Category Archives: faith

follow the lights

The remembrance crept into my mind this afternoon – a memory usually left somewhere in the back, catalogued for an occasional trip down memory lane.

It was hellish ride that night. We huddled tightly together in the backseat of a friend’s truck, following behind an ambulance that carried my injured boy. We could barely see the vehicle’s reflecting lights for the ferocious havoc of Hurricane Florence. The storm was only beginning its assault on our community, and my son was one of its first victims.

“How will I know if he dies on the way to Charlotte? That’s a long trip to not know the condition of my son. How will I know?”

My heart was breaking as I questioned the valiant EMTs who’d made the three-hour journey from Charlotte in hurricane-force winds just to turn around and head back into them with my son as their cargo.

“We’ll meet you in the ER, Mrs. Olsen. He’s in good hands.”

And just like that, they were gone. I couldn’t touch my son, couldn’t hold on to him should he slip away to Jesus during those hours of dark separation. Instead, I could only release him to the night’s drive in hopes of his survival.

With communication cut off, I entered into the deepest, darkest moments I have known on this earth. I had no way of knowing if the son I loved so dearly was with me or if, instead, he was with his Father in heaven. I simply and profoundly had to let go and tarry with the unknown … come what may.

That’s a difficult holding, friends, to be suspended in a place of not-knowing.

Some of us are feeling a similar weightiness right now. We’re trailing behind an ambulance that holds someone … something … we dearly love.

Yes, a different season with different circumstances. Still and yet, a time that feels heavy … like a storm is brewing just off the coast, readying itself for landfall. A night pregnant with the possibility of a Cat-5 hurricane.

Howling winds; falling trees; rising waters; a lack of communication with the ambulance up ahead.

That’s how weighty this day in 2021 feels to me, a bit like that night back in 2018.

Two thousand years ago, another mom stood at a distance from her son’s wounding. She couldn’t hold him in the dark hours of separation, only tarry with her punctured heart:

“When all the people who had gathered to witness this sight saw what took place, they beat their breasts and went away. But all those who knew him, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things.” (Luke 23:48-49)

All those who knew him – standing at a distance.

Let that sink deeply into your thoughts. Picture the scene. Feel that moment of utter separation and desperation.

The pause seems interminable.

As it was for those who were distanced from Christ 2000 years ago, and as it was for me two years ago, so it may be for some of us today.

As questions begin to mount in this space of not-knowing, so can the fear. What cannot be understood in these hours of silence can only be imagined. And those imaginations left unchecked are rarely the underpinning of a solid faith; instead, they are often its undermining.

This is the heart stretch … the reaching part where our faith must exceed our grasp.

We’ll not know the outcome of the ambulance ride until it reaches the ER. And to get there, we must be willing to follow behind its reflection.

Into the winds; around fallen trees; through rising waters; without communication.

Indeed, the heart stretch of faith.

The ambulance is moving, friends. Get in your vehicles. Follow closely the dimming lights in front of you. Follow trustingly. Follow prayerfully. Follow fully – all the way through to the ER.

God is with you on the ride; God is waiting for you as you arrive. A Cat-5 hurricane is no match for the accompanying and powerful presence of our Lord.

You’re in good hands. So am I. I’ll meet you in the ER. Until then…

Peace for the journey,

PS: For those of you new to Jadon’s story, you can click here to see more. 

a letter to my grand-girl

Dear Grand-girl (aka ‘Lil Miss Woods),

I’ve been thinking a long time about what kind of gift I could give you on your birthday – that very first day when you emerge from the safety of your darkened cocoon into the explosive light of the world you’ll soon call home. Another pink “welcome to the world” onesie, along with a matching “I’m the Grandma” t-shirt doesn’t quite fit the moment, so I think I’ll take a pass on those at this time. (But at some point, don’t be surprised if I’m decorated from head to toe in granny wear, a trait for which you can thank the Olsen side of your family tree. They love a good party and any occasion that allows them to dress up the moment with lavish expressions of wonderment and love.)

No, at this time in your life you don’t need more things to clutter your thinking. Instead, what you most need is the steady and certain love of a family that will never let you go–long and wide and high and deep stretches from the arms that will cradle your beginning and that will carry you forward for the rest of your life.

You’ve got that in us. We’re a sturdy bunch, a motley crew of misfits at times, but a crew strengthened and ready for your road ahead. Why ready? Well, we’ve spent our entire lives growing up so that we might better help you to do the same. Every single one of us have labored and strived all the days of our lives beneath the light and shadow of the Almighty–the Father who has knit you together in your precious momma’s womb. We’ve lived with God. We’ve walked with God. We’ve worked on our faith, and we know to whom we belong. God’s arms are the ones now cradling you in safety. Soon he’ll delivery you into ours. What mystery! What trust! What grace!

As your grandmother, I won’t always be ringside for some of your milestones. I’ll probably miss a lot of them, and I’m mostly OK with that. Those moments belong to you and your parents. And I know they’ll be great ones because I, too, have sat ringside to every milestone of the four kids God has entrusted me to raise … your dad, Nick, your Uncle Colton, your Uncle Jadon, and your Aunt Amelia. Their baptisms, their birthdays, their ballgames, their recitals, their break ups, their first days of driving, their graduations, their marriages, their tears, their fears. Their successes and their occasional failures. Their questions, their doubts, and their settled conclusions. It’s all been on a learning curve for me as a mom, but it has been and will remain the most exceptional privilege of my fifty-three years on this earth.

Wanna know a little secret about your dad? He made me a mom on April 11, 1989, the day after my 23rd birthday. He arrived two weeks prior to his due-date. I knew nothing about being a parent. Zilch. I had a lot of growing up to do myself, and for the last thirty years, I like to say that your dad and I have been growing up together. As he was learning to walk as a toddler, I was learning the fine art of walking as a mom. I still am.

And now, because of you, your parents will have the delicate and delightful privilege of further personal growth because they’ll grow alongside you. You will teach them their parenting skills. God has hand-picked you … entrusted you … as their training manual, and I am not one bit worried about their qualifications. They are rock stars.

Your dad is strong, thoughtful, courageous, contemplative, passionate, faithful, a gifted communicator, and he is truthful (perhaps one of the qualities I admire most about him). A person of truth is a person unafraid of exposure. It takes a long time to cultivate that kind of integrity (some of us spend our entire lives endeavoring to get there), but your dad seemed to be born with a generous portion of it in his DNA. He can’t help but tell the truth, even when it costs him some of his pride (and he’s got a lot of that too, but you’ll help him with that). He will never leave you. He is devoted to you and to your mom. And because Nick’s not a time waster, I always said that he would marry the first woman he seriously dated because he wasn’t going to prattle away a single moment on a girl he hadn’t already decided was worth the investment. I was right.

To give his heart wholeheartedly to one woman, your mom, is one of the greatest gifts he’s already given you. But even more important than his devotion to your mother, your father is devoted to your Creator, and beneath that light and shadow, he will carefully guard his own deposit of faith entrusted to him at an early age so that, in time, you’ll be collecting a faith your own.

As a mom, I have learned this most important truth, and now as your grandmother, I will endeavor to live it out more fully:

My job, my legacy, is to drop enough breadcrumbs of faith along the trodden path of this life so that all of my children, that you and the other grand-girls and grand-boys who will eventually fill up our family tree, can safely find your way home … back into the hands of the One who authored your life and who promises to perfect it.

And now, a word or two about your mom. I don’t know her nearly as well as I know your dad, but in the short time we’ve done life together, I am solidly convinced about her character and her commitment to raise you up with deep roots. Your mom’s strength is equal to your dad’s. She’s a home-grown, home-town girl whose sense of family anchors deeply within that Appalachian soil where she took her first steps. She’s smart (I mean really smart – she’s a professor with a PhD and everything and can produce an academic paper worthy of publication as easily as she drinks a cup of water). She’s clever, witty and can hold her own when it comes to matching wills with your father. She’s quiet, but when she speaks, we listen in because we know we’re going to get something more, another little piece of the puzzle that tells us who she is. I imagine that in these days of growing up alongside you, your mom will reveal even bigger pieces of her story to us, and I think those revelations will blow our minds. She’ll be the doorkeeper of your home, closely guarding who’s coming in and even more so, your going out. She’s a secret-keeper, and while I’m on the complete opposite end of that spectrum, I think her ability to hold things more closely to her heart (to not vocally share every blessed thought that comes into her mind) will help you to learn how to govern your own thoughts, your words, your actions.

Both of your parents already love you unconditionally. The relationship that you share with them will probably be the most important, framed picture in your home, the best snapshot that captures how Jesus really does love us all … that agape love which puts “best interest over self- interest” (you can read all about that kind of loving in 1 Corinthians 13. Uncle Jadon will be happy to break it down for you. He loves God’s Word, and he’ll love answering all your questions). This kind of love is an important picture to hang in your heart, and it has been through this lens (this love that I have for my four children) that I have finally been able to grasp just an inkling of how much I am loved by God. Best interest over self-interest … the Calvary story. One I will tell you more about in coming days. Consider this letter the prologue. 

So sweet precious grand-girl, you who I have not yet seen with my eyes, you whose name has not yet been revealed to the world, I am at a better place of peace in my life because you are now in it. God has seen you. God knows your name, and very soon we’ll start writing the chapters of your life together. And when you can’t find the words to your story, I’ll help you look for them. When the chapters don’t make sense in isolation, I’ll remind you of the bigger picture … that all good stories have a clear beginning, a mostly muddled middle, and, ultimately, a grand conclusion. When the pen you’re holding in your hand loses its ink, when the well from which you draw the lines of your story seemingly dries up, come over to mine and borrow some. My well runs long and wide and high and deep. I’ll lend you my strength because this fragile world you’re entering into, the one where you will write your legacy, will require it. Don’t let that reality scare you. Instead, let it challenge you, embolden you, because this I promise you …

God has already given you everything you need to make it through this delicate dance called life. He’s given you the promise of his presence, and he’s given you the present of our presence. Presence is the best gift we can give you on the advent of your arrival. You’re one of us now. Your name has been carved into the family tree, smack dab in the middle of our names. Our signatures surround yours. We’ll watch over you, and by God’s grace, we’ll all leave a trail of breadcrumbs so that you might most clearly and most easily find your way home.

And as always, may God forever bestow upon you, over you and beneath you, before and behind you, his peace for the journey. There’s no better place to grow up. 

I love you,
Your granny

from a distance…

“All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance.” (Hebrews 11:13)

 

Five months ago, I curled up in my bed barely able to breathe. Physically I was fine. My mental state, however, was taking a hit. The details surrounding my life were all-consuming. An impending move. A high school graduation. College applications. A wedding. A house and a classroom to pack up. A cancer scare. Aging parents.

The “to do” list was endless. I cried out to God in anguish:

How will I ever get to the other side of this?

His answer was as potent as my pain.

With me.

In that moment of clarity, I released my question to God’s capable hands and knew that, regardless of the minutiae in between, he would safely land me (and my family) in this place of relocation–Benson, NC.

I’ve lived here for a month now. Five months ago, I couldn’t have known how it would feel to be a resident of this community. Instead, I could only imagine it. And I did so on a regular basis … imagine it in my mind. Every now and again, I’d add some texture to my imagining by making an occasional detour off I-95 while en route to visit my folks who live a short distance away. But even then, in all the detours in my mind and with my car, I couldn’t fully appreciate the fullness of a life lived here. I could only welcome it from a distance.

Faith anticipates and welcomes life from a distance.

The ancients understood this … were commended for it. They lived expectantly, never seeing on this side of eternity, the fullness of God’s promises to them, only believing that, in fact, the fullness would arrive at the time of his choosing. And so, they sowed seeds of faith into the soil beneath their feet, watering it with both tears of sorrow and joy. God grew something on that sacred patch of land. It stands as a memorial for us today–a history of a well-worn, intricately woven faith.

And every time we choose to follow suit, every time we lend our hands to the plow that is before us so that the ground beneath us becomes the road that transports us, the voice that is within us echoes the beautiful refrain of faith. It’s a song that pleases our Father, a forward trust that resounds in the chambers of heaven, reminding those who have gone before us that we are not far behind.

Faith! Faith!
Hear our cry;
Here we stand
To testify.

The night’s been long
The journey severe;
The details endless
A call to persevere.

Through doubts.
Through fears.
Through questions.
Through tears.

In sickness.
In health.
In poverty.
In wealth.

Wherever we are
Wherever we’ve been;
Wherever you’re leading
Wherever it ends.

The soil is yours
This plow in our hand;
These seeds in our hearts
Our time in this land.

This faith from a distance
This faith we hold dear;
It keeps us together
It keeps us strong here.

Until we are finished
Until our time through;
Until our road ends
And we finally see you.

Our Author, our Perfector
Our Finisher of faith;
Our Father, our Redeemer
At last face to face.

With you, with the angels
with those gone before;
At home, at rest
In peace forevermore.

Yes, Faith! Faith!
Let the heavens resound;
This is life from a distance
This is life heaven bound.        (f.elaineolsen7/23/19allrightsreserved)

Faith anticipates and welcomes life from a distance. Wherever you are standing today, friend, cast your eyes to the horizon and cast all your imaginations into the capable hands of our Father. Soon and very soon, you’ll land safely into the place of his relocation. Soon, you’ll be home. Until then,

Peace for the journey,

on measuring the distance

I picked up eight stones in the first few steps of my walk this morning. I’ve been walking this street for a week now; it’s my new route in this new chapter of living. Whereas my former neighborhood boasted several streets full of twists and turns and lots of scenery, my current neighborhood includes a single, straight street dotted by a dozen or so homes. On my former route, two laps around the neighborhood meant I had completed my course. Now “completion” requires eight.

Those eight laps should be easily counted … easily remembered. But I am easily distracted and often lose count. A stopwatch marking the minutes comes close to measuring my steps, but my pace isn’t always consistent. My steps don’t always measure out evenly. Sometimes I walk more slowly. Sometimes more briskly.

For me, time isn’t the truest measure for knowing when my course is completed.

Distance is.

And so, this morning I picked up eight stones. I carried them in my left hand, and each time I passed my driveway, I transferred one of them to my pocket. Carrying and counting stones is a tangible way of measuring distance. An empty palm and a full pocket signals completion.

As it was for me this morning, so it was for the Israelites as they made their way across the Jordan River to enter the Promised Land (see Joshua 3-4). Along the way, God instructed twelve men to pick up twelve stones from the middle of the Jordan and to carry them over to the other side. Joshua (the new leader of God’s people) then took those twelve stones and built an altar at Gilgal to serve as a memorial to the faithfulness of God. In the future, each time the Israelites looked at that altar … counted those stones … they remembered their mighty God and their mighty walk through the Jordan on dry ground.

Twelve stones counted and carried by the Israelites, measured the distance of how far they’d traveled with their faithful Father. As they walked onto the pages of a new chapter in their history as his people, God made sure they had a memorial to serve as a reminder of the previous steps taken. He didn’t want them to forget that faith walk.

He doesn’t want us to forget ours … the steps we’ve traveled with him.

Time isn’t the truest measure for knowing when our course is completed. Distance is. Our steps won’t always measure out evenly. Somedays we’ll walk more slowly; somedays faster. Somedays (thanks be to God) steady as we go. Time cannot accurately measure the length, width, depth, and breadth of our faith walks with Christ. But a few stones carried in our palms and in our pockets deposited as grace at the end of a life’s laboring?

Well, that’s a pretty good measure of the sacred distance we’ve traveled with God.

And so today, let me encourage you to pick up a stone or two–a faith moment between you and Christ where you have known, seen, and felt the mighty arm of the Lord working on your behalf. Start building an altar unto the Lord so that in the future, when your children ask you or when you ask yourself, “What do these stones mean?”, you’ll remember the day when you walked through your Jordan on dry ground because of the strong arm of the Lord.

That altar … that distance … is the measure that matters eternally.

Step on in faith, friends. I’ll meet you in the riverbed. Together, let’s continue to build a living witness to the faithfulness of our God. As always…

Peace for the journey,

by Faith

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. (Hebrews 11:1)

Last Friday, September 21st, our son found his words again. It all started with sign that read, “Say hi.”

He did … said “Hi.”

We were overjoyed to hear his voice, albeit groggy and weak. He read the sign; he followed the prompt. Jadon is coming back to us, piece by piece.

Not long after his initial proclamation, he made others. Simple things—his name, year, birth date. And then he made an unexpected proclamation, one I’ve never heard him say before. When the therapist asked him what my name was, what we expected to hear was “Mom” or “Elaine”. What he said, instead, was …

“Faith.”

In the nearly eighteen years of his earthly tenure, I’ve never heard my son refer to me as Faith. It is, indeed, my first name, but I’ve always been called by my middle name, Elaine. And therein lies the rub. I’ve written about it before … the struggle between my Faith and my Elaine. You can read about it here.

As life goes, the struggle continues.

Will it be life lived according to my Faith or according to my Elaine?

Time will write the witness. For now, the balancing act continues.

And even though my son may not have intentionally called me by my first name just over a week ago (for the record, he’s not called me that since), God seems to be using Jadon to remind me of something I often forget:

A certain faith is often forged in uncertain times.

We are there, friends, in an uncertain season … again. Eight years ago, we were battling through the uncertainty of my cancer diagnosis. Naively, I think we all assumed that this would be our family’s primary “suffering issue.” Every family gets one, right? – maybe two or three or ten. And while my cancer journey was, indeed, a sorrowful season for all of us, it now seems like a small thing compared to this very big thing.

Jadon’s gift bag from the Ronald McDonald house…

We know it. Jadon knows it. Apparently, you know it as well because we’re hearing from you. Yes, it seems as if all of us are #joiningjadonsfight for a whole lot of reasons via a myriad of routes therein. My faith, your faith, our faith is being hammered out and shaped in ways we never imagined prior to Jadon’s “bending low to lift up.”

And in this moment, I am bending low beneath the weight of this limb to pick up my Faith before I pick up my Elaine. It’s heavy. It’s messy. It’s raw. It’s clumsy. It’s graceless. It’s grace-filled. It’s less textbook and more “on the job” training. Honestly, it’s probably the most unsophisticated Faith on this planet.

But it is mine, and it is growing.

So thank you, Jadon, for calling me out by a name for which I am lesser known. Perhaps in those quiet days before you found your words, God was giving you some of his.

By Faith I am listening. By Faith I’ll walk this road with you. Along the way and as we go, may God grant us his strength, his wisdom, his joy, his love, and (as always) his …

Peace for the journey,

September 27, 2018 (the night before Jadon’s 2nd surgery)

Follow Jadon’s Fight on my facebook page. In addition, Scotland Christian Academy (Jadon’s school) are selling #joinjadonsfight t-shirts. If you’d like one, follow this link. Lastly, we are blessed by the continuing financial support we’re receiving. If you’re so inclined, you can follow this link to do so. 

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