Peace for the Journey | Elaine Olsen

Layers…

September 22, 2010

This morning, I found myself wishing that I was anywhere else but there… in that sterile environment, awaiting my turn at the scan machine. The milky cocktail I was given to drink (at least a quart by my estimation) messed with my stomach, more so with my mind. The “IV”? Just another reminder to me that pricks and pokes and prods will be the order of the day for the season to come.

And it was cold. And I was shivering… even through the two layers of warm blankets kindly extended to me by the radiologist.

Tears found their way down my cheeks on several occasions, and when I went into the round doughnut to play “dead” for at least forty minutes, my arms were strapped to my side. I had to remind my radiologist of my recent double-mastectomy that currently limits my range of motion. Holding my arms in the normal posture (over my head) was out of the question, thus the large velcro binding that fastened them to my side. And while I know in my head that this is nothing compared to what is coming in just a few days, it all felt too much, too scary, too “out-of-the-way” for the path that I’m on.

And I wished that it was over. All of it. That, perhaps, I could skip this “layer” and let my heart “catch up with the last layer” before moving on. That what is would quickly morph into what was and that my life didn’t have to walk this particular bend in the road.

But then ten o’clock arrived. Needles were removed; warmth re-established; hunger abated by a cookie at the cancer lounge before my departure. And I was thankful for the finish, for completing this layer and for its finishing work in me. I’m not keen on repeating it, but something tells me it’s now woven into my story and should it require an encore somewhere down the road, it will hold less mystery and more normalcy for my pilgrim heart.

Thanks for your prayers. Thanks for allowing your heart to walk this layer with me. I want to leave you with a beautiful “gift” my Uncle Bill gave to me this week… another poem! Laura, I know you’re laughing out loud, because you know my penchant for poetry in general. But this one is special—written from a tenderness and depth of understanding that pulls at my pain while alleviating it… all in the same breath.

What layers are you living this day, my good, kind, and compassionate friends?

Live them with the end in mind. As always…

Peace for the journey,

~elaine

Layers –

whether it’s a cake

or a life,

layers.

Time takes time

to do its thing,

layers.

Chapters, changes,

just-around-the-corner

challenges,

layers.

Sometimes they stack up

too fast, too high,

and when we try to peel them back

the new ones get in the way,

layers.

Lord, please hold the next one –

I would like to catch up

with the last one.

I’m lost in the

layers.

From a far,

the strata of my life is textured

with beautiful pain

that cries me to sleep

into a perfect dream,

a dream of

layers,

of colors that will not quit,

of sound and scent

that usher me toward the Holy

and helps me lean into the morning,

into the

layers

of a new day

where awareness whispers

My gratitude is greater than my pain,

my attitude is whole, and I shall remain…

Elaine – now and forevermore –

layered with a joyous childhood,

enriched through study,

toughened by circumstance,

blessed with romance,

fulfilled by family,

and completed by faith –

yes, I am Faith Elaine Killian Woods Olsen,

and don’t you forget it!

In those five names,

there are enough

layers

to carry me for a thousand years.

{written by Bill Killian, Sr.

a poem for Elaine Olsen, my niece

Sunday, September 19, 2010}

Deep Waters…

September 20, 2010

“The purposes of a man’s heart are deep waters, but a man of understanding draws them out.” (Proverbs 20:5).

A couple of years ago, I attended a women’s conference where I had the privilege of meeting a few of my blogging friends. At that time, I was fairly new to blogging, so the depth of relationship with other bloggers remained somewhat superficial. (It takes time to build depth of relationship, does it not?) I’ll never forget a comment I received from Lelia after spending some time with her one evening.

“Elaine, I thought you would be this deep, philosophical, thinking kind of person, but you’re really normal and fun to be around.”

I immediately understood what she was saying, and after a hearty, belly laugh we went shopping… for underwear. Yes, it didn’t take long for me to dispel any myths regarding my ponderous estate, and I was glad for the disclosure. Why? Because I sometimes think it is easy for us to paint a picture with our words in our blog posts that misses the mark regarding who we are in our day-to-day, real life. I never want to be accused of “writing someone” that I’m not. Accordingly, I’ve tried to keep it real here at the blog, even as I try to keep it real in on the pavement of my everyday life.

Am I normal and fun to be around? Ask anyone who knows me. They’re the accurate judge on the matter. On the contrast, am I a deep, philosophical, thinking kind of gal? I’ll let the archives of my some 350 blog posts tell the story. I am a woman who loves to laugh and who loves to ponder. Laughter and thinking are compatible sojourners on this pilgrimage of grace. They balance one another… knowing when to defer center-stage status to the other and when to step in as a replacement. I don’t have to be one or the other. I can be both.

And just this morning, I came across the above verse from Proverbs which seems to grant me permission to keep pondering… keep thinking… keeping digging deeply into the recesses of my heart for the hidden mysteries that reside beneath. God mysteries. The ones that belonged to him first; the ones that belong to me now because of my status as his child.

“However, as it is written: ‘No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love him’—but God has revealed it to us by his Spirit. The Spirit searches all things, even the deep things of God.” (1 Corinthians 2:9-10).

I’ve got some “deep waters”, friends. So do you. You may think that you don’t… that somehow you’re just an average thinker with an average heart that doesn’t dip too far below the surface to mine the treasures of God—to contemplate his heart, his thoughts, and his perspective. Some of you feel ill-equipped for the task, perhaps even wrong for wanting to try. God is big… really big, and you feel comparably small. Digging below the surface to get to the heart of God may seem dangerous to you… even treacherous, almost as if to “go there” would be to cross some spiritual boundary or to break some religious law that wrongly states, “You can go this far with God and no more.”

God doesn’t put limits on what can be known about him. Certainly, in this season of our lives we see in part, live in part, know in part, walk in partial understanding. Fullness of understanding will come when we get home to Jesus, but until then, we have the freedom to dig.

Deeply dig.

To dip our buckets into the well of perfect understanding and to wait for God to fill them accordingly. We get to live deeply because we anchor our personal ships in some deep waters. When our lives were formed and fashioned in the secret place (Psalm 139), they were created in depth, with depth, to live depth. There was nothing shallow about that moment; in contrast, your conception represents, perhaps, the deepest, most hidden moment of your existence. When God weaved you together in your mother’s womb, he variegated your flesh with colors and contrasts and intricacies that can only be discovered with your willingness to go deeper with your Creator.

In doing so—in mining the treasures beneath your surface—you discover some of the mysteries that better enable you to live your life with sacred perspective. You discover the wise counsel of God which sheds light into your plan and your purpose for being on this earth. Without the dig comes the risk of remaining shallow—of living the rest of your days with surface understanding.

For some of you, that’s enough. You don’t have to think too far beyond current wisdom to be secure in your faith. You’re happy with the knowledge that you hold, and it will be more than enough to carry you through to glory. I celebrate that in you. I wouldn’t want you to be someone that you’re not. But I will tell you this one thing because, just maybe, you haven’t realized this about yourself.

You’ve got some deep waters bubbling beneath the surface of your heart this day. A big, huge cauldron of wet waiting for you to dive into in order to discover some hidden truth that you’ve yet to hold as your own. To get there, you need to be willing to get wet—to ponder and to think with your heart wide-open before God. You’ll need to ask questions in prayerful pause. You’ll need to wait for our Father’s response. It won’t be immediate, but as you are faithful to press into the heart of God, he will be faithful to fill yours with a ladle or two of his personal mystery.

And for that, friends, I’ll keep digging. I want to know Christ. I want to live the resurrected life while my flesh yet tarries in this land. Today is the day of salvation, and we have a God who can be known… deeply known. And for as much as I can know God on this side of eternity, I’ll keep dipping my bucket into his well of grace.

“The purposes of a man’s heart are deep waters, but a man of understanding draws them out.”

Even so, Lord, make me a woman of depth this day. Keep me drawing from your well and keep me believing that with every personal, intentional pursuit of knowledge that I make will come further understanding into the deep things of you. Forgive me when I choose less. Bless me when I choose more… choose big… choose deeply… choose you. I thank you for your mystery. Even greater, I thank you for allowing me to hold some of it as my own. Amen.

Peace for the journey,

elaine

PS: Many of you have asked regarding my schedule for the week and how you might pray for me. In the future, I may initiate a “caring bridge” page to keep you updated on the medical trail I’m traveling, but for now, here’s the latest:

Tuesday: Genetic counseling and BRCA testing in Chapel Hill.

Wednesday: PET/CT scans locally

Friday: MUGA (heart) testing, along with chemotherapy counseling locally.

In the next week, a follow-up meeting with my oncologist, the placement of a port-a-cath, the beginning of an eight-cycle regimen of chemotherapy over the next four months.

Please pray for continued healing from my surgery… still very sore and the thought of implanting a port-a-cath sends my stomach reeling! For strength enough, peace enough to courageously walk into this new chapter of healing. We love you each one and covet your prayers as we go forward. Now, how might I pray for you? Shalom.

chapters…

September 17, 2010

Chapters.

We all have them. Our life stories are made up of them. Segments and seasons of our journeys adequately chronicled and punctuated, each ending half-way down a blank page, indicating to us and to the reader that another segue is about to begin. Not that what has been written up to this point doesn’t spill over into the next chapter; life certainly spills over. Rather we live with the understanding that some seasons must find their ending before a new one can find its beginning. Such is the case with my cancer. Yesterday both marked an ending of one chapter and the beginning of another one.

Yesterday, I made a final visit to my surgical oncologist, Dr. Habal, in Greenville. The evening prior, I made two honeybun cakes to deliver to him and the wonderful staff that supports him in his work. I also wrote a card, expressing to them my grateful thanks for their taking good care of me in this portion of my journey. For answering every phone call with energy, time, and grace. For handing me a tissue when need be. For being pleasant at every turn. For treating me as a person, not as a paycheck. For making sure that my “bad news” was delivered and processed in a good way, and mostly, for being willing to laugh at my jokes, cry at my words, and hug me as I left. Before my visit was over, I’d met everyone in that office, making sure to tell each one of them that, “What you do here matters. Every good and kind gesture is a gift you give to a family who has, possibly, just been given the worst news of their lives. Keep doing it; you do it so well.”

They thanked me, most of them through tears, and I felt incredibly blessed for having had this heart intersection—mine with theirs. I won’t return to their practice for another five months. In the meantime, I’ll begin living the next chapter of my cancer journey a little closer to home.

Introduce Dr. Bakri and the medical oncology team at Cape Fear Valley Regional Hospital. Over the next 4-5 months, I’ll be spending some time in their care as they manage my chemotherapy regimen. And while I am completely satisfied that my care will be given high priority and consideration, the “climate” in that place is a departure from the “climate” of Dr. Habal’s. It feels more clinical… more distant… more programmed… less warm. Perhaps it was the chemo chairs I saw lining a dimly lit wall; perhaps the patients bravely inhabiting those chairs. Maybe it was the dated wallpaper or tiled floors that added to my angst. Maybe it was the sobering reality that came from an hour plus discussion with Dr. Bakri—a reality that says “This is far from over and that reoccurrence is a strong possibility without treatment, 1/3 lesser with treatment.”

Reoccurrence. I hadn’t thought much about that. What I had previously thought was a relatively “done deal” (and naively so) is far from done, and the idea of having to undergo further needle pricks, stomach sickness, losing my hair in addition to losing my breasts—well, all was overwhelming. Rather than leaving that place with thankful tears and hugs all around, I left with my own tears of sadness and with a single man at my side who was feeling his own depth of pain.

My next chapter. I don’t much feel like baking a honeybun cake for anyone at this point, at least not yet. I imagine that once the mystery of it all unfolds, and I am a bit more comfortable in my taking up residency in one of those chairs, my heart will relax, opening up again to love and to invest in the hearts of those who sit beside me and those who are given charge over me. It takes a few pages to get into the meat of a new chapter. I’ll not write this one off yet, nor am I afforded the luxury of skipping it. Instead, I’ll plow through it, one word at a time… one sentence after another, one page at a time, until I see that ending half-page come into focus, indicating to me that another segue stands on the horizon. By the time I reach this chapter’s end, I pray that, like my fondness for the chapter titled Dr. Habal, I’ll have a similar fondness for Dr. Bakri.

To get there… to arrive at fondness…I understand that it’s mostly up to me. To my deliberate investment on the front end and along the way. To actively seeking out opportunities to interject God’s kingdom witness into my new environment, be it something as small as a smile or something as big as a conversation. Acceptance of a new chapter in my personal journey goes a long way toward making it matter… toward having it make sense. It’s the same with all of us.

Many of you are standing on the threshold of unimaginable change:

New job.

Physical change of address.

Divorce.

Marriage;

Parenthood.

Death of a loved one.

Kids leaving home for the first time.

Caring for ailing parents.

Caring for an ailing spouse.

New ministry opportunity.

New church.

New sickness.

New relationship.

__________________.

A new chapter is about to commence and, perhaps, like me, you’re having a hard time seeing past all the words, punctuation, and paragraphs that fill the upcoming pages. You want it to make sense, want to love it and claim it, live it and name it. But you can’t… not yet.

But you will… very soon. And if you’re intentional about investing yourself into the mix on the front side of the chapter, then you can be certain that when the chapter finishes, you will have lived it like you meant it. You will have done the hard thing of being engaged with your life—every letter, word, sentence, and paragraph. I imagine that some of the pages will live pretty “hard” for us. We won’t always feel like honeybun cakes and hugs and smiles. With every chapter comes a twist or two, a turn—an unexpected “reality” in the middle of daily expectations. I’ve had an ample tasting of the unexpected in recent days. But I’ve also tasted ample portions of something else…

Tons of grace, peace, joy, laughter, love, acceptance, sacred understanding, and a rich intimacy with God, family, friend, and stranger alike. These have been the blessings of my cancer thus far. And while I might have chosen for them to come to me via another route, I’m not sure if an easier avenue would have granted me enough desire to be as deliberate with regards to my investing. Pain and suffering have a way of bringing sacred desire to the forefront of our intentions. Pain can cultivate Godly perspective, and while I don’t believe for a second that God has allowed me this pain out of some desire to punish me or to get me in line with his will, I do believe that he can use this pain to shape me in order to influence those who will cross my cancer path in the days to come.

My next chapter. It has begun. It will continue for a season, and for as long as the Lord allows the ink to write, I’ll make sure to keep you updated… a few pages at a time. May the chapter you’re about to finish and the one you’re about to begin be filled with heavenly perspective and perfect Peace, Jesus Christ.

What you do here matters. Keep doing it; you do it so well! As always…

Peace for the journey,

~elaine

"walking Mom"…

September 14, 2010

Who gets to walk mom?

It’s the newest “chore” added to the already growing list of chores divided up amongst the six of us who live beneath this roof. And since two of the six are rarely around, “mom-walking” usually falls to one of the other three. Last night, the task fell to Jadon, a duty in which he is more than willing to comply.

Jadon is a mover… literally. He’s not a sit-still kind of young man. Instead, his energy is constantly on display and in need of harnessing in a good and right direction. Before my surgery, Jadon would occasionally run with me, outpacing me on most occasions. As a mother who runs, it delights my heart to think that, perhaps, one of my children will share a similar affinity for the discipline. That maybe, he and I… down the road… might share in some mother-son jogs, thus allowing us the quality time together we both need and desire. But until I heal… we’ll walk.

It gives Jadon some responsibility in this new mess we’ve come to know as cancer. Cancer isn’t a single-person disease. It affects everyone within arm’s reach. Accordingly, Jadon needs a way to help me… to contribute, and since bathing is not at the top of his priority list (both for himself and for me), I gladly assign him the responsibility of “walking me.” I need not worry about a lag in conversation, because my son’s need for talking far exceeds his needing for moving. This boy can fill a pause with words. (For the record, we’re all talkers, but that’s another post for another day.) Last night proved to be no different.

From the moment our feet hit the pavement, he began with a lengthy discourse about guns. Donned in cowboy hat and gear, Jadon decorated our walk with talk about WWII machinery, his cowboy holsters, one of the latest “picks” from The American Pickers which included a training gun for soldiers. On and on he went for the first lap which morphed into a second conversation for the second lap. A conversation about sex.

I’ll spare you the details, but safe to say, any question is fair game at our house. It’s just how we roll, and in the course of another half mile, we covered genetics, dna, sex within the boundaries of marriage, ovaries and eggs, why he had “two” instead of “one,” his progression from baths to showers… on and on with barely a moment to breathe in between. As we finally rounded our last bend in the road, he looked at me with all the tenderness and kindness of a young boy in a rush for his manhood to arrive and uttered some words I won’t soon forget. He said them the Jadon way—using words that aren’t exactly what we’re used to hearing, but words that, nevertheless, give way to perfect understanding.

“I’m coming along pretty fast, Mom. Soon I’ll be as tall as you.”

Coming along pretty fast.

I don’t suppose I have to tell you what he meant. Jadon is growing up, and he knows it. He sees it… not just in his body, but in his thinking. And while his academics will always lag behind the work of his peers, even there I see growth. He’s not the boy he used to be; instead, he’s becoming the young man he was born to be. Ten years have come and gone like a flash, leaving me with a similar thought in my heart this day.

Life is coming along pretty fast.

Not just for Jadon, but for all of my children. Not just for my children, but for me as well. One day soon, we’ll all be grown up… will have reached full maturity and a season when we can look at the world from a “taller” perspective. From a place of deeper understanding and less confusion; a place of more answers and less questions.

We’re not there yet, but we can be certain that until we arrive at that “taller” moment, we’ve got a Father who is willing to entreat the burning questions of our souls. A Father who is willing to walk us around the block, to hold our hands while crossing the street, and to patiently listen as we search for the right words to connect the dots between our “here and now” and our “there and then.” And we’ll be glad for the discipline. For the walking beside him, talking to him, being with him, looking up at him, knowing that because of the time spent together, we’re closer now to resembling him then in the moments preceding our corporate time of togetherness.

That’s what happens on a walk with someone we love.

We’re shaped. We’re changed. We’re inched along in our maturing because we’ve allowed our feet and our hearts to connect along the foot path and heart of another person, and when that happens, our lives are forever altered. Perhaps not in a way that can be quickly quantified, but in less subtle ways that collect and gather over time to make a formative change in the way we view life… do life.

Life is coming along pretty fast. And if we’re not careful to notice its advent, we’ll miss some of the glorious moments that serve as our precursors to fullness. Like Jadon, we may long for our next big leap of maturity; like Jadon, however, most of us forget that that leap won’t happen until some personal steps of faith are taken beneath the watchful gaze and care of a parent’s love… a Father’s love.

It’s a walk I’m taking today. A walk around the block with my Daddy. And I don’t imagine there will be much pause in conversation. I’ve got a lot of words in me, a lot of questions as well. Mostly, I just want to be with him. I want a few moments with Jesus to call my own where other distractions are kept at bay and where I can have him all to myself. Really, I think it is what all children crave… a time of meaningful dialogue between them and their Father.

Life is coming along pretty fast, friends. Better catch a walk with Jesus while you still can so that he can better shape you for his eternity. And should you have a slot open on your schedule where you can come by and “walk me,” then all the more. I love doing life with you! As always…

Peace for the journey,

post signature

a day worth celebrating

September 10, 2010

Quietly, we waited for her. Our hearts tethered to one another in a way we’ve never known… never tasted throughout our thirteen years of marriage. Few words were spoken between us. They seemed less necessary in those moments—almost intrusive. Instead, we just looked at one another, knowing that in a few moments, our lives would take another turn—a reality we knew was coming, yet one not adequately prepared for—

the look of my new body.

Tenderly, Nurse Beth unwrapped my dressings. Beneath the bandages was a week-long hidden mystery—a fright I refused to address in the days preceding its unveiling. It wasn’t as hideous as I had imagined. It was what it is—

a new me packaged a little differently in an old flesh.

Together we cried. I knew that we would. And when I looked into his eyes, I saw something I didn’t think was possible. I saw a deeper love, a renewed love, a love that courageously took my heart, yet again, as his own, and spoke a rich renewal into the deepest fiber of the deepest part of me.

My man loves me, and I love him. Today we celebrate the gift of life—both his and mine. Today he turns 43. Today I share that life with him, knowing that my cancer has not gotten the best of me and that, God willing, we’ll have several more birthday celebrations in the years to come. He tells me that it is enough of a gift—that he doesn’t need stuff. He just needs me—the new me, and that I am his birthday blessing.

Friends, the results of our Dr.’s visit yesterday confirms the preliminary conclusion from surgery. My breast cancer is staged at a IIA level (tumor is between 2-5 centimeters but hasn’t spread to the axillary lymph nodes). The three sentinel lymph nodes (the first lymph nodes closest to the tumor before it spreads to the rest of the body) that were removed and tested for cancer all came back clean with no signs of spreading. Accordingly, radiation will not be a part of my follow-up treatment plan. A chemotherapy regimen will be determined in the very near future and underway after I’ve had a few weeks of healing.

Just yesterday, I was asked by a friend as to the reasons behind my choice for a swift, aggressive approach to treating the cancer. My answer (although I’m not sure a question like that really warrants an answer) was firm, swift, and full of conviction.

I want to live.

Why?

The reasons are three-fold.

#1. I am committed to the spiritual growth of my family. I want to give my children some years… some more time to get grown and to get established in their faith. I want to be part of that shaping process. I don’t want my kids to receive their modeling from outside influences. I want to be that influence because I happen to believe that Godly parents do more to further a child’s heart toward a life with God than alternate persuasions.

#2. I am committed to the earthly tenure I’ve been given. Life is a precious gift and worthy of preserving. I am convinced that I was created with a good…a God-purpose in mind. For as long as I have breath, I am wholly devoted to that purpose—to preserving the temple that is on loan to me so that I can live out…

#3. My commitment to know God more with each passing day and then, out of that knowing, lead others to know the same. I want to do more for God’s kingdom, more toward advancing the cause of the Gospel. I know that his truth can march on without me, but it feels right and good and holy wonderful to be part of the story—the telling of it and living it therein.

That’s why I chose and will continue to choose to face my cancer with a fightin’ spirit. That’s why a double mastectomy was an easy choice for me. That’s why chemotherapy and any other therapy will be embraced without reservation in the days to come.

Not because I am attached to my flesh, but rather because I am attached to my life—a God-fearing, gettin’-down-to-Jesus-business, kind of life. If I’m living for any other reason—if I choose to aggressively fight my cancer so that I might extend my life in order to enjoy the fleeting, temporal/fleshly pleasures of this life—then I have chosen poorly, with wrong motives at the helm. This world has nothing for me; like the Apostle Paul, for me “to live is Christ; to die is gain.” Either way, I get God, and that, my friends, is the proper perspective from which to view each new day that is granted to our care and guardianship.

Today, my husband’s birthday is granted therein. And while I haven’t been able to do any shopping along these lines, I’m thinking many kind and good thoughts toward him. He’s been an unimaginable friend and lover to me in these last few weeks. Thirteen years ago, God saw better my need for him than I did. God pushed me to the altar to accept the gift of Billy. And just this morning, he took my hands in his again, helped me into the shower and cleaned my ailing flesh.

And I have never loved him more. And he loved me back. And I am grateful for this man who willingly chose me and allowed me to take his name as my own. As a way of honoring this special day, I want to share with you a poem my Uncle Bill wrote in honor of Billy’s birthday. I imagine your knowing my man more intimately would render greater appreciation for the tenderness of Uncle Bill’s words, but this isn’t just for you, friends. It’s mostly for my Billy. Would you join me in celebrating the gift of his life this day?

{the killian siblings from l to r, Uncle Bill, my daddy Chuck, Aunt Patty, Uncle George}

Billy at 43

Lord, it’s Sunday morning,

and Billy has to preach –

boy turns 43 on the 10th.

Wife and four children –

facing mighty tough times,

but, Lord, it’s Sunday morning,

and Billy has to preach.

Help him to carve out the truth –

the truth from his text

and his subtext. Prayin’ for him,

Lord; if he gets the Sunday off,

he’ll still be giving it up for others –

man of compassion like this

doesn’t shut down when hurtin’ –

so, Lord help this Billy man,

cause on Friday he turns 43.

Lord, when I was 43

I just done sobered up,

never coulda faced

what this preacher man handles –

a new parish, a family in pain,

and his own heart broken

but with a faith that sustains.

And here we have

his former parish

coming out in droves

to say We love ya,

and family and friends

from around the world

are holding this holy home

in a protective love that releases

the deepest cry,

and it is that cry, Lord,

that will see us through.

Yes, as I was sayin’ –

it’s Sunday morning, Lord,

and Billy has to preach.

{william killian

written for billy olsen

for his forty-third birthday

faithful husband

and sweetheart

to my precious niece

elaine

sunday september four

two thousand ten}

It’s Sunday morning, Lord, and we all have to preach! Help us to preach you well. As always,

Peace for the journey,