Welcome to my week! What a great couple of days I’ve had with my new friend Susan (aka… runnermom). Oh the places we’ve been … the stories she’s heard … the food we’ve eaten … the laughter we’ve shared. Please enjoy a brief look at our time together. The only thing better would have been to have more of you sharing the road with us. Shalom.
(the real me… I know, you’re shocked!)
From the moment he took the microphone in hand, I was keenly moved by DJ’s giftedness to not only sing, but also to write some incredible music that moves a heart into an immediate posture of worship. I sat and wept through most of his selections. In particular, DJ favored us with many of the songs off of his first full-album release, Your Grace.
Your Grace is a collection of songs written for an audience in search of healing, inspiration, and God’s grace. The project is meant to inspire the human spirit beyond what may seem impossible or what may appear unbearable. After an agonizing year of uncertainty and loss, DJ was inspired to write songs that would help others through life’s challenges and triumphs.
From the title track, “Your Grace” to “Good Morning, Lord” to “Only a Prayer Away” and every song in between, you will sense and hear DJ’s desire to persevere and to relate with everyday people. Also peppered within the album you will find what Barry Weeks has called, “Our nation’s next anthem”—referring to DJ’s song, “A Prayer for America” (a personal favorite). You can get a brief listen of it by clicking here. Trust me when I tell you that not one song on this album is wasted. I love every track (how often can you say that?).
How thankful I am to have come across DJ’s ministry in this season of my life. God timed this “sacred intersection” with perfect precision. I couldn’t have appreciated the depth of DJ’s gifting had I not been in this posture of deep need.
Perhaps you understand. Maybe this day your heart is also in deep need of a touch from God—a touch that will penetrate through your pain and your weary in order to soothe the ache within. Your Grace offers that touch, and DJ has offered three copies for me to give away via the blog. One of the copies is reserved for Runner Mom (you all do know that she is making a road trip next week to come and visit with me…); the other two will be given away to those of you who leave a comment on this post.
In addition, if you’d like to order your own copy of Your Grace, you can do so through amazon.com (click here) or at cdbaby.com (click here). Further, if you would like to contact DJ regarding leading a time of worship at your gathering, you can email him at: [email protected] .
I am reminded again today (thanks for the call Joanne), that we all have a story to tell; some of us will write it. Some of us will sing it. Some of us will tell it, but all of us are commissioned with the task of living it! I won’t live it exactly as you do, but by God’s grace, I will walk the rest of my earthly days on purpose and with a heavenly end in mind.
Life is a precious gift. His grace … all the more. Live it like you mean it, friends. As always,
The Nile is a difficult “letting go.” A hard release. A gut-wrenching surrender.
It was for Moses’ parents. It is for me.
Tonight I stand on the riverbank of the Nile and watch my son from a distance as he boards a plane at Raleigh-Durham International Airport, heading toward the mountainous regions of Bolivia. He will spend ten days at an orphanage, tilling the land, repairing the chicken coops, working on latrines, and playing a pick-up game of soccer on every occasion.
He will bathe little; sleep even less. Stomach Bolivian delicacies and try his best to speak the language he’s been intensely studying as his college minor. He’ll make me proud, of that I am sure. Others will love him, of that I am more certain.
And while all of this makes my heart smile with gratitude for the man he is becoming, there is a pang of sadness for me. Not because I desire to keep Nick to myself, but rather because I won’t be alongside to watch the unfolding of this “fine child” before the eyes of others. Moments and memories that I’d like to scrapbook for myself will be given as a remembrance to those who stand further down the river’s bank, eagerly awaiting his arrival and anticipating his participation in their lives.
I see the bigger picture; it’s been growing in me for a long season. God has amply supplied me with a series of “letting go’s” that continue to shape my heart for sacred surrender. They always make me cry, and I’ve never shied away from their wet. I simply allow the tears a spacious place to land in order to water the growth of my tender soil … my fragile soul. I pray them not to be too much, but rather just enough to seed my pain with some purpose.
It’s a good prayer to pray, especially because our “letting go’s” are going to arrive. It is the way of a forward journey, regardless of our willingness to stand still and not move one moment beyond this one. How much better would it be to allow our moments of “needful release” to birth in us a sacred shaping that will serve a better end—both ours and God’s.
Moses’ parents understood this better than most. They were commended for their faithful release and duly memorialized for it in the Hebrews “hall of faith”:
“By faith Moses’ parents hid him for three months after he was born, because they saw that he was not an ordinary child, and they were not afraid of the king’s edict.” (Hebrews 11:23).
By faith, they hid their son. By faith, they released their son. By faith, they watched their son from a distance. By faith, they understood that their son was no ordinary child, but rather a “fine child” destined for a better end than that of most of his contemporaries.
By faith, we should equally trust our Father with the release of our children to the River Nile.
They’re all “fine.” Special and beautiful and worthy of the nod of heaven. Like Moses’ parents, from the moment they’re born, we hide them. Shelter them beneath our wings because we understand that while heaven has marked them with eternity, hell has marked them otherwise. For destruction—as ordinary, expendable, unremarkable, and worthy of the nothing more than a swift slaughter simply because they carry the bloodlines of a King.
But three months passes quickly. Eighteen years for most of us. For a few of us, a painful and difficult less. For a few of us, a painful and struggling more. Still and yet, there comes for all of us a moment at the river’s edge. A time of release when we must find our peace at a distance and trust that Father God has something bigger and something beyond us that awaits our children on the other side of our hard surrender.
We may not see his wisdom in it all; rarely do we catch a full glimpse of our children’s forever. But occasionally we have an inkling—a heavenly whisper reminding us that, indeed, there is a wisdom that exceeds understanding. A “more” that is coming because of our willingness to “let go” and “let God.”
Tonight, I “let go” again of the son I dearly love. It won’t be the last time my heart is called upon to make such a surrender. But I do so in the spirit and strength of my spiritual ancestors who better understood the painful trust of a difficult release. Thus, I speak these words of release to my Nick as he flies the night sky and as I try to find him there, amidst the stars and dark that separates our flesh…
Go with God this night, my son. Sail the Nile with all the trust of heaven to guide you, shape you, strengthen you, and mold you into the man that God has intended for you to be. I will be keeping watch, but my arms aren’t long enough to catch you this time. God has orchestrated events accordingly. He means for me to stand on the riverbank while you engage with the wild and wet of a river that calls for your participation. You are a fine child, and you were meant for more than my arms. You were meant for the world. Embrace it, and it will embrace you. It’s time that others discover the wealth of who you are.
And just in case they don’t, if for some reason they reach any other conclusion, you can be certain that I’ll be waiting at the river’s edge to welcome you home and to remind you of just how extraordinary you truly are. I love you, Nick. I’ll see you on the other side of your river’s ride.
Thought precedes action.
Always.
We may not be aware of the processes that coordinate behind the scenes to fuel our accomplishments, but they are there. Existing and simmering to bring about the plans of our heart … to walk the dreams of our creative impulse.
Thoughts are the stuff of creation. Without them, our lives walk accidental, void of purpose, and full of happenstance. And if that’s the case, if life is but an inadvertent pause birthed through inconsequential measure, then God is no longer needed. Rather, he is relegated to the role of an occasional participant in the Creation story when we need the story to make sense. When our thoughts force us to fill in the blanks of our beginning with some semblance of reason.
How callous we’ve become in our approach to our Genesis—to the whispers of all things Edenic that breathe a story much bigger than the one to which we’ve grown accustomed.
Six days of creative impulse and then a seventh to sit back and to reflect.
Doesn’t quite do the process justice, does it? We think it does. We’ve perfected our telling of said process, and on most days, I am quite content with a faith that walks so simply. But in doing so, in accepting the “flannel graph” version of Creation as presented to me in my youth, I miss the depth and the breadth of a beautiful pondering.
I miss God’s thoughts in the process, and to miss God’s thoughts in any process is to neglect one of his most sacred gifts to us as his children—
to think with the mind of Christ (1 Corinthians 2:9-16).
Thus, rather than sitting on the backside of Creation’s completion … rather than pulling up a chair on a seventh day to sit and ponder the fruition of a week’s hard labor … I carry my chair to the front side of our beginnings. To the moments that gathered and filled and served as the prelude to our Genesis.
They are there, not figments of a wild maybe, but real moments that are yet to be recorded by man’s pen but that are fully scripted in the annals of heaven. Our God is eternal, and with Him is our beginning, our end, and our every breath in between. Accordingly, as the pages of our Genesis unfold, we find Him already present.
Waiting. Hovering. Contemplating the dark and the deep, the formless and the void, knowing that out of his cauldron of wet, he would pour forth and plant the fruition of his thoughts.
Somewhere between seemingly nothing and everything, God lingered with his thoughts and with the endless possibilities that were his to write. To create and to birth. To fashion and to form. To measure and to mold. To perceive and then to paint.
See God there, staring into the face of the deep and monitoring the reflection of his thoughts as they gaze back at him. Pause and consider the moment. Linger long enough and full enough to grasp, at least in part, the magnitude of your beginnings.
There, amidst the ripples of blue skies and earth’s grass, stars and galaxies, flamingos and bluebirds, peach trees and rose bushes, amidst the swirls and inklings of all manner of species, comes another ripple. Your ripple. Your face, presenting itself as a possibility on the canvas of God’s forever. Your life reflecting back into the face of your Creator.
Imagine that moment, and if you’re still standing, find your knees and your gratitude for the truth of such a beholding. Long before you imagined your Father, he imagined you and lovingly decided that, indeed, you would play an important role in his creation. That you would bare his likeness and that his “goodness” would be declared over you, even though he knew you would be prone to declaring otherwise.
Your created life didn’t begin inadvertently. It began with the thoughts of God, long ago and far way in a distant dark and wet that hosted his hovering and that boasted his canvas. You aren’t his accidental impulse. You are his intentional pause—his deliberate holding until such a time as this when your seed of his Genesis’ prelude has finally bloomed into the living witness of his creative genius.
That, my friends, is what pulling up your chair to the front side of creation will get you. A truth that exceeds your sixth day arrival. And while some would argue that God worked up to our creation—that somehow after five days of a busy work week he finally yielded his best—I would say that his best was birthed long before that sixth day ever arrived. Why?
Because thought precedes action.
Always.
In our minds and in God’s. And since his mind exceeds ours and his actions all the more, our faith should grow in the belief that we are and have always been seeded with his eternity. Indeed, it is a story that is much bigger than our occasional flannel graphs and our reasoned grasp. May God grant us the wisdom and the willingness to walk its depth and to speak its grace with the whispers of the Genesis prelude pulsing in our hearts as we go. Thus, I pray…
Thank you, Father, for thinking up me. For pausing long enough to count my ripple worthy of your kingdom canvas. I cannot fathom such grace, such favor on my behalf; nonetheless, you’ve allowed my voice a melody or two alongside yours, and I am undone with the gift. Thank you for the blood of your Son that counts me worthy of any measure of kingdom influence. You, alone, harbor the seeds of my beginning and the punctuation of my end. You’ve seen it all; you know it all, from the prelude of Genesis until now, throughout forever. May I always harbor the certain and secure faith that comes from such a sacred knowing. Amen.
Copyright © January 2009 – Elaine Olsen
PS: This article recently appeared in the March Issue of “Exemplify” (an on-line ezine). To download the June issue and read other back issues, click here.
Today has been a day of routine waiting. From the moment my feet hit the floor, it’s been full speed ahead, pushing the various duties of my life through the motions and then some more. It’s not been bad … just full.
In the midst of my commotion, God gave me a couple of moments. Moments I would have missed had I not been waiting. As I consider them now, they seem a better trade for the stress of my waiting.
First, I met Jenny and her infant daughter, Lily Ann. Like me, they were waiting in the office of a local oral surgeon. I was waiting for a consult with the doctor; they were waiting for “husband and dad” to emerge from his wisdom teeth surgery. After perusing magazines for over an hour, I finally put down the “Good Housekeeping” and made my way over to the couch where they were sitting.
Lily Ann was a delight. At six months old, she coos and smiles at the top her game. I couldn’t escape her drool or big blue eyes. Her mother, Jenny, was quite eager for me to engage with her beautiful daughter. At just twenty years of age, Jenny could have easily been my daughter. We talked and laughed and shared a couch for a good thirty minutes before her being called to pick up her husband at the side door of the building.
Prior to her departure, I told her about our church; she told me that since moving to the area five months ago (they are a military family from Athens, GA), she and her husband have been “looking” for a church. She grew up Baptist; I grew up Methodist, and when she asked me if we were close to being the “same,” I assured her that we were—that, in fact, God doesn’t look at our denominations. God looks at our hearts. I passed her my card, and we parted as friends.
One moment I would have missed had I not been waiting.
Moment two came on the floor of a local resale shop. My son was trying on clothes for his upcoming trip to Bolivia. I was contemplating my tired when a woman emerged from the double doors at the back of the shop. She made her way over to me and asked for my opinion about the two objects she held in her hands.
One was a polka-dotted cookie jar; one was an ornate flower vase, blue with gold etching. With some hesitancy, she stated her request…
“Which one do you think will hold more sand?”
“Excuse me, sand? What are using this for?”
“Well, my brother died yesterday; we’re having him cremated and will be taking him to the river to scatter his ashes. Which one do you think might work better?”
“Tell me what you think and then tell me something about your brother.”
And with that, the floodgates opened as Geneva spent the next fifteen minutes describing to me the events of the previous twenty-four hours. Bill died in his wheelchair while talking with a friend at his assisted living facility. Dead at the age of sixty-two without warning, leaving behind at least one grieving sister who was in search of his “casket” in a resale shop.
I hugged Geneva, told her I would be praying for her throughout the day and then encouraged her to leave the cookie jar and vase behind and head to “Michael’s” for her purchase. If I could, I would have gone with her, but this was not my journey to make. This was simply a divine moment given to me in order to “enter into” someone else’s pain.
One moment I would have missed had I not been waiting.
Jenny, her daughter Lily Ann, and Geneva. Three of God’s precious children waiting for me on the road of life today. I am not surprised by their arrival to my world; instead, I am profoundly thankful for the sacred intersection that allowed me a few moments of connection between my heart and theirs. What a privilege and blessing it was to be able to seed some comfort and love on behalf of the kingdom. God will do with it what he will; I am content to leave the outcome in his best-intentioned hands.
Moments. Split fragments of time that call for our notice and our willingness to engage with the heart of God’s people. We may not see them coming, but when they arrive, may we all have the good sense and the kingdom perspective to call them worthy of our attention and intervention.
Perhaps this day, you’ve known a “wait.” If not, I’m fairly confident that one is on your way. What you do with that “wait” is up to you. As for me, I’d rather spend it on behalf of a people who need to know the lavish love of my exceedingly good God. And while I don’t relish a long lingering in the doctor’s office or an unscheduled stop at the resale shop, I pause today to consider what I would have missed by not receiving their requirement.
I think this day better lived because of them; I think my heart all the more.
Live your moments like you mean them, friends. Make them count for something more than what they seem. As always,
