living God’s truth | Elaine Olsen

consider your walls…

July 1, 2010

“God is in her citadels; he has shown himself to be her fortress…. Walk about Zion, go around her, count her towers, consider well her ramparts, view her citadels, that you may tell of them to the next generation. For this God is our God for ever and ever; he will be our guide even to the end.” {Psalm 48:3, 11-14}

Do me a favor. Find your Bible and read Psalm 48 in its entirety out loud. Read it from this perspective… a personal perspective. One that understands that you, because of your sacred status as a believer in Jesus Christ, are the living temple of the living God’s, living Spirit (1 Cor. 6:19). That the outward and visible signs of the old covenant, which were once carved in stone, have now moved inward and are carved upon your heart by the precious blood of the cross. Read Psalm 48 that way and when you are finished… walk about your temple and compass around her walls. And then…

Count your towers.
Consider your ramparts.
View your citadels.

Towers. Migdal in the Hebrew language meaning, “elevated stage, pulpits, raised bed.”

Ramparts. Cheyl in the Hebrew language meaning, “fortress, wall.”

Citadels. Armown in the Hebrew language meaning, “palace.”

Thus, count your stages; consider your walls; view your palace.

What God is asking us to do with this passage of scripture is not only to ponder this holy admonition as it occurred in context a couple of millennia ago, but greater still to ponder its worthiness as it pertains to our lives right now. I don’t know about you, but as I walk about my “temple” this day, I’m not sure I see what God sees. The last few weeks of my life have been a blur at best, and I seem to be crumbling to rubble rather than rising to the “temple status” as described in Psalm 48.

I have no personal pulpits to mount (although my family might disagree). No gleaming ramparts to display. No citadels in which to stage my kingdom. Instead, I have boxes and stress and precious few moments of intimate exchange with my Father. No, when I look around at this crazy mess that I call my life, I don’t see much personal application in keeping with the status of Psalm 48. But then again, I don’t always see like my Father sees.

It’s not my pulpits or my best efforts at polishing my life or even the thrones that I ascend that give occasion for my Father’s notice. None of my self-impressed notions, self-imposed restrictions, or self-maintained guidelines garner me the attention of my King. What makes me attractive to him—what elevates me above all the other “fortresses” that are being erected around me in hopes of garnering the world’s notice—is the One, luminous stronghold who lives within my temple walls:

“God is in her citadels; he has shown himself to be her fortress.” {Psalm 48:3}

Indeed he has… shown himself to be my fortress—the Hebrew word misgab meaning, “high place, refuge, secure height, retreat.” I shudder to think of how miserable my life would be living right now if not for the saving, long-reach of Father God. If he were not my high place… my retreat, then my walk about within my palace would be a futile attempt at grasping for personal significance. And quite honestly, who of us needs that kind of exhaustion? Trying to matter to the world without the fortification of and identification with the King will, indeed, leave us with our rubble rather than his restoration. If we’re counting on the outward manifestations of our “pretty” to serve as a lasting impression for the generations to come, then we are one generation away from being forgotten.

Why? Because our attempts regarding our “outward” don’t last; God’s continuing perfection of our “inward” is enduring. When we allow the Master Builder his hands in our palace construction, our tower raising, and our fortress fortification, then what is left behind is something worthy of survey and remembrance. Therefore, precious sojourners on the pilgrimage of grace…

Count your towers. Consider your ramparts. View your citadels.

Because of Jesus, you are a gleaming temple fit for the presence of the glorious, ever-present, always-with-you, King. Only he can bring such beauty to the messiness of your flesh. Only he can make Psalm 48 an up-to-date “write” for your life; mine as well. Thus, I pray…

Walk with me, Father, around my temple today. Together, let us count these towers, consider these ramparts, and view these citadels from your heavenly perspective, not mine. Where there is crumbling, Lord, repair the brokenness. Where there are personal pulpits erected for personal means, tear them down and replace them with your cross. Where there is dullness, shine me with the lustrous revelation of that first, Easter morning sunrise. You are what makes me beautiful and worthy of the next generation’s pause. Today, I humbly ask you to come and make my temple a commendable home for your heart. Thank you for making Psalm 48 a good “write” for my life. Amen.

Peace for the journey,

PS: Please note that all word study references were obtained from Studylight–a wonderful website devoted to helping the average Bible reader strengthen his/her understanding regarding the original language/text of Scripture. Check them out.

running my neighborhood…

June 28, 2010

{arriving home…}

Not long ago, my friend, Melanie, asked me a few questions regarding my “running” life. She has recently started a new blog for running moms and graciously allowed me a post all my own. You can read it here. One of her questions centered on my running route—the place I best liked to run. My answer?

The neighborhood behind my house.

When responding to her questions, I still lived there… on a busy highway that prevented my running endeavors. Accordingly, most days I opted for the brief walk through a field behind my house in order to secure a safe running path in the neighborhood that bumped up against my backyard fence. For nearly six years, it was my path. It no longer is my path. Instead, my path has led me to a new neighborhood… one with tree-lined streets and landscaped yards and the sounds of sprinklers and lawn mowers and birds desperately trying to make peace with the scorching summer temperatures. I took to those streets a couple of days ago… paying close attention to landmarks and being careful to notice my surroundings.

I had a good run; I was relieved to get it behind me. There’s a bit of mystery attached to this unknown path. Taking to it rather than retreating from it has been a good approach for me as I navigate this continuing journey of faith. It doesn’t serve the kingdom or my fears to stay isolated within my four walls. Hibernating… hiding only prolongs the process of my becoming, and for those of you who know me at any level, I’m all about my becoming. I cannot abide a stagnant heart and life. Staying stuck in yesterday isn’t an option for me, even though there are moments when I long for the safety of its embrace. Thus, I took to the streets of my new community, and I thought about Melanie’s question and what it means for me as I begin to turn the pages of this new chapter in my journey.

Running the neighborhood.

We all have one, you know… a neighborhood. A place given to us by God for the generous dispensation of our hearts and his kingdom seed. He doesn’t intend for us to stay isolated in our lives, removed from the world and safely entrenched in personal confinement. Instead, God means for us to lace up our shoes and to hit the streets with the witness of our willing faith. To put pavement beneath our feet because, in doing so, we move our faith forward rather than keeping it buried in our ellipses.

{my new neighborhood… Christ UMC}

Your neighborhood may not look like mine. Yours might be altogether different from mine. I will never “live” there with you, and you will never “live” here with me, but all of us share a common interest—a single connection that requires us to move past the fear in order to take hold of a rich faith. To see beyond the old that has kept us and to embrace the new that God has parceled out before us.

For most of us, that’s a scary prospect. Living with the unknown is a difficult abiding for those who enjoy reading the last page of the novel over taking the necessary pains to get there, one page at a time. Some would rather skip the mystery and live the sure reality that precludes any measure of uncertainty, any growth in personal faith. This has been my temptation in recent days, but when I bow my head before the Father, when I engage his heart in the matter, I see a Jesus who didn’t skip the mystery but who was, instead, deeply invested into every page of the story… not just the conclusion.

Jesus didn’t miss anything in his earthly tenure. Jesus laced up his sandals and took to the streets of his neighborhood, paying very close attention to the landmarks and giving special attention to his surroundings. He didn’t miss a thing… not one moment, not one person. Wherever he walked, he lived. Whatever he saw, he touched. No day in the life of Jesus was wasted. He was never “not” in the mood to be Jesus. He didn’t forsake the journey of faith for fear of his making a mistake. He simply did what he came to do… to run the streets of his neighborhood and to elevate his heart rate in accordance with his Father’s.

That’s neighborhood running, friends. That’s what it means to be a kingdom runner, regardless of the soil that claims the soles of your feet… the soul of your heart.

I don’t have clue what this means for me in the days to come; I only know and fully believe that I can run my “neighborhood” because there is One who has gone before me and given me a perfect example of how I might more perfectly and deliberately live my faith on the pavement of real life. I will not let my fear keep me bound within these four walls. I will, instead, let my fear drive me to my knees and to my Father who has promised to run my neighborhood with me and to make sure that I don’t miss a thing.

Oh for the eyes and faith to see and to live like my Jesus! That is the prayer of my heart this night; the prayer I hold for you as well. Keep to the road, friends. Run your neighborhoods and live your faith in the strength and grace of your Jesus who has promised you his courage and perspective for the road ahead. In the midst of all the changes that are going on in my life, I am thankful that my blogging address remains the same—

a good and loving neighborhood to run with you in this season. Thank you for loving me as you do and for allowing me a few moments of gracious entry in and around the streets surrounding your home. You are a landmark worthy of my notice… worthy of our Father’s as well. I love you each one and will endeavor to jog past your place sometime this week. As always…

Peace for the journey,

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"Let the boy run…"

June 7, 2010

As I rounded the corner of mile two on my usual jogging route, I noticed them walking toward me—two middle-school boys getting off the bus… two brothers making their way to the home less than a quarter of a mile from the bus drop. I’ve seen them before; even chatted with them on occasion, but all I received from them in that moment was their cursory nod as they made their approach. It was obvious to me the debate going on between them. I noticed the increasing, accelerated paces that accompanied their “out of the corner of the eye” glances toward one another. A race was about to happen, but not before they passed my observation.

I must have served as their starting line, because as soon as they made it beyond my right shoulder, the competition was on. I don’t know who won the race; the older brother is bigger with a longer stride, but the younger is thinner and perhaps harbors just enough determination to claim victory over his older brother every now and again. I chuckled as they passed, having seen this kind of competitive spirit in my own sons over the years. It has both annoyed me and blessed me, always reminding me of the subtle differences that seem to exist between boys and girls.

I continued with my jog for another mile and with the “chewing” on these differences when a thought occurred to me. A voice really. A whisper that simply and profoundly declared…

Let the boy run, Elaine. Let the boy run.

If there is one thing this woman knows, it’s boys. I live with four of them—one manly boy, two semi-manly boys, and one wishing he were anywhere within shooting range of the older three! There’s just something in them that says “get to the finish line first.” Whether it’s a foot race to the front door, a sprint to claim the front seat of the van, a drive to the hoop, the front runner for the hot shower or for morning pancakes, boys have it in them to be first. When it comes to racing, all other considerations are pushed aside. My boys can’t seem to help themselves. They simply were made for the running.

Let the boy run, Elaine. Let the boy run.

I’ve thought a lot about this whisper over the past couple of days since it first entered into my heart. Thought a lot about all of the ways I’ve tried to squelch the “run” in my boys over the years. As a single mom of two young sons, it was easy for me to justify my taking the lead in all of our matters. When they wanted to run in those younger days, it bothered me. I didn’t understand boys back then; I just tried to control them for fear that I would lose them. Since Billy’s coming into my life, I better understand the nature of the manly “run”; he’s brought depth and insight into the equation. Still and yet, there’s a part of me that cannot fully appreciate the pace of a boy’s heart—the boy’s drive to be first, be strong, be in the lead, be in charge. So much of what they’re wired to be is how I’m wired as well. Thus, the rub. Thus the need for a whisper from time to time reminding me to…

Let the boy run.

I want my boys to run, all of them. I want them to be fully man and fully alive to the paces of their genetic and spiritual predisposition. I don’t want them to wait to run until they’ve passed my shoulder and I can no longer enjoy the display of their manly fortitude. I want them to run in front of me while I can yet witness their strength. I want to see them grow and become and develop into the strong leaders that God has called them to be. I don’t want them to be hindered by my need to be in control; rather, I want them to run past me, all the while because of me and my willingness to tie up their laces, to walk them to the starting line, and then to cheer them onto victory. At my age and in this season of life, I might be running alongside them; not to beat them this time around, but rather to enjoy them and to champion them into doing what they were always meant to do.

To run.

It’s not been an easy conclusion to arrive at; my parents raised me to be a strong, independent woman, unafraid of her shadow and not easily swayed by man’s opinion. I am thankful for the sturdy sense of identity that was embedded into me long before I knew what it was to share a home with a boy, much less four of them. But after years of living with their witness, they’re growing on me, and I am beginning to appreciate their innate need for speed and for the lead.

Let the boy run, Elaine. Let the boy run.

By God’s grace, I hope to follow through on this whisper of heaven. Something tells me I might need the strength of my four boys in the days to come… might need their courage and their pace to buoy me along in my journey toward home. I’m glad I have them. As I grow older, I become less tolerant of my need to be in charge and more willing to concede my front-runner status to those whose legs are better able to handle the pace of life. It’s taken me a long season to get there, and I imagine that I will always prefer my running shoes to high heels. But for now, I’m enjoying the sprint to manhood that is taking place under my roof. It makes me glad to be a woman… to know the differences that exist between me and my four boys and to be perfectly content with the distinction.

And so I say to you, my four boys—Billy, Nick, Colton, and Jadon—

Run boys. Run swiftly and let this wife and mother take it all in. I look forward to watching the race in the days to come and to cheering you on to victory. Home is just around the bend, less than a quarter of a mile from this moment, and the pace you now keep will be worth the company you will then keep for all of eternity.

Let the boy in you run strong. Let the man in you finish well.

This woman loves you and delights in living this life with you. May you now and forever always know…

Peace for the journey,

on "going to the woodshed"

June 1, 2010

I have a story I want to tell you; not because there’s anything particularly spiritual about it all, at least not at this point. Perhaps before it’s over there might be a small nugget’s worth of something to cradle as your own, but for now, this story belongs to my daughter because, long after I’m gone, I want her to have it to cradle for always.

Miss Amelia. She is the caboose of our immediate family, following in line after her three older brothers. They tell me she doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

I don’t see it as much as they do; I don’t look for it… don’t search for all the ways that she might resemble me. I just live with her, love her the best I can and am occasionally mindful of what they profess to see.

Me in her; her in me.

Like a few days after she was born when I cradled her closely to my chest and looked into her eyes. They fixed on me, almost as if she was giving me permission to glance into the depths of her soul. For a brief moment, I peeked in and had the strangest feeling that I was looking at a mirrored reflection of myself. The memory is as vivid to me now as it was nearly eight years ago.

Me in her; her in me.

Like a few weeks ago when her daddy called me on the way home from picking her up at school. Apparently there was an issue in the hall bathroom… something about a potty mouth and her not being able to take good instruction from the teacher the first time around.

Me in her; her in me.

Like the moment after receiving the call when I met her at the back door and sent her upstairs to “think it over” before talking it out. Knowing that her momma was disappointed, her eyes brimmed with tears searching for any measure of initial grace that might be extended to her on the front side of discipline.

Me in her; her in me.

Like the commotion that followed her bedroom ascent; her unable to handle the isolation and silence and feeling the need to fix the problem herself, all the while making sure that I took notice of her angst.

Me in her; her in me.

Like in the one-sided conversation that followed her “thinking it over” when she met me on the stairs half-way. Me coming up; her coming down.

“Stop right there, Mommy (upright hand directed at me). Before you say anything you need to know something. I’ve already washed my mouth out with soap, and I’ve already spanked myself. And just in case you’re wondering… it really, really hurt.” (Her words; not mine.)

Me in her; her in me.

I stifled my laughter until later, acknowledging to her that the discipline seemed to have fit the crime and that we were good to go for the rest of the day. We hugged; she moved on, and I was left alone to ponder the exchange between us.

I’ve been thinking about it ever since. We are quite the dramatic pairing. We live our lives out loud and with full emotion at every turn. Few are the days void of our laughter and our tears. Never are we silent, and rarely are we ever alone. If it’s true, if in fact my daughter doesn’t fall too far from the maternal tree, then I am not surprised about the extraordinary lengths that she was willing to travel in order to punish herself. It’s a technique I’ve perfected over the years—personal flogging for personal sin that, if not carefully guarded, can easily become a personal pastime for me.

I’m not as bad as I used to be, but every now again, when I pursue sin over personal holiness, I’m quick to find the bar of soap and the paddle, even though all I’ve been charged with is the “thinking it over.” Rather than taking a cue from my Father in regards to my taking a breather in the isolation and quiet of an upper chamber, I busy myself with trying to find some grace via the route of my good intentions. I rely on personal understanding rather than God’s understanding, and more often than not, the self-inflicted wounds I apply aren’t in keeping with the crime… aren’t in keeping with my Daddy’s grace.

I wonder if you understand; if, in fact, you know what it is to take yourself to the woodshed over your sins. That maybe you, like my daughter and myself, don’t fall too far from the same tree. That sometimes it is easier to receive punishment than it is to receive our Father’s compassion. Could it be that we have grown so attached to our need for penalty that we altogether miss the grace of the cross? I’m not saying or thinking that our sins don’t come without consequence. But what I am wondering is…

Who are we to decide that consequence? Are we the ones to measure out mercy or to put parameters around pardon? When is enough, enough? What discipline could we offer on behalf of our sins that would equal our Daddy’s forgiveness? Does one spanking suffice? Would two or ten or twenty years’ worth of woodshed drama be adequate to cover the gaping distance between our bad and God’s good? Our need and God’s sufficiency? When does hurt, hurt enough, and why in the world do we burden ourselves with the awesome responsibility of keeping score?

Me in her; her in me; perhaps… you in us.

I think, in part, this is where the story moves from solely belonging to me and my daughter to belonging to you as well. I’ve been to the woodshed in recent days, friends. I imagine some of you could say the same. Maybe some of you are there tonight. Do me a favor…

Put the soap back in the dish; hang the paddle back on the nail, and simply sit in silence with your Daddy. He’s already ascended the stairs on your behalf, and I imagine that he has a word or two of grace to offer to your hurting heart.

“Stop right there, child. Before you say anything further, do anything further, you need to know something. I’ve already been to the woodshed for you. And just in case you’re wondering, it really, really hurt. And just in case you’ve forgotten, you’re really, really worth it.”

Him in us; us in Him. And none of us too very far from the family tree. As always…

Peace for the journey,

PS: My heart is strangely stirred this night… these last few posts have come from both a place of poverty of soul and fullness of spirit. Some of you won’t understand that; I’m not sure I understand it all myself, but of this I am certain. God is moving in my heart, and he longs to speak to me. Accordingly, I must move closer for a listen. I’ve walked with God long enough to know when he is calling… long enough to know that I don’t want to miss a single moment of intimacy with him… certain enough to know that something good is around the corner. I pray all of this and more for each one of you tonight. I’ll see you on the other side of God’s burning bush. Shalom.

on holding the suitcase…

May 26, 2010

“You hold the flowers, Elaine, I’ll handle the suitcase.”

This is what God wants me to know this day, nearly a year after he impressed it into my soul. It was the statement that led to this…

Most everything about the front cover of my book was intentionally planned.

The ripe wheat.
The evening sky.
The path with a bend in the road.
Trees in the distance, framing the scene.
Enough blue heaven to hold the title.
The kids… my kids.
The similar nature of their clothing.
The shadows they cast.
The holding of hands.
The look between them.
The beat-up suitcase.
My son carrying that suitcase.
The Gerber daisies.
My daughter carrying those daisies.

What I didn’t plan on back then was the outcome… the completed look… the finished product… the culminating portrait that paints a message all its own. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then this cover releases the witness of at least a million or so; not because I had anything to do with it, but rather because God did. Long before the fifty-two reflections made their way into the interior, God had been working on the exterior. Only God can paint the eternal witness of a single moment. From his vantage point, he sees the bigger picture—the end result—and without hesitation, he picks up the paintbrush and works his truth into the mix.

I have no idea what God intends to do with this cover or with the written contents that reside within. I only know that the impression he put into my soul a year ago, is one that remains this day. It will remain for my children and their children, on down the line for generations to come. A worthy word for them and for all of us who are treading this earthly sod with a healthy respect for the temporal nature of the soil beneath our feet and for the season that lies ahead… the one just beyond the bend in our “down the road.”

“You hold the flowers, child, I’ll handle the suitcase.”

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light (Matt. 11:28-20).

I’ll handle the suitcase; you take charge of the flowers.

It’s all that God has assigned to us this day… the picking and the holding of his generous grace.

He can handle the wholly… holy… rest of it.

You’ve got a bigger picture, friends, and our Father can be trusted with the paintbrush. Believe him for it today, and thanks, Sheri, for the prompt. I needed it. As always…

peace for the journey,

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