parenting | Elaine Olsen

her finest hour…

November 6, 2010

I had lunch with the sisters last week. I’ve yet to tell you much about them… these three Southern women connected by birth and each of them hovering toward eighty years of age. I first met them on a Saturday before that Monday (August 23, 2010—a date now chronicled as a beginning diagnosis for my cancer). I was sitting with my family in the local Wendy’s; my mind wasn’t on the food. Instead, my mind wandered to other things… possibilities, my “down the road” and what that might look like for me.

Amelia cradled closely beneath the crook of my arm as she ate her chicken. I just stared and pondered while conversation milled about the table. One of the sisters noticed our bonding, and within a few minutes, made her way to our table.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt, but have we met before?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t think so, but it seems to me that I might need to know you, and those other two sitting with you.”

Thus began the seeding of a friendship between the sisters and me. We haven’t had much occasion to get together since that Saturday. Life happened and change set in. Still and yet, they are good to remember me… call me, bake for me, send notes to me, and occasionally hang with me for lunch at Wendy’s. Last week, provided one such occasion, and the fellowship was rich.

I said something to each one of them during our gathering—an unrehearsed, unplanned kind of something. Words that spring forth from a deep well of emotion. Something I’ve been thinking about for a few weeks now, and something, I think, worthy of sharing with you in this moment.

“Ladies, don’t be surprised if your best days of mothering lie up in front of you; your finest hour of parenting might yet be up ahead, not in those moments that lie behind you.”

They looked at me, eager for an explanation. At eighty years of age, they probably hadn’t given much thought about their parenting in recent days. Grandkids and great-grandkids are mostly fodder for table talk. But parenting? After all these years? How can that be and what could that mean to these sisters whose children probably date me by a few years.

And then I told them.

About her.

And her finest hour.

My mom.

Never in my understanding regarding the life cycle did I imagine her having to care for me as she is doing. She is thirty years my senior. I should be the one caring for her. Instead, she has opened up her heart and her arms again to gently gather me to her breast and to remind me that I am her child, and that no matter the decades between us, I will always be the little girl who arrived into her arms on an Easter morning back in 1966.

Certainly, I could chronicle many of her “shining moments” over the past four decades as a parent. She is the steady anchor in our family tree. Sacrificial in nature, she’s never required the “stage,” which is a really good thing in our family since most of us are continually vying for the spotlight. I asked her once how she and my father wound up together, how they made it work between them. Her response?

“Your dad needed an audience, and I was ready to listen.”

Straight and to the point; never mincing words. Wise beyond her years. When mom speaks, I listen because I know her words are chosen carefully and root from a place of understanding that few others possess. I cherish her influence; I adore her heart; and for all of the ways that she has groomed me, shaped me, taught me, and loved me over the years, I can honestly say that this season in my life has allowed her the one thing that she has often been denied.

The stage. Her shining moment.

It has arrived, friends, and this time we’re all sitting back and watching her speak her lines, take her mark, and watch her as she navigates the spotlight with all the grace and dignity of a queen in her court. She would tell you it’s nothing, that she’s only doing what any mother would do, but I would tell you otherwise. I would tell you that she’s grand and regal and meant for a moment such as this; that this is her season; that I have never needed her more, and that I am willing to be the recipient of her rich love and guidance.

No strings attached; no agenda from my end. Just a little girl caught in a terrible spell of trouble needing the crook of her mother’s arm as she cradles my fragile frame and soothes me with words of truth, comfort, and peace. I think, perhaps, she may not realize this in all the fray and activity of my current chaos. I’m afraid she might downplay her role, and so I wanted to tell you about my mom and extend my thanks to her for her willingness to stand on stage and to live her finest hour so that all may witness its worth.

This is it. And this is enough for me. I hope it is enough for her; she deserves far more than a few meager words of thanks from my heart. Still and yet, even if my words fail to express the emotion I currently feel, they need saying, because words and feelings are a gift we give to one another while there is yet time to release them. We need to “send flowers” while the living are yet amongst us, and we have the occasion to bless them with our sincerity rather than leaving this earthly life without having said much of anything.

I don’t know who’ll make it home to heaven first, me or her. But I know that for as long as God allows us this shared pilgrim road, I’ll keep to her shadows. I’ll bend in closer for a listen every times she speaks, and I’ll make sure to press in for lots of hugs and conversations and tears and love. Why? Because my mom shines like a star these days. She illuminates my world with the light of all heaven, and this is …

her finest hour.

I don’t know how this strikes you today. I want to encourage you as a parent, maybe as a mentor or as a friend to someone in need. Perhaps you think that your finest hour is behind you. That you’ve done all you can do and that there is little hope of you having a further impact on a relationship that’s grown dim or cold or barren of connection. You fear it’s too late for further influence… that your season of persuasion and shaping has exceeded prearranged time limits. That what you think, feel, and want to say won’t have much of an impact on the one who has seemingly lost interest. I’ll tell you the same thing that I told the sisters last week…

“Don’t be surprised if your best days of parenting, mentoring, loving lie in front of you; your finest hour might yet be up ahead, not in those moments that lie behind you.”

God may yet need you to sow some good seed into the hearts of the generation that rests just beneath the crook of your arm. It’s never too late to speak your faith, friends. Never too late to take a chance on loving others and allowing them to be the lavish recipients of God’s great grace via your heart. Never too late to pray a few more prayers, say a few more thoughts, cook a few more meals, hug a few more necks.

There is someone out there who needs the wealth of your years, tenderness, and wisdom. A someone who needs your finest hour. May God grant you, each one, the wisdom to identify that someone, the strength to minister to that someone, and light enough to your stage so that you, like my mother, may be allowed to live a finest hour in keeping with King’s time table.

Oh the beauty of such trust… to be given time by the Father in order to live and to leave a lasting impact upon this generation. Keep to it, friends, keep to the kingdom road, and I will do the same. Shalom and blessed Sabbath rest to you,

"walking Mom"…

September 14, 2010

Who gets to walk mom?

It’s the newest “chore” added to the already growing list of chores divided up amongst the six of us who live beneath this roof. And since two of the six are rarely around, “mom-walking” usually falls to one of the other three. Last night, the task fell to Jadon, a duty in which he is more than willing to comply.

Jadon is a mover… literally. He’s not a sit-still kind of young man. Instead, his energy is constantly on display and in need of harnessing in a good and right direction. Before my surgery, Jadon would occasionally run with me, outpacing me on most occasions. As a mother who runs, it delights my heart to think that, perhaps, one of my children will share a similar affinity for the discipline. That maybe, he and I… down the road… might share in some mother-son jogs, thus allowing us the quality time together we both need and desire. But until I heal… we’ll walk.

It gives Jadon some responsibility in this new mess we’ve come to know as cancer. Cancer isn’t a single-person disease. It affects everyone within arm’s reach. Accordingly, Jadon needs a way to help me… to contribute, and since bathing is not at the top of his priority list (both for himself and for me), I gladly assign him the responsibility of “walking me.” I need not worry about a lag in conversation, because my son’s need for talking far exceeds his needing for moving. This boy can fill a pause with words. (For the record, we’re all talkers, but that’s another post for another day.) Last night proved to be no different.

From the moment our feet hit the pavement, he began with a lengthy discourse about guns. Donned in cowboy hat and gear, Jadon decorated our walk with talk about WWII machinery, his cowboy holsters, one of the latest “picks” from The American Pickers which included a training gun for soldiers. On and on he went for the first lap which morphed into a second conversation for the second lap. A conversation about sex.

I’ll spare you the details, but safe to say, any question is fair game at our house. It’s just how we roll, and in the course of another half mile, we covered genetics, dna, sex within the boundaries of marriage, ovaries and eggs, why he had “two” instead of “one,” his progression from baths to showers… on and on with barely a moment to breathe in between. As we finally rounded our last bend in the road, he looked at me with all the tenderness and kindness of a young boy in a rush for his manhood to arrive and uttered some words I won’t soon forget. He said them the Jadon way—using words that aren’t exactly what we’re used to hearing, but words that, nevertheless, give way to perfect understanding.

“I’m coming along pretty fast, Mom. Soon I’ll be as tall as you.”

Coming along pretty fast.

I don’t suppose I have to tell you what he meant. Jadon is growing up, and he knows it. He sees it… not just in his body, but in his thinking. And while his academics will always lag behind the work of his peers, even there I see growth. He’s not the boy he used to be; instead, he’s becoming the young man he was born to be. Ten years have come and gone like a flash, leaving me with a similar thought in my heart this day.

Life is coming along pretty fast.

Not just for Jadon, but for all of my children. Not just for my children, but for me as well. One day soon, we’ll all be grown up… will have reached full maturity and a season when we can look at the world from a “taller” perspective. From a place of deeper understanding and less confusion; a place of more answers and less questions.

We’re not there yet, but we can be certain that until we arrive at that “taller” moment, we’ve got a Father who is willing to entreat the burning questions of our souls. A Father who is willing to walk us around the block, to hold our hands while crossing the street, and to patiently listen as we search for the right words to connect the dots between our “here and now” and our “there and then.” And we’ll be glad for the discipline. For the walking beside him, talking to him, being with him, looking up at him, knowing that because of the time spent together, we’re closer now to resembling him then in the moments preceding our corporate time of togetherness.

That’s what happens on a walk with someone we love.

We’re shaped. We’re changed. We’re inched along in our maturing because we’ve allowed our feet and our hearts to connect along the foot path and heart of another person, and when that happens, our lives are forever altered. Perhaps not in a way that can be quickly quantified, but in less subtle ways that collect and gather over time to make a formative change in the way we view life… do life.

Life is coming along pretty fast. And if we’re not careful to notice its advent, we’ll miss some of the glorious moments that serve as our precursors to fullness. Like Jadon, we may long for our next big leap of maturity; like Jadon, however, most of us forget that that leap won’t happen until some personal steps of faith are taken beneath the watchful gaze and care of a parent’s love… a Father’s love.

It’s a walk I’m taking today. A walk around the block with my Daddy. And I don’t imagine there will be much pause in conversation. I’ve got a lot of words in me, a lot of questions as well. Mostly, I just want to be with him. I want a few moments with Jesus to call my own where other distractions are kept at bay and where I can have him all to myself. Really, I think it is what all children crave… a time of meaningful dialogue between them and their Father.

Life is coming along pretty fast, friends. Better catch a walk with Jesus while you still can so that he can better shape you for his eternity. And should you have a slot open on your schedule where you can come by and “walk me,” then all the more. I love doing life with you! 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.

Who’s in charge… Who knows best

April 29, 2010

Tonight I have a clearer picture of importunate persuasion. The artist behind the portrait painted in my honor today?

My nine-year-old son.

He’s worn me down with his relentless persistence—a troublesomely, urgent determination that has brought me to my breaking point, to my tears and my surrender. This is not unfamiliar ground between us. Jadon is a single-minded boy who holds onto a thought until said thought is hammered duly into the consciousness of those within earshot. His ADHD diagnosis is partly to blame. Him being nine also shares some responsibility. And the rest of it?

Well, he’s human and being human carries with it a bent toward carnality. Each one of us is born with that tendency. Regardless of a doctor’s diagnosis or a hormonal stage of growth, when we cut through the peripheral rest of it, what we’re left with is our humanity. And sometimes, humanity is a tough pill to swallow, especially if you’re on the receiving end of its poke and prod.

Today, I’ve been poked, prodded, and needled by my child. And while we’ve ended on the upswing (bedside prayers do wonders for a troubled spirit), my heart’s desire is that we could live this day over and do it better. There were things about it that weren’t in keeping with my pursuit of personal holiness. I don’t much linger in those regrets, but I do allow myself a good pondering along those lines. And as I flesh out my contemplation this night before God, I am reminded that for the many ways that my child has “gotten under my skin” today, there is grace enough to cover it all. For you see…

There have been times in my life when I’ve “gotten under the skin” of my Father. Deeply under. So much so that my relentless persistence of my humanity brought him to his breaking point—a moment of tears and blood and the surrender of his will upon a tree.

Love led him there. Love kept him there. Love still speaks from there. He speaks to me tonight, reminding me that the parent/child relationship will always be filled with moments of tension… moments of figuring out who’s in charge and who knows best. Moments when boundaries are pushed, questions are asked, and wills are forged. Without the strain, further maturity is at risk. In testing the waters, children hope to find the security of a parent’s answer. Kids need to understand that some borders are certain, are fixed and unwavering… not to punish them, but rather to protect them.

My son has pushed for those borders today; in turn, I’ve given them to him. Getting there wasn’t “picture perfect” but resting within their certainty tonight is a comfortable closing for two weary soldiers who’ve fought determinedly for the high ground.

Importunate persuasion. Keeping at something until something is gained. And while my son didn’t recevie the “gain” that he was initially after, his relentless persistence has earned him something far greater.

Understanding about who’s in charge and who knows best. Something tells me this will serve him better in the long run. Something tells me this will serve me better as well—remembering Who’s in charge and Who knows best. Even so, keep me to understanding this night, precious Lord. As always…

peace for the journey,

PS: On a lighter note, Jadon doesn’t fall too far from the family tree. His eldest brother sent me to my knees and my tears time and again in his younger years. I called him today (he’s now a junior in college), just to remind myself that strong-willed children can and do, in fact, grow up to be productive members of society. Thanks, Nick, for making my heart smile.

Category Archives: parenting