a letter to my grand-girl

Dear Grand-girl (aka ‘Lil Miss Woods),

I’ve been thinking a long time about what kind of gift I could give you on your birthday – that very first day when you emerge from the safety of your darkened cocoon into the explosive light of the world you’ll soon call home. Another pink “welcome to the world” onesie, along with a matching “I’m the Grandma” t-shirt doesn’t quite fit the moment, so I think I’ll take a pass on those at this time. (But at some point, don’t be surprised if I’m decorated from head to toe in granny wear, a trait for which you can thank the Olsen side of your family tree. They love a good party and any occasion that allows them to dress up the moment with lavish expressions of wonderment and love.)

No, at this time in your life you don’t need more things to clutter your thinking. Instead, what you most need is the steady and certain love of a family that will never let you go–long and wide and high and deep stretches from the arms that will cradle your beginning and that will carry you forward for the rest of your life.

You’ve got that in us. We’re a sturdy bunch, a motley crew of misfits at times, but a crew strengthened and ready for your road ahead. Why ready? Well, we’ve spent our entire lives growing up so that we might better help you to do the same. Every single one of us have labored and strived all the days of our lives beneath the light and shadow of the Almighty–the Father who has knit you together in your precious momma’s womb. We’ve lived with God. We’ve walked with God. We’ve worked on our faith, and we know to whom we belong. God’s arms are the ones now cradling you in safety. Soon he’ll delivery you into ours. What mystery! What trust! What grace!

As your grandmother, I won’t always be ringside for some of your milestones. I’ll probably miss a lot of them, and I’m mostly OK with that. Those moments belong to you and your parents. And I know they’ll be great ones because I, too, have sat ringside to every milestone of the four kids God has entrusted me to raise … your dad, Nick, your Uncle Colton, your Uncle Jadon, and your Aunt Amelia. Their baptisms, their birthdays, their ballgames, their recitals, their break ups, their first days of driving, their graduations, their marriages, their tears, their fears. Their successes and their occasional failures. Their questions, their doubts, and their settled conclusions. It’s all been on a learning curve for me as a mom, but it has been and will remain the most exceptional privilege of my fifty-three years on this earth.

Wanna know a little secret about your dad? He made me a mom on April 11, 1989, the day after my 23rd birthday. He arrived two weeks prior to his due-date. I knew nothing about being a parent. Zilch. I had a lot of growing up to do myself, and for the last thirty years, I like to say that your dad and I have been growing up together. As he was learning to walk as a toddler, I was learning the fine art of walking as a mom. I still am.

And now, because of you, your parents will have the delicate and delightful privilege of further personal growth because they’ll grow alongside you. You will teach them their parenting skills. God has hand-picked you … entrusted you … as their training manual, and I am not one bit worried about their qualifications. They are rock stars.

Your dad is strong, thoughtful, courageous, contemplative, passionate, faithful, a gifted communicator, and he is truthful (perhaps one of the qualities I admire most about him). A person of truth is a person unafraid of exposure. It takes a long time to cultivate that kind of integrity (some of us spend our entire lives endeavoring to get there), but your dad seemed to be born with a generous portion of it in his DNA. He can’t help but tell the truth, even when it costs him some of his pride (and he’s got a lot of that too, but you’ll help him with that). He will never leave you. He is devoted to you and to your mom. And because Nick’s not a time waster, I always said that he would marry the first woman he seriously dated because he wasn’t going to prattle away a single moment on a girl he hadn’t already decided was worth the investment. I was right.

To give his heart wholeheartedly to one woman, your mom, is one of the greatest gifts he’s already given you. But even more important than his devotion to your mother, your father is devoted to your Creator, and beneath that light and shadow, he will carefully guard his own deposit of faith entrusted to him at an early age so that, in time, you’ll be collecting a faith your own.

As a mom, I have learned this most important truth, and now as your grandmother, I will endeavor to live it out more fully:

My job, my legacy, is to drop enough breadcrumbs of faith along the trodden path of this life so that all of my children, that you and the other grand-girls and grand-boys who will eventually fill up our family tree, can safely find your way home … back into the hands of the One who authored your life and who promises to perfect it.

And now, a word or two about your mom. I don’t know her nearly as well as I know your dad, but in the short time we’ve done life together, I am solidly convinced about her character and her commitment to raise you up with deep roots. Your mom’s strength is equal to your dad’s. She’s a home-grown, home-town girl whose sense of family anchors deeply within that Appalachian soil where she took her first steps. She’s smart (I mean really smart – she’s a professor with a PhD and everything and can produce an academic paper worthy of publication as easily as she drinks a cup of water). She’s clever, witty and can hold her own when it comes to matching wills with your father. She’s quiet, but when she speaks, we listen in because we know we’re going to get something more, another little piece of the puzzle that tells us who she is. I imagine that in these days of growing up alongside you, your mom will reveal even bigger pieces of her story to us, and I think those revelations will blow our minds. She’ll be the doorkeeper of your home, closely guarding who’s coming in and even more so, your going out. She’s a secret-keeper, and while I’m on the complete opposite end of that spectrum, I think her ability to hold things more closely to her heart (to not vocally share every blessed thought that comes into her mind) will help you to learn how to govern your own thoughts, your words, your actions.

Both of your parents already love you unconditionally. The relationship that you share with them will probably be the most important, framed picture in your home, the best snapshot that captures how Jesus really does love us all … that agape love which puts “best interest over self- interest” (you can read all about that kind of loving in 1 Corinthians 13. Uncle Jadon will be happy to break it down for you. He loves God’s Word, and he’ll love answering all your questions). This kind of love is an important picture to hang in your heart, and it has been through this lens (this love that I have for my four children) that I have finally been able to grasp just an inkling of how much I am loved by God. Best interest over self-interest … the Calvary story. One I will tell you more about in coming days. Consider this letter the prologue. 

So sweet precious grand-girl, you who I have not yet seen with my eyes, you whose name has not yet been revealed to the world, I am at a better place of peace in my life because you are now in it. God has seen you. God knows your name, and very soon we’ll start writing the chapters of your life together. And when you can’t find the words to your story, I’ll help you look for them. When the chapters don’t make sense in isolation, I’ll remind you of the bigger picture … that all good stories have a clear beginning, a mostly muddled middle, and, ultimately, a grand conclusion. When the pen you’re holding in your hand loses its ink, when the well from which you draw the lines of your story seemingly dries up, come over to mine and borrow some. My well runs long and wide and high and deep. I’ll lend you my strength because this fragile world you’re entering into, the one where you will write your legacy, will require it. Don’t let that reality scare you. Instead, let it challenge you, embolden you, because this I promise you …

God has already given you everything you need to make it through this delicate dance called life. He’s given you the promise of his presence, and he’s given you the present of our presence. Presence is the best gift we can give you on the advent of your arrival. You’re one of us now. Your name has been carved into the family tree, smack dab in the middle of our names. Our signatures surround yours. We’ll watch over you, and by God’s grace, we’ll all leave a trail of breadcrumbs so that you might most clearly and most easily find your way home.

And as always, may God forever bestow upon you, over you and beneath you, before and behind you, his peace for the journey. There’s no better place to grow up. 

I love you,
Your granny

on course-correcting indulgence

Christmas has cost me a few pounds. A recent doctor’s visit and my turn on the scale indicated this reality. Accordingly, upon my return home, I purged the remnants of my kitchen–those remaining crumbs of a recent, earlier delight. I had had enough of indulgence. My body knew it; perhaps even greater, my mind … my spirit was in agreement. And when those two entities collide, when the flesh and the spirit are in agreement, then healthier choices take place. The fullness that comes to our stomachs when walking in tandem with the spirit is a course-correct that will eventually balance out the cost of earlier, unchecked indulgences.

And while the human spirit is a mighty force for change, God’s Spirit living in us through the powerful work of the cross, is mightier … holier … the same kind of strength exhibited in Christ’s resurrection from the grave (see Romans 8:11-12, Ephesians 1:19-20). As Christians, God means for us to daily walk in his resurrection strength, to breathe and to take in the fullness that he offers to us, so that we might know the difference between an earthly, hungering stomach and an eternal hungering spirit. So that we might run to the right cupboard for the filling.

Long before my recent purge, another purge of sorts took place on Judean hillside. The crowd numbering in the thousands had gathered to hear from this teacher, this miracle worker named Jesus. On that day, Jesus addressed both of their needs–their hungering stomachs and, even greater, their hungering spirits. It was the latter filling that led them to follow him to the other side of the lake for more. It was then that Jesus released a truth that many of them could not fully absorb:

I am the bread of life. Your forefathers ate the manna in the desert, yet they died. But here is the bread that comes down from heaven, which a man may eat and not die. I am the living bread that came down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever. This bread is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world (John 6:48-51, NIV).

Jesus then furthers the discussion with talk of “drinking his blood” — a partaking in what some would deem too strange of a feast. Eating flesh? Drinking blood? What on earth was he talking about?

Jesus wasn’t talking about earthly things. Jesus was teaching about eternal realities, about that place, that moment when the body and the spirit collide and come in agreement for a healthier road forward. This is the course-correct that balances out unchecked indulgences. This is the course-correct that will fix the human condition–those irrational hungers that bloat, that burden, and that distend the soul to damaging limits.

The world we’re walking in, is a damaged, sin-sickened society that makes it all too easy for us to distend our souls. The world’s cupboard is full of choices to satiate our hunger. They’re hard to miss; they crowd our kitchens and their aromas fill our nostrils until we are convinced that we must eat, we must partake, we must cram final crumbs into that remaining void without even considering the cost to our souls. The momentary overshadows the eternal and, before long, the scale lives to tell the tale.

When that happens, when the mocking of indulgence comes back around to taunt us … to haunt us … it is time for us to release that burden to the cross; it is the only scale that will balance the bloating of our souls. Christ leveled the playing field when he submitted his flesh to a bloody surrender. In doing so, he has made a way for us to overcome our earthly hungering. The cross and our bloody surrender therein, eliminates the extra pounds.

The cross is the course-correct for the fledgling and fragile and failing human condition. It is a strange feast indeed; yet it is a beautiful and bountiful one in which we must partake if we want his life to be made evident in ours.

So today I ask you the question that I am asking myself. What has your recent indulgence cost you? What scale are you using to calculate that cost? Are you tired of the bloating, the bulge that has you stretched to your limits? Has your stomach and your spirit come to an agreement on the matter? If so, then you are ready for a course-correct. Your seat at Christ’s table–his altar of grace and mercy–has been reserved.

Dine there. Feed there. Cram in the cross. The hunger that cannot be filled by earthly cupboards can be filled to overflow from the rich storehouses of heaven. This is the sacred balancing of our souls.

I’ll meet you at the table, and as always…

Peace for the journey,

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,

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