#14 – “God Will Take You Across the River”

November 14, 2010

An excerpt from Beyond the Scars  (pp. 153-155) to mark the 14th anniversary of my survivorship.

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As I near the end of this writing project, there is a lump in my throat, my heart as well. I’ve been saving this particular writing for a few weeks now, reserving if for a time such as this – an almost-ending time. This thought seared through to my heart one evening while I was out taking a walk with my daughter. It is a heart truth that simply and profoundly says,

“God will take you across the river.”

Let me explain. 

As our walks go, my nine-year–old daughter rides her bike while I pitifully endeavor to keep up with her pace. She’s usually far ahead of me; I’m mostly fine with her taking the lead as long as she follows this one, simple rule: she must wait for me before “crossing the river.”

The river – that’s the term we use to describe the intersections of streets in our neighborhood, including the corners and the stopping points where we “look both ways before crossing the street.” She isn’t allowed to move forward with that crossing until I give her the go-ahead.

“Wait for me, Amelia, before crossing the river.”

She’s always faithful to wait, always eager to move ahead, but willing to linger for her mother’s official word. Funny thing: she constantly arrives at the crossings before I do, at least until a few weeks ago, when I beat her. She had stopped her forward motion to remove a pebble from her shoe; I kept moving while she did surgery. I could hear her saying, “Wait for me!” as I moved along. Her words didn’t stop me, but then she said something that did.

“Mommy, please wait for me before crossing the river. You can’t cross the river without me.”

Like a bolt of lightning from God’s heart to mine, I was struck by the profundity of her words. I couldn’t move. Instead, I just cried, and when she arrived at my side and inquired about the reason behind my tears, I spoke some truth over her precious young heart. “There may come a day, sweet one, when you’ll have to cross this river without me. But rest assured, God will walk it with you. He’s gone ahead of us both, and he’ll make sure that we land safely on the other side.”

It seemed enough of a reason to quell her curiosity in that moment, although I’m certain she didn’t feel the ground beneath her feet shaking in the same way I felt it quaking. Her heart’s not quite ready to undertake the weightiness of such truth. Nevertheless, I spoke it, and today I write it, believing that somewhere down the road, she’ll retrieve this memory from my pen and better understand the fullness of what I’m saying – how I’m trying to live my life faith forward, with not a single crumb of doubt left in my wake.

Whenever that day comes for me – my crossing-over day – I don’t want there to be any lingering questions as to what I believed and where I’m headed. Mind you, I’m not in much of a hurry to take on the Jordan River, not yet. My heart is still closely attached to the promises I’m living on this side of Canaan. The life I share with my husband and my four children is a good life to live. It is a life worth fighting for, and then, as God so chooses, a life to lay down in favor of the greener pastures and perfect promises of the land just beyond this one – a home across the river.

Until then, I want to fully live each day as it arrives. I want to give my children some years, some more time to get grown and get established in their faith. I want to be part of that shaping process. In addition, I am committed to the earthly tenure I’ve been given. Life is a precious gift and worth preserving. God created me with a purpose in mind, and for as long as I have breath, I am wholly devoted to that purpose – to know God more with each passing day and then, out of that knowing, to lead others to know the same. Kingdom truth can march on without me, but it feels right and good and sacred to be part of the story – the telling of it and living it therein.

Yes, I still have some earthly attachments. Life on this side of the river has been a good landscape in which to grow my kingdom heart. I’ll keep walking the streets with my daughter and crossing the rivers with her for as long as I’m given the privilege. But I’ll always do so with an eye fixed on forever. I’ll keep telling her about Canaan, keep reminding her about home and about the God who has crossed all rivers in front of her, making certain of her safe arrival on the other side. It’s what I must do. It’s all I know to do. It’s how I must live – fully committed to the journey at large.

I don’t know where you are today. Maybe you’re standing on the edge of your Jordan, preparing your heart for a difficult crossing. Maybe you’re far away from the water’s edge, riding your bike and keeping pace with limited understanding. Maybe, like I am, you’re somewhere in between, approaching the river, yet still far enough away that you have time for further conversations – important living words that impart God’s kingdom seed into the soil of a future generation. Wherever you are, today is still today, and there is still time to take the hand of Jesus and trust him with the crossing that’s ahead.

God will take you across the river. No one else can. No one else deserves the privilege because no one else can land you safely on the other side. I cannot carry you there any more than I can carry my daughter with me as I go. I can only point you to the one who can. The one who has walked it before us and whose name is written on the deed to Canaan. Only God can offer such glorious hope to our wounded, fearful, and often discouraged hearts. Canaan is God’s Promised Land to give. And because of his Son’s surrender to a cross, we all have a share in that inheritance.

Today’s a good day to take a walk with someone you love. Take the lead, or fall in step behind, but as you arrive at the “rivers” along your path, take a hand. Cross the river together, and remember the hand and heart of the one who has crossed it before you.

God will take you across the river, readers. And should we never meet on this side of the Jordan, I’ll be standing on the shores of Canaan, awaiting your arrival. Safe passage. Keep to the road of faith. Thus, I pray…

To stand at the Jordan and look over to Canaan, Lord, is a glorious revelation of grace. Thank  you for all the reminders of promise that come to us; they help us move forward with perspective. Canaan seems so far in coming, yet we know it’s but a moment from now. Thank you for crossing the river ahead of us, for making our path straight, and for securing our safe passage prior to our departure. Father, our attachments to our earthly tenures are strong. Sometimes we’re unwilling to let go of them because of the pain attached to the release. Temper the pain with the truth of what awaits us, and gladden our hearts with expectation for the forever the we will share together. Amen. 

©F. Elaine Olsen. All rights reserved. 

Gleanings from a Year in the Classroom

Sometimes you need an extra week.

Sometimes two weeks is not enough for you to take hold of a new thing or for a new thing to take hold of you.

Sometimes…

New things need extra doses of grace and understanding … and time.

Let me explain.

As my children were growing up, they encountered many seasons of new things, none more so than when they took their first jobs at age sixteen (yes, all of them) and when they went to college. Those occasions were often fraught with worry and questions about making these transitions. My advice to them?

“Give it two weeks. Things aren’t supposed to make sense at the beginning, but after two weeks, you’ll settle into a routine. You’ll know what your boss wants … what your teacher wants. After two weeks, you’ll feel better, be more settled, more in the flow. Give it two weeks and give yourself some grace as you walk it through.”

Sage advice some would say, especially from a battle-tested mom who’s weathered her own share of new things over the years. Or so it seems.

Over the past year, my advice has come back around to haunt me … taunt me as I transitioned to a new job at Campbell University. In those beginning days of employment, I would often hear my daughter echo the same sentiment over my fledgling transition into my new role:

“Give it two weeks, Mom. You know what you always say – things will feel better in two weeks. Just hang on.”

Well, two weeks came and went, and I was struggling. At an age when many women are looking toward retirement, I went looking for a new job. What I quickly found out is that, while advancing age often begets wisdom, age doesn’t always keep pace with changing trends and technology. The latter often outpaces the former.

It’s been a year now since my vocational transition. My two weeks have turned into fifty-two, and today I do feel better, I am more settled, and the workflow seems more natural than it did in those beginning weeks. Campbell University has been kind to me and afforded me green pastures to grow within and alongside some extraordinary people.

Today I am reflecting on that growth, and I have a list of sorts … a few insights that are not necessarily new to me but ones that have been reinforced for me during my time here. They aren’t particularly ground-breaking or soul-stirring revelations, but I thought I would share them with you. Perhaps there is some encouragement (even laughter) to be found with their revealing, especially if you’re in a time of transition.

So… 11 gleanings from 52 weeks of pasturing in this place:

#1 – Don’t wait on people to find you. Go find your people.

Here’s where age and accumulated wisdom bear fruit.

News Flash: The world isn’t waiting to find you; the world’s too busy to notice you. If you want “in,” you’d better jump in with a big splash and a big smile. Let people know you are there, and that you’re not afraid to get a little wet. Soon, you won’t feel like a fish out of water; instead, you’ll be swimming alongside some of the best of them.

#2 – People are still people.

A vocational shift doesn’t eliminate personalities; it simply provides a different stage upon which you can act your part alongside a new cast of characters. Wherever humans gather, drama follows. There will be a hero, maybe even a villain, a supporting cast and a host of “extras” to fill the stage. You may not get to choose the performers, but you can certainly master your role in the script. Learn your lines, act your scenes, take your cues and (for goodness sakes) when the curtain drops, leave the stage. The spotlight is reserved for a few, but the curtain call highlights the many. Find your place therein.

#3 – Slow days are for uncluttering.

When you “didn’t get the memo” about not coming to work, and you’re the only one in the building, take a moment to look around. Instead of noticing the silence, notice the opportunity. Busy days often build cluttered lives – cluttered file cabinets, messy drawers, accumulated artifacts and dusty desktops. When a day affords you a pause from routine, use the day to lessen your mess. Your busy days will thank you.

#4 – A candy dish fosters community.

Fill a dish with candy, and, before long, you’ll have a room full of friends. Preferences reign at the candy dish. From Jolly Ranchers™ to Smarties™ to Kit Kats™ to Tootsie Rolls™ to Lifesavers™. Not everyone chooses the same candy; but everyone convenes at the same dish. A single dish balances the workplace in a simple way that reaps relational dividends beyond the momentary satisfaction of a sweet tooth.

#5 – Prayer is the universal language.

A candy dish offers community with one another, but a prayer offers communion with the living God. Offer both. One satisfies temporarily; the other satisfies eternally.

#6 – Take the stairs.

In strengthening your legs, you strengthen your heart. You increase your flexibility and relieve stress in the process. Take time for the ascent; the climb is worth the compensation.

#7 – Guard your tongue.

My father once told me, “Not every thought that comes into your head needs to come out of your mouth, Elaine.” He’s right; it’s been a costly lesson at times, one that I’m still learning. Certainly, thoughts are the makings of good conversation, but some thoughts are better held personally and deeply within without utterance. And by the way, political speak is almost always divisive; it leaves a lasting impression. If you want to keep a good one about your co-workers and vice versa, speak less on the matter. Eat more candy instead (see #4).

#8 – College kids still need a mom.

The new-found sense of independence that comes from being away from home doesn’t mean that home isn’t needed. Be a mom (or a dad) to those whose hearts are caught between wanting the freedom of a young adult and craving the security of being a child. If you’re on a college campus or have younger people sitting beneath your influence, lean into your battle-tested interior. You’re a pro at being older and wiser. Lend your strength and your hugs to others.

#9 – People are more important than personal power, promotions or preferences.

Don’t underestimate the value of a person by overestimating your value. Stepping over or on someone to step up your game is costly – a price-tag that often exceeds dollars and cents by bankrupting a soul.

#10 – Not all learning takes place in a classroom.

Some students sit behind desks, answer phones, fix light bulbs, mow the grass, make the food and clean the toilets. A life well-lived is a life well-learned. Be kind to your classmates. We share the road of learning.

And lastly…

#11 – An old dog really can learn a few new tricks.

Despite changing trends and technology, I have been able to learn a few new things in these past 52 weeks at Campbell. The key? I think it has something to do with humility – being able to laugh at yourself and realizing that you don’t know everything but that, by God’s very good design, you can lean into your learning. It’s not been a very graceful process for me, but at every turn it has been grace-filled.

God has loved me well by leading me here to these green pastures. This new thing has finally taken hold of me, and for that, I am grateful.

So, if today you, like me, are in need of an extra week or 52 weeks to find your footing, give yourself permission and grace enough to let time runs its course. May God draw close to you, hold you, strengthen and encourage you to keep moving forward. Your new things will eventually become your old things, and you will feel better, be more settled in your spirit and more comfortable with the flow of the life unfolding around you.

Hang on, friend. Greener pastures are up ahead. As always…

Peace for the journey,

On Threading a Needle Toward Holiness

Student, Ken Collins and Dad at Baltic Seminary

Holiness.

I’ve been chewing on this one today … gnawing away and swallowing bites of something I don’t fully understand but something, nonetheless, I deeply desire –

to be like Jesus.

Getting there isn’t easy. The way of holiness often includes our weaknesses – the stuff within that needs to be rooted without. Exposure of those weaknesses is sometimes painful but can also be beautiful in ways that we never anticipated on the front side of disclosure.

Let me explain.

I want to thread a needle for you and show you a fascinating, most striking mosaic that is part of my story and that warms my heart deeply today in a space that fully needs the witness of its strength.

Not long ago, Jadon sent me a link to series of Wesleyan Theology lectures given by Dr. Ken Collins at the Baltic Methodist Theological Seminary in Estonia (dated 2019). Dr. Collins is a professor at Asbury Theological Seminary who once shared those hallowed hallways alongside my father-professor, Dr. Chuck Killian – two men linking arms to bear witness to the seminary’s motto “The Whole Bible for the Whole World.”

Ken Collins is now one of Jadon’s professors, along with being his mentor for candidacy in the Global Methodist Church. Ken is a world-renowned scholar in all things Methodism and communicates this passion with clarity and originality. Jadon likes his teaching style and, needing to fill my mind with good, God-thoughts, I decided to listen in.

The connectional thread of Jadon being at Asbury and being mentored by one of my father’s friends from ATS is mosaic enough to make me sit back and admire God’s providence in my family’s lives. But that’s not the thread that had me leaning in for a closer look today. Instead, and more deeply, the realization hit me about the lectern from which Ken taught – a classroom in Estonia in a seminary that my father helped establish.

In August 1994, my daddy taught the very first class at the Baltic Methodist Theological Seminary on the subject of “practical theology” to fifty-four eager students, hungry to fulfill their part in the Great Commission.

From the website:

The facilities in Apteegi Street were extremely cramped. The single classroom was full from the start. Students sat on simple chairs, and took notes with their books on their knees. The dining area did not have sufficient seats, and so for lunch or coffee students were sitting on the stairs and in the window sills. The library was in a broom closet. Open the door and there was the librarian at her desk, with a few books on a shelf. Most of the books were in boxes in the basement. The office for the President, Dean, secretary and all the faculty was a partitioned area approximately 1.5metres (5 feet) wide by 4 meters (12 feet) long.

Students and faculty were literally rubbing shoulders all day, a closeness that created a very warm atmosphere. As well, the excitement generated by the newness of theological study made the Seminary tingle with excitement. Many of the first students were mature Christians and self-taught pastors who had dreamt of freedom during long years of communist occupation and of the chance to study and practice their faith free from oppression and persecution.

The more I listened to Dr. Collins speak about John Wesley and holiness, set against backdrop of the Baltic Methodist Theological Seminary, the more deeply my spirit was enlivened to the Spirit of God. A day that (for me) began in darkness suddenly shifted to a day full of light.

A day full of remembering my legacy. A day full of cultivating hope. A day of forgetting the hard purge of holiness and, instead, a day of relinquishing to its flames. Why?

Because there’s too much on the line by not submitting my life to Christ’s crucible.

What my daddy has left behind and what Ken Collins continues to do through his teaching and with my son is, indeed, a needle worth threading. I cannot fully put my finger on it, but my pulsing heart tells me that I’m on to something.

Daddy has long since left the hallways of Asbury Seminary and the Baltic Seminary. But there’s a piece of him still there in both places. Jadon in the former and Ken Collins in the latter. The echoes from both spaces deafen my ears with a ring of the eternal and paint a mosaic worthy of the throne room of heaven. Heaven, alone, counts the lives transformed by the faithfulness of a few willing servants.

What has happened in the past and what is happening in the present is, indeed, holy. From the inside out and the outside in, God makes himself known to his children. He shows up, sometimes unexpectedly, sometimes on a day when the darkness threatens to snuff out the light, and challenges us to go deeper with him toward a better life of freedom and understanding.

Oh yes, I want to be like Jesus, even when getting there is hard. Today, I think I moved a little closer in that direction. Today I traded in my vain imaginations for better thinking – a mind fixed on Jesus and what he wants me to know rather than on how the world and its people make me feel. 

So, thanks be to God, to my daddy, to Jadon and to Ken Collins. Their work toward holiness has offered me a way forward toward mine.

The Whole Bible for the Whole World. Right here where I am. Right there where you are. May the kindness of God, the truth of his Son Jesus Christ, and the strength of his Holy Spirit rest on us all and pull us closer to his image this day. As always…

Peace for the journey,

Wes and Joy Griffin, along with my parents at 1st Baltic Seminary graduation

 

[accessed 7-05-2024, https://www.emkts.ee/index.php/en/general/history]

on waiting for the bus…

The LORD will guard your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forever. (Psalm 121:8)

I’ve been watching them for ten months now – a father/daughter duo during their morning routine. Their everyday schedule coincides with mine. The 11-mile trek from my front door to my office door takes a usual path – country roads, four-way stops, grazing cows, fields of harvest and an occasional stopped school bus.

This is where our worlds intersect. I don’t know them by name. I only know them by their actions. Each time I’ve seen them together, the scene paints similarly. Around 7:19 AM, I get stuck behind Harnett County bus #249 as it rolls to a stop on the road adjacent to their property. The pair is usually waiting together, a dad and his daughter. Occasionally, she makes a sprint to the bus from her front door, but not without her father sprinting in tow.

He’s always there … with her. Rain or shine. Early or late. On time or just killing time.

This daddy waits with his daughter.

I cannot fully know the motives behind his waiting. Perhaps it’s her safety that warrants his participation. Maybe he just wants to send her off with a few extra words of daily encouragement. Regardless of the reasons for his being there in these early morning moments of her every single day, the fact remains that there hasn’t been an occasion in ten months when I’ve seen one without the other. Daddy and daughter are a team.

My hunch is that his motivation isn’t anchored solely in parental duty but, rather, is rooted more in parental privilege.

This daddy understands the value of their kinship and his responsibility therein.

Soon enough, she’ll be on her own, not needing her father’s chaperoning to make it to the bus. Before long, those final glances between them will fade, maybe even feel less necessary. She will grow in ways that can be seen and measured. He will grow in a way not easily detected by the human eye, only felt deeply within. Growth pains come with parenting – his pain perhaps more pointed and precise than hers.

Still and yet, he’s all in. He risks the pain because he treasures the person – his child.

He loves her because she is an extension of him – a profound, sketched-out mystery by the very hand and heart of God. In giving us children, the Father gives us an example of the length and width, breadth and depth of his love for us … a hands-on, living, breathing, and growing paint-by-number portrait of heavenly affection. This love expression is not always perfected in human exchange, but every now and again, it comes pretty close to revealing this most profound mystery –

the love between a father and his daughter.

The love between a heavenly Father and his child.

He’s always there … with us. Rain or shine. Early or late. On time or just killing time.

He watches over our evenings, and when the morning arrives, he walks us to the bus stop. He waits with us because he loves us, both duty and privilege weighing equally in the matter. God does what good fathers do.

He loves us up close – seasons when having him near us brings reassurance, strength, wisdom and calm.

He loves us from afar – seasons when his presence seems less necessary. When our backward glances fail to find his forward ones. When our growing pains come at the expense of his own.

He loves us because we are an extension of him. Regardless of whether we see him or not, our eyesight doesn’t preclude the reality of his presence.

God is always with us.

Faithful is our Father. Precious is his presence. What privilege we hold to be held in his sights!

For what it’s worth, this is the word picture and the holy rumination that’s been chasing my heart for many months now. Today was the day to put pen to paper. I pray it’s an encouragement for your heart as well. As always…

Peace for the journey,

Storyteller

God is the Master Storyteller.

He writes good lines, thinks long-term, and fills up our books with chapters unimaginable to us on the front side of their unfolding.

Don’t believe me? Well, let me tell you a story…

There is a memory I am holding today. It’s a bit shadowy around the edges as I was only 5 or 6 years old, but with clarity I recall the scene; in particular, I remember the person – a boy named “K.” K and I attended the same church with our parents and often found ourselves around a table in a Sunday School classroom.

On this particular Sunday morning, I met K for the first time. He was energetic, happy and full of joy. I sensed that he was somehow different from the rest of us, but no one seemed to mind. I would grow in my understanding of K over the years regarding his uniqueness as well as his challenges. As we grew older, I saw him less, understanding that his life and mine would never walk the same path forward – that our childhood connection would remain solidly fixed in my memories with an occasional present-day rumination about his current whereabouts.

I wonder what ever happened to K?

Well, I know what happened to K.

Fast forward through fifty years of living. Through moves – nine relocations in three states. Through marriages. Through babies. Through graduations. Through college drop offs. Through two extraordinary daughters-in-law. Through grandkids. Through disease. Through the trauma of almost losing a child – a son named Jadon. All the way through to this moment, to today.

This is where I hit the pause button, because it is now when the lines of God’s story get really interesting.

Tonight, my son Jadon will walk to K’s house, sit around his table for an evening, break bread with him and begin a journey as companions – a friendship (once removed) that began 50 years ago with K and I in a Sunday school classroom, dancing around in circles.

Six months ago, Billy and I took Jadon to Wilmore, KY, and dropped him off to begin his seminary training at Asbury. Our hearts remain tender with the separation. Our hearts also overflow with joy knowing that Jadon is where he needs to be to continue his journey in a place that holds everlasting significance for me.

My dad was a professor at Asbury Seminary, beginning in 1970 and continuing for over 40 years. My mother? The registrar at Asbury Seminary. My husband? A graduate of Asbury Seminary. I cut my spiritual teeth running the hallways of that hallowed institution, along with the hallways of the Wilmore United Methodist Church (the church where Jadon is now the youth pastor). What was sown and grown inside of me in that season is a history that continues to write the lines of my present-day story. Deeply so.

Not long ago, a college friend who is closely connected to K’s family reached out to me about Jadon’s possible interest in working with K. Throughout the years, she and I have kept in touch through social media; she closely followed along with Jadon’s miraculous recovery from a 2018 traumatic brain injury. After a few conversations with her, an initial meeting with K and some further training, Jadon begins in his new role this evening.

And I am caught in the moment, in the magic and mystery of God’s story-telling skills.

Fifty years ago, I danced around a Sunday school classroom with K. And God looked on. I wondered if he smiled and thought…

Just wait, Elaine, about fifty years from now. Have I got a story to tell you!

Funny how our lives write the witness of God’s faithfulness … glorious really. How what we cannot see now … imagine now … is but the heavenly word bank from which the Master Storyteller chooses the words to write an eternal, best-seller.

God is faithful. He will not leave our stories unfinished without a witness. He’s watching from a far, maybe even smiling because…

He knows what he is doing. He knows how to weave our past into our future in beautiful measure. Maybe there’s strength in that truth for you tonight. Keep rehearsing your history with God and looking for all the ways that your former steps inform your current ones.

Rest alongside the Storyteller. He who began a very good work in you is faithful to complete it. Trust Him for the finish.

Word has it that endings are his specialty. As always…

Peace for the journey,

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