family fun | Elaine Olsen

Rags to Riches…

December 22, 2008

“And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord.’” (Luke 2:8-11).

(My saint Nick, from shepherd to king; 1992 and 2008)

From sheep tending to gift bearing.

From the least of these to the highly favored.

From shepherd to king.

A life’s journey, filled with all manner of detours along the way. We don’t come into our kingdom inheritance by accident. We don’t just “happen” upon our crowns. Rather, they are bestowed upon us, as a result of our faith—of our living witness to the fact that God’s kingdom come is working itself out in the likes of you and me.

When Jesus willingly sacrificed his life for the kingdom cause, he did so knowing that the momentary surrender of his crown would pave the way for our eternal coronation. He laid his down, so that we could pick ours up. So that we could share in an inheritance that, not only allows us the royal mantle, but that also cloaks us with the unimaginable and longed for penchant of every king’s heart.

An everlasting kingdom. A reign without end. A day in and a season out when the scepter no longer passes but, instead, remains.

But until then, until we reach the final Word on our final reward, we are given the sacred trust of tending to this side of God’s kingdom with a shepherd’s heart. With a rod and a staff that aren’t afraid to poke and to prod as necessary because a shepherd understands the worthy weight of his/her assignment.

The safety of the sheep.

Perhaps that is why Jesus began his life amongst the shepherds. Why he nestled his first night within their hills and interrupted their night’s watch with the cries of his feeble flesh. If anyone could have understood the weight of Christ’s kingdom assignment, they could … at least in part; for like them, he came to earth with a solitary purpose in mind.

The safety of his sheep.

With a rod and a staff that weren’t afraid to poke and to prod because he fully understood the ramifications of his willingness to do so.

An everlasting kingdom. His. Yours and mine, if we allow him his heart in the matter. And his heart always beats in our favor and on our behalf.

The summation of Bethlehem’s announcement, Calvary’s necessary, and Easter’s proclamation. As simple as it gets, yet far more profound than our understanding often allows.

You and I have been entrusted with this profundity. With the shepherding of a story that exceeds reason, but that breathes with the truest Truth of the incomprehensible. We may not always speak it with eloquence or with the wisdom of the sages, but when we allow God’s story our voice, we blanket our flesh with the mantle of our Father’s kingdom come. We’ll never look more like royalty then at that moment.

We’re coming into our inheritance, friends. There is a happily ever after for those of us who’ve cast our hearts with King. You may not see it now, but if you’ve been listening to his story over the past few weeks, I bet you’ve felt it. One tiny heartbeat after another, pressed in and multiplied until your eyes have found their wet and your voice has found its expression.

If you haven’t, if this Christmas season has been your bane more than your blessing causing your eyes their dry and your voice its silence, then I pray for you the pause of a night sky. A night’s watch in Bethlehem, where the lowly of the fields gather together with the threshold of heaven’s illumination to receive the summation of our Father’s love.

“‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord.’”

And with that proclamation, there comes of mantle of incomprehensible wealth that clothes each one of us with an everlasting inheritance … that will walk us safely home to our Father’s care, where crowns and kingdoms are common fare and the continual feast of all of God’s children.

Rags to riches. All in a single pause, when King Jesus momentarily surrendered his crown so that we could receive ours. What wondrous love is this? Thus I pray,

Bring us to Bethlehem, Father, for a night’s illumination and your song’s witness. Forgive us for thinking that we can decorate you into our Christmas. You, alone, are more than enough to fill our hearts with the treasure of your kingdom. Decorate us with you. With your love and grace. With your staff and rod. With your story and the telling therein. There is nothing more sacred than a heart filled with the Truth of your Word. Penetrate our lowly with your highly favored, and move our spirits into a place of sacred worship this Christmas. May the Peace of your kingdom come be the Peace that rules our hearts until then. Amen.

Copyright © December 2008 – Elaine Olsen. All rights reserved.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

December 19, 2008

UPDATE ON CD WINNER BELOW…

“Do you not know? Have you not heard? The LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. …” (Isaiah 40:28a).

Do you hear what I hear?

I wish you could have.

Heard what I heard.

Last night at the Durham Performing Arts Center.

Piano man extraordinaire, Jim Brickman, and his ensemble cast including…

*the earthy and gutsy voice of Anne Cochran.
*the pure and tranquil voice of Canadian sensation Mark Masri.
*the raw, unedited, yet perfectly tuned six-string electric violin belonging to Tracy Silverman.
*the rich and full orchestration of the accompanying North Carolina Symphony Orchestra.

To give words to such an event risks lessening the experience, but I thought I should try … at least in part.

Last evening’s “night on the town” was a gift to me. One I had been planning for months. I am a Jim Brickman fan. His music takes me places. His artistry is a rare gift. A mix of God-given talent coupled with a willingness to tend to that gift. And when the two merge as one, when the divine enabling mixes with the fleshly obedience, the result is breathtaking. Life changing. The stuff of kingdom living as it was meant to breathe and to walk on this side of eternity.

Thus, when I heard that Jim would be performing nearby, I purchased four tickets. Two for Billy and me. Two for my parents. A surprise for the people who know me best and who, perhaps, love me the most. Some pauses are worth the pocketbook, friends. Last night was one of them.

From the first note on the keyboard, to the final bow of our host, I sat spellbound. Perched on the edge of my expectation, I could have lingered for hours. The Christmas carols were in full bloom, along with some of Mr. Brickman’s most endearing melodies. Two hours and a few tissues later, it was over.

Still and yet, the music and the memory lingers.

The totality of participating in something far grander than my limited attempts at living accordingly is worth the pennies that I pinched to take me there. To see and to hear the fullness of artistry in motion and in living color is a rare and precious privilege for this home-spun girl clothed with a heart full of dreams and a past full of heartaches.

Last night was about believing. About recapturing the hope that scripts my heart with the truth that my life was meant to sing its worth, even as it has for my new musical friends. And while I don’t know where they are in their faith journeys … if they even understand from where their giftedness roots … I believe they have some inclination.

Who can sing the witness of the Savior’s birth while harboring the totality of darkness within? At least they were willing to allow their gifts–their voices and their instruments–to be the stage for the Song of the season.

The Christ Child. The Joy to the world. The Hark behind the angels voices. The Babe of the silent night. The most important Gift under our trees and upon his own this Christmas season.

As Christians, we all house the immortal, invisible, highest ranking and soul-changing Spirit of this living Gift. He makes his humble home within our feeble flesh. It doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t seem right; still and yet, he has allowed his musical score its voice via ours.

Through our songs. Our words. Our pens. Our work. Our homes. Our churches. Our kindnesses. Our love.

Regardless of your capacity to carry a tune or to play an instrument, your Father has endowed you with a gifting all your own. Yours doesn’t necessarily look like mine, and mine? Well it’s taken me the better part of forty-two years to be settled on the fact that mine doesn’t have to voice like yours.

As children, created in the image of the Most High God, we house the seeds of eternity within (Ecc. 3:11). And when those seeds are coupled with our willingness to tend to this unmerited yet freely given divine favor, the results are breathtaking. Life changing. The stuff of kingdom living as it was meant to breathe and to walk on this side of eternity.

Do you hear what I hear? Greater still, are you walking the truth of that hearing? I wish that you would. It is your privilege to do so. It is mine, also. Thus, may we all endeavor to walk the obedience of such a sacred listening.

God continues to write his musical score through the likes of you and me. And that, my friends, is the best Gift of Christmas we will unwrap in this and in every season of our lives. As always,

PS: Congratulations to Cheryl B. for winning an autographed copy of Jim’s “Homecoming” Christmas CD (my personal favorite). Please snail mail me your email Cheryl.

Walking our Heritage

December 16, 2008

“And everyone went to his own town to register. So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. (Luke 2:3-5).

We walk our heritage. What roots us moves us. Our family lineage reveals our steps. Past, present, future. Whatever our “was” has shaped our “is,” and now we journey its truth. And if we know the truth of Truth, then our steps are forged and shaped by the confines of a wooden cradle.

Both at Bethlehem, and then at Calvary.

Neither could contain him, yet both were the necessary pause of his sacred heart. I cannot fathom the worth of such surrender, but I am trying. It’s been difficult for me this year. I’m not sure as to the reason why, but regardless of the struggle, my obedience remains steadfast.

Each day I awake with my feet pointed eastward and my eyes cast to the sky. My heart looks for signs and wonders and lingers in the hope of catching a single glimpse of heaven’s Applause—the One who slipped into my heart, even as he did his mother’s on the night of his birth. Every now and again I witness the splendor of that hope. This past weekend held a few such moments.

On Saturday, my family, alongside the members of our adult choir, pilgrimed through the hallways of four local nursing homes. We sang our faith as we went. Carols—one of the purest measures of the Christmas tradition that remains untouched, despite the worlds attempts to the contrary.

One by one, doors began to open. Smiles began to form. Minds that have long since closed off their capacity for reasoning began to mouth the words in unison with ours. I saw tears. I wept some of my own. Hugged necks. Gave good wishes and watched my young children walk their heritage in a way that would tug at the heart strings of even the most cynical. Why make the journey?

Because we are a Jesus people, and the family bloodline runs deep. He has called us to the hallways of life. To the least of these who need to remember the hope of a long forgotten story that is closer now to its conclusion than it has ever been. Especially for them as they stand on the edges of their “next.” Perhaps the reason behind their smiles. Greater still, the reason for their remembrance of the words.

There’s something about the song, friends, that never loses its power … that forever holds its worth. That always speaks the Truth.

After leaving our group, we decided to continue our pilgrimage and stopped at a local church to view a live Nativity scene. We watched as a real baby struggled in the cold and with the confines of his own wooden cradle. I imagined, alongside the imaginations of my children, what it must have been like on the night of our dear Savior’s birth. Less noisy, I’m sure. Surrounding highways don’t bode well for atmosphere. Certainly less cameras, unless you count the eyes of heaven. Most assuredly, that first Bethlehem night embodied more light than the illumination of my flash photography. I’m quite certain that the angels created a brilliancy untouched by human comparison. Still and yet, for all of the ways this manger scene fell short of the real, it came through on the one measure that mattered.

Remembrance.

And we Jesus people were better off for the time spent walking the memories of our family bloodline. A story that no longer belongs to one couple, but instead belongs to all of humanity. To you and to me. To those who’ve come before and to those who are soon to follow. To all who are willing to cradle the baby Jesus close to their hearts and claim him as their own.

There’s something about that remembrance that never loses it power … that forever holds its worth. That always speaks the Truth.

Our final stop of the evening took us to a well-lighted neighborhood, notorious for huge participation in the Christmas season. House after house. Scene after scene. A festival of lights, and a feast for the senses. Our favorite house sits toward the back; the owners go to great lengths to tell Christ’s story in completion. From the angel announcing the wombed arrival of Jesus to Mary, to Bethlehem’s cradle, to Calvary’s cross, to Easter’s resurrection. Each scene is worthy of deliberate pause.

Thus, we obliged. Stopped the van long enough to linger in the moment and for me to take a few pictures. When I returned to the car, my daughter was in tears. When I asked her as to the reason for her wet, she replied, “Mommy, I don’t want Jesus to have to die again.” Her heart was hurting, and I understood. I don’t think she has ever seen a depiction of Christ’s crucifixion that grabbed her emotions at the level that this one did.

The story came to life for baby girl as she witnessed her family bloodline in deeper measure. She’s only just begun to trace her roots, but the cross’ hold is one that never loses it power … that forever holds its worth. That always speaks the Truth.

Indeed, we walked our heritage this past weekend, and it wasn’t hard to see Jesus. He came to us in a song, in our remembrance of his birth, and through the tears of child whose faith is being shaped by a Father who intends for her steps to be forged by the necessary pause of his sacred heart–Calvary’s pause.

An intention that calls to each one of us from the cradle and from the cross and that beckons our feet homeward to remember our bloodlines and to register our names. That is the truth of Truth. That is the walk of Christmas. May we all, like Joseph, return in expectant obedience to the scene of our Bethlehem beginnings. It’s our privileged right to do so, for we are of the family of the Most High God, and a baby—his Son—awaits his birth in our hearts and through our witness.

Come quickly to Bethlehem this day. Your salvation draweth nigh. Seek him now, while he still may be found. As always,

~elaine

PS: The “Ancients” are coming for lunch at my house on Tuesday, and you know how I love my ancients! Wish you could share the table with us. Shalom.

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

November 3, 2008

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

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

Hartsville, Indiana.

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

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

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

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

1. The find.

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The fear.

Hartsville also housed the beginnings of my fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Early Memories…Lingering Lessons

November 1, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My earliest memories? Let me give it try.

1. Dr. Thompson and his black bag

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

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

2. The tar-papered house

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

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

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

3. First grade with Miss Wilma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Chuck

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