faith | Elaine Olsen

a bloodied, beautiful faith

January 10, 2011

And to think, I almost didn’t publish the previous post. Why? Well, I was a bit weepy and pitiful while writing it, and I learned a long time ago that strong emotion isn’t always the best leader when it comes to reasoned thinking. In this case, I think, perhaps, strong emotion served my words well… dutifully came alongside to punctuate a reality with which most of us can resonate—

That growing, forward-moving faith is often accompanied by our struggles, our questions, and our confusion.

Some of you may not agree; some of you hold to the idea that strong faith never wrestles with fears and doubts. That faith leaves little wiggle room for any amount of compromise. That faith has no room for imperfection or disorder. If that’s you, then I’m mostly OK with your take on faith; that is, as long as you don’t force that kind of understanding on me. Why?

Because I have walked a different road than you. My faith is what it is, as strong as it is, because of years of rough terrain and dark nights of the soul when a battle for understanding was the only way for me to push through in order to take hold of higher understanding. Faith, for me, isn’t a neatly wrapped package that can be quickly assimilated into my way of doing life. Faith, for me, is a messy, beautiful gift from God, wrapped in the witness of a bloody, beautiful cross. The “wrestling” that took place at Calvary is proof-positive that pain is often attached to faith’s cultivation.

This doesn’t mean that we ask for pain, desire the worst of life’s struggles so that we might further deepen our faith. It simply means that we can embrace them as they come, because we know that with our testing comes the very real possibility that we will emerge from that season with fuller understanding, stronger convictions, and deeper belief. The fierce determination of our hearts to hear from God on the matter of our pain is a holy and righteous pressing through. And friends, whenever we hear from God on the matter of our anything, we are never closer to his heart than in those moments.

Fight the good fight of the faith. Take hold of the eternal life to which you were called when you made your good confession in the presence of many witnesses. (1 Timothy 6:12).

Paul correctly identifies the struggle of our faith. It’s a fight—the Greek word Agonizomai meaning “to enter a contest; contend in gymnastic games; to contend with adversaries; fight; struggle with difficulties and dangers; to endeavor with strenuous zeal; strive; to obtain something.”

This is the language of a willing agony… a desire to contend for something worth contending for… faith in God. A bowing to the struggle believing that a stronger faith will emerge because of it. A faith that all can be well with our souls in this moment and in the days to come. A faith that understands our beginnings originate and our endings culminate with Jesus—the Author and Perfector of all faith journeys (Hebrews 12:2). A faith that believes the struggles we’re currently working through are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all (2 Cor. 4:17).

Faith is a life-long process, friends. If we were going to receive the fullness of our faith in the beginning days of our salvation, then there would be little room for further spiritual maturation. We’d simply hold it all and, more than likely be a know-it-all. And knowing it all isn’t in keeping with the tenets of Scripture. There is One and only One who exists on our side of eternity who knows it all, and I’m not him. Neither are you. Therefore, we concede our ignorance to God and say to him with all the passion and fervency of Mark 9:24:

“I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”

That is the prayer of my heart in this season of struggle. That my faith, already well-anchored within the soil of my heart, would continue to grow and flourish in order to root out the weeds of faithlessness that still reside alongside. It’s the most honest petition of my heart right now, because I don’t want to get to the other side of this cancer journey with a fragmented faith. I want to get there with the bloodied, beautiful wounds of grace that have allowed me heaven’s understanding in regards to my suffering.

I willingly take this wounding because I believe in its merits. As I’ve written before and believe more firmly now than in my before, “cancer will not be my undoing; rather cancer will be the threshold of my emerging.” That threshold begins and ends at the feet of Jesus, and my emerging? Well, as it comes, I move from dimming darkness into the marvelous witness of his glorious light, bursting forth with the firmest faith allowed a fleshly frame.

Accordingly, here’s to the fight of faith, good pilgrims, and here’s to bowing and bleeding and willingly agonizing it through until it finishes me home, and I stand before my Jesus complete. And here’s to you, faith-filled or faith-lacking ones; may the truth of our Father’s witness—his love for you and his contending for you—be the underpinning of your quest for more faith today. Be not weary in your suffering, your struggles and your strains. Our Father understands, and at his feet, grace remains.

Always… grace remains.

Peace for the journey,

PS: My final chemo is postponed until Wednesday of this week due to weather conditions. I appreciate your continuing prayers as I finish this portion of my journey and move onto the healing days ahead. Look for a video post to benchmark the “crossing over.” Shalom.

the ugly side of me…

January 6, 2011

There is an ugly side to me… two really. One brought about through sin; one brought about through cancer. One remains more veiled—my heart. One exposed for the entire world to see—my flesh. And tonight I hold a candle to them both, and I don’t like what I see.

The ugly me.

Tonight I see anger, frustration, and confusion building up inside my mind, layer upon layer—an indistinguishable conglomeration of yuck not easily identified. I cannot connect the dots to all that I am feeling. There’s an unveiling of a something, and it’s not pretty. It’s hostile and visceral, filled with enough tension to keep everyone around me on edge.

In regards to the other ugly—my flesh—I see a misshapen form of what I used to be. A large scar runs across my chest wall, still inflamed with red and reminders of what was once there only five months ago. I’m bald and I’m fat… thirty pounds heavier from my five months ago. My nails are brittle and yellowed, ready to make their departure at any moment, and my clothes? Well, they’ve gone into hibernation; sweats, t-shirts and duster robes are common fare.

And I’m tired of it all; tired from the inside-out, and wondering if such honest confession of the soul is allowed in this public place. If I can be so real as to tell you that cancer has an ugly side to it. For all the ways it has given back to me, there are a few ways it has exacted its toll on me. And while I wouldn’t turn back the clock and have things live differently, tonight I simply wish it was over. That the ugly parts of me, both inside and out, were no longer, and that I could once again be the woman that I was… five months ago.

~That I could still run.

~That I could sleep on my right side, minus the discomfort of the port.

~That I could have energy enough to get up early and live a busy day and be thankful for the activity.

~That I could take a tub bath without needing help to get out.

~That I could confidently show affection to my husband.

~That I could think, write, and speak clearly the first time around without having to second-guess myself.

~That understanding was my portion rather than confusion.

~That worry would keep her silence.

~That faith would speak her voice.

I know this won’t last… all my “thats”. In time, I’ll get a handle on my concerns. God will replace my frustrations with his peace, his truth, and his hope for my future. He can’t help himself. His character precludes his absence from my pain. He appropriately interrupts my issues with the beauty of his witness, reminding me that for all of the ugly I currently see, a cross was given as the remedy. That what is seen is not always what is true. That sometimes life’s accumulated layers need the benefit an amazing grace that not only salves a wounded heart but that correctly frames the broken fragments together to make a portrait worthy of the throne room of heaven.

Every now and again, I glimpse that beauty, and I am grateful for the reminder. But tonight, what I see in the mirror isn’t easily salved by a few words of well-spoken faith… my faith. Tonight requires something far greater—a faith that holds despite the human condition. The “sure and certain” of those mentioned in Hebrews 11. A settled confidence in the King and his promises.

Friends, faith is where I want to live… all the time. But faith, unchallenged by unsettling times, never anchors at its deepest level. Faith uncontested by adversity simply resides at the surface of the human heart. Mind you, it is enough to carry you home to Jesus; not all of us require a rigorous workout along these lines. And I suppose, on nights like tonight, I’d enjoy a float on the surface of my faith. But that’s not what I’ve been allowed.

Instead, I’ve been allowed a deeper dig into the coffers of what I profess to believe. I get the Refiner’s fire, and I don’t mind telling you it hurts; it burns. It purges and it cleanses. And all I can do is surrender to the heat, hoping that the ugly in me gets gone and that God’s beauty in me returns, from the inside-out.

Oh to be entrusted with the process. To live in the flesh, all the while being transformed by faith. It is a weighty condition, perhaps the reason so many forego the invitation to salvation. Living with ugly is sometimes an easier load to carry than lighting a match to one’s heart. But without the flames of Calvary’s love, we are left as we are… unfinished.

I don’t want to get home to Jesus unfinished. I want to get there complete. Accordingly, I look into the mirror this night. I shed some tears for the undoing of my heart and my flesh, and I confess to my Father (and to you), the ugly side of me. And I pray for healing, for understanding, and for faith enough that will carry me through to the other side.

Cancer is ugly, friends. In its wake, it can leave a soul ugly. But God, in his wake, can take the ugly and transform it into holy understanding, which breathes a beauty all its own. A beauty that moves a soul from despair to celebration. From unbelief to strong conviction. From being tired of it all to being transformed because of it all. And that is what I’m praying for tonight… my ugly made into God’s beauty.

Even so, come Lord Jesus, and interrupt my ugly with the witness and truth of your beloved cross. I long to move past the seen and visible in order to embrace the unseen depths of a living, anchored, and vital faith. You, alone, are the restorer of my flesh and heart. Come and liberally apply your grace to every fragmented layer of my life, and give me the settled confidence regarding who you ARE and in your love for me. Amen.

Chemo #7 {a forward moving faith}

December 28, 2010

Guess who stopped by the chemo lounge today? A necessary piece of the puzzle named “chemotherapy”… I thought it important they come. They certainly were a hit with the other patients in my area.

My video is longer today; my words many, therefore, I’ll not write much here. Thank you for your prayers and for walking this long road with me. We’re not home yet, but we’re getting closer with every passing moment. These are good days to be God’s kingdom warriors. Keep to it.

Peace for the journey,

winter’s white

November 28, 2010

Like the advent of new-fallen snow, so arrives the freshness of God’s Word to my soul.

A picture really, just as clear and crisp and breathtaking as the pristine white that my northern neighbors are experiencing this day. When I hear them speak of winter’s gift, a bit of envy creeps over me. I love seasonal shifts and their accumulations therein. Unfortunately, where I live doesn’t accommodate the four seasons in their fullness, especially winter. We just pretend down here in the south; bump up the thermostat and pull out the sweaters when the temps plummet below sixty degrees, thinking white might come at any moment but never really experiencing its arrival… at least not in the way that we had hoped.

So I was surprised today to receive a first snowfall… to look up and feel the flakes as they gently touched my cheeks and tendered my soul; not literally, but spiritually speaking. No forecaster predicted it; even I was skeptical of its arrival, but it came despite my being ill-prepared. Not from a cloud as some might imagine, but rather from the pen of a friend. Her words stirred my longing for a further look into God’s Word, and the deeper I dug into Scripture and subsequent thought, the greater the accumulation of white around my feet.

Tonight, I’m knee deep into Jesus, and I can’t think of a better way to honor my friend’s work (a.k.a. Leah Adams) than by telling you about the snapshot I’m holding in my heart because of her obedience to write her first Bible study, From the Trash Pile to the Treasure Chest: Creating a Godly Legacy.

It’s a picture I’ve skimmed over a few times before, but never quite in the detail as I’ve witnessed it in the last twenty-four hours. A portrait from the third chapter of Joshua where the Israelites are crossing the Jordan River in order to take possession of the land promised to them by God. Prior to their marching across on dry land, the priests carried the Ark of the Covenant ahead of them. The ark represented the presence of the living God. It preceded the faith of God’s people, always “going before” them to mark their path and to lead their way. As the ark moved, so did the Israelites. And so it was on this day in biblical history. The ark took the lead; the people followed behind.

But then, the ark stopped… midstream. It stood still as the people passed it by, a fact most of us know and carry as truth. However, there is a lesser known understanding that comes with this truth… one I hadn’t considered before. When the Israelites caught up with the ark and stood parallel to God’s tangible presence, they had a choice to make. To stand still and wait for the ark to lead them forward or to move beyond it without the benefit of its visible leadership. This, my friends, is the fresh-fallen white I hold in my heart tonight. A portrait of faith from a people who walked the Jordan through—not with God at their lead, but with God at their backs. Not a go before God this time around, but rather a come behind God after faith took its first steps toward promised freedom.

Certainly, God pointed them in the right direction. Faith always initiates with God; it ends with him as well, but in the middle of the Jordan—when faith arrives at what Leah calls a “hinge moment”—we have the unbelievable privilege of walking resolutely forward, all the while knowing that behind us are a set of eyes keeping watch to make sure that our backs are covered. To follow in our shadows and to protect us from a rear vantage point.

So often in our faith journeys, we focus on the forward aspect of the road—our “up ahead” and what might be coming. So often our prayers are directed accordingly. But do we ever take the time to consider our “over the shoulders”—the backward actions that accompany our forward steps? I know I certainly haven’t thought about it very much… about all the ways that God is backing me up to ensure my safe landing on the other side. In fact, if I were really honest, it’s those backward shadows that sometimes trip me up the most. I’ve always seen God in the lead, but rarely do I consider his faithfulness from behind.

In the wake of my cancer diagnosis and treatment therein, I’m tempted to keep God at the lead in all things, even though some days I strain to see his discerning movements on my behalf. But as I progress, as I move forward through the Jordan (a river that seems to be perpetually at “flood stage” status), I feel the weightiness of my movement… of what it has cost me, and I sometimes feel left to my own devices to recover from its effects. Almost as if God is out in front, but as it pertains to my behind, I’m all alone. And I know it’s not truth; still and yet, knowing isn’t always enough fuel for my believing.

So God graciously sends me a picture—a fresh-fallen white as pristine and clear as I’ve ever experienced. A seasonal shift for my understanding. A portrait of a faithful Presence who stands mid-stream, not to abandon my forward progression but to buoy my backward angle. To make sure that everything left in the wake of my tentative steps of forward faith are covered by his grace and mercy and watchful care.

And this helps me understand God a little more. Helps me see his covenantal love from another angle. Helps me formulate a better perspective regarding the behind that inevitably follows my forward. Helps me know that he’s got me covered from every angle and that no matter the consequential results of my stepping through the Jordan, the waters will remain stacked on my behalf until I’ve made it through to the other side. Only then will God release those waters to cover up and cleanse every last remnant of my left behind that isn’t in keeping with his perfect conclusion.

It’s a portrait worth holding onto in this season, friends, and as I made my way outside this afternoon for a walk, there came a moment when I looked back over my shoulder, literally. I could almost see God there… faithfully gazing in my direction, waving me on and nodding his approval. And even though the temperature read fifty degrees and the skies were cloudless, I could have sworn I felt a snowflake on my face… wet and pristine, with a heart accumulation beyond measure.

A winter’s gift of white. I’ll make sure and carry this picture with me in the coming week, believing that my up ahead will arrive with a guarantee of God’s come behind.

Thank you, Leah, for leading me to deep waters and for obeying God’s prompt to pen this study. He is using it mightily in my heart, and I feel so privileged to be walking my winter season with your thoughts at the lead and with God’s Word at my side. Keep to it, mighty woman of faith. May the Lord bless you, keep you, and watch over you as you walk forward to the Promised Land. I join you, alongside all of my readers, on the road. Until next time…

Peace for the journey,

a greater thing…

October 24, 2010

I’ve been stuck recently. Hung up on and hunkered down in a thought or two regarding a particular spoken word from Jesus. A promise. One that doesn’t compute with my internal, spiritual compass. One that has always confused me, challenged me, asked me to consider just exactly what he meant by his saying it. Perhaps it’s brought you reason for pause in your personal, exploration with God.

“I tell you the truth, anyone who has faith in me will do what I have been doing. He will do even greater things than these because I am going to the Father. And I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Son may bring glory to the Father.”

{John 14:12-13}

Doing what Jesus did. Even greater things. Almost seems treacherous typing it, much less laying claim to it as part of my personal identity. Surely he didn’t mean it as it sounds. Surely he isn’t saying what it seems as if he is saying. That I, that you, sinners saved solely by the grace of the cross, could walk in his similar shoes, dispensing a similar grace on similar occasions with similar results.

Surely not. Such a gift feels too weighty. Too much sacred privilege given to human flesh. Too much trust. Too much kindness. Too much royalty. Too much inheritance. Too much glory for any one person to handle with any measure of Godly humility. Too big of a theology for a pint-sized brain like mine and an even weaker flesh to absorb in this moment.

I am in a diminished state. My thoughts aren’t always what I want them to be. Medications and course of treatment force my limits. My thinking is sometimes scattered, and I labor to have it make sense. Accordingly, when it comes to the weightiness of the Word of God and all its intricacies—the mystery and marvel of words that breathe as fresh breath from his lips today even as they were spoken in yesterday—I don’t always get it right. I’m no scholar; no theologian deeply steeped in study and adorned with degrees from the most prestigious religious institutions.

Yes, my daddy is a preacher and served as a professor of preaching at one of the finest seminaries in the country. I spent years running its hallways and sitting under some of the richest preaching and teaching offered to formative young minds. As a youth, I was mentored by one of the most deeply committed, well-known youth leaders in the country who made it his solid commitment to make sure that the pulse of my heart would eventually catch up with my over-grown head. Indeed, I was offered the best when it came to my spiritual shaping. But even with all of that tutelage back then and with all of what I’ve come to know since that season…

I still get stuck sometimes. And I wonder about God and his promises to me and what he means for me to do with such knowledge. How do I take what he says, apply it to my heart, and then live it out most courageously before his watchful gaze in hopes that I do him some justice… bring him some glory? What could I do in this season of my life that would even come close to matching the sentiment of his heart as spoken in John 14? How can I, sick as I am, stand where I am, as a representative of the I AM and do even greater things?

It doesn’t compute, but then again, neither does grace. And just the other morning while others (perhaps even you) were catching sleep granted humans via the natural cycle of life, I was clutching my cross, and I had a thought regarding my “greater thing.” It arrived in the form of few words from God’s Word. Silently, they crept in without notice, transferring me from the dark of my bedroom to the dark of a sea. A night some 2000 years ago, steeped in chaos, waves, and despair. A fourth watch where disciples, not unlike me, took to the waters in hopes of reaching the other side without incident. A night when fear roared its opposition in the face of truth and when faith was shaken to its core. A night when those who were closest to the Master needed the witness of his eternal hold.

A night scare that required a night God and the witness of a night Word that would carry them through to the morning’s light:

“Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.” {Matthew 14:27}

And with those eight words, I become less stuck in my previous ruminations. For with Christ’s mandate in that moment—an event in history separated from his promise in John 14—I begin in my understanding of what Christ might mean by my “greater thing.” That I, feeble in flesh yet strong in Spirit, might be a someone who could make that night walk on behalf of the fearful. That God in his infinite mercy and willing cooperation might so endow me with the gift of his Spirit so that I could cross waves and cut through currents to become a hand’s extension. Heaven’s extension. A sacred bridge linking the dying, fear-filled soul to the living, faithful God.

That I, a single pilgrim on this journey of faith, might know the power of an interceding Jesus. And that because of his Holy Spirit, I might be filled to overflow with Him so that I would be able to withstand the fear of the night’s storm in order to walk in peaceful pause to extend the courage of Christ to others.

That, my friends, is a greater thing… a greater work. To be one extension amidst millions of other faith-filled extensions who are well-supplied and well-equipped to dispense the King’s courage. Not because of anything we have done, but rather because of everything he chose to do. He chose to make me and you a part of his rich inheritance. We stand alongside him as co-heirs to an undeserved kingdom. On paper and in our minds, such grace will never compute. We’ll never be able to make sense of the “greater things” he has in mind for us to do. But every now and again, when we really take hold of all of what that might mean for us, we catch a glimpse of perfect understanding.

And we find our place… our sacred responsibility and our reason for moving forward with our faith in this world.

We are here for God’s greater thing. I don’t know what that will look like for you in the week ahead, but I do know where the fearful live in my little corner of the world. They cloister together less than a mile from my front door, in chairs hooked up to the deathblows and life-giving vein named chemotherapy. Many are stuck in the fourth watch. Many have yet to know that God is the Master of their fourth watch. That his courage and his hands are available to them, and that just maybe, those hands might come to them through a weakened vessel named Faith Elaine. Hands wrinkled by years. Hands drying by drugs. Hands weathered by understanding.

Hands extended in love. Hands speaking the truth in love…

“Take courage; It is I. Don’t be afraid.”

Words rightly and humbly spoken by a daughter of the King. A greater thing, indeed. What a marvelous, treasured gift with which to be entrusted. Live your greater thing like you mean it, friends, and never underestimate your worthiness in the kingdom of God. He has called us, each one, to a greater understanding of the greater gift we’ve been allowed. Use it all, do it all, love them all with his greater end in mind. As always…

Peace for the journey,

Category Archives: faith