Category Archives: pilgrimage

coming home to daddy’s arms…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Lansey 

movement wins…

Movement wins.

So whispered the Holy Spirit to my heart while I was out walking a couple of days ago. His strong encouragement came to me as I struggled to complete my customary three miles of moderate walking. In the last nine months, I suppose I’ve logged in nearly 700 miles. For the record, I’ve felt every one of them. There’s been some damage to my nerve endings as a result of the chemotherapy. In addition, my current medication, Arimidex, brings with it the side effect of joint pain … especially in the legs.

And so, there is this great contradiction that exists within my flesh—an inconsistency between what is reasonable and what is risky. Reasonable because, with a choice to forego exercise, I have a better chance of keeping personal pain at a minimum. Risky because, with a choice to work through the pain, it’s likely that I’ll “pay for it” the rest of the night—Epsom salts, hot baths, muscle cramps, and pain meds serving to salve my achiness. Thus, this discrepancy between reasonable and risky. Thus, two words from the Father in the midst of my deliberations.

Movement wins. Despite the pain involved, movement wins.

Movement moves me forward from where I was previously. Movement represents progression. Movement advances me beyond current stagnation and launches me down the path of heart-health. I know this to be true as I’ve witnessed my physical strengthening over these past months. Still and yet, what is true isn’t always an easy decision, especially when the decision is a guaranteed choice for additional pain. One really has to want to stay healthy when choosing risky over reasonable. Choosing the risky route can be a costly decision, but in the end, movement wins. So says God.

Could it be the same for our spiritual condition even as it is for our physical one? Is movement the key to securing the kingdom? Is risky over reasonable the only reasonable choice for our Jesus-hearts? Is a choice for more pain, more struggle, and more contradiction the way through to a break-through? To freedom?

Perhaps.

From the very beginning, we’ve been a people of movement. First from God’s Garden. Every step since those initial ones, mostly ones taken in anticipation of finding our way back there. Without our forward progression, we stay put … stay anchored to known realities, unwilling to venture beyond safe borders, fixed parameters, and reasonable guidelines. Those who choose to linger there are often those who get left behind, remaining as is. Unchanged. Unmoved. Underdone according to God’s plan for victory. Instead of allowing their struggles to refine them—shape them and move them—they allow their stagnation to define them—keep them and limit them. When that happens, their hearts aren’t winning. Their hearts are subsisting.

I suppose it’s a good enough existence to live with … die with … move on home to Jesus with, but these days I’m not much concerned about good enough. Subsistence living has lost its flavor. I want to give my heart a good work-out, to push it to beyond its current limits, even though there is certain pain attached to those limitations. I want to walk another 700 miles with my heart exposed to the outdoor elements so that it can be moved and manipulated, stretched and strengthened by Jesus for his kingdom purposes.

Is this a reasonable choice? Not really. When has God ever placed reasonable demands at the feet of his children? Moving ahead with Jesus will be, perhaps, the most unreasonable movement of our lives.

Is it a risky choice? Most definitely. Not because God is not definite, but rather because the world says he is definitely not. And who of us isn’t easily shaped by the world? When we allow the world to dictate our choices, we forfeit movement. We risk stagnation. We live as lesser people.

Movement wins, friends. One step from where you are today—whether one inch outside of the box of your security or one foot beyond the perimeter of the garden you’re so carefully guarding—any small step of faith will be enough to move you forward. Reasonable? No. Risky? Yes. Painful? Probably. But in the end, a guaranteed win with the Father.

I need to move today. Maybe you do as well. Something tells me that the risk will be worth the reward. Someone reminds me as well.

Movement wins.

May God grant you and sustain you with his Peace for the journey as you move forward in his direction.
~elaine

"Go back the way you came… "

“Then a voice said to him, ‘What are you doing here, Elijah?’ He replied, ‘I have been very zealous for the LORD God Almighty. The Israelites have rejected your covenant, broken down your altars, and put your prophets to death with the sword. I am the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me too.’ The LORD said to him, ‘Go back the way you came, … .’” (1 Kings 19:14-15).

 

Go back the way you came.

I have no doubt that this is God’s message to me today. Perhaps to one or two of you as well. Thus, a moment of unpacking it with you if you, like Elijah, are…

  • exhausted from the well-fought battle against Baal on Mt. Carmel;
  • weary from trying to outrun Jezebel;
  • worn out from forty days and nights of wandering toward the mountain of the Lord.

Exhausted, weary, and worn. Anyone? So much so that you’re willing to say, “I’ve had enough, LORD… take my life; I am no better than my ancestors.” Modern day translation? “Even so, Lord Jesus, come and rescue me from my misery.”

I know. A hard truth to admit, perhaps even shameful to some of you. But I’m not ashamed to admit it. I’ve had a few days in the last 365 days when, like Elijah, the span between the pain that I was feeling and the peace of God’s mountain seemed insurmountable. Too far away. Too long in coming. Too high a climb. Too much of a requirement for the feeble flesh that holds my inward parts together. Times when the weightiness of the load that  I was carrying led to my collapse and my “Enough, Lord.”

Who of us hasn’t felt the chasm between our earthly pain and God’s heavenly gain?

I wonder about the motive behind Elijah’s trek to God’s mountain. Perhaps he came for clarification—for the defining purpose behind his next steps. Perhaps to be heard. Perhaps to claim “safe sanctuary” or to cry out “Base!” as I so often shouted as a child during a game of neighborhood tag. But just today, I thought about something else. About another reason for Elijah’s run to Mt. Horeb. Could it be that the memory of Moses’ ascent to Mt. Nebo was running through his mind as he came to God’s mountain? When God called Moses to the mountain, Moses made the climb knowing that he would not return to the valley of God’s people (see Deut. 32:48-52). Moses came to Mt. Nebo to die; perhaps Elijah came to Mt. Horeb with hopes of doing the same. Perhaps Elijah was ready to go home … to be removed from his struggles and to be at rest with his Father.

God had other plans for Elijah. God has other plans for me, and if you’re reading this today, he has some further plans for you.

Go back the way you came. As hard as it seems, go back the way you came.

Back to the desert. Back down into the valley where Jezebel lives. Back to the forty days and nights of having to depend on God to fuel your heart, your thoughts, and your stomach for the ministry season yet to come. There’s more work to be done. More people who need the witness of your story. More strengthening of the remnant that remains behind.

Go back the way you came.

This will be, perhaps, one of the hardest God-given directives over your life. But it is God’s directive to give; yours to obey. In doing so, you will be given what you need to make the descent off of God’s mountain and to live in the valley below. Your earthly work is not over, friend. You must keep to the faith that you boldly proclaim. Mt. Horeb, Mt. Nebo, Mt. Heaven will come to you soon enough. Until then…

Go back the way you came, carrying God’s kingdom with you as you go. As always, may God’s peace for the journey be your portion as you take your next steps of faithful obedience. I’ll meet you in the valley where we can confidently live out our purposes beneath the protective shadow of our Father’s mountain.

surviving…

Funny how life seems to be laughing at me sometimes. Trust me when I tell you the hilarity is a one-sided affair. I don’t find anything remotely amusing about the predicament I’m in—a responsibility given to me months ago and one I willingly embraced when called upon. Little did I know back then what would be required of me to follow-through in the “right now.”

This coming Sunday.

Me, the keynote speaker for Cape Fear Valley Hospital’s annual Cancer Survivor Picnic.

And here’s the funny part—the moment where the joke cycles back on me. Where the taunting begins. Where the fullness of my previous “yes” weighs heavily upon my back and filters through my mind like shrapnel released from an exploding cannon.

It doesn’t seem that I’m doing very well with my surviving… cancer or otherwise. Some days are just getting through days; some days just pushing through days. Some days just wondering and wandering through days. And I feel so ill-equipped to say much of anything on the topic of survivorship. Certainly, I’ve had a few ideas over the past several months; I’ve chronicled a great many of them before you. But today, just a few days away from Sunday, words fail me.

And that is a very hard thing for me. Why? Because I don’t want them to be just any words. I want to mean them when I speak them. I don’t want to waste this occasion with my “blah, blah, blah” breast cancer dialogue. I want my words to speak better. To lift higher. To raise a toast to hope, not to the current getting through, pushing through, wandering through I’ve been feeling as of late. More than anything, I want to be a hope-giver, but friends, in these recent days, my heart has been living apart from hope. My heart has been simmering just above survival. And it’s been a confusing, confrontational mess.

I’m not sure what’s to blame. Maybe hormones, or lack therein. Maybe the summer heat. Maybe a full house and no room to think. Maybe an accumulation of a great many things. Regardless of the agitators, the end result doesn’t look much like hopeful survival. Rather, more like a gradual surrender to a deep wounding—to a healing process that is going to take far longer than what I had imagined.

Is survival really survival when so much hurt exists inside? When getting through, pushing through, and wandering through is the best you can do? Is that survival? Is that enough to move a day’s doing into the win column? Shouldn’t survival be based on more? Shouldn’t the qualifiers read better? Part of me thinks so; the other part of me, perhaps a lesser part, is willing to cut me some slack.

I’m having a hard time deciding about my days, friends, and I’m having a really hard time reasoning out the hospital’s choice for a speaker this year. I want to rise above the current confusion to deliver a strong confirmation about the hope that I profess to believe. I want this coming Sunday to count for heaven’s sake, not mine. Otherwise, what is the point? Really, what is the point?

Platforms are meant for Jesus; not me. Still and yet, there’s one awaiting my presence this weekend. A grace so undeserved, especially for one who’s just getting through, pushing through, and wandering through these days… wondering if my wrestling brings enough credibility to the discussion of true survivorship.

I know what most of you will say, my kind readers, and I appreciate your affirmation in advance. But I don’t want to just receive your words; I want to firmly believe them. I’ve come to depend on them, for we are the body of Christ. We are pilgrims together on this road of faith, walking side by side and held together by our strong foundation, Jesus Christ. You will be standing with me this Sunday when I step before the microphone and speak my story. You are part of my story, and even when words have failed me, you have not. You share in my survivorship, and I will carry your strength with me throughout this week.

Thank you for not laughing at me when I cry; thank you for not crying when I so desperately need to laugh. But mostly, thank you for giving me a safe place to release my feelings. I’m in a vulnerable position right now, a raw and uprooted place, but I’m still here… getting through, pushing through, wondering and wandering though.

Perhaps in the end, maybe enough of a definition of true survivorship.

Peace for the journey,
~elaine
PS: Winners for the notecards will be picked with my next post. There’s still time to join in; see previous post “PS:” for details.

nighttime desperations…

Nighttime desperations…

Inclinations of the mind, heart, and soul that bend in the opposite direction of God’s peace as darkness begins its descent upon a day’s worth of doing. Hidden agendas that bury beneath the brilliancy of the sun’s witness but that overtly and willingly take the stage to blanket the landscape of the moon’s illumination.

Fretfulness. Tearfulness. Anxiousness. Tensions. Confusions. Consumptions. Considerations. Manipulations.

When was the last time your “tucking in time” gave way to nighttime desperations? Why do they seem to wait until the cover of darkness to speak their witness? What is it about a night’s pause that offers up fertile soil for our desperations to take root and breathe and flourish into a stress far grander than the daytime will allow?

Why did mother always say, “Things will look better in the morning.”?

I’m not sure she knew the reasons behind her proclamation. I think, perhaps, she spoke from experience. I think we all could… speak from experience. Many of us could testify to the difference between a night’s wrestling and a morning’s peace. Some of us closed our yesterdays with full-grown and on display desperations. Most of us probably woke up to our todays with a lesser portion of struggle, less angst, less confusion, and more tempered understanding. The dawning of a new day has brought better perspective, not always perfect answers and certain peace, but better perspective.

A perspective not so cluttered by the night’s quiet and cover of darkness, but instead, a perception bathed in the radiancy of the morning’s crescendo.

There’s a holiness that surrounds the birthing of new day… a sacred mention of the Creator that cannot be overlooked or shrouded by our desperations. The light is too bright to miss; too big to hide; too loud to silence. It will not be trumped by the dark deliberations of a night’s pause. Certainly, we can pull the covers over our heads, keep the lights off, and close the blinds to the announcing of a new day, but doing so won’t change the fact that the light has come to lay hold of the night.

And with the light, comes life… another day to flesh out sacred understanding beneath the watchful gaze and warmth of a sun’s embrace.

A Son’s embrace.

Not long ago, there were a few disciples who understood the length and breadth, width and depth of a nighttime desperation. The silence and cover of darkness held their hope captive and threatened to claim previously held truth. Their “tucking in time” gave way to fretfulness; tearfulness; anxiousness; tensions; confusions; consumptions; considerations; manipulations. Their night perspective was too shallow to contain the possibility of the morning’s promised light. Instead, they gathered their fears, collected their tears, and hovered beneath darkened perspective, certain that the night was too long in its witness. Long forgotten were a Father’s words about things looking better in the morning. Their night stood in stark contrast to his previously spoken truth.

But as with all nights, regardless of their desperations, morning broke through. Light came, and the Son rose to take his rightful place above their cluttered considerations and painful conclusions. Christ shattered the darkness with the witness of his illuminated presence, and heaven’s morning crescendo has never birthed more brilliantly.

An Easter morning to replace all nighttime desperations. A once-and-for-all reasoning to bridge understanding regarding the difference between a night’s wrestling and a morning’s peace.

How thankful I am for that morning. How thankful I am for this one… these early, beginning hours that breathe easier than the closing ones I experienced last evening. With the sunrise, the Son has risen to his rightful place in my mind, heart, and soul, and things are, indeed, looking better. How I pray to live in that better throughout my day and into the night hours. Resurrection living is intended for them both. Thus, I pray…

May the light and witness of Calvary’s crescendo illuminate our days and penetrate our nights with the truth of your Son’s embrace, Father. Fill our desperations with the promise of morning’s arrival. You are the candle that keeps company with our days and nights. You are the flame that blazes the path before us, marking our way home to you. Even so, come Lord Jesus and light your fire in our hearts this day as we pilgrim to the Easter cross and fall beneath the weightiness of your truth and grace. And grant us your peace… always Peace for the journey ahead. Amen.

~elaine
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