Category Archives: night visits

a greater thing…

 
I’ve been stuck recently. Hung up on and hunkered down in a thought or two regarding a particular spoken word from Jesus. A promise. One that doesn’t compute with my internal, spiritual compass. One that has always confused me, challenged me, asked me to consider just exactly what he meant by his saying it. Perhaps it’s brought you reason for pause in your personal, exploration with God.
 
“I tell you the truth, anyone who has faith in me will do what I have been doing. He will do even greater things than these because I am going to the Father. And I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Son may bring glory to the Father.” 
{John 14:12-13}
 
Doing what Jesus did. Even greater things. Almost seems treacherous typing it, much less laying claim to it as part of my personal identity. Surely he didn’t mean it as it sounds. Surely he isn’t saying what it seems as if he is saying. That I, that you, sinners saved solely by the grace of the cross, could walk in his similar shoes, dispensing a similar grace on similar occasions with similar results.
 
Surely not. Such a gift feels too weighty. Too much sacred privilege given to human flesh. Too much trust. Too much kindness. Too much royalty. Too much inheritance.  Too much glory for any one person to handle with any measure of Godly humility. Too big of a theology for a pint-sized brain like mine and an even weaker flesh to absorb in this moment.
 
I am in a diminished state. My thoughts aren’t always what I want them to be. Medications and course of treatment force my limits. My thinking is sometimes scattered, and I labor to have it make sense. Accordingly, when it comes to the weightiness of the Word of God and all its intricacies—the mystery and marvel of words that breathe as fresh breath from his lips today even as they were spoken in yesterday—I don’t always get it right. I’m no scholar; no theologian deeply steeped in study and adorned with degrees from the most prestigious religious institutions.
 
 
  Yes, my daddy is a preacher and served as a professor of preaching at one of the finest seminaries in the country. I spent years running its hallways and sitting under some of the richest preaching and teaching offered to formative young minds. As a youth, I was mentored by one of the most deeply committed, well-known youth leaders in the country who made it his solid commitment to make sure that the pulse of my heart would eventually catch up with my over-grown head. Indeed, I was offered the best when it came to my spiritual shaping. But even with all of that tutelage back then and with all of what I’ve come to know since that season…
 
I still get stuck sometimes. And I wonder about God and his promises to me and what he means for me to do with such knowledge. How do I take what he says, apply it to my heart, and then live it out most courageously before his watchful gaze in hopes that I do him some justice… bring him some glory? What could I do in this season of my life that would even come close to matching the sentiment of his heart as spoken in John 14? How can I, sick as I am, stand where I am, as a representative of the I AM and do even greater things?
 
It doesn’t compute, but then again, neither does grace. And just the other morning while others (perhaps even you) were catching sleep granted humans via the natural cycle of life, I was clutching my cross, and I had a thought regarding my “greater thing.” It arrived in the form of few words from God’s Word. Silently, they crept in without notice, transferring me from the dark of my bedroom to the dark of a sea. A night some 2000 years ago, steeped in chaos, waves, and despair. A fourth watch where disciples, not unlike me, took to the waters in hopes of reaching the other side without incident. A night when fear roared its opposition in the face of truth and when faith was shaken to its core. A night when those who were closest to the Master needed the witness of his eternal hold.
 
A night scare that required a night God and the witness of a night Word that would carry them through to the morning’s light:
“Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.” {Matthew 14:27}    
 
And with those eight words, I become less stuck in my previous ruminations. For with Christ’s mandate in that moment—an event in history separated from his promise in John 14—I begin in my understanding of what Christ might mean by my “greater thing.” That I, feeble in flesh yet strong in Spirit, might be a someone who could make that night walk on behalf of the fearful. That God in his infinite mercy and willing cooperation might so endow me with the gift of his Spirit so that I could cross waves and cut through currents to become a hand’s extension. Heaven’s extension. A sacred bridge linking the dying, fear-filled soul to the living, faithful God.
 
That I, a single pilgrim on this journey of faith, might know the power of an interceding Jesus. And that because of his Holy Spirit, I might be filled to overflow with Him so that I would be able to withstand the fear of the night’s storm in order to walk in peaceful pause to extend the courage of Christ to others.  
 
That, my friends, is a greater thing… a greater work. To be one extension amidst millions of other faith-filled extensions who are well-supplied and well-equipped to dispense the King’s courage. Not because of anything we have done, but rather because of everything he chose to do. He chose to make me and you a part of his rich inheritance. We stand alongside him as co-heirs to an undeserved kingdom. On paper and in our minds, such grace will never compute. We’ll never be able to make sense of the “greater things” he has in mind for us to do. But every now and again, when we really take hold of all of what that might mean for us, we catch a glimpse of perfect understanding.
And we find our place… our sacred responsibility and our reason for moving forward with our faith in this world.
 
We are here for God’s greater thing. I don’t know what that will look like for you in the week ahead, but I do know where the fearful live in my little corner of the world. They cloister together less than a mile from my front door, in chairs hooked up to the deathblows and life-giving vein named chemotherapy. Many are stuck in the fourth watch. Many have yet to know that God is the Master of their fourth watch. That his courage and his hands are available to them, and that just maybe, those hands might come to them through a weakened vessel named Faith Elaine. Hands wrinkled by years. Hands drying by drugs. Hands weathered by understanding.
Hands extended in love. Hands speaking the truth in love…
“Take courage; It is I. Don’t be afraid.”
Words rightly and humbly spoken by a daughter of the King. A greater thing, indeed. What a marvelous, treasured gift with which to be entrusted. Live your greater thing like you mean it, friends, and never underestimate your worthiness in the kingdom of God. He has called us, each one, to a greater understanding of the greater gift we’ve been allowed. Use it all, do it all, love them all with his greater end in mind. As always…
Peace for the journey,
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basement dreaming…

*Note: Just in case you’re the one reader of this blog who hasn’t heard, my book “peace for the journey: in the pleasure of his company” has released. Just in case you missed the book trailer, here it is again (truthfully, I need to keep this out in front for readers, but haven’t a clue as to how I might incorporate it into my header, etc. Help Tekeme friends!).

And just in case you’ve hopped over here to find out the first three winners of an autographed copy of my book… here they are, as drawn by my three kids that are currently home (please e-mail me your snail mail, and I’ll get these to you this week): Amelia drew Danielle @ Sojourner, Jadon drew Cindy @ Letters from Mid-life, and Nick drew Laura @ the Wellspring. Some of you have asked regarding getting an autographed copy from me. I’m willing to send you one, but I cannot offer you free shipping like some of these other venues. The cost of ordering from me is $15 per book and $5 shipping for up to 3 books. Please e-mail me your interest.

With my next post, I hope to address some of the questions/thoughts/kindnesses you’ve had for me over the past week. Truly, you are more than I deserve, and I am grateful for every grace you’ve extended in my direction. There will also be another occasion to win a copy of the book, but for now, I simply wanted to write my “heart” with this post and to “speak in the daylight” what God has “whispered to me in the dark.” Shalom.

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“‘What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the roofs.'” {Matthew 10:27}

“Mommy, I don’t mind playing by myself in the basement anymore.”

“Why daughter, what led you to change your mind?”

“Because I’ve discovered that the basement is big enough to hold my dreams.”

***

This was the conversation I had with my daughter in the early morning hours, not on the stage of real life but on the stage of my subconscious—a place where dreams have a habit of displaying their truth in a way that sometimes seems so real, I have a hard time separating reality from fantasy. This time, however, there was no mistaking the dream for reality. Why?

For starters, when I awoke I noticed the above conversation scrawled out on the pad of paper that sits on the nightstand by my bed—a good indication that something took place in the night that I wanted to recall with clarity in the day. I’ve learned to keep the pen at the ready, even in sleep. Secondly, we don’t have a basement. Lastly, even if we did have a basement, I’m fairly certain that, at seven years old, my daughter wouldn’t be ready to make such a bold proclamation regarding her fear of the dark and of being alone. I certainly wasn’t ready at her age to tackle the haunt of the basement that accompanied most of my childhood dwellings. I’m not certain I’m ready to tackle it now, but at forty-four I’m walking ever closer to being able to say with all the confidence of a dream walker…

I don’t mind playing in the basement anymore, because I’ve discovered that the basement is big enough to hold my dreams.

The basement. When I was a child it represented a few different things for me:

  • Isolation.
  • Darkness.
  • Mystery.
  • Quietness.
  • Hiddenness.
  • Confinement.

While growing up, the basement really wasn’t the place where my family lived corporately. We did our living upstairs. We ate upstairs, slept upstairs, and talked upstairs, all the while relegating the basement as a place of individual exploration and retreat. As a child, descending the stairs into the basement seemed like more of a punishment to me rather than a place of escape. To their credit, my parents went to great lengths to make our “underneath” a pleasant getaway for my sister and me. We had a playroom filled with toys and an open invitation to come and to live out our imaginations within its borders. I was more inclined to RSVP my acceptance if my friends or sister would choose to join in the fun, but to go it alone? To freely choose my isolation over the corporate adventure that was taking place in the upper chambers of our home?

Not likely.

I was too scared. Too frightened of what I could not clearly see. Too unsure of what might happen while on individual safari in the basement. Too afraid that I might miss out on the excitement of upstairs living. Too uncertain of the silence that surrounded me. Too confident that the silence would soon be replaced with sounds I couldn’t handle… with suspicions I couldn’t manage.

No, back then basement living wasn’t for me. My fear kept me from it, and if I’m not careful in this season of living, my fear might keep me postured accordingly… confined within the safety of the upstairs without ever venturing downward to discover the foundational beauty that resides beneath a well-structured home. A well-fortified heart.

Basements aren’t all bad. As I think about them tonight, some forty years beyond my initial understanding regarding their worthiness, the basement represents a few old things for me with a new twist:

  • Isolation, moments away from the world in order to be alone with God.
  • Darkness, not to hide me but to grow me.
  • Mystery, the secrets of an unseen God that cultivate my trust and replace my fears with faith.
  • Quietness, permission enough to settle down and settle in on what God has to say.
  • Hiddenness, permission enough to move away from life’s stage in order to allow God a moment beneath the lights.
  • Confinement, closing off the world’s crowding so that my heart and thoughts and dreams have room enough to breathe… to formulate and to incubate in a safe place with a good God.

I’ve been to the basement in recent days, friends. Long before “peace for the journey” ever made its entrance onto the stage of Amazon or Barnes & Noble or Winepress, it made its entrance into my dreams. It was a seed that germinated in the “basement” with God—a season in my life when I faced my fears and risked the isolation, darkness, mystery, quietness, hiddenness, and confinement of the downstairs in order to hear the heart of God regarding my dreams… my pen.

What birthed there, births now in living color for you to witness. Nothing about the journey in between those two births has been routine or predictable. This has been the most unpredictable road of faith I’ve walked in forty-four years. I hope to flesh that out a bit more for you in days to come because I think, perhaps, we’re tempted to assume that basement dreaming and the faith building therein always have to work themselves out in predictable measure. That somehow, my journey with my dreams has to resemble yours and vice-versa.

Basement dreaming with God is never without individual color and imagination. In the midst of your isolation and quietness with God, a foundation of faith is built that will best be able to hold and to fortify the dreams of your heart. What is erected there between the two of you will serve as your solid footing for the season to come. Don’t let anyone tell you that your house has to be built according to a structured set of blueprints… that dreaming only comes in one shade of color. Dreams come in kingdom shades of color, and the last time I checked, our Father’s palette was limitless.

You will get there, friends. Perhaps a trip to the basement might be in accordance with your next step of faith. Don’t fear the descent; instead, embrace it knowing that with each step into the darkness, God’s light shines brighter. I don’t imagine it will be long before your time in the basement will take on new meaning for you even as it has for me. Life in the upper chambers will concede some of its worthiness to the lower level, understanding that without the basement’s underpinning, the floors up above could easily disassemble into piles of rubble.

The basement is big enough to hold all of our dreams… is safe enough to grow them… is isolated enough, dark enough, mysterious enough, quiet enough, hidden enough, and confined enough to allow us open access to our Father’s heart. His heart is where our dreaming meets with the reality of his goodness and where our fear is replaced by a simple faith—a settled confidence in the One who authors all faith journeys and who promises to perfect them along the way and as we go.

God is where I want to live. He is where I want to dream. Accordingly, I don’t much mind playing in the basement anymore. It’s a good place to breathe with God, to grow an imagination, and to exist within the sacred possibilities of what he’s imagined on my behalf long before I made my entrance into this world. This week, I invite you to join me in the downward descent to God’s playroom so that his up and coming plans for your life might have a moment or two beneath the spotlight. It’s going to be good, because HE IS GOOD. As always…

peace for the journey,

~elaine

Copyright © May 2010 – Elaine Olsen

Walking my Peace…

“As he approached Jerusalem and saw the city, he wept over it, and said, ‘If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace…’” (Luke 19:41-42).

I had a bad dream last night. Not surprising considering the events that preceded my final surrender to slumber. I’d already had my good dose of going-to-sleep, Bible reading and was happily drifting away when I heard the slamming of car doors on my front lawn. I awakened Billy and asked him, “Did you hear that?” As if.

He hadn’t. I ran to the dining room window to discover two trucks on our front lawn. Because of some recent car break-ins in our neck of the woods, I was certain that the bandits were making their rounds to my beat-up van, chock full of remnants from a day’s work in the attic that were soon to find a new home at the Salvation Army. My husband commented it would be a blessing if the robbers would cart the stuff off thus, saving him a trip. After pulling on his britches, he headed outdoors to take a look around. Alas, no bandits, only EMT workers responding to a neighbor’s call across the street.

Once I was back in bed, my adrenaline was still pumping and my mind began to entreat all the possible scenarios of what “might have been.” It took a long time for me to resettle my thoughts and move back to the calm I had previously known, but eventually I drifted off to sleep.

To a bad dream.

I won’t go into the particulars, but safe-to-say, it involved a couple of missing children… my children. Seems ridiculous even typing that now; dreams always have a way of living bigger when they’re “in the moment” and happening upon the stage of the subconscious. At the time, the feelings I felt were very real and enough to arouse me from my slumber. Once fully awake, I went upstairs to check on my children and returned to my thinking… about how the earlier wanderings of my mind might have contributed to a bad dream. About how God tells me to bring all thoughts captive to him and to allow him to reframe them in accordance with his truth.

And when I did, when I began to hash this dream out with God, I remembered my previous going-to-sleep, Bible reading from Luke—Jesus’ words that said,

‘If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace…’

And then I remembered what would bring me peace.

Jesus.

And then I was incredibly thankful for this one truth that I, in fact, do know and do hold as my abiding truth in all my times and situations, both day and night.

Jesus Christ and the promise of his peace.

Jesus no longer weeps over my ignorance as he did on that day when he stood on the threshold of a painful surrender. He doesn’t look down from heaven today and shed a tear regarding my willful neglect of his truth. I imagine he still cries for others who’ve yet to make that leap of faith-filled understanding, but as for me and my faith, I’m securely anchored to Jesus and to the pilgrimage of Easter that we walk together this week. His story is my own. His life and death and resurrection belong to me, even as it belonged to those who stood by to watch it in living color 2000 years ago. The words he echoed through his tears back then are the words he echoes still… words he’s entrusted to me and to you for the telling.

We are God’s peace-ambassadors, his kingdom peace-keepers, peace-makers, peace-tellers. We are the living color, flesh-and-blood carriers of our Savior’s truth, and should we choose to remain silent, the rocks will rise up to take our place. God is just that good. His truth is just that pure. His life is just that real. His love is just that much. So good and pure and real and much that even the stones of creation cannot contain their voices regarding his authenticity.

I want to be found as faithful. I want to herald the truth of Easter, and I want the anchor of God’s peace sustaining me on all occasions, whether the moon or the sun is governing the light. Today, I know what brings me peace because long ago I “recognized the time of God’s coming to me”, and I received his story as my own. I live it again this week as I walk to Calvary to remember, to reflect, and to renew my heart as an Easter child with an Easter inheritance to share.

A very good dream. A very certain reality.

God’s Peace. God’s Son. God’s Gift. God’s Grace.

The Truth behind Easter.

Remember Christ well this week; live Christ all the more. I’ll meet you at the empty tomb. As always…

peace for the journey,
~elaine

PS: The winner of the pay-it-forward giveaway is Leah @ The Point. Congrats, Leah. Please send me your snail mail via my e-mail, and as soon as the book arrives in the mail to me, I’ll send it your way along with a few extras. Enjoy.

the elephant in the room…

“Sow for yourselves righteousness, reap the fruit of unfailing love, and break up your unplowed ground; for it is time to seek the LORD until he comes and showers righteousness on you.” (Hosea 10:12).


He spoke some words to me this morning, somewhere between my dreaming and my waking.

Not God.

An elephant.

Yes, that’s what I wrote. An elephant. Yesterday’s headline news about a woman and her child being killed by a mother elephant intent on protecting her African turf somehow made its way into my dreaming. Instead of this woman being chased by an angry elephant, I was the object of his fury. Funny how that happens. Reality merging with the subconscious, all playing itself out upon the stage of our slumbering. All making sense in the moment, calling on emotion to interject its full witness throughout.

The emotions in that moment for me?

Panic. Fear. Retreat.

Thank heavens for the makeshift rest area that existed feet away from my frightful encounter. It sheltered me in one of its two, crudely fashioned stalls, concealing my presence from the formidable beast which seemed, for the moment, a bit confused as to my whereabouts. I practiced being hidden until she rudely entered in. Apparently bamboo doors aren’t equal to the strength of an angry, momma elephant.

I kept quiet, eyeing her mammoth frame through the narrow slit in the stall door. Rather than knocking the entire structure to the ground, she turned her head and drew near to my fright. Her eye was big. Her eye was penetrating. Her eye was eyeing me, dressing me down and reading me through that narrow slit—a space now ample enough for her intervention and my swift destruction.

She didn’t go there; instead she spoke there.

“Run, run, back to the place where you came from. Then this country can go back to being what it has always been, drab and undisturbed.”

An elephant’s exact words to my slumbering soul. I’m not kidding, and for what it’s worth, I wrote them down. In fact, I carried them to church. Been thinking about them all day long.

~About drab and undisturbed ground.

~About the brave few who are willing to walk its breadth in faith believing that their feet were meant to go there.

~About breaking up the unplowed ground of a dreary and untouched soil.

~About an angry elephant who’d rather leave things as they are; keep the “baby” protected and unaffected by outside influence.

~About lives that live out their days unaltered because no one dared to step out for their sakes… speak up for kingdom’s sake.

~About those who let the threats of the enemy keep them immobilized in fear and from moving into the spacious place deeded to them by a gracious and very good God.

~About a country that remains as it is because no one dreamed beyond its borders.

Stuff like that. All marinating inside my head and ruminating within my heart for an entire day. And tonight I’m wondering where that line is between dreaming and waking. Between what’s imagined and what’s real. Between voices that author from heaven and threats that author from hell. Located somewhere in an elephant’s words to me, I find them both… hell’s threat and heaven’s hope.

“Run, run, back to the place where you came from. Then this country can go back to being what it has always been, drab and undisturbed.”

Hear the threat. Hear the hope.

The hope precedes the threat. Without hope—without the anticipation of what might be discovered because of what will be disturbed—then there would be no angry elephant in the room. And lest we haven’t noticed in recent days, there’s an angry elephant in the room, friends. Rather than sidestep him, avoid him and pretend that he doesn’t exist, don’t you think it’s time we deal with him? His threats? His false impressions regarding what’s his and what’s not?

Makeshift stalls are poor excuses for spiritual progress. They are exactly as they were created to be… a temporary dwelling to stall your forward progress. If fear is what has led you there, what is keeping you there, then an elephant’s anger has raged successfully. You’re right where she… where he wants you to be. As he wants you to live.

Unproductive. Ineffective. Incapable of “disturbing” the ground beneath your feet, unplowed or otherwise.

It is time to disturb the ground beneath your feet, sisters and brothers in Christ. It is time to face the elephant in the room. Time to look the angry momma squarely in the eye and echo back to her some familiar words…

Run, run, back to the place where you came from. Then this country can go back to being what it has always been.

God’s.

I don’t know what that means to you today. It’s meant a great deal to me. I have a feeling it just might be the right encouragement for someone who’s stuck in a makeshift stall right now, stuck in fear and more than willing to concede some sacred ground to an angry elephant rather than claim that soil as kingdom inheritance. If so, then receive my dream as yours, and carry the truth of its witness into your week. You and I were empowered with God’s Spirit to deal with our elephants. Let us not walk God’s earth in fear. Let us, instead, disturb it for his sake and for his heaven’s gain.

In the name of the Father who created us, the Son who paid the highest price to redeem us, and the Holy Spirit who tabernacles within us, Amen. So be it.

peace for the journey,

Copyright © January 2010 – Elaine Olsen

"unpack me"… a night Visitor re-visits

{Hadn’t planned on being here today; hadn’t planned on writing today. Some days, however, our experiences call for some words, some remembrance. This was one of them. Maybe I wrote them for you as well. Shalom.}

“But when he, the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all truth. He will not speak on his own; he will speak only what he hears, and he will tell you what is yet to come. He will bring glory to me by taking from what is mine and making it known to you.” –John 16:13-14

“Unpack me.”

Words that haunt me eleven hours beyond the moment they first enveloped me. Somewhere along 1:30 AM, I awoke with the startling awareness that God’s presence was within reach. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him… the kind of feeling that frightens me, all the while enlivening me. A deep, rich peace surrounding me, calling for my attention and my willingness to entreat the “voice” of my Father. Past experience has taught me not to run from his voice, but instead, to wait for it.

This time, it was immediate. Not audible in the exterior, but loud and clear in my interior. I groped for the pen and notebook that resides on my bedside bookshelf and scribbled down these words in the dark:

“There is none so mysterious as the One standing in this room with you at this very minute.”

“Then what am I to do with you, Lord?”

“Unpack me.”

As quickly as the words arrived, they stopped; the pen and paper found their way home, and I snuggled deeper beneath the cover of night, cradling the gift I’d just been given—

The voice of God.

It arrived on the heels of an evening prayer where I’d wrestled some things out with my Father on my face and with some ample tears to chorus my questions. Questions about his character and his trustworthiness as they pertain to my life. Dangerous questions to ask, yet ones I needed to articulate because my faith had been challenged along these lines earlier in the week (thanks, friend, for the call, the faith, and the prod).

Can I trust the character of God? What is sum total of God’s character? Am I operating from his reality—the truest truth—or from a reality based on my perceptions regarding his interaction in my life? Can I know the character of God, and if so, how do I get there? How do I piece together a better understanding of who he is, so that I can begin to operate my faith from there rather than from a place of skewed awareness? Could it be that a lack of faith stems from ignorance regarding the true nature of faith’s Creator—faith’s Author and Perfecter?

Dangerous questions, yet ones that my Father was willing to entreat on my behalf last evening, because when it comes to his character and his child’s willingness to know him more fully, he bends low to listen, even further to deliver his answer.

“Unpack me.”

And with his voice, I discover something most distinctive about the character of my God.

He is near, and he wants to be known. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have taken the time to startle my soul from slumber and give witness to his mysteriousness, all the while allowing me an unpacking of him therein.

Are we meant to hold mystery and revelation all in the same moment?

Apparently so.

I held it last evening; it holds me today. It leads me to worship. It moves me to faith.

Perhaps today, at the beginning of a new beginning, you have some similar questions for our Father. Perhaps you languish in your understanding of God’s character. Perhaps you’re wondering if he can be trusted with your life. Perhaps you’ve seen much, lived through much, fought through much, to the point where your “much” seems too much in keeping with the character of a good God. Your faith is shaken, and you’re heart is asking…

“What am I to do with you, Lord?”

If that is the earnest and honest and purest plea of your heart, would you be willing to leave it with our Father? I don’t have the answers to all of your questions; I certainly haven’t found the answers to all of mine. But I know where to bring them. I trust the character of God enough to know that he receives them, hears them, ponders them, and then in his own time, his own way—

He answers them.

Sometimes in a whisper. Sometimes through a loud roar in the midst of loud day. Sometimes in the reading of his Word. Sometimes at the altar of grace. Sometimes through another’s kindness. Sometimes in a storm. Sometimes in peaceful waters, and sometimes in the middle of the night—bending low and standing bedside to honor the request of his daughter’s heart.

All the times, I think, through a simple two word command that leads all hearts to a greater point of sacred understanding.

“Unpack me.”

Are you willing to move past the questions, friends, into a greater revelation of our Father’s character? I am willing because today I hold the worth of a night’s pause with a night Visitor. I don’t imagine I shall ever recover; I’m certain that I don’t want to…

ever recover from God.

Let’s unpack him together in 2010. It would be my privilege to come alongside you in your night’s pause to entreat the voice of our King. As always…

peace for the journey,

~elaine

Copyright © January 2010 – Elaine Olsen

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