dad | Elaine Olsen

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Early Memories (part two): the find and the fear

November 3, 2008

Please take time to read the previous post for context. This is my follow up response.

“‘The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field. Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.’” (Matthew 13:44-46).

Hartsville, Indiana.

The soil of my beginnings. The landscape that houses my earliest memories.

My mind traveled to Hartsville this past weekend. My father’s words always have a way of taking me to places—to new levels of understanding often tucked away in the old and in the unseen, yet, when scratched, become the itch that cannot be ignored. I’ve thought a lot about my early memories and Sam Keen’s words…

“Tell me your three earliest memories and I will tell you what you are working on right now.”

I’ve plumbed the depths of my remembrances; some have yielded pleasant. Some not so much. And as it pertains to my now, I’ve come to two conclusions about those early imprints—those firmly rooted memories and about how they, perhaps, continue their shaping of my current.

1. The find.

One of my earliest memories can be traced back to this picture–an Easter egg hunt at the ripe age of nearly three. Some would argue me too young to remember, but the images in my mind from that day are real and vivid. I can still feel the heat of the sun and the squirm of my hand inside of my mother’s grip. The decorations of the Easter basket were held together with straight pins, pricking my tiny fingers with just enough annoyance to relegate my attention away from the task at hand.

The find. The candy and the eggs. The hidden treasure that required my participation.

My anticipation was heightened by the flock of other children intent on doing the same. Even at my young age, there was a deep sense of urgency for the find. I was disturbed by the waiting for the horn to sound, signaling the beginning of the hunt. I was even more disturbed by the possibility of not being able to get my hands on the prize.

The memory holds little else for me beyond these initial moments of waiting, but once the signal sounded, my heart and my feet raced forward for the find. I don’t remember the prize that I took away from that event. Perhaps the memory in and of itself, is the prize.

The find. The urgency for the hunt. The concern that somehow I would be overlooked and unable to get my hands on the promised treasure of Easter.

Could it be that I’ve never quite escaped my need for the search?

2. The fear.

Hartsville also housed the beginnings of my fear.

In that season, my father was in graduate school and my mother worked part-time; thus, my sister and I were sometimes left in the care of babysitters. One of our favorites was Beulah. I liked going to Beulah’s house, but going to Beulah’s meant being away from my parents. I remember standing on her front porch, furiously waving to my father as he drove away. Because of his absence, tears filled my eyes as an unhealthy sense of fear filled my heart.

For all of the reasons that I loved Beulah, they weren’t enough to warrant any joy at being left in her care. I’m not sure as to the reasons why, but the insecurities secured in me during that season were the beginnings of a deeply rooted fear that has followed me for nearly four decades.

Could it be that I’ve never quite escaped from my fear of being left behind—forgotten about and deemed as the “lesser priority” of well-intentioned goals?

The find and the fear. Two urgent and pressing memories that surfaced for me this past weekend as I contemplated what I might, perhaps, “…be working on now.”

One replaces the other. The more I find the treasure of Easter, the less I fear being left behind. The hunt for Jesus—the digging and the intentional search for the kingdom of heaven—always yields a peace that surpasses any fear that surfaces to the contrary. I know this to be true, for I am an Easter person.

I’ve walked the road to Calvary and found the greatest treasure of eternal Truth seeded in its soil and harvested in his resurrection. Jesus didn’t walk the road home to his Father so that I could stand on earth’s porch in fear of his never returning. No, he walked home so that I could follow accordingly, with a faith that replaces fear and with a joy that comes from being trusted with the sacred find.

When we find forever, friends, and when we cherish it as the greatest holding of our hearts, we need not fear his return on our behalf. He’s coming, and it won’t be long. Fear tells us that it will be, but faith reassures us that our waiting is but a breath—a single pause between our flawed memories and our sure and soon-to-be, eternal realities.

Now we see dimly. Live dimly, and remember dimly. But soon, we shall fully see. Fully live and fully understand how our beginnings—our early remembrances—have shaped us and equipped us for the kingdom find that has always been our Father’s intention. Thus I pray,

For memories and their shaping, Father, I thank you. Never let the “truth” of my past replace the truth of who you are. The former is flawed, whereas you are perfect. When I am tempted to be shackled by the restraints of imperfect remembrances, increase my vision for my perfected end. As I live my life in process, I ask for your guiding hand and divine wisdom to be my teacher. Where there is fear, replace it with faith. And when I cry tears, wipe them away with the truth of your return. Today, I cast my eyes to the Eastward sky, knowing that you soon will break my stare with the glorious revelation of your return. Even so, come quickly, Lord Jesus. Amen.

PS: For any of you who would like to be put on my father’s weekly email list, please email me separately with your address. I will pass it on to him. Shalom.

Early Memories…Lingering Lessons

November 1, 2008

My dad is one of the best human beings I know. He is a gifted communicator, a passionate preacher, and hands-down…

the best story teller I’ve ever come across. When I was a child, I spent many nights being whisked away to imaginary places via his one-of-kind narratives. Over the years, I have come to appreciate his flare for the dramatic as it pertained to his make-believe stories, but more importantly, as it pertains to the Story–the one that levels real and provocative and life-giving everytime it is heard. My father’s heart beats for his Father, and thus, it is my privilege to share a little bit of his writing with you this weekend.

My dad (most affectionately known as Chuck to friends and as “paps” to his grandkids) writes a weekly word to his friends. The piece below was sent to me today, and I wanted to share it with you. It got me thinking (my father’s words always have a propensity to voice accordingly) about my early memories and how they seeded their story into mine–even 42 years down the road.

So without further fanfare … meet Chuck. My dad. The first man who ever held me in his arms and spoke his love into my heart. Enjoy hearing from his today.

Sam Keen is a noted author who has given us many quotable quotes, like:

- “We are always in the process of writing and rewriting the story of our lives, forming our experiences into a narrative that makes sense.”

- “Darkness is the place where you find renewal.”

- “Your questions are your quest. As you ask, shall you be.”

“Love isn’t finding a perfect person. It’s seeing an imperfect person perfectly.”

Well, there is one more quote I would like to give you. I was in a workshop with Sam Keen a few years ago and the memorable quote from that workshop was, “Tell me your three earliest memories and I will tell you what you are working on right now.”

My earliest memories? Let me give it try.

1. Dr. Thompson and his black bag

I was four years old. I had what they called “the old fashioned measles”, with a temperature of 105 degrees. I was told years later that Mom and Grandma hovered over me for days, wiping my fevered brow, fearing for my life. That I don’t remember, but what I do remember is Dr. Thompson, standing at the front door with his little black medical bag, talking to Mom. Years later, I was told that it was a grim conversation. The doctor was not only concerned about my survival, but that the high temperature could be harmful to the brain.

My first memory had to do with fear; fear of dying.

2. The tar-papered house

That is how my parents’ first home was described to us kids—a tar-papered house on Sam Hay’s farm. I remember the day they took us to the place where the house once stood. All I could see was a patch of sandy soil filled with sand burrs. They told us about their furniture, too; orange crates for cabinets and an old pot-bellied stove. It was that stove that got our attention as Mom told us about the fire.

She told me that on the night of the fire, she needed to go to her parents’ home for an errand and had debated whether she should just leave me sleeping in the cradle or wake me and bundle me up. She decided on the latter and took George, Patty, and me along. When we returned the house was in flames. Again, I could have died that night.

While I obviously didn’t remember that night, I do remember that day when the story was told and how I was revisited with a fear, a fear of not being in the world.

3. First grade with Miss Wilma

I was five when I started first grade. Mother persuaded school officials to allow me to register at five, even though I wouldn’t be six until January. All the details are sketchy but I do recall some embarrassment for having been punished for writing with my left hand. Miss Wilma worked hard to get me to change my writing hand. This infuriated my mother and she made a special trip to the school to inform Miss Wilma that Charlie can write with his left hand if he wants to. And that was the end of that.

Could it be that in that early experience there was programmed in me a sense of insecurity, a feeling that there was something wrong with me, that being left-handed made me strange and odd, and that I was somewhat inferior to others?

Well, there you have it–three of my earliest remembrances. Was Sam Keen right? Am I still working on those issues? I suppose I am.

Ernest Becker in his book, “The Denial of Death”, states that the fear of death is at the heart of all our fears. Philosophically and theologically, I am at peace with the rhythms of life, but there is still this ‘nag’ about what Shakespeare said, “…that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns, puzzles the will.”

And this whole business of trying to measure up to other people’s expectations, like “I will write right handed if you want me to” is a statement about relinquishment of my own Chuck Killian-ness; affecting self-confidence and self-assurance. From time to time, those old tapes have reared their ugly head.

Those ‘old tapes’ had numerous occasions for bringing on disaster. But they also have been the very places for joyful deliverance, forgiveness, and healing. It was out of the ‘dark night of my own soul’ that I was forced to remember. As Elie Wiesel said, “To forget extends the exile, but in remembrance comes liberation.”

Sam Keen was right, “Darkness is the place where you find renewal.” I am still a fierce believer in the “Light that shines in the darkness, and the darkness will never be able to put it out.” (John 1:3-9). How blessed is one who finds light in the dark places!

~Chuck

For those of you who would like to read a little further about my father, please click here to read a post I wrote about his marvelous gift to me … his voice. Have a blessed weekend. Shalom.
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