Category Archives: trust

on waiting for the bus…

The LORD will guard your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forever. (Psalm 121:8)

I’ve been watching them for ten months now – a father/daughter duo during their morning routine. Their everyday schedule coincides with mine. The 11-mile trek from my front door to my office door takes a usual path – country roads, four-way stops, grazing cows, fields of harvest and an occasional stopped school bus.

This is where our worlds intersect. I don’t know them by name. I only know them by their actions. Each time I’ve seen them together, the scene paints similarly. Around 7:19 AM, I get stuck behind Harnett County bus #249 as it rolls to a stop on the road adjacent to their property. The pair is usually waiting together, a dad and his daughter. Occasionally, she makes a sprint to the bus from her front door, but not without her father sprinting in tow.

He’s always there … with her. Rain or shine. Early or late. On time or just killing time.

This daddy waits with his daughter.

I cannot fully know the motives behind his waiting. Perhaps it’s her safety that warrants his participation. Maybe he just wants to send her off with a few extra words of daily encouragement. Regardless of the reasons for his being there in these early morning moments of her every single day, the fact remains that there hasn’t been an occasion in ten months when I’ve seen one without the other. Daddy and daughter are a team.

My hunch is that his motivation isn’t anchored solely in parental duty but, rather, is rooted more in parental privilege.

This daddy understands the value of their kinship and his responsibility therein.

Soon enough, she’ll be on her own, not needing her father’s chaperoning to make it to the bus. Before long, those final glances between them will fade, maybe even feel less necessary. She will grow in ways that can be seen and measured. He will grow in a way not easily detected by the human eye, only felt deeply within. Growth pains come with parenting – his pain perhaps more pointed and precise than hers.

Still and yet, he’s all in. He risks the pain because he treasures the person – his child.

He loves her because she is an extension of him – a profound, sketched-out mystery by the very hand and heart of God. In giving us children, the Father gives us an example of the length and width, breadth and depth of his love for us … a hands-on, living, breathing, and growing paint-by-number portrait of heavenly affection. This love expression is not always perfected in human exchange, but every now and again, it comes pretty close to revealing this most profound mystery –

the love between a father and his daughter.

The love between a heavenly Father and his child.

He’s always there … with us. Rain or shine. Early or late. On time or just killing time.

He watches over our evenings, and when the morning arrives, he walks us to the bus stop. He waits with us because he loves us, both duty and privilege weighing equally in the matter. God does what good fathers do.

He loves us up close – seasons when having him near us brings reassurance, strength, wisdom and calm.

He loves us from afar – seasons when his presence seems less necessary. When our backward glances fail to find his forward ones. When our growing pains come at the expense of his own.

He loves us because we are an extension of him. Regardless of whether we see him or not, our eyesight doesn’t preclude the reality of his presence.

God is always with us.

Faithful is our Father. Precious is his presence. What privilege we hold to be held in his sights!

For what it’s worth, this is the word picture and the holy rumination that’s been chasing my heart for many months now. Today was the day to put pen to paper. I pray it’s an encouragement for your heart as well. As always…

Peace for the journey,

Storyteller

God is the Master Storyteller.

He writes good lines, thinks long-term, and fills up our books with chapters unimaginable to us on the front side of their unfolding.

Don’t believe me? Well, let me tell you a story…

There is a memory I am holding today. It’s a bit shadowy around the edges as I was only 5 or 6 years old, but with clarity I recall the scene; in particular, I remember the person – a boy named “K.” K and I attended the same church with our parents and often found ourselves around a table in a Sunday School classroom.

On this particular Sunday morning, I met K for the first time. He was energetic, happy and full of joy. I sensed that he was somehow different from the rest of us, but no one seemed to mind. I would grow in my understanding of K over the years regarding his uniqueness as well as his challenges. As we grew older, I saw him less, understanding that his life and mine would never walk the same path forward – that our childhood connection would remain solidly fixed in my memories with an occasional present-day rumination about his current whereabouts.

I wonder what ever happened to K?

Well, I know what happened to K.

Fast forward through fifty years of living. Through moves – nine relocations in three states. Through marriages. Through babies. Through graduations. Through college drop offs. Through two extraordinary daughters-in-law. Through grandkids. Through disease. Through the trauma of almost losing a child – a son named Jadon. All the way through to this moment, to today.

This is where I hit the pause button, because it is now when the lines of God’s story get really interesting.

Tonight, my son Jadon will walk to K’s house, sit around his table for an evening, break bread with him and begin a journey as companions – a friendship (once removed) that began 50 years ago with K and I in a Sunday school classroom, dancing around in circles.

Six months ago, Billy and I took Jadon to Wilmore, KY, and dropped him off to begin his seminary training at Asbury. Our hearts remain tender with the separation. Our hearts also overflow with joy knowing that Jadon is where he needs to be to continue his journey in a place that holds everlasting significance for me.

My dad was a professor at Asbury Seminary, beginning in 1970 and continuing for over 40 years. My mother? The registrar at Asbury Seminary. My husband? A graduate of Asbury Seminary. I cut my spiritual teeth running the hallways of that hallowed institution, along with the hallways of the Wilmore United Methodist Church (the church where Jadon is now the youth pastor). What was sown and grown inside of me in that season is a history that continues to write the lines of my present-day story. Deeply so.

Not long ago, a college friend who is closely connected to K’s family reached out to me about Jadon’s possible interest in working with K. Throughout the years, she and I have kept in touch through social media; she closely followed along with Jadon’s miraculous recovery from a 2018 traumatic brain injury. After a few conversations with her, an initial meeting with K and some further training, Jadon begins in his new role this evening.

And I am caught in the moment, in the magic and mystery of God’s story-telling skills.

Fifty years ago, I danced around a Sunday school classroom with K. And God looked on. I wondered if he smiled and thought…

Just wait, Elaine, about fifty years from now. Have I got a story to tell you!

Funny how our lives write the witness of God’s faithfulness … glorious really. How what we cannot see now … imagine now … is but the heavenly word bank from which the Master Storyteller chooses the words to write an eternal, best-seller.

God is faithful. He will not leave our stories unfinished without a witness. He’s watching from a far, maybe even smiling because…

He knows what he is doing. He knows how to weave our past into our future in beautiful measure. Maybe there’s strength in that truth for you tonight. Keep rehearsing your history with God and looking for all the ways that your former steps inform your current ones.

Rest alongside the Storyteller. He who began a very good work in you is faithful to complete it. Trust Him for the finish.

Word has it that endings are his specialty. As always…

Peace for the journey,

follow the lights

The remembrance crept into my mind this afternoon – a memory usually left somewhere in the back, catalogued for an occasional trip down memory lane.

It was hellish ride that night. We huddled tightly together in the backseat of a friend’s truck, following behind an ambulance that carried my injured boy. We could barely see the vehicle’s reflecting lights for the ferocious havoc of Hurricane Florence. The storm was only beginning its assault on our community, and my son was one of its first victims.

“How will I know if he dies on the way to Charlotte? That’s a long trip to not know the condition of my son. How will I know?”

My heart was breaking as I questioned the valiant EMTs who’d made the three-hour journey from Charlotte in hurricane-force winds just to turn around and head back into them with my son as their cargo.

“We’ll meet you in the ER, Mrs. Olsen. He’s in good hands.”

And just like that, they were gone. I couldn’t touch my son, couldn’t hold on to him should he slip away to Jesus during those hours of dark separation. Instead, I could only release him to the night’s drive in hopes of his survival.

With communication cut off, I entered into the deepest, darkest moments I have known on this earth. I had no way of knowing if the son I loved so dearly was with me or if, instead, he was with his Father in heaven. I simply and profoundly had to let go and tarry with the unknown … come what may.

That’s a difficult holding, friends, to be suspended in a place of not-knowing.

Some of us are feeling a similar weightiness right now. We’re trailing behind an ambulance that holds someone … something … we dearly love.

Yes, a different season with different circumstances. Still and yet, a time that feels heavy … like a storm is brewing just off the coast, readying itself for landfall. A night pregnant with the possibility of a Cat-5 hurricane.

Howling winds; falling trees; rising waters; a lack of communication with the ambulance up ahead.

That’s how weighty this day in 2021 feels to me, a bit like that night back in 2018.

Two thousand years ago, another mom stood at a distance from her son’s wounding. She couldn’t hold him in the dark hours of separation, only tarry with her punctured heart:

“When all the people who had gathered to witness this sight saw what took place, they beat their breasts and went away. But all those who knew him, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things.” (Luke 23:48-49)

All those who knew him – standing at a distance.

Let that sink deeply into your thoughts. Picture the scene. Feel that moment of utter separation and desperation.

The pause seems interminable.

As it was for those who were distanced from Christ 2000 years ago, and as it was for me two years ago, so it may be for some of us today.

As questions begin to mount in this space of not-knowing, so can the fear. What cannot be understood in these hours of silence can only be imagined. And those imaginations left unchecked are rarely the underpinning of a solid faith; instead, they are often its undermining.

This is the heart stretch … the reaching part where our faith must exceed our grasp.

We’ll not know the outcome of the ambulance ride until it reaches the ER. And to get there, we must be willing to follow behind its reflection.

Into the winds; around fallen trees; through rising waters; without communication.

Indeed, the heart stretch of faith.

The ambulance is moving, friends. Get in your vehicles. Follow closely the dimming lights in front of you. Follow trustingly. Follow prayerfully. Follow fully – all the way through to the ER.

God is with you on the ride; God is waiting for you as you arrive. A Cat-5 hurricane is no match for the accompanying and powerful presence of our Lord.

You’re in good hands. So am I. I’ll meet you in the ER. Until then…

Peace for the journey,

PS: For those of you new to Jadon’s story, you can click here to see more. 

Rehearse Your History with God

“Rehearse your history with God.”

This was my recommendation to my family last night as we sat around the dinner table. Our discussions lean toward the “heavy” these days. So much going on in the world. Chaos, confusion, concerns. You know. And out of that deep well of heaviness, I drew forth these words:

“In times like these, family, we need to rehearse our history with God. Trace his faithfulness. Trust in his goodness.”

Billy acknowledged my words with words that my father used to say to me … “You know, Elaine, that’ll preach.”

A smile passed between Billy and me, and then the internal gnawing began within my soul … the rehearsing of my history with God.

There’s a lot to recall, to reflect upon, to remember. Instead of focusing on recent memories, I dug further into my past – twenty-five years in retrospect.

As a single mother of two young boys, I made the decision to return home to Wilmore, KY. If “home is where the heart is,” then I definitely made the right choice to move back to the Bluegrass. Wilmore is the place where I first trusted God and began my long obedience with him. Most importantly, Wilmore was where my parents were living, and I needed the safety, acceptance, and love afforded me therein.

I also needed a job. After a disappointing interview with a Christian school down the road (one where the questions were centered more around the reasons for my divorce rather than my qualifications as an educator), I decided to apply for a job at Asbury Theological Seminary – the vocational home of both of my parents. Dr. Kenneth Kinghorn was looking for an administrative assistant; he’d known me as a child, and now he would better know me as an adult. The interview process went forward, and within a week, I had a job. And while I mostly didn’t have a clue what it meant to be an administrative assistant, I did know that, for the first time in a long while, I was safe. Dr. K had given me a chance to start over, to further “grow up” and mend my heart in an environment that had earlier shaped my beginning days of faith.

For three years, I sat under the great favor of Dr. Kinghorn. He protected me, challenged me, walked alongside me while never judging me. He stocked the supply closet with Diet Dr. Peppers, and he lovingly allowed me long lunches with the Beeson girls (you know who you are), as well as daily walks to my mother’s office on the other side of campus. When the bi-weekly chapel hour came, he put the closed sign on the office door and said, “Let’s go.” When my boys showed up at my office after getting off the bus from school, he ended my work day early. When asked for his counsel, he wisely engaged. He daily prayed over me and, on occasion, trusted me with campus “intel” reserved for the privileged few. He didn’t micro-manage my work nor meddle in my personal affairs. Instead, Dr. Kinghorn allowed me the privilege of personal healing according to God’s time table and his immeasurable grace.

Dr. Kinghorn wasn’t the only one. There were many moments throughout my three years at ATS filled with similar privilege. Dr. Ellsworth Kalas’s mentoring moments – his sermon and directives from Moses on Mt. Nebo. Dr. Steve Seamands’s Ash Wednesday service where a quote from Omar Cabrera took center stage in my heart. The day Reg Johnson handed me an envelope with cash inside – the exact amount I needed to cover an unexpected bill. Bill Goold’s after-chapel walk with me, asking me how my “desert season” was going. Maxie Dunnam – a president never too busy for a hug or a word of soul-stirring encouragement. Albin Whitworth’s exuberance, laughter, and invites for the boys to come and swim at his pool.

The list goes on – I suppose not enough room (or time) in this space to record my thoughts. But in my time of remembering today, in rehearsing my history with God from this limited segment of my past, a tender truth is emerging:

Not all men cast stones. Some men carry them instead.

Stones not to harm the guilty, but rather stones to heal the broken-hearted. To stack and to build a better future rather than to hurl and to re-injure a wounded past.

In that season so long ago, I couldn’t fully appreciate the stones that those giant men of faith were carrying on my behalf. But in rehearsing my history with God today, I am overwhelmed with their willingness to do so. Perhaps they did it, in part, out of their great love for my dad, Chuck Killian. No doubt, because of their great love for their heavenly Father. And just maybe, there was a little part of them that knew something of grace because of their own histories with God. Regardless of their reasons, twenty-five years later, I am stunned by their intentional generosity toward me.

Not all men cast stones. Some men carry them instead.

Indeed.

So today, friends, if you’re feeling heaviness of heart, if confusion is creeping in and around your spirit, I encourage you (even as I am encouraging myself) to rehearse your history with God. Look for the stone carriers from your past, your present. Remember them; be grateful; do likewise.

There’s a broken heart nearby who needs the benefit of your strength and the grace of your history with God.

Those who have ears to hear, let them hear. As always …

Peace for the journey,

(7.11.2020. All rights reserved.)

on measuring the distance

I picked up eight stones in the first few steps of my walk this morning. I’ve been walking this street for a week now; it’s my new route in this new chapter of living. Whereas my former neighborhood boasted several streets full of twists and turns and lots of scenery, my current neighborhood includes a single, straight street dotted by a dozen or so homes. On my former route, two laps around the neighborhood meant I had completed my course. Now “completion” requires eight.

Those eight laps should be easily counted … easily remembered. But I am easily distracted and often lose count. A stopwatch marking the minutes comes close to measuring my steps, but my pace isn’t always consistent. My steps don’t always measure out evenly. Sometimes I walk more slowly. Sometimes more briskly.

For me, time isn’t the truest measure for knowing when my course is completed.

Distance is.

And so, this morning I picked up eight stones. I carried them in my left hand, and each time I passed my driveway, I transferred one of them to my pocket. Carrying and counting stones is a tangible way of measuring distance. An empty palm and a full pocket signals completion.

As it was for me this morning, so it was for the Israelites as they made their way across the Jordan River to enter the Promised Land (see Joshua 3-4). Along the way, God instructed twelve men to pick up twelve stones from the middle of the Jordan and to carry them over to the other side. Joshua (the new leader of God’s people) then took those twelve stones and built an altar at Gilgal to serve as a memorial to the faithfulness of God. In the future, each time the Israelites looked at that altar … counted those stones … they remembered their mighty God and their mighty walk through the Jordan on dry ground.

Twelve stones counted and carried by the Israelites, measured the distance of how far they’d traveled with their faithful Father. As they walked onto the pages of a new chapter in their history as his people, God made sure they had a memorial to serve as a reminder of the previous steps taken. He didn’t want them to forget that faith walk.

He doesn’t want us to forget ours … the steps we’ve traveled with him.

Time isn’t the truest measure for knowing when our course is completed. Distance is. Our steps won’t always measure out evenly. Somedays we’ll walk more slowly; somedays faster. Somedays (thanks be to God) steady as we go. Time cannot accurately measure the length, width, depth, and breadth of our faith walks with Christ. But a few stones carried in our palms and in our pockets deposited as grace at the end of a life’s laboring?

Well, that’s a pretty good measure of the sacred distance we’ve traveled with God.

And so today, let me encourage you to pick up a stone or two–a faith moment between you and Christ where you have known, seen, and felt the mighty arm of the Lord working on your behalf. Start building an altar unto the Lord so that in the future, when your children ask you or when you ask yourself, “What do these stones mean?”, you’ll remember the day when you walked through your Jordan on dry ground because of the strong arm of the Lord.

That altar … that distance … is the measure that matters eternally.

Step on in faith, friends. I’ll meet you in the riverbed. Together, let’s continue to build a living witness to the faithfulness of our God. As always…

Peace for the journey,

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