Category Archives: family fun

moving past the unknown..

I’ve been thinking about the conversation we had back in August. The “I’m going back to college, and I still don’t know what I want to do with my life” conversation. Not an unfamiliar conversation between us. It surfaces on occasion, more so now that he is mid-way through his junior year at the university. Certainly, he has some thoughts and is working his way through a degree program, but there’s a nagging confusion that lingers in the shadows.

The unknown.

The unknown can be paralyzing, especially when you’re twenty-one and many in your peer group already have their five year goals in place and their resumes written. So often the unknown can foster paralyzing fear over adventurous faith, crippling insecurity over settled confidence. The unknown can keep a life stuck right where it is, walking in circles with feet shackled to the comfort of uncertainty. Yes, comfort. Sometimes it’s more comfortable to stay stuck in uncertainty than to move forward.

I’m not so unlike my son. I’m forty-five, and I’m still wrestling with what I want to be when I grow up. Some days, the unknown overshadows known truth, and I get stuck. Fear and insecurity creep in and the shackles around my feet seem an easier fit for me than the faith and confidence that is mine in Jesus Christ. Instead of progression, I regress. One step forward and two steps back isn’t in keeping with God’s growth plan for my life. Certainly, any forward movement is a gain, but at forty-five, I need to do more. With age, comes wisdom, and it’s time I started acting my age.

Acting. Action. A verb, not a suggestion. And so, I go back to that conversation I had with my son nearly six months ago, and I remember those few words I spoke into his confusion.

Try something new, son. Get out from behind your computer, get out of your dorm room and try something new… even if it’s uncomfortable. What’s comfortable isn’t working for you. It’s limiting your vision and keeping you stuck. Getting out into the world, meeting people face-to-face instead of on the Internet, is going to re-connect you to life. People and places—that’s where you’ll find it. Your dreams, your goals, the pulse that will move you forward into your “next.” It’s not in our DNA to stay put, to live inside. You’re a Killian… at the heart of it all, you’re a Killian. And Killians know that the best part of life is found in people. Go to them, son, and you’ll find your focus.

I’m pleased to report that my son has taken some new risks this year. He’s growing and maturing, moving into his own as his junior year unfolds. I see more confidence in his gait, more wisdom in his words, and I can’t help but think that just a few simple steps outside of his familiar are partly responsible for this ever-emerging transformation. He’s moving forward, and so must I.

Time to try something new. Time to get out from behind this computer screen and re-connect with life… face-to-face. As I look at my future, there are a multitude of unknowns looming on my horizon. The unknown could easily keep me shackled to my familiar. And while I cannot see much beyond today (and I’ve come to firmly believe this is a very good thing), I can take a few steps forward that will alter the course of my tomorrow. Just one or two baby steps to grow my confidence, to extend my faith. And then just one or two more beyond those initial ones. Before long… a lengthy accumulation of forward progression that will more fully transform me into the woman God intends.

A woman of adventurous faith and settled confidence. Oh to be her… even one little bit!

Movement wins, friends. With the cross before us, movement always wins. Keep to it. As always…

Peace for the journey,
elaine
PS: What steps are you taking to move yourself forward?

Jesus, her, and me…

“For where two or three come together in my name, there am I with them.” –Matthew 18:20

 

Together we worshiped the Lord this morning. Just the three of us. Jesus, her, and me. I’d hoped that others would be there, planned on others being there, but when the big hand was on the ten and the little hand on the twelve, my hope merged with reality. Today, we kept it small. Today, it boiled down to just Jesus, her, and me. Jesus, my daughter, and me. And we didn’t let it dampen our enthusiasm. Instead, we kept doing what we’ve been doing for nearly two years now…

having Sunday School on the second floor of our church.

Some might ask, “Why bother? Why plan and prepare for ten when only one or two show up on a regular basis? Why the investment of energy and prayers and late night runs for supplies to supplement a lesson plan already burgeoning with abundance? Why sow largely into such smallness?”

Reasonable questions. On occasions, questions I’ve asked myself. But each time I do, I cycle back around to the only reasonable answer.

The church belongs to me, and I belong to the church.

When I became a Christian, I signed on to God’s investment plan—sowing his kingdom seed into the lives of those within reach. I don’t get to choose the conditions for that reach. My only obligation is to make sure that I continue to stretch my arms and release God’s heart into the hearts of those who sit beneath my influence. It matters not the size of the audience; what matters is my faithfulness to God’s calling for my life—to know God and then, out of that knowing, to lead others to know the same.

It takes a while to arrive there… to get comfortable with the parameters of God’s choosing. Two years ago, I would have told you that there was little room in my agenda for small investments. Two years ago, I was focused on larger parcels of land. Two years ago, I wasn’t prepared for a Sunday morning of just Jesus, her, and me. But today, it is enough—just Jesus, her, and me.

Today, I see more clearly than I saw two years ago. Pain, suffering, and loss have a way of tempering large notions. Pain, suffering, and loss have a way of sharpening personal perspective, shedding personal ambitions, and shaping a heart for effective ministry. It doesn’t always happen that way. Sometimes pain, suffering, and loss foster opposite understanding. But as for me, my pain, suffering, and loss have taught me the great lesson of reduction.

He must become more; I must become less.

For in that lesser estate, the greatness of God is revealed. And whenever the greatness of God is revealed, then heaven’s work goes on as planned. Even in a Sunday School classroom when it’s just Jesus, her, and me.

Especially then.

The church belongs to me, and I belong to the church. The church belongs to you, and you belong to the church. Whether you sow in largeness or in smallness this week, sow generously and sow always in the loving name of the Lord. God measures your kingdom influence not by numbers but rather by your faithfulness to minister to those numbers. Even when it’s just Jesus, her, and you.

Especially then.

Even so, keep to it. As always…

Peace for the journey,

elaine

living with a 92%…

My son came home sobbing yesterday.

“I can’t do it again, mom. It’s not fair. I missed one problem on my Math test… one problem, and she’s making me take it all over again. And she said it would be harder … 28 problems instead of 12. I made a 92%, and it wasn’t enough, mom. I can’t do this.”

He kept repeating the phrase as he collapsed onto his bed in a heap of tears.

“One problem… one stupid problem.”

It was then that I had a problem… an angry kind of problem. A problem that wasn’t going to work itself through quietly. This time, I would not ignore the injustice. This time, I would speak up on behalf of my son and his diligent efforts at trying to “make the grade”… his grade … the fifth grade.

Jadon has a learning disability, not unlike many of his peers. It’s been difficult to adequately diagnose his issues over the years. Some term it dyslexia; others ADHD. Still others, a combination of both and then some. I’m not convinced about his labels. There doesn’t seem to be one that accurately describes his problem. Consequently, I spend a lot of time trying to educate his teachers about how to best educate him. This learning process, both for him and them, doesn’t always flow smoothly. Case in point? Yesterday’s debacle.

We’d spent a lot of at-home hours preparing for this Math test. Angles, parallel lines, polygons and the like had been on the after-school menu for several days. S.E.V.E.R.A.L. D.A.Y.S. Those of you who have kids with similar issues get this one. No small amount of blood, sweat, and tears were shed in preparation for this test, not to mention all the other tests that are being crammed into these final days of the nine weeks. Accordingly, we would have been happy to take our 92% (yes, I said “ours” as this learning process is a collective effort) and walk away with a smile. Instead, Jadon’s achievement was met with disapproval and with his tears as he realized, yet again, that a 92% was not enough to appease his teacher’s expectations. Those who scored a 100% received a pass on a second test; those who didn’t score perfectly will sit for another try at it this morning.

And I am angry. Not because there isn’t merit in trying to do better (especially for those who bombed the test) but because a 92% is Jadon’s better and should be celebrated rather than diminished.

Is this where it begins, readers? When did we start believing that our 92%’s aren’t good enough? Did it start in our younger years at school? Maybe even earlier in our homes when the beds weren’t made perfectly, the toys weren’t organized correctly, the dishes weren’t rinsed properly, the clothes not folded correctly? When did our best efforts at living life, accomplishing life, become not good enough? Further still, who gets to make that determination?

I’ve spent my lifetime feeling the weightiness of my 92%’s. Rather than celebrating my achievements, I’ve languished in my desire for perfection. Rarely have I been satisfied with the outcomes of my efforts, and there have been others who’ve been all too willing to agree with my personal assessments. There have been times when a 92% just didn’t cut it.

As a daughter.
As a sister.
As a student.
As a wife.
As a preacher’s wife… twice.
As a mother.
As a friend.
As a writer.
As a homemaker.
As a teacher.
As a speaker.
As a patient.
As a survivor.
As a Christian.

Time and time again, when my best efforts didn’t warrant personal celebration. Times when I was forced to take a second test, a third one, in hopes of getting it right, making my grade, all the while choking through my tears,

I can’t do this … it’s not fair. One stupid problem … one stifling obstacle keeping me from a 100%. I’m not good enough, not smart enough, not spiritual enough to past this test. My learning disabilities are preventing my perfection.

Perfection. Isn’t it time we move past our notions regarding our 100%’s and start living in the realities of our 92’s? Sweet ones, hear me on this one. Our perfection is coming. Each day that we live with Jesus Christ and his Holy Spirit as our compass, we move further along in the process of our perfection. From glory to glory, one beautiful, God-shaped step at a time. We’re getting there, being conformed into his likeness with every deliberate faith-filled choice we make and with every heaven-filled grace we’re given. We’re getting there. But, until we do, wouldn’t it be gloriously freeing if we could celebrate our best efforts … our 92%’s? Why must we continually force an expectation on ourselves and others that is impossible to achieve on the front side of heaven?

Would it be alright for us to celebrate the gains today rather than to unnecessarily focus on our almost’s? Is one stupid problem tripping you up and limiting today’s effectiveness, today’s joy? I know that we should always strive to be and to do our best, to be God’s best. To tell you to live lesser would be a false teaching and not in line with biblical standards. But when our best levels at a 92%, couldn’t we just acknowledge that achievement with joy and call it a win? Call it enough?

I don’t know what test you’ve recently scored a less than perfect grade on. I don’t have to look too far back in my history to find mine. But as I see it today, I’m willing to afford some grace to the situation and to realize that all is not lost with my 92%. In fact, there’s been some great gain because of it. I’m not perfect, not yet, but I’m closer today than I was yesterday, and so are you.

Give your best at living life today. Give it all in the name of Jesus Christ, and then let it be enough. A 92% in God’s book is pretty darn close to glory. Keep to it, friends, knowing that the grace of God is working in your heart and life to finish you home perfectly. Look toward that end while taking the time to celebrate the progression. I love your 92% and so does our Father. As always…

Peace for the journey,

coming home to daddy’s arms…

My dad is the funniest man I know. Not the stand-up comedic kind of funny, but the everyday conversation kind of funny. As the man walketh, so does his humor. Those of you who know him well, know this to be true. Those of you who know me well, know this also to be true of me. I know this shocks some of you. I’ve even heard it from some of you upon meeting me for the first time.

Elaine, I thought you’d be this serious, contemplative type of person who sits around all day thinking profound thoughts about God. Instead, you’re funny.

I’ve never been offended by the conclusion. After all, I write about some fairly heavy stuff here at “peace for the journey.” But I like knowing that I can be both—contemplative and humorous. I have my father to thank for this genetic DNA. My daddy makes me think and makes me laugh, sometimes within the span of a few minutes. He’s the most generous man I know, giving the best of himself away to all who cross his path. He’s not impressed with things, more importantly, not impressed with himself. He is, however, impressed by the story. Your story; my story; God’s story.

My daddy sees God everywhere, because my daddy is connected to life. To joys and pains equally. To highs and lows. Griefs and graces. Sorrows and celebrations. Regardless of the occasion, my dad has discovered how to live with a balanced perspective. My father lives contentedly and always tempers the tough times with large doses of humor.

I’m so glad I still have him around. He was the first man to ever hold me, to ever love me. The first man to wipe my tears, to tell me bedtime stories, to pray the prayers that all good parents should be praying with their children. He was the only man who loved me when others would not … could not. And his were the arms that stretched wide-open for me and welcomed me home after a long season of loveless wandering in the wilderness. In doing so, my daddy told me the story of Jesus all over again. That one moment in my personal history did more to script the eternal witness of God into my life than any other.

And so, today, I tell you again this story I’ve told you before via this video that I posted on my one-year blogging anniversary, nearly three years ago. It’s a bit painful for me to watch it, considering the many miles that have been walked in the time since first posting it. But one thing, one thread remains the same to this day.

My daddy is still stretching his arms wide-open to welcome me home. He’s still making me laugh, still telling me stories. Still connected to the world, and still making sure that I know the way back to Jesus. Today, I honor my father by sharing this witness again. He’d want you to know that, even if you’ve never had an earthly daddy to love you, you have a heavenly Father who loves you perfectly and whose arms are stretched wide on your behalf.

I love you, daddy, for so many reasons, but none more so than for telling me … showing me God. You tell him well!

~Lansey 

a trunk full of love…

Love blooms… September 10, 1996

I love my husband. He speaks life into my weariness and watches over my heart as if it were his own. When the crumbling begins, he comes alongside me to tenderly cradle my pain and to keep it safe from further intrusion. I cannot measure the worthiness of such a gift. Over the course of our marriage, even well before we said our “I do’s,” my Billy was loving me the Jesus way—the Ephesians 5:25 way. Without his protection and his careful attention to the details of the “all” that makes up me, I’d be off-balance and more confused. I’d be lesser of a woman, lesser of God’s woman, and I would be lonely. Thank God for the good sense that fostered my saying, “I do” nearly fifteen years ago. Thank God for the current emotions that have finally caught up to my reasoned decision back then.

Billy and I are in love. It’s an easy love these days, but this hasn’t always been the case. We’ve grown into our love, and today I thought it would be a worthy use of time (and ink) to reflect back on that day when I knew that I knew that I knew that I loved Billy Olsen. I thought maybe you’d like to come along for the ride.

The year was 1996. The autumn colors had just begun their descent onto the rolling hills of the Kentucky bluegrass. Soccer season was in full swing for my two young sons, adding to my burgeoning load as a single mother. My days were spent working at Asbury Theological Seminary; my nights spent managing the lives of my children. It was a good season of living for us, added to by the fact that a certain preacher-in-training had taken an interest in the three of us—a strong interest. At this point, Billy and I had been dating for several months. Early on, he professed his love for me; I, however, was a bit more cautious about declaring the intentions of my heart.

Until that day.

A call came into my office in the morning. Billy was checking on me and interested in seeing what our evening plans might include. Soccer and grocery shopping ranked high on the agenda. This wouldn’t be a good date night. Too much to do; too many responsibilities pressing their urgency into an already full schedule. There would be no wining and dining for us that evening. Just more of Billy living with the realities of dating a single mom. Romance would have to wait, or so it seemed. Prior to finishing the work day, I received a second call from Billy.

“Elaine, I know tonight isn’t a good night for us to get together. I know how busy and how tired you are. I’m fine with that, but do me a favor before heading out to soccer practice. When you get home from work, be sure to look in the trunk of your car. I’ve put a little surprise in there for you.”

I thanked him for his kindness and assured him of my cooperation. Billy was brilliant when it came to surprises. I, however, fell short of remembering to look for his that particular day. The afternoon routine quickly moved in and any prior anticipation about the contents of my trunk was buried beneath homework, soccer cleats, and the gathering of grocery coupons. It was only after my sons and I were buckled into the car and had begun our descent down the driveway that I remembered my surprise. I thought about delaying its unveiling until we reached our destination, but fearing that the surprise might wilt or melt, I put the car in park.

“Boys, we’ve got to check something before we leave. Billy left me a surprise in the trunk, and I need to get it out before we leave for practice.”

The three of us unbuckled our seatbelts and made our way around to the trunk. What could it be? What had his love for me done for me this time around? What measure of romance could he cram into the back of my ’94 Nissan Sentra? Would it really be enough to move me past my hesitation of love’s declaration and closer to saying “yes” to a forever with this preacher-in-training?

It was enough to move me, friends.

When I opened up the trunk, there wasn’t a bouquet of flowers awaiting my collection. No chocolate in sight. Nothing I could wear; no perfume to sweeten me. In fact, most would say there was nothing romantic about the gift inside, but I would say differently. That particular day, Billy Olsen surprised me with a token of love that emphasized his willingness to take care of my boys and me.

He’d done my grocery shopping… packed my trunk with many of the non-perishables that he knew we used on a regular basis. From cereal to soap to laundry detergent and beyond. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and in that single moment, my heart swelled with love for a preacher-in-training named Billy Olsen. On that day, I thought to myself…

Billy Olsen may not have a job yet; his hair is long, he hates wearing shoes, and his clothes are always wrinkled. Granted, without knowing his heart, I probably wouldn’t pick him out of a line-up as future-husband material. But I’m pretty sure that his love for me will keep him doing these kinds of things for me for a long time. When I’m eighty, he’ll still be going to the grocery for me; he’s still going to watch over me, maybe even change my diapers if need be. Billy Olsen is the keeping kind. The real deal. He won’t let me down. He’s always going to love me and my boys, no matter the cost. Billy Olsen is here to stay.

Billy’s generosity that day had been the best kind of loving, sweetest kind of romance moment that I had ever been given. And here he is, some fifteen years later, loving and serving our marriage with the same level of genuine romance that was displayed on that autumn night during our courtin’ days. Billy still calls to check on me, goes to the grocery for me, and has (on occasion) had to lend a hand at cleaning me. I don’t mind telling you this, because I happen to think that I’ve snatched one of the last good, godly men left on this earth. If every man would love his wife this way—the way that Christ loves the church—then there would be far more women willing to love the same.

Billy and I share a good love. I probably could have survived with less, but God saw to it that I would flourish with more. Our love feels like life and grace and hope to my heart, and I’m so grateful that I get to wrap my arms around its tender comfort today.

And Billy… if you’re reading this… would you mind picking up some milk, eggs, butter, and a full box of encouragement on your way home? No one can stock a pantry… no man can strengthen a heart quite like you! I love you, my preacher-for-real.

~elaine
When has someone filled your “trunk” with love? How might you do the same for someone else this week?

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