family fun | Elaine Olsen

Joy Comes…

July 13, 2009

Joy comes.

It came for me tonight as I chased the sunset to its rest. This evening, my feet carried me far and fast with the gentle breeze of a better wind. Tonight I ran with the Spirit, and we were moving in praise to the God who authors each day and scripts it with his living witness at every turn (you wouldn’t have believed my pace, Runner Mom).

It came for me this morning in a Sunday’s worship service. Today, I chased the ice-cream truck (thanks, Laura, for your post); my son led me there. He gave us all a glimpse into his heart as he chronicled a few memories from the pulpit about his recent trip to Bolivia.

It came for me in the hugs from my church family, all of whom genuinely enjoy being together in worship on Sunday mornings. How many churches can say that? Today we needed to be there for so many reasons, not the least of which was to gather our hearts in tender pause as we try to gather our bearings after experiencing such a tremendous grief.

It came for me in you, dear friends. The collective mass of you who took the time to pray for us all and leave your comforting thoughts in the comment section. Your time before the throne has been profoundly felt by me and by Beth’s family. You didn’t have to, but you did; I’m continually amazed by the way God is using our cyber connections to bring praise to his Name. He, alone, is worthy of our pens.

We could write about many things, and, indeed, we should. Our lives are not immune from the “everydayness” that creeps in and takes over. But God is there in every one of our days. The key for us is to be more intentional about looking for him.

As my son put it so well this morning…

“We may not always see God coming, … but boy, once he crosses your path, he sure is a sight to behold.”

Joy comes.

On Sundays. On Mondays. In Bolivia. In church. In hugs. In a graveyard. In a run. In a sunset. In sleep. In the rising of the sun. In the resurrection of the Son!

Joy comes.

Look and see; behold and believe. There’s more to this moment than meets the eye.

As always,

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PS: I’m adding a video clip from this morning’s service. Unlike his mother, my son has a softer tone to his speech, so turn up the volume if you want a listen. I realize that most of you won’t have the time; that’s fine. I’ve put this here, as I put many things here on my blog, as a “touchstone” of remembrance. My “thus far, the Lord has helped us.” So I do this for our family (paps, are you watching?) and for you if you would like to listen to the witness of an amazing God who is ever in the process of shaping his children and bringing his joy. Shalom.

Licking the Plate Clean

July 6, 2009

“Taste and see that the LORD is good; blessed is the man who takes refuge in him” (Psalm 34:8).

He tasted yesterday. In fact, he took things a step further.

He licked the plate clean … literally. Let me explain.

Following our Sunday morning services yesterday, I took some time to linger with a friend on the couch outside the sanctuary. In the midst of our fairly emotional conversation, I noticed a group of people approaching our perimeter.

My people.

Husband, daughter, and son, all carrying the remnants from our earlier moments of Holy Communion around the altar. Plates, chalices, left-over bread and juice being dutifully carried by two of my people. One of my people, my son, was holding his plate sideways and to his mouth. He was licking the plate.

Mid-problem solving, I paused my conversation with my friend and stated…

“Would you look at that?! My son is licking the communion plate. I’m sure he’s broken at least a hundred rules as it pertains to the “taking” of communion.”

My husband looked over his shoulder and commented back to me…

“I’m sure there are worse things he could be doing.”

We all had a good laugh, except my son who was too busy trying to consume a final flavor of the sacred bread. Indeed, there are worse things he could be doing. This wasn’t one of them; in fact, I think this “doing” to be a very good thing, and here’s why.

My son’s licking of the plate indicated a prior understanding regarding the worth of the plate’s contents. Had sardines been the fare of our previous altar moments, I don’t think he’d have been so eager to lick the plate, much less carry it. No, what he carried in his hands was a tasty left-over, a good portion of a good remembrance.

The small piece of bread that passed through his mouth and onto his taste buds moments earlier was enough to warrant his desire for more. When he decided to “help himself” to the remains, he didn’t do so with any religious rituals in mind. He simply did so because of his hunger. How thankful I am for his earthly father who saw past ritual and allowed my son a feast.

How thankful I am for my heavenly Father who sees the same; who allows the same.

God created us with the feast in mind, friends. He intends for us to be hungry. To know and feel the deep ache that cries out for more. More bread. More filling. More Jesus. More truth. The closer we come to table of grace, the more we grow in our understanding of just how sacred the sacrament is.

I don’t imagine my son fully understands or appreciates the “worth” behind such moments. I’m not sure I do, but this I do know. He knows Jesus; he knows church, and he is beginning in his appreciation for some of the traditions of the church. It doesn’t matter to me if he absorbs it all now; what matters to me is his tasting along those lines.

And he would tell you all today, this day after a Sunday’s sacred remembrance, that church tasted really “good” yesterday.

The body that was broken. The blood that was shed. Our “more than enough” to keep us well-fed in the moment and in the posture for receiving more down the road. May we all be found “licking the plate” this week. Thus, I pray…

Thank you, Father, for your Word that feeds us. For the everlasting remembrance of the everlasting moment that still breathes new and viable for the hungering ache of a hurting world. You are our Sustainer, Lord, in times of feast and in seasons of famine. Rain down the bread of heaven each and every day so that we can be filled with the true and lasting sustenance of heaven’s bounty. Thank you for a child who isn’t afraid to explore that bounty. May our hearts be found as willing. Amen.

Contentment

July 3, 2009

“‘… in quietness and trust is your strength.’” (Isaiah 30:15).

Contentment.

How long has it been since you’ve experienced the sheer joy of resting in the contentment of a moment?

I saw it in my daughter the other day. I took a picture.

With a good book in one hand, a good drink in the other, she partook of a moment so few of us fully understand. I’m pretty sure she didn’t understand it herself. Her mind has yet to wrap itself around such wisdom. Age is her viable excuse; what’s mine? I’m forty-three and still searching for understanding. What’s yours?

Let me tell you what I received from that moment (other than the gift of an adorable picture I’ll have for years to come). Amelia’s contentment didn’t stem from the rich narrative of her newly acquired book or the even richer “makings” of her beverage.

Her contentment came from being able to enjoy them both without worrying about who’s in the driver’s seat.

No worries about the road ahead. No concerns about the upcoming “stop” signs and signals, the merging traffic, the oncoming vehicles, the potential accidents waiting to happen. No fear about what’s in front, what looms behind, what lies on either side of her cradled confinement.

No, when Amelia took to her reading and her drinking, she did so with the full confidence that her chauffeur would carry her fragile frame from point “A” to point “B,” allowing her the freedom to enjoy the ride.

In quietness and trust she made a big assumption. She assumed she didn’t have to worry about her safety. She assumed her only responsibility was to enjoy the moment she’d been given—the one including a good book and an even better drink.

The simple faith of a child.

We’d all do well to take a look backward at an earlier season of living when life walked easier because our trust believed better. We needed less proof back then about the road ahead. We simply lived it as it arrived because we assumed that our chauffeur had us covered.

He’s got us covered, friends. Sit back and enjoy the ride this weekend. The good book and a good drink awaits your quietness and trust in the good God who is “holy” intent on getting you from point “now” to point “forever.” As always,

Paz para el viaje (peace for the journey)…

June 28, 2009

Hey Blogland! Instead of getting Elaine’s daily dose of “Peace for the Journey,” I’m afraid today’s entry comes from her 20-year-old son, Nick. I know, I know…in no way can I match my mom’s conciseness, clarity, and writing panache, but I’ll give it my best shot (And I won’t hold it against you if you stop reading now and check out someone else’s blog…)

I recently returned from a 10-day mission trip to the South American nation of Bolivia. Twelve of us went through an organization named Curamericas and were led by a bilingual 22-year-old volunteer named Andrew Herrera. A majority of our time in Bolivia was spent in the village of Tacachia, nestled cozily in the Andes Mountains about 35 miles from the capital city of La Paz. We worked at the Kory Wawanaca Children’s Home, an orphanage with 18 children and several staff members. I had the unique privilege of having this be a “return” trip to Bolivia, as I went last year with a group from our church.

Our team of twelve set out on a Tuesday at 3 p.m. with plans calling for us to arrive in La Paz the next day at 6:00 a.m. It seems that nothing ever goes according to plan, though. We missed a connection flight in Miami and then had to change our plans on the fly in Miami. As an occasionally hotheaded 20-year-old, I grew frustrated and impatient very quickly, and worried a lot about our new travel plans. Long story short, we did some South American globetrotting the next day and went through Venezuela, Peru, and finally reached La Paz at 12:45 a.m. on Thursday morning after 35 straight hours of travel (that’s the southern tip of the U.S., the northern tip of South America, the western tip of South America, and the highest capital city in the world for those of you keeping track…not too bad, eh?).

Already God had taught me a basic lesson in Christian living: I had to trust Him, and realize that everything was in His hands.

Exodus 33: 12-18

Moses said to the Lord, “You have been telling me, ‘Lead these people,’ but you have not let me know whom you will send with me. You have said, ‘I know you by name and you have found favor with me.’ If you are pleased with me, teach me your ways so I may know you and continue to find favor with you. Remember that this nation is your people.

The Lord replied, “My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.”
Then Moses said to him, “If your presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here. How will anyone know that you are pleased with me and with your people unless you go with us? What else will distinguish me and your people from all the other people on the face of the earth?”

And the Lord said to Moses, “I will do the very thing you have asked, because I am pleased with you and I know you by name.”

Then Moses said, “Now show me your glory.”

In the days leading up to our trip, this passage from Exodus was a daily prayer and inspiration for me. Countless times during our trip, it would come to mind as a source of comfort. I always ended my prayers by echoing Moses, “Now show me your glory.”

There were two definitive moments when I witnessed the glory of God in Tacachia—two “passing-by” moments. Sure, the entire experience was glorious, but two were the kind of glory that I’m sure Moses witnessed there on Sinai with the Lord. These two have seared themselves into my memory and will not soon be forgotten.

The first came during a Sunday lunch at the orphanage. 10-year-old Roy, who was an avid chess player, had brought his set out and was looking for an American to play against. He had already done battle with Frank Ferrell, an adult on our team, earlier in the week; Frank had been victorious, but not without some difficulty. By the grace of God, I knew enough Spanish to help set up the first contest between the two; neither was very knowledgeable of the other’s language.

I was able to then witness the rematch on Sunday, sitting next to Roy and being able to translate somewhat for both parties. The match was a tight and silent one, with both players extremely focused on the task at hand. With a pair of brilliant moves, however, Roy was able to checkmate Frank and claim victory. Here were two people (completely polar opposities) from different age groups, neither speaking the other’s language who were bound only by a common knowledge and love for the game. Sensing Roy’s excitement, I leaned over to Frank and said, “tell him ‘buen hecho’” (Good job, well done…). Frank tapped Roy, who was walking away, on the shoulder and said, “Roy…Buen hecho.”

And as he walked away, the grin that exploded across Roy’s face was, without a doubt, the most vivid and radiant smile I have ever seen.

The second “passing-by” moment came at our departure from the orphanage, a morning that was one of the most difficult mornings I have ever experienced. My week of getting to know the 18 kids at the orphanage was over; I bonded with all of them, but to a higher degree with some. I enjoyed a special bond with 13-year-old Miguel, in part because I saw so much of myself in him. He, like me, was the oldest of four siblings, had an avid interest in athletics, and a penchant for sarcasm at times. We talked one night about how much I enjoyed being at the orphanage and getting to know Miguel and his family. The most enduring image I will take from Tacachia, and the one that tells me that God worked through us in this trip occurred during our tearful goodbyes (there were some tears, and some floods).

My last goodbyes were Miguel and Roy, who were standing around the monkeybars. I told them I really enjoyed meeting them and would miss them. Roy asked if I was going to return with such a pleading look on his face, and I said I hoped that I would. Miguel was silent as his and Roy’s eyes began to fill with tears. I looked in Miguel’s eyes and said, “Somos hermanos. Dios te bendiga” (We are brothers. God bless you.). We got in the cars and pulled out, but not without me taking one last glance at Miguel and Roy, still standing next to the monkeybars with their heads down; spasms of heartache at telling these kids goodbye have bothered me ever since.

For the days leading up to and during the trip I, like Moses, had been pleading with God in my prayers, “If your presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here. How will anyone know that you are pleased with me and with your people unless you go with us? What else will distinguish me and your people from all the other people on the face of the earth?”

Only the presence of God can bring out those two images. Only the presence of God can help one overcome language and altitude and attitude barriers to serve Him. Only with the presence of God can we, like Moses, witness the glory of God.

I truly feel at home in Tacachia, and hope to return there again next year to further strengthen the bonds I’ve formed this year, as well as to cultivate new ones. This trip, as is most often the case, stands as proof that yes, God worked THROUGH me. But he worked so much more IN me, and for that I am eternally grateful.

In the days since returning from the orphanage, Relient K’s song “I’m Taking You with Me” has been running through my head. My heartfelt pledge since returning to the United States is found in these lyrics:

“If home is where the heart is then my home is where you are;
But it’s getting oh so hard to spend these days without my heart.
So I’m taking you with me anywhere that I
Could ever wanna be for the rest of my life.
I want you there with me, and If there ever comes a time
When I should have to leave, I hope you know that I,
I’m taking you with me.”

So may you, blog readers, go with the presence of God, may you witness His glory, and may you take Him with you wherever you go.

Paz para el viaje (peace for the journey)

~ Nick

A Fine Child

June 10, 2009

“Now a man of the house of Levi married a Levite woman, and she became pregnant and gave birth to a son. When she saw that he was a fine child, she hid him for three months. But when she could hide him no longer, she got a papyrus basket for him and coated it with tar and pitch. Then she placed the child in it and put it among the reeds along the bank of the Nile. His sister stood at a distance to see what would happen to him.” (Exodus 2:1-4).

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.

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