Because every now and again… we all need a good laugh. Find something to laugh about this weekend, friends. In the meantime, here’s my man making me laugh. Oh, how I love a good tear-producing, snortin’ out loud, kind of laugh. I’ll see you on the other side of some boxes and some rest.
I have a story I want to tell you; not because there’s anything particularly spiritual about it all, at least not at this point. Perhaps before it’s over there might be a small nugget’s worth of something to cradle as your own, but for now, this story belongs to my daughter because, long after I’m gone, I want her to have it to cradle for always.
Miss Amelia. She is the caboose of our immediate family, following in line after her three older brothers. They tell me she doesn’t fall too far from the tree.
I don’t see it as much as they do; I don’t look for it… don’t search for all the ways that she might resemble me. I just live with her, love her the best I can and am occasionally mindful of what they profess to see.
Me in her; her in me.
Like a few days after she was born when I cradled her closely to my chest and looked into her eyes. They fixed on me, almost as if she was giving me permission to glance into the depths of her soul. For a brief moment, I peeked in and had the strangest feeling that I was looking at a mirrored reflection of myself. The memory is as vivid to me now as it was nearly eight years ago.
Me in her; her in me.
Like a few weeks ago when her daddy called me on the way home from picking her up at school. Apparently there was an issue in the hall bathroom… something about a potty mouth and her not being able to take good instruction from the teacher the first time around.
Me in her; her in me.
Like the moment after receiving the call when I met her at the back door and sent her upstairs to “think it over” before talking it out. Knowing that her momma was disappointed, her eyes brimmed with tears searching for any measure of initial grace that might be extended to her on the front side of discipline.
Me in her; her in me.
Like the commotion that followed her bedroom ascent; her unable to handle the isolation and silence and feeling the need to fix the problem herself, all the while making sure that I took notice of her angst.
Me in her; her in me.
Like in the one-sided conversation that followed her “thinking it over” when she met me on the stairs half-way. Me coming up; her coming down.
“Stop right there, Mommy (upright hand directed at me). Before you say anything you need to know something. I’ve already washed my mouth out with soap, and I’ve already spanked myself. And just in case you’re wondering… it really, really hurt.” (Her words; not mine.)
Me in her; her in me.
I stifled my laughter until later, acknowledging to her that the discipline seemed to have fit the crime and that we were good to go for the rest of the day. We hugged; she moved on, and I was left alone to ponder the exchange between us.
I’ve been thinking about it ever since. We are quite the dramatic pairing. We live our lives out loud and with full emotion at every turn. Few are the days void of our laughter and our tears. Never are we silent, and rarely are we ever alone. If it’s true, if in fact my daughter doesn’t fall too far from the maternal tree, then I am not surprised about the extraordinary lengths that she was willing to travel in order to punish herself. It’s a technique I’ve perfected over the years—personal flogging for personal sin that, if not carefully guarded, can easily become a personal pastime for me.
I’m not as bad as I used to be, but every now again, when I pursue sin over personal holiness, I’m quick to find the bar of soap and the paddle, even though all I’ve been charged with is the “thinking it over.” Rather than taking a cue from my Father in regards to my taking a breather in the isolation and quiet of an upper chamber, I busy myself with trying to find some grace via the route of my good intentions. I rely on personal understanding rather than God’s understanding, and more often than not, the self-inflicted wounds I apply aren’t in keeping with the crime… aren’t in keeping with my Daddy’s grace.
I wonder if you understand; if, in fact, you know what it is to take yourself to the woodshed over your sins. That maybe you, like my daughter and myself, don’t fall too far from the same tree. That sometimes it is easier to receive punishment than it is to receive our Father’s compassion. Could it be that we have grown so attached to our need for penalty that we altogether miss the grace of the cross? I’m not saying or thinking that our sins don’t come without consequence. But what I am wondering is…
Who are we to decide that consequence? Are we the ones to measure out mercy or to put parameters around pardon? When is enough, enough? What discipline could we offer on behalf of our sins that would equal our Daddy’s forgiveness? Does one spanking suffice? Would two or ten or twenty years’ worth of woodshed drama be adequate to cover the gaping distance between our bad and God’s good? Our need and God’s sufficiency? When does hurt, hurt enough, and why in the world do we burden ourselves with the awesome responsibility of keeping score?
Me in her; her in me; perhaps… you in us.
I think, in part, this is where the story moves from solely belonging to me and my daughter to belonging to you as well. I’ve been to the woodshed in recent days, friends. I imagine some of you could say the same. Maybe some of you are there tonight. Do me a favor…
Put the soap back in the dish; hang the paddle back on the nail, and simply sit in silence with your Daddy. He’s already ascended the stairs on your behalf, and I imagine that he has a word or two of grace to offer to your hurting heart.
“Stop right there, child. Before you say anything further, do anything further, you need to know something. I’ve already been to the woodshed for you. And just in case you’re wondering, it really, really hurt. And just in case you’ve forgotten, you’re really, really worth it.”
Him in us; us in Him. And none of us too very far from the family tree. As always…
Peace for the journey,
PS: My heart is strangely stirred this night… these last few posts have come from both a place of poverty of soul and fullness of spirit. Some of you won’t understand that; I’m not sure I understand it all myself, but of this I am certain. God is moving in my heart, and he longs to speak to me. Accordingly, I must move closer for a listen. I’ve walked with God long enough to know when he is calling… long enough to know that I don’t want to miss a single moment of intimacy with him… certain enough to know that something good is around the corner. I pray all of this and more for each one of you tonight. I’ll see you on the other side of God’s burning bush. Shalom.
Copyright © June 2010 – Elaine Olsen
My boy turned twenty-one this past weekend. I turned forty-four. Together we celebrated our milestones at my parents’ house on Saturday. Mom made sure we each had our own cake (only a mother would do this), and dad made sure we had steak (only a dad would go to some out-of-the-way butcher and pay $85 for the filets we enjoyed).
The food was tasty, and the fellowship was rich. I come from good roots, friends, and I am mindful and grateful for the privilege of what it means to have grown up in a household that promotes generosity and faith, all in the same setting… not just on birthdays but, consistently, on every occasion over the past forty-four years. What a joy it is for me to be surrounded by those who know me the best and love me still—those who birthed me, those whom I’ve birthed, and those who’ve married into the crazy lot of us. It was a good memory and one that has me thinking, yet again, about the one, consistent theme that has followed me all the days of my life.
Letting go.
A hard portion of Christian obedience, yet perhaps, the greatest “tool” our Father uses to shape us more perfectly into his consecrated people. “Letting go” comes in all shapes and sizes. Letting go of…
Children.
Parents.
Friendships.
Careers.
Dreams.
Money.
Time.
Childhood.
Carefully planned agendas.
Distractions.
Addictions.
Selfishness.
Consistency.
Routine.
Ministries.
Concerns.
Expectations.
Regrets.
Anger.
Unforgiveness.
Life.
_______________.
Regardless of the object behind the fierce and determined “holdings” of our hearts, it’s only in the letting go of those objects that we begin to fully participate in the life of faith to which God has called each one of us. By nature, we clothe ourselves with the outward manifestations of an inward pulse. What beats on the interior, wears openly and outloud on our exteriors. And while not all outward attachments are inherently detrimental to our faith’s progression, a tight-fisted grip on them can be. When what we’re holding becomes more important to us than the One we’re holding, then a readjustment of perspective is often needed.
God is faithful to bring that readjustment; we, however, are not always faithful to submit our hearts for his evaluation. Rather than releasing our grip on worldly attachments, we cling tightly to them in hopes of managing and manipulating them for a season longer. Sometimes we are successful in doing so, but rarely does it last and most always is it to our disadvantage. When we refuse relinquishment of our “stuff” (whether people or things), our clutching often becomes the stumbling block that prevents us from moving forward with Jesus and his plan for our futures.
Paul understood this. His heart was primarily tethered to his calling in Jesus Christ, but secondarily to those who stood on the receiving end of God’s truth. The church at Thessalonica represented one such group. His time with them was brief, thus prompting his later concern regarding their “continuing in the faith” and not succumbing to the persecution and false teachings that were circulating in their midst. He felt, perhaps, that they could have benefited from further discipleship under his tutelage. I understand. How many times have I longed for further mentoring from a beloved teacher or have thought that, perhaps, those sitting under my mentoring might benefit from our spending more time together? It’s a valid concern, but even more valid and potent is the truth that came to the Thessalonians while in the presence of Paul.
That truth cannot be contained within dates on a calendar or parametered within the context of a mentoring relationship. God’s truth is timeless and is too big for confinement. Once it is released, it exponentially manifests its worth into the lives of all who come in contact with its witness. His truth is stronger than our concerns regarding its diminishment and tightly anchors itself within the soil of a receiving heart. Paul planted those seeds in Thessalonica; God was faithful to water and to grow them—a truth later verified by Timothy after his visit to the church there:
Paul experienced “real living” because the faith of the Thessalonians was standing firm, was active and breathing and increasing daily despite his absence. Paul worried about his “letting go” on the front end of his ministry. The churches he had planted were his joy and crown, his children and his delight. It was hard to release them to “go it alone” without his watchful guidance and care, but hearing about their growing in the faith buoyed his flesh for the price that would be paid for their knowledge—his personal persecution. For Paul, it was a fair exchange—their faith for his flesh. It was a calling he willingly chose, lovingly fulfilled, and dutifully wrote about so that we could have a better picture of what it means to “let go and let God.”
I don’t know what you need to “let go” of in this season of living. I know that God is calling me to “let go” of a few things I’ve been clinging to—stuff that is keeping me too closely connected to this earth. I know that I cannot walk completely free from my worldly attachments. God has given me many of them for my benefit. But I can walk free from their hold on me, from their being too important to me. None of them (not one person or one thing) is more important to me than the hold that I currently have on the hem of Christ’s garment. When anything or anyone starts to pull me away from those threads, then I pray for a holy readjustment of my heart. Why?
Because those threads are the ones that will pull me home. I’d rather get there with “nothing” then to arrive there with everything only to be turned away from my kingdom inheritance because my earthly vision was short-sighted and temporarily focused. Yes, I turned forty-four this past weekend. My son is twenty-one, and my parents? Well, they are on the backside of the journey home. The passage of time is evident to all of us. We cannot stop the hands on the clock, and while I love every minute of my life with them here, I’m keenly aware that our “here” is just a foretaste of what awaits for us “there.” “There” is where I want my thoughts and heart to anchor because there is where I will spend forever.
Thus, a letting go. Indeed, a hard portion of the Christian obedience, but in the end, the very best obedience any one of us can yield to the process of our completed consecration. May we all take the time this week to examine the holding of our hands and hearts and then, further, to be willing to lay something/someone down in order to take hold of more of the truth that is ours in Jesus Christ.
Hold loosely the things of this earth, friends; hold tightly to things of heaven; stay focused until the end. And as you go and along the way, may Jesus Christ always and forever be your…
Peace for the journey,
PS: Leah @ the Point is hosting her pay-it-forward giveaway. Please take time to visit her and enter your name for an opportunity to win some fabulous prizes!
Copyright © April 2010 – Elaine Olsen
I gave my daughter a gift this Easter. While other kids were unwrapping chocolate bunnies and cramming marshmallow peeps into their mouths, my daughter was chewing on something different. Something that didn’t swallow as easily as chocolate or taste nearly as agreeable. This Easter I gave my daughter a taste of the “ugly, beautiful truth”—as the Pharisees and chief priests would describe it some 2000 years ago in Matthew’s gospel, the “last deception.”
Let me explain.
My laptop computer usually runs throughout the day and on display at the dining room table (alas, my kingdom for an office to call my own!). My blog’s “home page” sometimes serves as the screen saver, displaying the most recent post I’ve written. This past Friday was no exception. Curious child #4 (aka “Miss Amelia”) was interested in the previous writing “the exactly-why-we-need-Easter post”, especially the youtube video that includes scenes from The Passion of the Christ. You know where this is headed, don’t you?
Her curiosity led to a mouse click and then to her partial viewing of some of the graphic depiction of Christ’s crucifixion. Her sobbing and her “Make it stop!” was indication to me (currently in another location in the house) that something was terribly wrong. As I entered the dining room, I understood the reason behind that wrong—
the ugly, beautiful truth that was playing itself out on the fifteen-inch screen in front of her.
I stopped the video, cradled my daughter in my arms, and prayed for the right words to tell her. I suppose some parents would immediately try and soothe the ache by changing the subject, diverting attention elsewhere, or by shoving more promises of peeps and chocolate into the hands of their children so as to bring a measure of peace into the chaos. That’s not the way I roll, friends. Instead of trying to brush the truth under the rug, it’s always been my inclination to deal with the truth, however and whenever it comes. I’ve not always done it picture perfectly, but I’ve never found there to be much profit in pretending that truth doesn’t exist or that truth’s cause is better served by pushing it aside for another day.
Today is always a good day for truth whether it’s ugly or beautiful or a combination of both. Such was the case on this occasion. Thus, we spent some time together exploring my daughter’s questions, her tears, and her pain. Then we talked about Christ’s questions, his tears, and his pain. And when she asked me about the level of physical pain that Jesus felt and how she wished he didn’t have to “do it,” I told her the truth… the ugly, beautiful truth. Something along the lines of…
Yes, baby, they hurt Jesus badly. But more than the blood, more than the whips and the thorns or the crown that tore into his flesh, Jesus’ pain came from the fact that, in those moments, he was completely separated from his Father. And separation from the Father is far worse than any pain we will ever experience in our flesh. You see, Jesus had been with God since, well, forever. Never had they been apart. Even when Jesus came to us as a baby in Bethlehem, even then he had his Father’s eyes and attention. But on that day of the cross, Jesus was all alone, for in his flesh and on his body he carried the fullness of an entire world’s sin… past, present, and future. On that day, his Father looked away; Jesus knew it and that was far worse for him than the pain he was experiencing in his flesh. He did it for all of us, baby. For you and for me, for all of the sinners in this world. If he hadn’t, then we wouldn’t have a way to get home to God.
“I want to get home to God, mommy. I want everyone to get home to God.”
Then you, my daughter, must take your place in the story. Christ’s painful walk to the cross now belongs to you. You’ve been charged with the telling, even as I have been. You can no longer step away from the ugly, beautiful truth of the cross because truth has now been revealed to you, and you will spend the rest of your life working it out, asking some hard questions, and living the story that has now become a part of your reality, your history… past, present, and future.
“Yes, mommy, I think I understand.”
Yes, baby, I think that you do, and mommy will be praying for you as God begins to prepare your heart for the living out of his story.
The day after Jesus was crucified and subsequently laid in the tomb, fear was present amongst those who had the most to lose should Christ make good on his word and rise from the grave. While the disciples may have forgotten about Jesus’ promise of a third-day resurrection, the chief priests and the Pharisees had thought of little else since first hearing the proclamation. They were determined to make sure that nothing would further perpetuate the rumor—the lie—that Christ was, indeed, the promised Messiah. What they didn’t count on was the fact that the lie was, indeed, the truth. And truth, no matter how offensive it may seem at the time of its revealing, will not remain buried forever.
Truth tears off the grave clothes, shakes the foundation of the earth, and shatters the darkness with the marvelous light of God’s amazing grace and plan for his creation. Truth speaks louder than the silence that surrounds it, and truth cannot be contained within a tomb. Truth walks free from the tomb… back then, right now.
Perhaps the Pharisees were right when they said, “This last deception will be worse than the first.” Christ’s conquering of the grave has, indeed, escalated the exponential increase of the ugly, beautiful truth of God’s kingdom come. It swells and amplifies and enlarges with every passing encounter between his heart and ours. What began on Judean soil back “there and then” continues through to our “here and now.” To a little patch of eastern, North Carolina soil, where a little seven-year-old girl and an almost forty-four-year-old woman bow to receive some kingdom seed for a future harvest.
The ugly, beautiful truth of Easter.
The final, truth of the kingdom that is stronger now than it has ever been.
My ticket home; yours as well. Thus, I pray…
peace for the journey,
PS: I’m likely to be MIA this week in blog land. Kids are on spring break; there’s a lot of fun to be had that I don’t want to miss. Love you all, and just in case I haven’t told you lately, thank you for spending some of your day with me. You are why I am here at my cyber address. Shalom.
Copyright © April 2010 – Elaine Olsen
Apparently she has a re-telling issue.
My daughter.
Unable to re-tell the events of the story she’s just read.
Beginning, middle, and end mean very little to my precious little seven-year-old, at least that is what her teacher told me in a conference this afternoon (a teacher whom, by the way, I happen to adore!). I trust her “heads-up” regarding my daughter’s re-telling issue and will do whatever is necessary to make sure she gets some practice in this area. After all, what’s the point of a story if it cannot be remembered—can’t be retold so that others might enjoy its merits?
What indeed?!
It’s been nearly forty-four years since I first heard God’s story from my parents’ lips. And while you might think that I ought to remember it by now, there are times when a refresher is needed… times when I need to sit beneath my Father’s influence to hear him read it to me again. To tell me about the beginning, the middle, and the end so that I won’t forget its truth and so that I will better be able to share its witness with others.
How thankful I am for a Teacher who doesn’t grade me according to my ability to remember but who, rather, extends his grace along these lines. Rare are the times when I recall with perfect clarity all that he has mentioned to me over the years; in contrast, rare are the times when I forget to mention him. The longer I live with Jesus, the more prominent he becomes in my conversation. Where the details are sketchy, he comes alongside to fill in the gaps with his measure of understanding. Together, we re-tell a good story.
The best story.
The only story where the beginning, middle, and the end anchors in one, central thought… one truth… one Word.
Jesus.
Re-tell his story well this week. Live it all the more. As always…
peace for the journey,
