Peace for the Journey | Elaine Olsen

one so blessed…

June 9, 2010

My precious friend, Joanne, sent me an e-mail this morning to remind me of the book give-away she is hosting over at her blog. The book? Peace for the journey: in the pleasure of his company. Maybe you’ve heard of it? I have a particular fondness for the work; it strikes pretty close to home, and I’d love for one of my readers to win a copy. Please stop over at Joanne’s place to sign-up, and bring your lawn chair with you as you go. Her blog is like sitting beneath the shade of a favorite tree on a hot, June afternoon. She makes me laugh; she makes me think; she gives me permission to pause from the busyness of my life in order to partake in the loveliness of hers.

Thank you, Joanne, for your interest in me and for the bucket loads of kindness you’ve extended in my direction. You are one of the best evidences of God’s grace and love toward me in the blogging community. I count it a privilege to be walking alongside you in this season of life and to call you my sister and friend.

Peace for the journey,

PS: I’m closing comments on this post so that you can head over to Joanne’s place and start enjoying the fellowship beneath her shade tree! Shalom.

"Let the boy run…"

June 7, 2010

As I rounded the corner of mile two on my usual jogging route, I noticed them walking toward me—two middle-school boys getting off the bus… two brothers making their way to the home less than a quarter of a mile from the bus drop. I’ve seen them before; even chatted with them on occasion, but all I received from them in that moment was their cursory nod as they made their approach. It was obvious to me the debate going on between them. I noticed the increasing, accelerated paces that accompanied their “out of the corner of the eye” glances toward one another. A race was about to happen, but not before they passed my observation.

I must have served as their starting line, because as soon as they made it beyond my right shoulder, the competition was on. I don’t know who won the race; the older brother is bigger with a longer stride, but the younger is thinner and perhaps harbors just enough determination to claim victory over his older brother every now and again. I chuckled as they passed, having seen this kind of competitive spirit in my own sons over the years. It has both annoyed me and blessed me, always reminding me of the subtle differences that seem to exist between boys and girls.

I continued with my jog for another mile and with the “chewing” on these differences when a thought occurred to me. A voice really. A whisper that simply and profoundly declared…

Let the boy run, Elaine. Let the boy run.

If there is one thing this woman knows, it’s boys. I live with four of them—one manly boy, two semi-manly boys, and one wishing he were anywhere within shooting range of the older three! There’s just something in them that says “get to the finish line first.” Whether it’s a foot race to the front door, a sprint to claim the front seat of the van, a drive to the hoop, the front runner for the hot shower or for morning pancakes, boys have it in them to be first. When it comes to racing, all other considerations are pushed aside. My boys can’t seem to help themselves. They simply were made for the running.

Let the boy run, Elaine. Let the boy run.

I’ve thought a lot about this whisper over the past couple of days since it first entered into my heart. Thought a lot about all of the ways I’ve tried to squelch the “run” in my boys over the years. As a single mom of two young sons, it was easy for me to justify my taking the lead in all of our matters. When they wanted to run in those younger days, it bothered me. I didn’t understand boys back then; I just tried to control them for fear that I would lose them. Since Billy’s coming into my life, I better understand the nature of the manly “run”; he’s brought depth and insight into the equation. Still and yet, there’s a part of me that cannot fully appreciate the pace of a boy’s heart—the boy’s drive to be first, be strong, be in the lead, be in charge. So much of what they’re wired to be is how I’m wired as well. Thus, the rub. Thus the need for a whisper from time to time reminding me to…

Let the boy run.

I want my boys to run, all of them. I want them to be fully man and fully alive to the paces of their genetic and spiritual predisposition. I don’t want them to wait to run until they’ve passed my shoulder and I can no longer enjoy the display of their manly fortitude. I want them to run in front of me while I can yet witness their strength. I want to see them grow and become and develop into the strong leaders that God has called them to be. I don’t want them to be hindered by my need to be in control; rather, I want them to run past me, all the while because of me and my willingness to tie up their laces, to walk them to the starting line, and then to cheer them onto victory. At my age and in this season of life, I might be running alongside them; not to beat them this time around, but rather to enjoy them and to champion them into doing what they were always meant to do.

To run.

It’s not been an easy conclusion to arrive at; my parents raised me to be a strong, independent woman, unafraid of her shadow and not easily swayed by man’s opinion. I am thankful for the sturdy sense of identity that was embedded into me long before I knew what it was to share a home with a boy, much less four of them. But after years of living with their witness, they’re growing on me, and I am beginning to appreciate their innate need for speed and for the lead.

Let the boy run, Elaine. Let the boy run.

By God’s grace, I hope to follow through on this whisper of heaven. Something tells me I might need the strength of my four boys in the days to come… might need their courage and their pace to buoy me along in my journey toward home. I’m glad I have them. As I grow older, I become less tolerant of my need to be in charge and more willing to concede my front-runner status to those whose legs are better able to handle the pace of life. It’s taken me a long season to get there, and I imagine that I will always prefer my running shoes to high heels. But for now, I’m enjoying the sprint to manhood that is taking place under my roof. It makes me glad to be a woman… to know the differences that exist between me and my four boys and to be perfectly content with the distinction.

And so I say to you, my four boys—Billy, Nick, Colton, and Jadon—

Run boys. Run swiftly and let this wife and mother take it all in. I look forward to watching the race in the days to come and to cheering you on to victory. Home is just around the bend, less than a quarter of a mile from this moment, and the pace you now keep will be worth the company you will then keep for all of eternity.

Let the boy in you run strong. Let the man in you finish well.

This woman loves you and delights in living this life with you. May you now and forever always know…

Peace for the journey,

Preacher Billy’s moving tips…

June 4, 2010

Because every now and again… we all need a good laugh. Find something to laugh about this weekend, friends. In the meantime, here’s my man making me laugh. Oh, how I love a good tear-producing, snortin’ out loud, kind of laugh. I’ll see you on the other side of some boxes and some rest.

on "going to the woodshed"

June 1, 2010

I have a story I want to tell you; not because there’s anything particularly spiritual about it all, at least not at this point. Perhaps before it’s over there might be a small nugget’s worth of something to cradle as your own, but for now, this story belongs to my daughter because, long after I’m gone, I want her to have it to cradle for always.

Miss Amelia. She is the caboose of our immediate family, following in line after her three older brothers. They tell me she doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

I don’t see it as much as they do; I don’t look for it… don’t search for all the ways that she might resemble me. I just live with her, love her the best I can and am occasionally mindful of what they profess to see.

Me in her; her in me.

Like a few days after she was born when I cradled her closely to my chest and looked into her eyes. They fixed on me, almost as if she was giving me permission to glance into the depths of her soul. For a brief moment, I peeked in and had the strangest feeling that I was looking at a mirrored reflection of myself. The memory is as vivid to me now as it was nearly eight years ago.

Me in her; her in me.

Like a few weeks ago when her daddy called me on the way home from picking her up at school. Apparently there was an issue in the hall bathroom… something about a potty mouth and her not being able to take good instruction from the teacher the first time around.

Me in her; her in me.

Like the moment after receiving the call when I met her at the back door and sent her upstairs to “think it over” before talking it out. Knowing that her momma was disappointed, her eyes brimmed with tears searching for any measure of initial grace that might be extended to her on the front side of discipline.

Me in her; her in me.

Like the commotion that followed her bedroom ascent; her unable to handle the isolation and silence and feeling the need to fix the problem herself, all the while making sure that I took notice of her angst.

Me in her; her in me.

Like in the one-sided conversation that followed her “thinking it over” when she met me on the stairs half-way. Me coming up; her coming down.

“Stop right there, Mommy (upright hand directed at me). Before you say anything you need to know something. I’ve already washed my mouth out with soap, and I’ve already spanked myself. And just in case you’re wondering… it really, really hurt.” (Her words; not mine.)

Me in her; her in me.

I stifled my laughter until later, acknowledging to her that the discipline seemed to have fit the crime and that we were good to go for the rest of the day. We hugged; she moved on, and I was left alone to ponder the exchange between us.

I’ve been thinking about it ever since. We are quite the dramatic pairing. We live our lives out loud and with full emotion at every turn. Few are the days void of our laughter and our tears. Never are we silent, and rarely are we ever alone. If it’s true, if in fact my daughter doesn’t fall too far from the maternal tree, then I am not surprised about the extraordinary lengths that she was willing to travel in order to punish herself. It’s a technique I’ve perfected over the years—personal flogging for personal sin that, if not carefully guarded, can easily become a personal pastime for me.

I’m not as bad as I used to be, but every now again, when I pursue sin over personal holiness, I’m quick to find the bar of soap and the paddle, even though all I’ve been charged with is the “thinking it over.” Rather than taking a cue from my Father in regards to my taking a breather in the isolation and quiet of an upper chamber, I busy myself with trying to find some grace via the route of my good intentions. I rely on personal understanding rather than God’s understanding, and more often than not, the self-inflicted wounds I apply aren’t in keeping with the crime… aren’t in keeping with my Daddy’s grace.

I wonder if you understand; if, in fact, you know what it is to take yourself to the woodshed over your sins. That maybe you, like my daughter and myself, don’t fall too far from the same tree. That sometimes it is easier to receive punishment than it is to receive our Father’s compassion. Could it be that we have grown so attached to our need for penalty that we altogether miss the grace of the cross? I’m not saying or thinking that our sins don’t come without consequence. But what I am wondering is…

Who are we to decide that consequence? Are we the ones to measure out mercy or to put parameters around pardon? When is enough, enough? What discipline could we offer on behalf of our sins that would equal our Daddy’s forgiveness? Does one spanking suffice? Would two or ten or twenty years’ worth of woodshed drama be adequate to cover the gaping distance between our bad and God’s good? Our need and God’s sufficiency? When does hurt, hurt enough, and why in the world do we burden ourselves with the awesome responsibility of keeping score?

Me in her; her in me; perhaps… you in us.

I think, in part, this is where the story moves from solely belonging to me and my daughter to belonging to you as well. I’ve been to the woodshed in recent days, friends. I imagine some of you could say the same. Maybe some of you are there tonight. Do me a favor…

Put the soap back in the dish; hang the paddle back on the nail, and simply sit in silence with your Daddy. He’s already ascended the stairs on your behalf, and I imagine that he has a word or two of grace to offer to your hurting heart.

“Stop right there, child. Before you say anything further, do anything further, you need to know something. I’ve already been to the woodshed for you. And just in case you’re wondering, it really, really hurt. And just in case you’ve forgotten, you’re really, really worth it.”

Him in us; us in Him. And none of us too very far from the family tree. As always…

Peace for the journey,

PS: My heart is strangely stirred this night… these last few posts have come from both a place of poverty of soul and fullness of spirit. Some of you won’t understand that; I’m not sure I understand it all myself, but of this I am certain. God is moving in my heart, and he longs to speak to me. Accordingly, I must move closer for a listen. I’ve walked with God long enough to know when he is calling… long enough to know that I don’t want to miss a single moment of intimacy with him… certain enough to know that something good is around the corner. I pray all of this and more for each one of you tonight. I’ll see you on the other side of God’s burning bush. Shalom.

on "burning words"…

May 29, 2010

I burned some words yesterday.

My words.

Three journals worth of words dating back sixteen years to a season in my life that walked wildly and in selfish pursuit of sin. I didn’t call sin, sin back then… didn’t name my thoughts and, consequently, my resulting actions as sin. Instead I named them as “reasonable reactions”—the natural, resulting overflow from a life that was seemingly void of the love that I longed to hold as my own. Rather than going to God with my sin in that season, I went to my “pen” and spent a great deal of my evening hours trying to justify the choices that I was making.

I don’t know who I was writing to back then… journals are kind of open ended in that respect. It’s probably a really good thing that I didn’t have a blog sixteen years ago. Some words… some thoughts of our hearts are better kept as private, between us and God. Not everyone needs to know the “everything” that’s wrestling itself out upon the stages of our hearts and minds, especially those who stand in the direct line of consequence—our families and our friends.

Writing words can be a healthy way of working out our thoughts, feelings, and questions. But when those words serve as our personal justification for sin, well, where’s the merit in that? What can be gained from going public with that kind of nonsense? I suppose we’ll always be able to find someone who is willing to stand in our corners and champion our “reasonable” choices for sin, therefore adding some credibility to our decisions to reveal the inner chambers of our thought life. But the pay off is temporary. Any pats on the back that we receive for our sins are a stumbling block—both for us and for the one who is doing the patting.

When we replace God’s truth with the enemy’s lies, we stunt our spiritual growth. In some cases, we altogether shut it down. That is exactly what I was doing sixteen years ago—making a deliberate choice to disengage from the pursuit of holiness. I didn’t clearly see the egregious nature of my decision back then, but I see it now, and I am sickened by it. I barely recognize the woman behind those words. I recognize the handwriting, but I do not champion the heart behind those words. Nothing written in that season deserves a pat on the back. Nothing. My heart was rotting from the inside out, filled with the sin-sick disease named “self.” But for the grace of God, self nearly killed me.

Nearly.

I don’t know why I’ve held onto these “words” for so long. To be honest with you, I haven’t seen or thought about them in the six years since moving here. I only found the journals yesterday while cleaning out a bottom drawer of my nightstand. I recognized them immediately and bravely allowed myself to go there… one more time. To open up the pages and to relive a bit of that season and the pitiful nonsense that infiltrated my thought processes which, eventually, sent me down a treacherous path of sin. The results were devastating. Sin should never be underestimated. The toll it takes on a soul and on the souls surrounding its witness is far worse than originally billed. I know. I’ve lived that payment; so has my family.

It would take a long season before I willingly looked back over my shoulder to see God’s grace chasing after me… an even longer season before I allowed it to catch up with me, but it did. He did, and my life no longer carries the sin of my words from sixteen years ago… maybe a memory or two along these lines, but I am no longer held in the grip of those memories. Thus, my willing walk with my husband yesterday afternoon to a make-shift fire pit in our backyard.

I’m not a fan of burning words, friends. Our personal words are a precious gift to us from God. They mirror the inward pulse of our hearts. But the words I burned yesterday no longer reflect the pulse of my heart; they only seek to diminish it. They aren’t in keeping with my current pursuit of holiness. The only worthiness that can be found in their existence now is in what remains after their holy burning upon the altar of God’s intention.

Ashes. This is what remains.

Which brings to my remembrance an important word I received from Dr. Steve Seamands regarding my ashes during an Ash Wednesday service that closely followed the penning of those journals some sixteen years ago. You can find the story in its fullness on pages 18-20 in “peace for the journey: in the pleasure of his company”:

“God loves ashes [elaine], because ashes can be blown anywhere by the wind of his Spirit.”

Yesterday, I burned some of my words; today, all that remains of those words is a soft pile of gray which is more than willing to be picked up by the wind of God’s Spirit and to be blown in accordance with his will. Burning our words is sometimes the right thing to do, friends, especially when those words are keeping us separated from God and from his perfect plan for our lives.

Perhaps today, you have some lingering “words” from your past—hidden away thoughts that are buried deeply within the corners of your heart. You’ve almost forgotten them, but every now and again a “move” requires your attention to their presence in your life. Perhaps today, you’re writing some of those words… maybe living them all the more. You’re making a willful choice for sin, justifying your cause and pleading your case before any available ears that are willing to listen. You’ve long since given up on reasonable understanding and have begun to accept the lies that the enemy is sugar coating in your defense. He seems to be on your side, and if you haven’t already taken a bite from the apple, your lips are close to breaking its skin.

I understand where you’re at, because I’ve been there. I made my home there for a long season. The ash heap in my backyard is living proof of that season. Thankfully, I no longer have to carry those “words” with me any more. Long ago I surrendered the sin behind those words to God; yesterday, I surrendered the temporary remnants. Tomorrow? Well, maybe God’s wind will come along, pick them up, and carry the witness of their final defeat into the lives of those who need a similar victory… who need to know that they were meant for more than apples. That they, in fact, we meant for the kingdom of God. That maybe it’s not someone else who needs to know, but that maybe it’s you who needs to know.

The day is fast approaching when our surrendering our sins to the flames of God’s purifying grace will be no more. Many people are counting on that more… believing that more days will follow this one and that tomorrow would be a good day to make good on today’s sin. Make no mistake, friends. We’re living on borrowed time—God’s time. Today is the day of salvation. Today is the day to clean out the drawers of our hearts and minds and to dump the baggage into God’s fire pit. There are no words you can offer to justify the sin of your heart. None. And while there is great grace to be found on the other side of willful sin, there is great grace to be found on the front side of sin’s full invasion upon the soil of your heart.

Take hold of that grace today. Surrender your thoughts, your words, and any precursors to eventual sin to God and allow him to replace the enemy’s apple with a rich portion of his divine, sustaining strength and power that is more than capable of moving you past the apple and onto the heavenly feast that’s been prepared in your honor… in my honor as well. I’ll meet you at the table, friends. And when you get there, don’t be surprised if you smell the lingering scent of smoke on my skin and see a few fragments of gray on my fingers. God loves ashes, and this day (well beyond the days of my sixteen years ago), I’m burning brightly for the King and his kingdom. As always…

Peace for the journey,