grace | Elaine Olsen

The Rhythm of Eternity

October 18, 2008

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end.” (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

My college-age son is home for the weekend. He is my delight and joy and the welcome of my heart on every occasion. He is becoming the man I never imagined him to be because as a young mother at twenty-three, I wasn’t prone to my imagination. I was simply prone to survival. Both his and mine.

In many ways, those days seem long ago and packed away as a seasonal remembrance. I don’t recall them often. But every now and then, even though he is well on his path toward manhood, I am reminded about the springtime of his youthful beginnings. I catch a glimpse of a little blonde-headed boy who took to life with a passion for the process. It was a process seeded and watered and grown alongside his younger brother.

They are quite a pair. Best friends. Fierce warriors. Competitive in most things, yet quick to applaud one another’s accolades. I can’t imagine one without the other, but when Nick left home almost two years ago, I had to. Imagine. Them apart. The silence was palpable. The room above my bedroom no longer bore the strain of two sets of feet. The late night conversations between them no longer kept me awake or forced my intrusion in the matter.

And while I welcome the more quiet approach to nighttime routine, I miss their voices. I miss their laughter. I miss knowing that all of my children are safe and sound and tucked in for another night of rest under my roof. We don’t have many of those nights now, but when we do—when Nick comes home to rest in his old and with his familiar—the floors creak their resistance and the late night conversations return.

Last night was one of those nights. Rather than reaching for the broom that stands bedside as my implement for reminding the boys about my need for rest, I reached for the earplugs. And instead of hearing the sounds of my sons’ laughter and conversation, I heard the echoes of something far different. Remote at first. Louder and more persistent as time elapsed.

I heard the beat of my own heart.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Over and over again, until the sound took the stage of my imagination, and I began to ponder the magnitude of what I was hearing. Last night, over the din of an upstairs conversation and through the rhythmic lull of a heart’s beat, I heard the cadence of heaven’s pulse. I heard …

Eternity.

What does eternity sound like? How does it hear? Greater still, how does it breathe?

It sounds precise and continuous. It hears vivid and real. It breathes genuine and on purpose. One beat after another and with the focused intention of keeping me alive and keeping me as useful.

God knew what he was doing when he seeded eternity into the hearts of men and women. No other vessel in the human body could house such significance. No other organ could more appropriately dress the magnitude of such a gift. No other portion of this fleshly frame could support the creative genius of an eternal pulse. None. Why?

Because our hearts are the navigational force behind our steps.

Our feet won’t move forward without the beat of the heart.
Our minds won’t motion their purpose without the beat of the heart.
Our giftings won’t serve the world without the beat of the heart.
Our plans won’t come to fruition without the beat of the heart.
Our love won’t wrap its arms without the beat of the heart.
Our souls won’t find their rest without the beat of the heart.
Our sins won’t find their grace without the beat of the heart.
Our lives won’t live their sacred worth without the beat of the heart.

In every way and in every day, the heart completely and holy matters. The heart is the significant linchpin when it comes to living the gift of a single day. Without its pulse, we are dead. Done. Completely and fully out of options. When the heart stops servicing our frames, the eternal seeding therein moves elsewhere.

Either onto the full and promised perfection of heaven or into the full and promised ruination of hell. That, my friends, is what eternity sounds like. That is how it hears and, greater still, that is how it breathes.

Forever.

Not just today or in the things that we can touch and feel and manage with our minds. But for always and especially in ways that are beyond our understanding and our reasoned grasp. There are untold mysteries encased within the parameters of a heart’s pulse. We cannot fully fathom nor plumb the depths of such treasures.

If we are Christians, then we can begin in our understanding of one of them. His name is Jesus, and he owns the pulse of our hearts. He lives within this sacred vessel and tends to our eternal seed with the loving grace that will carry us home to our forever.

But for those who are not Christians, for those who have yet to begin in their understanding of all things sacred, their eternal seed lies dormant. Tended to by the wisdom and careful watch of an enemy who shrouds the truth of God’s unseen eternal with the lies of a temporal “as good as it gets.” With the voice that breathes the deception of…

An absent everlasting seed.
A day that walks in isolation.
A life not worthy of further examination.

Regardless of the lie, eternity’s seed still exists. No amount of pretending that it doesn’t changes the truth that it does, in fact, exist. Every human being is created with a heart worthy of heaven. In this very moment, it beats with the witness of sacred possibility. For you. For me and for the sake and salvation of a created race who has never taken the time to listen. Can you hear it? Won’t you try?

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Thump … thump.
Thump.
T h u m p.
T h h h—————————-u———————m——————————–p.

Where will your eternity land?

With holy fear and trembling, I pray that yours will be seeded and watered alongside mine … with Jesus in heaven. Thus I pray,

Thank you for seeding us all with the gift of eternity, Father, even when our soiled hearts refuse the planting. Prod us toward further understanding in the matter, and stir our need in restless confusion until we pause to clarify your truth. Thank you for choosing the likes of my heart as your dwelling. Make me ever mindful of your presence within and ever careful to acknowledge your living witness to others. You are the treasure of my flesh. Thank you for making me yours. Amen.

Have a blessed Sabbath rest, sweet ones. You have been so kind and gracious in your words and prayers for me this week. I love you dearly. Shalom!

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

The Mirrored "Truth"

October 15, 2008

“When Sanballet heard that we were rebuilding the wall, he became angry and was greatly incensed. He ridiculed the Jews, and in the presence of his associates and the army of Samaria, he said, ‘What are those feeble Jews doing? Will they restore their wall? Will they offer sacrifices? Will they finish in a day? Can they bring the stones back to life from those heaps of rubble—burned as they are?’” (Nehemiah 4:1-2).

I read her words this morning. They immediately paused my spirit and required my notice. I will be buying her book. I have no idea the format for the book, but I know a good writer when I read one. Words move me. Spin me. Challenge me and speak to the deepest need within me. And when a writer can do that with just a few sentences, it catches my breath and enlivens my spirit with a passion for the read.

This kind of pull creates an interesting mix of emotions for me. I celebrate her gift. I appreciate her gift. I have no doubts that I will enjoy her gift of words in the days to come. That being said, when I read the obvious giftings of another writer’s pen, I sometimes wonder why I bother with my own.

And while I am overjoyed with the thought of digging into another good read, I look in my own mirror this day with thoughts of confusion. Thoughts of pain. Thoughts that dig at the root of my own giftedness and the reality that there is still so much I want to say, while feeling so ill-qualified to do so.

When I look at my reflection, I don’t see possibility. Today, I see less. I see brokenness … rejection … failure. I see a 42 year old woman who allows herself the taunt of the enemy, even as it voiced over 2500 years ago to Nehemiah and God’s people.

What is your feeble flesh trying to do, Elaine?
Will you restore your wall?
Will you bring your limited giftings … your sacrifices … as an offering to God?
Will you finish in a day? After all, we’re at 42 years and still counting…
Can you bring your stones back to life … your heaps of rubble, burned as they are—fractured, splintered and unworthy of notice?

The moment paints grim. I know. I’m sorry if it bothers you, but I imagine that you have authored your own share of such moments.

It won’t last. God’s work and Word in my life are too powerful … too willing and too truthful to let the lies of the enemy own the stage. When God looks in my mirror, his perspective is different from mine. This is a very good thing, for I am prone to my confusion when it comes to reasoning the difference between God’s truth and the enemy’s version therein.

In my own strength, and in my own willful pursuits for healing, my feeble flesh will fail. My wall will never know restoration. My giftings will remain as they are—limited. I cannot finish in a day what has taken some four decades to build. And above all, I cannot breathe life into my stones of rubble that have known deep fracture and heated burn. I can try, but honestly, my efforts at restoration haven’t moved me beyond moments like today. I’m still looking in the mirror with regrets. I can do very little to change the condition of life.

But God can do it all. Everything. He is the one who holds the blueprints for my life. And for all of the times when I see the fracture and burn of a disobedient life, he visions better. He sees promise. Rather than casting my rubbled remnants aside, he lovingly picks them up, dusts them off, and breathes his healing into their broken. He uses the stones of my yesterday to rebuild the walls of my today.

I am a living stone being built into a spiritual household that will endure the test of time and survive the vicious taunts of the enemy.

Oh that my healing would walk its course in a day’s time. That would be lovely and seemingly picture perfect. But God never intended for my perfection to author in a day. Lasting beauty births with the brushstrokes of longevity. The colors in my Father’s palette paint living and vivid and real. He seeds my restoration according to his time table, not mine. I cannot understand his wisdom in the matter, but I humbly respect it and bow to accept it. Not out of resignation because I am unable to force his hand in the matter, but rather because his grace has been so willing to paint me into his eternal landscape.

I am the penchant of my Father’s heart. A true work in progress. Some would say, I’m not worthy of Louvre Museum. And I would say that I’m not after the Louvre.

I’m after Jesus.

And if my portrait never makes the front page here, it has already made the front page in heaven. In part, on the day when Calvary painted its cross on a hillside. In part, on the day I accepted the grace of that cross as my own. In full, on another day yet to come when God’s words, via his pen, will punctuate his well done on my behalf.

There is nothing else that matters, even though the world begs to differ. Even though I beg to differ in times like these, when I focus on my failing flesh rather than the masterpiece that God is after. I know the truth. I love God’s truth, but there are seasons in my journey when living truth’s depth and breadth is the hardest requirement of my feeble faith.
Such has been my week. Maybe yours too. Thus, I pray…

You alone, Father, make me worthy. You, living in me, allow my brokenness to know healing. My failures to find purpose. My sacrifices to breathe acceptable. My restoration to be complete. Forgive me when I can’t see your grace at work and enable me to receive it, even when the mirror breaks in temporal rebellion. You have died for my freedom, for my beauty and my renewal. Paint me complete, and grant me the patience for the process. Today, once again, I surrender the brush. Amen.

Raising Faith (part eleven): Embracing Your Nakedness

October 8, 2008

“Meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling, because when we are clothed, we will not be found naked. For while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened because we do not wish to be unclothed but to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life.” (2 Corinthians 5:24).

November 2001

He didn’t deserve my stern rebuke. He deserved something, but not the severity of my harsh response. What I should have offered him was some grace amidst a teachable moment. What he received, instead, was a portion of judgment leveled at a heart too tender for the verdict … too innocent for the label.

Why?

Because my nakedness refused God’s dressing. Because my flesh is still so very much in tact.

I don’t recall the specifics of that occasion. I only remember a few words that quickly seared their way into my heart and forced me to my knees in humble apology. It is a message I carry with me, even some three years down the road. Not because I delight in the boast of my sin but rather because I want the lesson from it for always. A lesson intended for my growth; not only as a parent, but as a keeper of God’s truth.

Jadon, young in years and full with a “me first” mentality, was wearing on my already thinned nerves. Me, older in years and still so often filled with a “me first” mentality, responded to his continual fussing by sending him to his room. It must have been a hard send because his response to me was a soft and sorrowful obedience.

With tears rolling down his cheeks as he surrendered to the upstairs climb, he simply turned around for a final glance and spoke these precious words of conviction over my soul:

“Mommy, God sent you here to be our lover.”

I don’t know if it was the tears or his gentle way of his administering God’s truth to me, but regardless of the emotional mixing, his words cut deep and immediately shrouded my heart in heavy conviction.

Guilty as charged, son. Naked and exposed, yet again.

I’ve never forgotten that moment. I think my Father would have it remain firmly entrenched in memory. He used my sin and my son’s broken spirit to teach me a valuable and consecrated lesson about human life and about the responsibility that I bear in loving each one toward his kingdom end. An end that is best served…

through love rather than shame.
through grace rather than judgment.
through mercy rather than punishment.
through selfless rather than selfish.

Oh, the groanings of my flesh! I am naked in my want for the righteous clothing of my God. He’s been dressing me for over forty years now, and still there are moments of raw and real exposure that are mirrored in my body. I am housed within a tent that isn’t well pegged to the ground and that blows wide and open at the whim of a temporal wind.

My life of faith is a literal peep show for the world to observe, and quite honestly, I’m not sure if anyone is coming back for a second look. I’m not sure I want them too. When I can’t love with grace and mercy and selfless intent, I can’t expect a good review. From the world. From my own family. And most importantly, from the perfect Lover of my soul—the God who created my frame with an eternal cloaking in mind.

A dressing that does not include my fleshy imperfections, but rather a perfection that will swallow up the old with the life-giving breath of heaven’s new. Until then, I groan all the more because I know that what awaits me on the other side of this pilgrimage unto death, is a life fully clothed with the righteousness of my salvation.

Flesh living is painful living. There are no short cuts to perfection. God uses the lives of other pilgrims toward that end. The groans of our sacred shaping may come to us through a stranger, a friend, a co-worker, a parent, a spouse, and some days…through the tears and honest words of a child.

God did indeed put me on this earth to be a lover of my children. Period. No matter their wrongs. No matter their mess. No matter their pursuits toward self-interest. I am the one who has been given the sacred privilege of loving them to adulthood. I don’t always do it right, but I always do it real. As it comes, even when God turns the table and allows my young son the sacred privilege of loving me into my adulthood.

If faith is to be raised in this generation, then our nakedness must be embraced—even when it’s humbling and especially when it exposes the truth of a neglected imperfection.

Perhaps this day, you know the groanings of a “yet to be finished” cloaking. I understand, for I am woman who shares your exposure. All of us, every last one of us, are as naked before God and before one another. We might mask it well in the temporary, but as you and I stand before our Father, there is nothing hidden from his view. No portion of our flesh that he cannot see. This truth, alone, is worthy of a few painful utterings.

The greater truth? God sent his Son to be the Lover of our souls. And with Jesus, there is always grace. There is always mercy. And there is always a love rooted in the selfless sacrifice of Calvary’s cross. It is more than enough to lead us all home to our heavenly dwelling where the mortal will, once and for all, be swallowed up by the eternal life that is ours through Jesus Christ our Lord. Thus I pray,

Thank you for loving us perfectly, Father. For sending your Son to his own cloaking of flesh that has enabled us to one day drop this tent in trade for another—an eternal dressing worthy of the streets of gold. Thank you, also, for the sacred shaping that comes to us through our exposure. Give us the grace and the wisdom to receive our teaching, even when it comes to us through a child and forces us to our knees in humble confession. Today, we groan in holy expectation for what is promised to us in our tomorrow. Come quickly, Lord. Even so come. Amen.

My Father’s Heart

October 2, 2008

“‘For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.’” (John 3:16).

My father’s heart.

It sat for examination yesterday under the microscope of the learned. A blockage was found. A stint was inserted, and today he rests in the care of his beloved wife who’s been tending to his heart for nearly fifty years.

He didn’t know what the scrutinizing would yield. He only knew that he must submit his heart to the process of thorough assessment because earlier indicators urged him accordingly. He didn’t relish the idea going in. Who would? After all, heart business is hard business.

It requires.
It relinquishes.
It refuses.
It reminds.

Requires submission. Relinquishes control. Refuses the easy road. Reminds us of the fragility of life.

Indeed, heart business is hard business, and for those who are unwilling to bow to the authority of the learned, a heart’s health is often ignored. Left unexamined, a heart can become the fertile soil for a terminal disease. A death—physically, and even more so, spiritually.

But when a heart is allowed the light, when a heart is laid bare beneath the scope of understanding and superior wisdom, disease is quickly detected and a regimen toward heart healing is put into action.

Here’s the verdict according to John 3:19-21:

Light has come into the world. For a reason. For our heart’s examination. But men love darkness. Why? Because light exposes evil—the diseases that are eating away at the health of a heart. And quite frankly, we are a people prone to the easy of our hidden rather than the hard of our exposure.

We fear the light because of what it will require. Because of what we must relinquish. Because light always refuses the quick road to recovery and because light reminds us of our tenuous and frail condition. Light is our necessary portion, but often it remains our continual refusal because light insists on the truth.

And the truth about truth is this: Truth is the holy ground where the enemy will always wage his fiercest battles.

Evil thrives in the deep and in the dark and in the secrets that cower in perceived hiddenness and silence. Perceived because, even in the hidden and the quiet, Satan would have us to believe that this is where evil will remain. But this is his grand and unholy lie. Evil is never silent. Evil is never hidden. Evil insists on its own voice and evil persists in its peeking in and around the corners of our hearts until we can no longer refuse its anonymity.

Evil is the penchant of an unexamined life, and until our hearts are laid bare for a thorough assessment by the learned, evil will fester its growth and will foster its fatality into a life that was never meant to die.

Here’s the good news:

We were not made for the darkness. We are a people of light. A people who do not shrink back from the embrace of its exposure, but rather run toward it and bask beneath the light’s illumination because our faith dictates such a response (Hebrews 10:39). Jesus is the Light of the world, and it is for freedom that he has set us free.

Freedom to come into the light. Freedom to expose the deeds of our former darkness, and to walk in the truth of just how far we have come in the journey toward heart health and kingdom perfection. When we stand in the unveiling light of God’s truth for all the world to see, we stand as a witness to the transforming work of a lavish grace that bled for our release.

And here’s the truth about that Truth:

If our Father had never allowed his heart a thorough assessment—a full surrender to the process of a world’s heart cleansing through his son Jesus Christ—we would still be stumbling and fumbling around in our dark … in our death.

Unlike us, God knew what the scrutinizing would yield. It would necessiate his Son’s obedience to a cross. A Son who willingly chose the hard of an exposure that required his submission. That relinquished his control. That refused an easy road, and that painfully reminded them both about the frailty of the human condition.

Our condition. Yours and mine. A heart disease that required his heart’s submission, even unto death upon a cross.

My Father’s heart.

Who can fathom the depths of such a wondrous love?! Light has come into the world, my friends. He calls for our surrender today. Not to embarrass us or to shame us, but rather to free us from the chains of sin’s darkness. We can walk in the light because he is in the light (1 John 1:7), and he is our Father whose heart bled long and wide and high and deep in order to bring his children home. Thus I pray,

God of Light, illuminate my darkness. Shatter the lies of my sin with the truth of your grace. Strengthen my steps for the journey into the light, even though my flesh cries out for the secrets and for the dark. And when I am scared Father, about my exposure and the hard business required of me for my heart’s health, remind me of your Son’s willingness to sit for examination under the microscope of Calvary’s purification. Humbly I bow my heart to your authority and to your scrutiny this day. Amen.

~elaine

If you have the occasion today, please re-visit John 3:1-21. Read it again with fresh eyes. There’s a treasure trove of truth revealed through the Apostle’s pen and our Savior’s words. Shalom.

The Glorious Wonderful of a Heart’s Break

September 1, 2008

“When a woman who had lived a sinful life in that town learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house, she brought an alabaster jar of perfume, and as she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them.” (Luke 7:37-38).

“Mommy, that movie breaks my heart.”

“Why?”

“Because it was so wonderful.”

“Why was it so wonderful?”

“Because in the end, the king lets her make music.”

“Say that again, Amelia, so mommy can remember it for always.”

Because in the end, the king lets her make music.

This was the conversation I had with my daughter last night after she had finished watching The Little Mermaid: Ariel’s Beginning. I meant to watch it with her, but a lengthy phone conversation took me away from the moment. Several moments to be exact. When my daughter came to me with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face, I was puzzled by her odd blend of emotions. But then I recognized her look. It is one I’ve worn over the years. Sadness and joy all mixed up within the welling of a wet that now poured down her cheeks.

Her emotions seem an odd coupling to those who have never known the glorious wonderful of a heart’s break. But I have tasted such a portion, for I have known a great loss only to be surprised in the end, by a great wonderful.

A great grace.

Atlantica, the magical waters of mermaids and talking sea creatures, had lost its capacity to sing. Not because it didn’t hold a melody within its waters, but rather because a tragic death had beat its drum upon her shores. Loudly and profoundly it marched, sending song’s breath to a watery grave buried deep within the unseen sands of an untouched grief.

Pain does that. It buries. It may burst forth in all manner of wild expressions at the time of sorrow, but it almost always finds a way to, at least temporarily, suspend the song. When death of any kind marches its cadence upon the soil of our souls, it buries. It digs deep and cries hard and grasps for fragments of control that don’t allow music its voice. At least not in the moment.

But here’s the truth of the eternal song. Once the music has made its way into a heart, no amount of casting aside and crying and denying its pulse can keep it buried forever. We can go to the grave refusing it a voice, but in the end, the music remains. It will find its chorus, even without our participation because the King’s music is meant to be sung.

Not long ago, there was a woman who longed to sing. Full of sin, yet full of a needful search, she took to the road to find her song. For a long season it had been submerged within her sands of an untouched grief. Almost forgotten. Almost buried beyond retrieval. Almost too hard and too painful of a reckoning. Almost.

But there was something about this Jesus that struck a chord deep within her. Remote and distant at first, but stirring nonetheless. A stirring worthy of an offering. A stirring worthy of her heart’s break. A stirring worthy of her tear-stained kisses and her hair’s gentle caress. A stirring worthy of her walk of shame before men and, at last, before her Savior.

A stirring worthy of the search because in the end, the King allowed her the glorious wonderful of a heart’s break.

He gave her his music.

“Then Jesus said to her, ‘Your sins are forgiven. … Your faith has saved you; go in peace.’” (Luke 8:48-50).

I know the woman. I’ve seen her before. Not just on the pages of scripture, but written upon the pages of my own heart.

God has allowed me the glorious wonderful of a heart’s break. The surrender was painful, and indeed, my heart was shattered in a thousand pieces and scattered throughout the sands of a sinful disobedience. The brokenness seemed irretrievable, most certainly too deep and too hidden for discovery. And when God’s music had all but diminished to a faint whisper within me, I almost gave way to despair—to neglecting the single chord that held as my anchor despite my disregard for his presence.

But then I heard that Jesus was in town, and the chord within chorused its precision amidst my chaos. I was compelled to get to his feet. The closer I moved toward him, the louder the melody within. And once I saw him, the chasm that existed between my great need and his great wonderful was palpable and strong, truthful and tender. I knelt in tearful surrender and was surprised by the gracious and great grace from the King who has been letting me make his music ever since.

A sinner. Her King. A surrender. His music.

The glorious wonderful of a heart’s break.

May it be so for each one of us this day, and so I pray…

Make your music, Father, sing through me. Those notes that you seeded in my heart so long ago, play them as you will and weave them into your eternal chorus with a blending that breathes sweet in the ear and with a grace the harbors gently within the soul. Thank you for the gift a difficult journey and for the season that turned me inside out, allowing me a hard reckoning with the truth of Calvary’s gift. You have turned, for me, my mourning into dancing, and for the rest of my earthly days, I commit my voice to the song of your renown. Amen.

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