PS: For those of you who haven’t read the previous post, this is the young child who inspired my heart-felt response. Apparently, yours as well. Thanks for weighing in with your thoughts and support.
Hold onto your faith, friends … there is coming a day.
Today I’m writing with my tears.
It’s not always good to write from a place of strong emotion, but for some reason, I’m compelled to say something. To offer a few words on behalf of a young life that has passed from this world with little more than an on-line epitaph that reads…
In a dryer, friends.
A young life disposed of and temporarily hidden in a place designed for wet laundry, not for the fragile frame of his innocent understanding.
It shocks me, repulses me, angers me, and reminds me that I am living in the middle of a world’s evil. It’s extreme and callous, prevalent and intentional. This is just one story amongst thousands with enough “sensational” value to land it on the front page of an Internet search engine, alongside rumors of “Scientology fraud” and a “rare murder in Mayberry.”
More evil. More senseless acts of violence. More sin. More depravity. Have mercy. Is that all there is these days?
This seems to be the case, at least to a public without the eyes to vision beyond temporal atrocity. Everywhere we turn, everything we read, every news’ broadcast that anchors in our homes and via our computers is littered with the stories of evil and the depravity of humankind. Why?
Because evil sells. Evil roots at our deepest fears, and while our “senses” warn us to run away from the invading headlines, we sometimes cannot help but be drawn to the story. If we’re not careful, we enter into the story and, before long, our minds and our hearts are filled with thoughts that run contrary to what God desires.
True, we cannot turn a blind-eye to the problem of sin in our world. Evil speaks to the very reason of its contrast … God’s good. Evil sets the stage for a final showdown between heaven’s grace and hell’s determined intention for destruction. And while, as Christians, we know how that’s all going to flesh itself out one day, today I cannot help but wonder when that might be.
I’m ready for God’s final showdown. For an end to the enemy’s temporary “reign” upon this earth. I don’t want to read any more headlines regarding evil being perpetrated against God’s children, especially those who are unable to retaliate and who blindly trust their “elders” because God has created their young hearts for trust.
I don’t want child sex offenders to receive a “light sentence” because of their perceived “rights” in the matter. They gave up those rights when they made the decision to give into their depravity rather than seek help for their problems. Their excuses regarding their own depraved childhoods hold little water with me.
I’m not unsympathetic to their need to find resolution to their sin; I am, however, unsympathetic to them finding that resolution in a half-way house or group therapy session that sits within reach of a neighborhood school or playground. God’s grace can and does mediate its way behind prison doors—a controlled environment that sometimes better serves the cause of evil’s transformation (just ask my friend Mike, who spends a lot of time behind those closed doors dispensing God’s grace to the needy). Some soils are better left untouched by evil—protected and “out of reach” for the enemy’s intention.
I don’t want any more babies to be aborted in the name of a “mother’s rights” to her body. Our bodies are not our own. We were bought with a price; time to get on our knees and find our thanks for the fact that we’ve been given this moment in time, these few breaths to live our purpose on this earth, because our mothers better understood the value of their seeded womb. There is coming a day when every murdered child will have his/her day in court. The King will hear their cries, and if grace hasn’t been pled over the perpetrator’s heart, then God will exact a sentence in keeping with the crime.
I don’t want any more children to know the physical abuse and torture from adults who claim their “mental instability” as the culprit rather than calling abuse by the name is deserves—evil… sin. Those who decide that having “control” over their children allows them unlimited authority in the matter are those who have never sat under the authority of Jesus Christ. Children were not created for beatings, for the hammering out of our own “issues” upon and within their feeble flesh. Children were given to us as a blessing from God to be a blessing unto him.
No life arrives upon this soil without God’s planning; God’s notice; God’s love. None. Kids are not our mistakes. They are our treasures and are meant to experience their own walk of grace and discovery upon God’s earth. To think otherwise, is to cast our lots into the cradle of evil that births these heinous atrocities like water from a faucet.
Like a young girl being gang raped outside a high school dance while others stood by and did nothing.
Like a child being chained as a prisoner for years in her basement while giving birth to several children, fathered by her captor.
Like a young boy dying after being tied to a tree for days as a discipline strategy to get him to comply with parental rules and regulations.
Like an unborn baby being extracted from his mother’s womb prematurely to meet out a woman’s fantasy about being a “mother.”
Granted, these are extreme examples, but when children are diminished in the eyes of those who are charged with their keeping—with their “rearing” and their shaping—then intention plants a seed toward evil. And seeds of evil, when watered with years of neglect and a refusal to grow in a healthier understanding, eventually grow into a field of sin that harvests as tomorrow’s sensational headlines.
We must stop this, friends. All children of this world deserve better. They deserve our time and attention, our looking at them as our Father looks at them. Some of us are in the middle of our parenting years. Some of us on the backside of them. Some of us have never known the fruit of our own wombs. It makes no difference our “parenting” station in life. God’s children are meant for all of us. And I bet this day, there is a child within your circle of influence who could use your witness.
You prayers, your presence, your time, your gifts, and your wisdom that, in the end, will harvest toward kingdom gain rather than toward hell’s determined intention.
The only way that I know to combat this kind of evil in this present age is to invest my life in its contrast—in the lives of the children I’ve been given and in the lives of others who sit under my influence. Some of them are children. Some at other various stages in life. Regardless of ages, all of us are in need of a better response to the problem of evil in our world.
May the grace of the cross be the “rooting” that forces our contemplation in the matter and that leads us forward to make a change in our world. Any other “rooting” proffers little in the cause of God’s children.
And God’s children, well, the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.
Thanks for listening to my tears and my words today. How grateful I am for a public canvas that allows them both a safe place to land. As always…
peace for the journey,
~elaine
Wanderlust. That desire in each one of us to roam and to move beyond the current boundaries that cradle us in order to explore the wild unknown with carefree abandon. A search brought about because of an underlying “stirring of the soul” for something better … something purer. More peace and more pleasure.
I’ve thought about my “wanderlust” this morning. I didn’t mean to, but through an e-mail to my friend, Kristen, I was reminded about a piece I wrote over thirteen years ago. A season in my life when I was a single mother of two young sons dreaming about better days—a better time when all would be “right” within my soul. Those dreams always landed me in one place—
Montana.
I’ve never been there, but there is something about its vastness, its wide-open spaces and “heart of the land” kind of living, that unsettles me; stirring something within me, creating a hunger deep within my soul for something more. I no longer dream a great deal about moving to Montana, but the unsettled feelings? The stirring in my heart for something better, some soil beyond the current earth that supports my feet?
Well, it’s still there. It still flames, and one day soon, I’m going to get to my “Montana.” I believe its boundaries are closer to me than I might realize, thus strengthening my passion for my crossing over. Perhaps you understand something about “Montana’s pull.” If so, then I offer you a piece of my writing history to stir your own imagination and wanderlust for something better.
It’s not great writing, but it was my heart’s writing in 1996. Still is, and I suppose that makes it great all on its own.
If I could move to Montana, I would. Life would be different there.
In Montana there would be plenty of space for me to be me. In Montana, I wouldn’t worry about wearing make-up or if my car was dirty or if my English was perfect. Jeans and flannel shirts would fill my wardrobe making me a “good fit” with the locals.
If I could move to Montana, I would buy the boys and me a cabin on the plains. It would have a warm kitchen where the sound of boiling water and the sight of tea bag would greet me each morning. Pancakes would start our day and cocoa would rock us to sleep at night. The light from the fireplace would warm our spirits and give us atmosphere for our nightly adventures within the pages of books. The three of us would crawl up on the couch with grandma Killian’s quilt and fight for the warmth and love of its cover.
In my Montana home, each of us would have our own hiding place. I would choose the attic room as my escape. In this place of escape I would hold myself captive. I would create new adventures on paper. I would search out the true meaning of my journey on this earth.
I could do that in Montana because in Montana, there is plenty of room for the search.
If I could move to Montana, I would own a pick-up truck. I would take my truck to the market whenever I needed food or just some company. I would park in my spot and visit the local meeting place, full of sojourners like myself, who understand the beauty of the simple life we share in Montana. I would stop at the post office to collect my remembrances from days gone by, and I would send out some new memories for those who’ve never been to my Montana.
If I could move to Montana, I would find a country church where I could sing my songs on Sunday mornings. I would voice the endless love of Jesus to everyone within earshot. In Montana, I could sing with great resolve and strength because the soil there is strong, vibrant, full of hearty livin’ and earthy understanding. The windows of my church would be open and the hills would dance to the delight of the message. In Montana, everything living could hear my voice.
In Montana … everything would understand why I had to sing.
When Christmas came to Montana, the boys and I would venture to our back yard and cut the chosen Christmas tree. We’d make decorations out of materials we’d found during our annual pilgrimage in Montana, and when we needed a break, we’d sit around the tree and drink more cocoa. We’d hang our stockings on the fireplace, and we’d listen to our favorite holiday music. We’d have lots of friends over to celebrate the season. We’d take our truck into town to see the lights and visit the stores.
If I could move to Montana, I’d learn to love more. Montana would be a good place for the three of us to learn about love. To learn about acceptance—accepting life and others and what it means to be accepted. We’d love so much that hate would never enter our home.
In Montana, I’d learn to love animals. In Montana, there are enough animals to love.
If I could move to Montana, I wouldn’t worry about “things” as much. In Montana, I would raise my boys to be “real.” In Montana, I would get healthy. In Montana, life would be simple. In Montana, dreams would be within reach.
If I could move to Montana, I would. But I live in Kentucky.
In Kentucky, there are no flannel shirts. There is no truck. There is no attic room, or no small country church. The Christmas tree will be bought at the grocery store, and I’ll never own an animal.
I may not ever live in Montana. But in my mind, I go there quite often. I hold onto Grandma’s quilt and dream my dreams for a more peaceful time.
Perhaps you understand. Perhaps we all have times where we long to be in Montana. Perhaps Montana is not big enough for all of us dreamers.
So, I will sing my songs in Kentucky. And maybe, just maybe, the wind will carry my songs over the miles to my long awaited Montana home. And they will wait for me there until I have the strength to make the journey myself.
Montana.
Someday.
Maybe today.
~elaine
Copyright © October 2009 – Elaine Olsen
We’ve just put God’s punctuation mark on our fall Bible study. I thought you’d like to see some of the sweet faces that shared the last seven weeks with me. Truly, they are more than I deserve–God’s gift to me in this season of my life. As we leave the “wilderness,” we do so knowing that we leave with God’s peace and blessing and promise to walk the next steps with us.
It’s my joy to do “real” life with these sisters, face-to-face. I look forward to a spring’s reconvening of the saints. Same time; same place; same fellowship; same God! Keep to it sisters. I love you!
PS: Don’t forget about Heidi’s “candle in the dark” giveaway. Click here to visit and to bless a missionary.
9:10 AM. Wal-Mart. Check-out line. This morning. Sunday morning.
I didn’t want to be there. I try and avoid Sundays and Wal-Mart, but when my children informed me that today was the day they’d be packing their Samaritan’s Purse, Christmas shoeboxes during the Sunday School hour, well, what’s a mother to do?
I tried scrounging through drawers and all the places where I sometimes stash “extras”—left-over goodies for spare occasions requiring a quick gift. Somehow, I didn’t think the children in the remote villages of Africa would appreciate scented candles and bath salts while their friends were unwrapping toy cars, balls, and bubble gum. So after a brief “interior” debate with myself regarding a trip to Wal-Mart prior to Sunday worship, I loaded the kids in the van for the one-mile trip down the road.
Having a Wal-Mart close by is a great convenience for this mom, especially on a day when she doesn’t want her kids (umm… the preacher’s kids) to be the only ones not participating in the Christmas mission project. We quickly loaded our arms with some dollar goodies and made our way to the “express lane.” One of the advantages of going to Wal-Mart on a Sunday morning (if there could be an advantage) is that the crowds are sparse and the “express” check-out really lives up to its billing.
The cashier scanned my items and was bagging them when I noticed another Sunday shopper in line behind us. He wasn’t buying toys for shoeboxes. He was buying a black belt to go with his black suit and shiny tie—a pretty clear give-away that he was headed somewhere requiring more than the typical sweats and t-shirts of the other shoppers I’d seen. Not one for “quiet” check-out experiences, I took a chance on the fact that he was heading to church, and said…
“Would you look at this kids … here’s a man needing a new belt for church.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ve got to give Sunday my best.”
“Of course you do; I’d certainly hate for you to lose your britches during worship!”
He chuckled; we small talked a bit more, and on my way out the door, I shouted back to him…
“Enjoy your Jesus today.”
“Back at you, ma’am. Back at you.”
We parted with smiles and as friends, knowing that we shared some common ground on this Sunday morning. At Wal-Mart. At 9:10 AM. In a check-out line. On a day when we shouldn’t have been worried about such inconveniences, yet a day when we both made a decision to give God our best.
Not our left-overs. Not scented candles when toys would be better. Not a frayed piece of leather when some fresh rawhide would look better … serve better … present itself better because Sundays are intended for our better.
I’ve been thinking about that “better” for the better part of the day; it has both annoyed me and delighted me.
Annoyed me because, in many ways, I think we’ve gotten away from “better” on Sundays. It seems as if “good enough” and second-rate has become the accepted norm rather than the exception. When did that happen? When did we first decide to trade in our “best” as it pertains to our worship for a watered down approach to the process? When did “raggedy and rumpled” replace “spit and polish”? Why is it we don’t bring our “better” to worship on Sundays?
Delighted me because, in many ways, I realize I don’t hold the answers to it all. What I deem “better” is somewhat relative—a personal application regarding my expectations for the Lord’s Day and how I think it should be approached, should be absorbed, should be celebrated, should be revered. I can tell you that in my thinking about Sundays, there is little room for a Wal-Mart run. Still and yet, I’m delighted by the fact that I’m not bound by legalism, but a bit bothered that I’m not—
bound to something better. Some way of “doing” the Sabbath better that exceeds the world’s view of a Sunday’s worth.
As I stood with my young children this morning in the front pew singing “How Great Thou Art,” tears filled my eyes and stung my heart. My arms cradled their shoulders as I watched each one of them run their fingers along the stanzas of the hymn, trying their best to keep up with the pace of the piano. We’ve been working on this for a long season … this learning of how to sing a hymn from an actual hymnal and how to join our voices in unison with the other congregants who’ve come to worship. It may sound a bit rustic, a bit perfunctory to some of you, but it seemed to me that they were giving God their best … “doing” their best to understand this tradition of church worship that I hold dear, and one that I fear will soon be obsolete.
While standing there, I also thought about him. My new Wal-Mart friend standing somewhere in a church of his own in another part of town, wearing his new belt and worshipping the same God as me. I imagined his worship being a bit different from mine, but his heart? Perhaps more similar to mine than the world would imagine. A heart that was willing to make a pit-stop prior to worship in order to “give Sunday his best.”
To give Jesus his best. Not because he had to, but rather because he wanted to. Because somewhere in his past, at some point in his “growing up” years, someone took the time to teach him about Sundays and about giving Sundays something more than his “good enough.”
God is worthy of more than our “good enough’s,” friends. Worthy of more than our disheveled approach to approaching his presence. Certainly, God invites us to come as we are to the throne of grace, knowing that his grace is the only worthy covering for our sin-stained hearts. But when our “coming as we are” is based on our laziness rather than on our desire for holiness, then we’ve missed the mark. We’ve misunderstood the hugeness of the “Who” it is we’ve come to worship. If we really “got” that, then I imagine our check-out lines would be filled with our endeavoring to give God our best.
Annoyed and delighted. That’s where I am in the matter of worship. Wanting to do better, realizing that my better could never be enough to match the honor and glory my Father deserves. I’m going to work on this, this week. Would you be willing to do the same? To examine your worship and your Sundays and your “giving it your best” before the heart of our Father? If we truly want to live better, than we must be willing to examine our hearts further. Otherwise, we meld into a Christian cultural norm that no longer stands out, but rather blends in with a world that was never intended to serve as our norm.
Enjoy your Jesus this week. And should your feet find their place in a check-out line, take time to notice the people around you. To speak to the people around you. To give them some of your time, your conversation, your laughter, your prayers. The kingdom of God happens there just as much as it does in our pews. Perhaps even more so. As always…
peace for the journey,
Copyright © October 2009 – Elaine Olsen