pilgrimage | Elaine Olsen

a seventh birthday celebration

August 5, 2009

Today, my daughter celebrates her birthday. She is seven. Yesterday she was six.

It’s been an interesting “watch” … this observing her as she navigates her thoughts about growing a year older. For months, she’s been planning her birthday festivities and adding to her “gift list”. A couple of days ago, I caught her staring at herself in the mirror. When I asked her what she was doing, she simply replied, “I’m seeing if I look any older.”

Miss Amelia has longed for seven ever since she turned six. It’s the way of her young heart … looking forward and hoping that with this birthday will come more maturity, more responsibility, more being the grown-up she sees in her older family members. It’s hard being the caboose of the family some days. She wants to catch up to the rest of us; she seems to think she’s missing out on something by being the youngest.

Being seven, to Amelia, seems a whole lot better than staying six. But for all of the reasons she could articulate behind her desire to see this day arrive, there’s still a part of her that longs to remain a child. I saw a glimpse of it yesterday.

Amelia closed the door to our bedroom (always a good indication that she is up to something, perhaps even trying to hide something). When I opened the door, she quickly turned off the television. I asked her what she was watching. She was hesitant and then softly said, “A baby show, Mom, and I didn’t want anyone to know. Seven-year-olds don’t watch baby shows.” I nodded my understanding and then left her to her internal wrangling regarding the issue.

Somewhere between six and seven comes a struggle—a season of clarification between our baby days and our moving on to maturity. Biblically speaking, the number seven is a number representing completeness and perfection:

*God’s seventh day rest after six-days of creation (Genesis 1-2:4);
*Seventh year sabbatical rest of the land (Lev. 25:2-7);
*Feast of Tabernacles and Passover lasted seven days (Judges 14:12, 17);
*Pharoah’s dream regarding the land / seven good years, seven famine years (Genesis 41:1-36);
*Seven churches in Revelation (Revelation 2-3);
*Forgiveness requirements = 70 x 7 (Matthew 18:21-22).

And while I’m not obsessed with the numeric aspect of Scripture, I do think there is something to this “seven”. At the least, it intrigues me, especially as I walk through this day with my daughter and see her wrestling with the issue. She wants to grow up, yet there remains her inclination, a smaller preference for her former days.

As is goes with Amelia, so it goes with my own heart. To get to “seven”—my completion, my perfection and my final end—I’ve got to move past “six.” I think I’ve been stuck on “six” for a long season. I think we all could echo the same. Days when we desire to know the fullness of what our Father has intended for us to be, yet days when we can’t seem to get past the “baby” in us.

As Christians on pilgrimage to a better country, there is a sacred tension we walk between the celebration of our seven and the seemingly interminability of our six. We long for the arrival of the party, for the recognition of our completion, yet we’re caught in our current status of growth. These six years that belong to us—the lifespan between our birth and our death—seem long and laborious most days. When we look in the mirror, we see the witness of a six-year season that hasn’t always been kind but that is more than willing to carve its wrinkled remembrance. Like my daughter, we are looking for signs of growth indicating that our “seven” stands ready on the horizon and that our maturity has warranted our participation in the celebration.

The party is not long off, friends. Soon, each of us will move from our six to our seven. We will sit with our Host, look back over the scenes of our lives and, together with him, call it done, completed … a perfection that’s been worth the six years’ collection of steps to get there.

And if today’s celebration in my family is any indication of what our “seven” is going to be like, then there will be cake and presents a plenty, a song or two sung in our honor, and lots of wishes come true.

May you, each one, know this day that seven is on its way. The six we now journey is preparing our hearts for the seven that is soon to arrive. I look forward to sharing the party with you. As always,

Paz para el viaje (peace for the journey)…

June 28, 2009

Hey Blogland! Instead of getting Elaine’s daily dose of “Peace for the Journey,” I’m afraid today’s entry comes from her 20-year-old son, Nick. I know, I know…in no way can I match my mom’s conciseness, clarity, and writing panache, but I’ll give it my best shot (And I won’t hold it against you if you stop reading now and check out someone else’s blog…)

I recently returned from a 10-day mission trip to the South American nation of Bolivia. Twelve of us went through an organization named Curamericas and were led by a bilingual 22-year-old volunteer named Andrew Herrera. A majority of our time in Bolivia was spent in the village of Tacachia, nestled cozily in the Andes Mountains about 35 miles from the capital city of La Paz. We worked at the Kory Wawanaca Children’s Home, an orphanage with 18 children and several staff members. I had the unique privilege of having this be a “return” trip to Bolivia, as I went last year with a group from our church.

Our team of twelve set out on a Tuesday at 3 p.m. with plans calling for us to arrive in La Paz the next day at 6:00 a.m. It seems that nothing ever goes according to plan, though. We missed a connection flight in Miami and then had to change our plans on the fly in Miami. As an occasionally hotheaded 20-year-old, I grew frustrated and impatient very quickly, and worried a lot about our new travel plans. Long story short, we did some South American globetrotting the next day and went through Venezuela, Peru, and finally reached La Paz at 12:45 a.m. on Thursday morning after 35 straight hours of travel (that’s the southern tip of the U.S., the northern tip of South America, the western tip of South America, and the highest capital city in the world for those of you keeping track…not too bad, eh?).

Already God had taught me a basic lesson in Christian living: I had to trust Him, and realize that everything was in His hands.

Exodus 33: 12-18

Moses said to the Lord, “You have been telling me, ‘Lead these people,’ but you have not let me know whom you will send with me. You have said, ‘I know you by name and you have found favor with me.’ If you are pleased with me, teach me your ways so I may know you and continue to find favor with you. Remember that this nation is your people.

The Lord replied, “My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.”
Then Moses said to him, “If your presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here. How will anyone know that you are pleased with me and with your people unless you go with us? What else will distinguish me and your people from all the other people on the face of the earth?”

And the Lord said to Moses, “I will do the very thing you have asked, because I am pleased with you and I know you by name.”

Then Moses said, “Now show me your glory.”

In the days leading up to our trip, this passage from Exodus was a daily prayer and inspiration for me. Countless times during our trip, it would come to mind as a source of comfort. I always ended my prayers by echoing Moses, “Now show me your glory.”

There were two definitive moments when I witnessed the glory of God in Tacachia—two “passing-by” moments. Sure, the entire experience was glorious, but two were the kind of glory that I’m sure Moses witnessed there on Sinai with the Lord. These two have seared themselves into my memory and will not soon be forgotten.

The first came during a Sunday lunch at the orphanage. 10-year-old Roy, who was an avid chess player, had brought his set out and was looking for an American to play against. He had already done battle with Frank Ferrell, an adult on our team, earlier in the week; Frank had been victorious, but not without some difficulty. By the grace of God, I knew enough Spanish to help set up the first contest between the two; neither was very knowledgeable of the other’s language.

I was able to then witness the rematch on Sunday, sitting next to Roy and being able to translate somewhat for both parties. The match was a tight and silent one, with both players extremely focused on the task at hand. With a pair of brilliant moves, however, Roy was able to checkmate Frank and claim victory. Here were two people (completely polar opposities) from different age groups, neither speaking the other’s language who were bound only by a common knowledge and love for the game. Sensing Roy’s excitement, I leaned over to Frank and said, “tell him ‘buen hecho’” (Good job, well done…). Frank tapped Roy, who was walking away, on the shoulder and said, “Roy…Buen hecho.”

And as he walked away, the grin that exploded across Roy’s face was, without a doubt, the most vivid and radiant smile I have ever seen.

The second “passing-by” moment came at our departure from the orphanage, a morning that was one of the most difficult mornings I have ever experienced. My week of getting to know the 18 kids at the orphanage was over; I bonded with all of them, but to a higher degree with some. I enjoyed a special bond with 13-year-old Miguel, in part because I saw so much of myself in him. He, like me, was the oldest of four siblings, had an avid interest in athletics, and a penchant for sarcasm at times. We talked one night about how much I enjoyed being at the orphanage and getting to know Miguel and his family. The most enduring image I will take from Tacachia, and the one that tells me that God worked through us in this trip occurred during our tearful goodbyes (there were some tears, and some floods).

My last goodbyes were Miguel and Roy, who were standing around the monkeybars. I told them I really enjoyed meeting them and would miss them. Roy asked if I was going to return with such a pleading look on his face, and I said I hoped that I would. Miguel was silent as his and Roy’s eyes began to fill with tears. I looked in Miguel’s eyes and said, “Somos hermanos. Dios te bendiga” (We are brothers. God bless you.). We got in the cars and pulled out, but not without me taking one last glance at Miguel and Roy, still standing next to the monkeybars with their heads down; spasms of heartache at telling these kids goodbye have bothered me ever since.

For the days leading up to and during the trip I, like Moses, had been pleading with God in my prayers, “If your presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here. How will anyone know that you are pleased with me and with your people unless you go with us? What else will distinguish me and your people from all the other people on the face of the earth?”

Only the presence of God can bring out those two images. Only the presence of God can help one overcome language and altitude and attitude barriers to serve Him. Only with the presence of God can we, like Moses, witness the glory of God.

I truly feel at home in Tacachia, and hope to return there again next year to further strengthen the bonds I’ve formed this year, as well as to cultivate new ones. This trip, as is most often the case, stands as proof that yes, God worked THROUGH me. But he worked so much more IN me, and for that I am eternally grateful.

In the days since returning from the orphanage, Relient K’s song “I’m Taking You with Me” has been running through my head. My heartfelt pledge since returning to the United States is found in these lyrics:

“If home is where the heart is then my home is where you are;
But it’s getting oh so hard to spend these days without my heart.
So I’m taking you with me anywhere that I
Could ever wanna be for the rest of my life.
I want you there with me, and If there ever comes a time
When I should have to leave, I hope you know that I,
I’m taking you with me.”

So may you, blog readers, go with the presence of God, may you witness His glory, and may you take Him with you wherever you go.

Paz para el viaje (peace for the journey)

~ Nick

Where the Heart Is…

June 23, 2009

I sensed my son’s immediate discomfort with the statement spoken to him by a local parishioner while waiting in the check-out line at Wal-Mart:

“Sure bet you’re glad to be back home.”

Nicholas squirmed for a gracious response.

“Yes, sir. It’s good to be home.”

Even as he spoke it, I felt the painful cut that seared his heart with more clarified precision than that of a sharpened knife. The words weren’t intended to hurt, but they did. They reminded my son of everything he’s been trying to process since returning home from Bolivia.

If home is where the heart is, then my son’s home (at least for the “right now”) resides somewhere in the remote mountainous village of Tacachia, Bolivia. He spent the better part of a week walking its soil and tending to its harvest–a harvest that exceeded the fruit of the land to include the fruit of relationships.

The Kory Wawanaka Children’s Home (an orphanage sustained through the Methodist Church of Bolivia) houses nineteen orphaned children, ranging in ages from three to thirteen. When Nick first visited their community last year, the orphanage had four residents. Newly licensed for operation, the home has experienced strong growth in every way during the past twelve months.

It was especially meaningful for Nick to witness the growth of the past year. The “pulse” behind the work there is strong and evident, stirring his heart for further involvement.

“I want to go back, mom. And not just for a week. I want to stay longer next time.”

Next time.

My heart can barely get around these past “two times.” Still and yet, I listened to him pour his heart out over cheeseburgers and fries during a mother and son outing. I knew it was coming, this unwrapping of his feelings. Even as his emotions welled with the “telling”, mine welled with the listening.

God is moving Nick’s heart in a new direction. The shaping that’s taking place is what I’ve prayed for his entire life. In fact, I’ve prayed that prayer for all of my children over the years.

That they would, each one, know early on in their lives what God would have for them. That they would walk in their calling in their twenties rather than waiting until their forties to figure it all out. That they wouldn’t spend their days wondering about what they were supposed to be doing but rather would spend them knowing that whatever they were doing, they were doing so with an eternal purpose in mind. A kingdom purpose.

That they would find God, sense God, believe God, and know God in the everyday and mundane of a life that doesn’t always make sense but that is content to walk hand in hand with One who possesses perfect sense and understanding for the road ahead.

That they would listen to the promptings of God’s Spirit within and not brush it off as a momentary whim or selfish fancy. That they would, in fact, trust in the truth they’ve been given as children of the Most High God. A truth that tells them God is living and active and moving on their behalf and that because of this “constant working” they shouldn’t be surprised when he shows up on the scene of their lives, prompting them to keep in step with his leading.

God is faithfully answering those prayers for Nick. I heard it in his words and saw it in his eyes as we shared a table and bared our hearts to one another. And while Nick has always imagined his life to be headed in a certain direction, God is asking him to imagine bigger. To dream better; to see beyond his raw capabilities and to, instead, take hold of his sacredly bestowed giftings.

That kind of living, friends, is where it’s at. God has planted his own seeds of promise within our lives. When we begin to see those seeds harvest toward kingdom gain, then our hearts, like my son’s, welcome the growth of a new soil. In fact, our souls can’t help but cry out for it. For the untilled lands of an untouched country that is completely and “holy” surrendered to the idea of God’s unlimited possibilities.

As we connect with that kind of “heart-stirring”—when we begin to see our lives framed within the context of a greater good rather than within the parameters we’ve so carefully and comfortably created for ourselves—then we walk our part in the Great Commission. We walk our callings; no matter the location; no matter our age; no matter if we have the credentials or the education to go alongside.

We simply and profoundly walk our faith with all the confidence of heaven as our guide. We don’t worry about the particulars. The details belong to God. But the steps?

Well, they are ours to journey, whether here or abroad. When walked with the Creator, every step moves us closer to him … to heaven, where the final proclamation of our earthly life will resound in perfect unison with perfect wisdom…

“Yes Sir, it’s good to be home.”

No tears; no pain; no more wondering about our callings. Just rest for our hearts in the place where they were always intended to land.

Home.

By the grace of God I’ll get there; by his grace so will Nick, so will my other children. So will you. Thus, I pray…

Thank you, Father, for meeting us in this day. For showing up on foreign soil to till our hearts for kingdom purpose. For allowing us the “wrestling” of some things that further shape our understanding about how you intend for our lives to live. Give us the courage to “work the thing out” before you, with you, depending on you so that because of you, we come to a greater place of obedience to you. Use our pain to teach us Father, even when it hurts and our preferences call out for its burial. Meet us in those deep places; stir us all the more, and keep us to the pilgrimage of a final grace that will walk us home and welcome us fully. Amen.

PS: I’m in the mountains this week; the picture above stands as my witness. Nick has promised me a post regarding his own thoughts about his trip. I hope to have it by week’s end, along with some pictures. Shalom.

A Fine Child

June 10, 2009

“Now a man of the house of Levi married a Levite woman, and she became pregnant and gave birth to a son. When she saw that he was a fine child, she hid him for three months. But when she could hide him no longer, she got a papyrus basket for him and coated it with tar and pitch. Then she placed the child in it and put it among the reeds along the bank of the Nile. His sister stood at a distance to see what would happen to him.” (Exodus 2:1-4).

The Nile is a difficult “letting go.” A hard release. A gut-wrenching surrender.

It was for Moses’ parents. It is for me.

Tonight I stand on the riverbank of the Nile and watch my son from a distance as he boards a plane at Raleigh-Durham International Airport, heading toward the mountainous regions of Bolivia. He will spend ten days at an orphanage, tilling the land, repairing the chicken coops, working on latrines, and playing a pick-up game of soccer on every occasion.

He will bathe little; sleep even less. Stomach Bolivian delicacies and try his best to speak the language he’s been intensely studying as his college minor. He’ll make me proud, of that I am sure. Others will love him, of that I am more certain.

And while all of this makes my heart smile with gratitude for the man he is becoming, there is a pang of sadness for me. Not because I desire to keep Nick to myself, but rather because I won’t be alongside to watch the unfolding of this “fine child” before the eyes of others. Moments and memories that I’d like to scrapbook for myself will be given as a remembrance to those who stand further down the river’s bank, eagerly awaiting his arrival and anticipating his participation in their lives.

I see the bigger picture; it’s been growing in me for a long season. God has amply supplied me with a series of “letting go’s” that continue to shape my heart for sacred surrender. They always make me cry, and I’ve never shied away from their wet. I simply allow the tears a spacious place to land in order to water the growth of my tender soil … my fragile soul. I pray them not to be too much, but rather just enough to seed my pain with some purpose.

It’s a good prayer to pray, especially because our “letting go’s” are going to arrive. It is the way of a forward journey, regardless of our willingness to stand still and not move one moment beyond this one. How much better would it be to allow our moments of “needful release” to birth in us a sacred shaping that will serve a better end—both ours and God’s.

Moses’ parents understood this better than most. They were commended for their faithful release and duly memorialized for it in the Hebrews “hall of faith”:

“By faith Moses’ parents hid him for three months after he was born, because they saw that he was not an ordinary child, and they were not afraid of the king’s edict.” (Hebrews 11:23).

By faith, they hid their son. By faith, they released their son. By faith, they watched their son from a distance. By faith, they understood that their son was no ordinary child, but rather a “fine child” destined for a better end than that of most of his contemporaries.

By faith, we should equally trust our Father with the release of our children to the River Nile.

They’re all “fine.” Special and beautiful and worthy of the nod of heaven. Like Moses’ parents, from the moment they’re born, we hide them. Shelter them beneath our wings because we understand that while heaven has marked them with eternity, hell has marked them otherwise. For destruction—as ordinary, expendable, unremarkable, and worthy of the nothing more than a swift slaughter simply because they carry the bloodlines of a King.

But three months passes quickly. Eighteen years for most of us. For a few of us, a painful and difficult less. For a few of us, a painful and struggling more. Still and yet, there comes for all of us a moment at the river’s edge. A time of release when we must find our peace at a distance and trust that Father God has something bigger and something beyond us that awaits our children on the other side of our hard surrender.

We may not see his wisdom in it all; rarely do we catch a full glimpse of our children’s forever. But occasionally we have an inkling—a heavenly whisper reminding us that, indeed, there is a wisdom that exceeds understanding. A “more” that is coming because of our willingness to “let go” and “let God.”

Tonight, I “let go” again of the son I dearly love. It won’t be the last time my heart is called upon to make such a surrender. But I do so in the spirit and strength of my spiritual ancestors who better understood the painful trust of a difficult release. Thus, I speak these words of release to my Nick as he flies the night sky and as I try to find him there, amidst the stars and dark that separates our flesh…

Go with God this night, my son. Sail the Nile with all the trust of heaven to guide you, shape you, strengthen you, and mold you into the man that God has intended for you to be. I will be keeping watch, but my arms aren’t long enough to catch you this time. God has orchestrated events accordingly. He means for me to stand on the riverbank while you engage with the wild and wet of a river that calls for your participation. You are a fine child, and you were meant for more than my arms. You were meant for the world. Embrace it, and it will embrace you. It’s time that others discover the wealth of who you are.

And just in case they don’t, if for some reason they reach any other conclusion, you can be certain that I’ll be waiting at the river’s edge to welcome you home and to remind you of just how extraordinary you truly are. I love you, Nick. I’ll see you on the other side of your river’s ride.

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Waiting

June 3, 2009

“I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.” (Psalm 27:12-14).

Today has been a day of routine waiting. From the moment my feet hit the floor, it’s been full speed ahead, pushing the various duties of my life through the motions and then some more. It’s not been bad … just full.

In the midst of my commotion, God gave me a couple of moments. Moments I would have missed had I not been waiting. As I consider them now, they seem a better trade for the stress of my waiting.

First, I met Jenny and her infant daughter, Lily Ann. Like me, they were waiting in the office of a local oral surgeon. I was waiting for a consult with the doctor; they were waiting for “husband and dad” to emerge from his wisdom teeth surgery. After perusing magazines for over an hour, I finally put down the “Good Housekeeping” and made my way over to the couch where they were sitting.

Lily Ann was a delight. At six months old, she coos and smiles at the top her game. I couldn’t escape her drool or big blue eyes. Her mother, Jenny, was quite eager for me to engage with her beautiful daughter. At just twenty years of age, Jenny could have easily been my daughter. We talked and laughed and shared a couch for a good thirty minutes before her being called to pick up her husband at the side door of the building.

Prior to her departure, I told her about our church; she told me that since moving to the area five months ago (they are a military family from Athens, GA), she and her husband have been “looking” for a church. She grew up Baptist; I grew up Methodist, and when she asked me if we were close to being the “same,” I assured her that we were—that, in fact, God doesn’t look at our denominations. God looks at our hearts. I passed her my card, and we parted as friends.

One moment I would have missed had I not been waiting.

Moment two came on the floor of a local resale shop. My son was trying on clothes for his upcoming trip to Bolivia. I was contemplating my tired when a woman emerged from the double doors at the back of the shop. She made her way over to me and asked for my opinion about the two objects she held in her hands.

One was a polka-dotted cookie jar; one was an ornate flower vase, blue with gold etching. With some hesitancy, she stated her request…

“Which one do you think will hold more sand?”

“Excuse me, sand? What are using this for?”

“Well, my brother died yesterday; we’re having him cremated and will be taking him to the river to scatter his ashes. Which one do you think might work better?”

“Tell me what you think and then tell me something about your brother.”

And with that, the floodgates opened as Geneva spent the next fifteen minutes describing to me the events of the previous twenty-four hours. Bill died in his wheelchair while talking with a friend at his assisted living facility. Dead at the age of sixty-two without warning, leaving behind at least one grieving sister who was in search of his “casket” in a resale shop.

I hugged Geneva, told her I would be praying for her throughout the day and then encouraged her to leave the cookie jar and vase behind and head to “Michael’s” for her purchase. If I could, I would have gone with her, but this was not my journey to make. This was simply a divine moment given to me in order to “enter into” someone else’s pain.

One moment I would have missed had I not been waiting.

Jenny, her daughter Lily Ann, and Geneva. Three of God’s precious children waiting for me on the road of life today. I am not surprised by their arrival to my world; instead, I am profoundly thankful for the sacred intersection that allowed me a few moments of connection between my heart and theirs. What a privilege and blessing it was to be able to seed some comfort and love on behalf of the kingdom. God will do with it what he will; I am content to leave the outcome in his best-intentioned hands.

Moments. Split fragments of time that call for our notice and our willingness to engage with the heart of God’s people. We may not see them coming, but when they arrive, may we all have the good sense and the kingdom perspective to call them worthy of our attention and intervention.

Perhaps this day, you’ve known a “wait.” If not, I’m fairly confident that one is on your way. What you do with that “wait” is up to you. As for me, I’d rather spend it on behalf of a people who need to know the lavish love of my exceedingly good God. And while I don’t relish a long lingering in the doctor’s office or an unscheduled stop at the resale shop, I pause today to consider what I would have missed by not receiving their requirement.

I think this day better lived because of them; I think my heart all the more.

Live your moments like you mean them, friends. Make them count for something more than what they seem. As always,

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