elegantly adorned in a deep fuchsia dress with her silvery, full coiffure swept perfectly to her right side, Inez Perkins was laid to rest in a pecan-wood coffin next to her beloved Calbert. During the service, she was surrounded by colorful sprays of the most delicious variety, a veritable garden that would rival the finest of Biltmore. It was as if God himself planted a garden and then, most tenderly, lowered his precious daughter to rest amongst the splendor of its blossoms.

Inez resting in her garden. She would have liked that very much.

Inez was at home in her garden. She was a woman of the earth. Whether picking beans, shelling pecans, shucking corn, or tending to her flowers, Inez loved getting her hands dirty and getting next to God’s creation. Like her Father, Inez was good at growing things.

She planted.
She tended.
She watered.
She harvested.
And, ultimately, she relished the fruits of her labor–a wide variety of seeds come to fruition that would both bless her stomach and enrich her soul.

My friendship with Inez was one of those soul seeds planted in the summer of 2004 when ministry life led us to pitch our tent in Goldsboro, NC. Despite the thirty-six-year gap in our ages, we became fast friends. I had two toddlers and two teenagers under roof and she was a recent widow, living alone in her house yet amply surrounded by other family homes on what I affectionately would term the “Perkins’ Compound.”

Inez felt like “home” to me; apparently, she felt the same because she welcomed me into her life as if I had always been there … always been one of hers … a friendship waiting to be planted, tended, watered, harvested, and relished by the deep well of love springing up from her heart.

One of my favorites of Inie at Nick & Chelsea’s wedding shower

For fifteen years, I have known the love of Inez Perkins, and although ministry life would move my family away from Goldsboro in 2010, Inez never lost sight of me. She cared for me from a distance and, on occasion, up close. Our friendship required it; it was just that special.

But last year, through no fault of our own, we did lose sight of one another for a season. Our lives changed in dramatic ways. My life centered around the survival and physical needs of my son while Inez’s centered around the survival and physical demands of her aging body. Time was lost; words between us were few. But even then, even there in that space of separation where the seed of our friendship laid seemingly dormant in the dark of winter, God was planning … planting … a spring garden. He is, after all, in the resurrection business.

Inez, Billy, and me (8-7-19)

In June of this year, our ministry moved us back closer to Goldsboro. And when the call came in regarding Inez’s failing health, I was granted a ring-side seat to the last mile of her earthly pilgrimage. In our final visit together last Thursday, I talked to Inez about going home; I even brought my classroom flashcards that illustrate heaven in an elementary yet concrete way. I prayed for her, held her hand, and as the tears began to fall from my eyes, she lifted her hand to wipe them away. Gently I cradled her beautiful face in my palms and told her,

“Well done, good and faithful servant. Your Father is waiting for you. We’ll be right behind you, friend. I love you, Inez Perkins.”

Unexpectedly she returned my words: “I love you too.”

And with that benediction, we released one another to the journey ahead. My journey took me back to Benson. Her journey took her home to heaven–a resurrection garden planted by God himself, the likes of which colors and blossoms we’ve yet to see but can only imagine.

Inez resting in her garden. Yes, I imagine that she likes it very much. And so I say …

Until we get there,
rest in peace;
Tend your garden,
enjoy the feast.

Prepared for you
by God alone,
heaps of treasure
to us yet unknown.

Until we get there,
until we see,
what you now behold,
what we’ll finally be–

Complete and whole,
finished at last,
full of his presence,
a joy unsurpassed.

Welcome home, sweet girl,
a job well done,
a life well-lived,
a life just begun.

Forever together
with those you have known,
forever together
with seeds you have sown.

So beautifully, so faithfully,
so tenderly grown,
you’re God’s special child,
he calls you his own.

I miss you just now,
I’ll think of you often,
I’ll long for the day
when this sorrow will soften.

And give way to the moment,
when I see what you see,
A garden, a forever,
that belongs also to me.

From a distance I glance it,
just up ‘round the bend,
Not long from this parting,
I’ll hug you my friend.

So, save me a seat
at the table of grace,
Next to you,
next to Jesus,
once again …
face to face. (for Inez ©8/21/19-allrightsreserved)

Until then, peace for the journey,

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PS: I first learned about gerbera daisies from Inez. She grew them in her garden, and I fell in love with them upon seeing them for the first time. Last night, I plucked one from an arrangement to bring home as inspiration. I have no doubt that the gardens of heaven will be filled with them, especially if Inie has any say in the matter. I like imagining her in that role. Also, for those paying attention, you just might see Inie’s influence on the front cover of Peace for the Journey. Not only is that her farm path, but Amelia is holding her daisies. Inie’s beauty lives on in the hearts of those who have eyes to see, minds to conceive, and hearts to believe that God is all around us.

from a distance…

“All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance.” (Hebrews 11:13)

 

Five months ago, I curled up in my bed barely able to breathe. Physically I was fine. My mental state, however, was taking a hit. The details surrounding my life were all-consuming. An impending move. A high school graduation. College applications. A wedding. A house and a classroom to pack up. A cancer scare. Aging parents.

The “to do” list was endless. I cried out to God in anguish:

How will I ever get to the other side of this?

His answer was as potent as my pain.

With me.

In that moment of clarity, I released my question to God’s capable hands and knew that, regardless of the minutiae in between, he would safely land me (and my family) in this place of relocation–Benson, NC.

I’ve lived here for a month now. Five months ago, I couldn’t have known how it would feel to be a resident of this community. Instead, I could only imagine it. And I did so on a regular basis … imagine it in my mind. Every now and again, I’d add some texture to my imagining by making an occasional detour off I-95 while en route to visit my folks who live a short distance away. But even then, in all the detours in my mind and with my car, I couldn’t fully appreciate the fullness of a life lived here. I could only welcome it from a distance.

Faith anticipates and welcomes life from a distance.

The ancients understood this … were commended for it. They lived expectantly, never seeing on this side of eternity, the fullness of God’s promises to them, only believing that, in fact, the fullness would arrive at the time of his choosing. And so, they sowed seeds of faith into the soil beneath their feet, watering it with both tears of sorrow and joy. God grew something on that sacred patch of land. It stands as a memorial for us today–a history of a well-worn, intricately woven faith.

And every time we choose to follow suit, every time we lend our hands to the plow that is before us so that the ground beneath us becomes the road that transports us, the voice that is within us echoes the beautiful refrain of faith. It’s a song that pleases our Father, a forward trust that resounds in the chambers of heaven, reminding those who have gone before us that we are not far behind.

Faith! Faith!
Hear our cry;
Here we stand
To testify.

The night’s been long
The journey severe;
The details endless
A call to persevere.

Through doubts.
Through fears.
Through questions.
Through tears.

In sickness.
In health.
In poverty.
In wealth.

Wherever we are
Wherever we’ve been;
Wherever you’re leading
Wherever it ends.

The soil is yours
This plow in our hand;
These seeds in our hearts
Our time in this land.

This faith from a distance
This faith we hold dear;
It keeps us together
It keeps us strong here.

Until we are finished
Until our time through;
Until our road ends
And we finally see you.

Our Author, our Perfector
Our Finisher of faith;
Our Father, our Redeemer
At last face to face.

With you, with the angels
with those gone before;
At home, at rest
In peace forevermore.

Yes, Faith! Faith!
Let the heavens resound;
This is life from a distance
This is life heaven bound.        (f.elaineolsen7/23/19allrightsreserved)

Faith anticipates and welcomes life from a distance. Wherever you are standing today, friend, cast your eyes to the horizon and cast all your imaginations into the capable hands of our Father. Soon and very soon, you’ll land safely into the place of his relocation. Soon, you’ll be home. Until then,

Peace for the journey,

on measuring the distance

I picked up eight stones in the first few steps of my walk this morning. I’ve been walking this street for a week now; it’s my new route in this new chapter of living. Whereas my former neighborhood boasted several streets full of twists and turns and lots of scenery, my current neighborhood includes a single, straight street dotted by a dozen or so homes. On my former route, two laps around the neighborhood meant I had completed my course. Now “completion” requires eight.

Those eight laps should be easily counted … easily remembered. But I am easily distracted and often lose count. A stopwatch marking the minutes comes close to measuring my steps, but my pace isn’t always consistent. My steps don’t always measure out evenly. Sometimes I walk more slowly. Sometimes more briskly.

For me, time isn’t the truest measure for knowing when my course is completed.

Distance is.

And so, this morning I picked up eight stones. I carried them in my left hand, and each time I passed my driveway, I transferred one of them to my pocket. Carrying and counting stones is a tangible way of measuring distance. An empty palm and a full pocket signals completion.

As it was for me this morning, so it was for the Israelites as they made their way across the Jordan River to enter the Promised Land (see Joshua 3-4). Along the way, God instructed twelve men to pick up twelve stones from the middle of the Jordan and to carry them over to the other side. Joshua (the new leader of God’s people) then took those twelve stones and built an altar at Gilgal to serve as a memorial to the faithfulness of God. In the future, each time the Israelites looked at that altar … counted those stones … they remembered their mighty God and their mighty walk through the Jordan on dry ground.

Twelve stones counted and carried by the Israelites, measured the distance of how far they’d traveled with their faithful Father. As they walked onto the pages of a new chapter in their history as his people, God made sure they had a memorial to serve as a reminder of the previous steps taken. He didn’t want them to forget that faith walk.

He doesn’t want us to forget ours … the steps we’ve traveled with him.

Time isn’t the truest measure for knowing when our course is completed. Distance is. Our steps won’t always measure out evenly. Somedays we’ll walk more slowly; somedays faster. Somedays (thanks be to God) steady as we go. Time cannot accurately measure the length, width, depth, and breadth of our faith walks with Christ. But a few stones carried in our palms and in our pockets deposited as grace at the end of a life’s laboring?

Well, that’s a pretty good measure of the sacred distance we’ve traveled with God.

And so today, let me encourage you to pick up a stone or two–a faith moment between you and Christ where you have known, seen, and felt the mighty arm of the Lord working on your behalf. Start building an altar unto the Lord so that in the future, when your children ask you or when you ask yourself, “What do these stones mean?”, you’ll remember the day when you walked through your Jordan on dry ground because of the strong arm of the Lord.

That altar … that distance … is the measure that matters eternally.

Step on in faith, friends. I’ll meet you in the riverbed. Together, let’s continue to build a living witness to the faithfulness of our God. As always…

Peace for the journey,

finishing

“When they landed, they saw a fire of burning coals there with fish on it, and some bread.” –John 21:9

 

Finish strong.

I used those words repeatedly in the classroom as the fourth nine weeks of the academic school year arrived. Students have a tendency to slack off as they see the finish line approaching. Accordingly, I offered them a push to not give up … to not allow the strong effort of the three, previous nine weeks to be dimmed by a lack luster, weak conclusion. For the most part, as long as my “push” was present, so was theirs.

A strong finish is often accompanied by a strong cheerleader.

But every now and again, despite the encouraging voices along the way, there comes a season when we don’t finish strong. Sometimes, we just finish. Not strong. Not pretty. Nothing to brag about and not a single cheerleader in sight. Instead, we wearily drag our lives, our work and our witness, sloppily to the finish line, hoping for an acceptable conclusion but realizing deep within that it could have been so much more–a better, stronger finish.

It’s not a comfortable fit for me. Still and yet, it’s one I’m wrestling with today as I prepare for the closing of one chapter so that another one may begin. There are some loose ends dangling around the edges of my heart, some regret about the messy steps I’ve taken toward this particular finish line.

How about you? Do you have regrets–things you wish you had said, done … not said, not done?

Regret is a heavy burden to bear, and if I’m not careful, it can quickly overshadow the many positive, strong steps I’ve made along the way. Perhaps you understand. Maybe you, too, are crossing a finish line with no personal fanfare, no pats on the back, and no gold medal in sight. This hasn’t been your strongest finish because you haven’t given your personal best. The outcome is less because the output has been less. Your hands are empty, but (in contrast) your heart is filled with the pangs of would’ve, could’ve, should’ve.

Thankfully, there is a workaround for regret, a way to move past regret and to move forward in hope for the next lines in your story. That workaround?

It’s found in Scripture. It’s found with the Scripture-Writer, the Truth-Teller, the Grace-Giver … Jesus.

On this particular occasion as recorded in John’s Gospel, Jesus was also known as the fire-Starter, the fish-Catcher, the fish-Cooker, the fish-Feeder and the bread-Bringer. After a season of sloppy, woeful finishes by his disciples at the Crucifixion, Jesus stands on the other side of that line to offer them a breakfast full of hope. Instead of casting further shame into their hearts, Jesus lays before them a bounty of fresh fish and bread. In doing so, he offers them a fresh start. He didn’t remove their regrets from their minds; instead, he holy and profoundly reframed them against the backdrop of his grace.

Their Cheerleader wasn’t MIA after all. He was waiting for them on the shoreline, calling them in for breakfast, and feeding their hearts with the gift of his presence, his love, and his willingness to entrust his kingdom to their fledgling faith. Shame and regret didn’t get the final word in the disciples’ lives. Jesus did.

He speaks the same over you and me. His is a message of undeserved grace, love, and trust. Jesus Christ stands at all the finish lines we’ll cross on this side of eternity. At times, we’ll finish strong. At other times, we’ll just finish. But in all times, in all finishes, God offers the gift of his grace, the gift of a second race … a third, fourth, tenth, hundredth race. Another opportunity to finish strong … to finish with Him.

Jesus Christ is our workaround, friends. Always. When we fail to finish as beautifully as we would have liked, he never fails to meet us at that point of frustration and to remind us that all has not been lost in the night.

The dawn is approaching. The embers are burning. The fish are frying, and the Master is calling.

Breakfast is served. Won’t you come and taste grace today? I’ll meet you at the table. As always …

Peace for the journey,

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