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. 

gathering information

I watched the faint blip of light hop through the night sky. It was barely noticeable set against the clear, brilliant backdrop of the crisp January evening. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have noticed it during my walk; ordinarily I’m not looking up.

But two nights ago, I did – look up. Some nights require it.

Accordingly, I took to my back-porch stoop and quieted my heart before God.

Look up, child.

After an agonizing couple of days of looking around, I was more than willing to look up.

It was then that I saw it – a dim light passing through the heavenlies. I spoke my heart out loud with a chuckle:

“Probably not a plane; probably just another drone gathering information on me.”

No sooner had the words left my mouth when God let a few of his own words leak into my heart:

“Me too, Elaine. I’m out here gathering information … on you.”

Tears began to flow, and I was deeply comforted by that singular thought.

God is gathering information on me; my God is an evening-gathering God.

I don’t know what it is about the darkening of night that seems to reveal more clearly the whispers of the Father. Perhaps the slowing down of a hard day’s laboring better hosts his inclinations. Our days are mostly cluttered, overstuffed with noise. But when the sun steps off the daily stage, the hours open up a bit more. And in that widening space, our souls begin to breathe … begin to look up and behold the heart of the Father.

Two thousand years ago, Jesus took an afternoon walk with two strangers. As the sun began its descent, the strangers made a simple invitation to Jesus:

“… they urged him strongly, ‘Stay with us, for it is nearly evening; the day is almost over.’ So he went in to stay with them.” (Luke 24:29)

And in those evening hours, Jesus did something that Jesus does willingly for all those who urge him to stay – 

He revealed himself to them while breaking bread with them.

He wrapped up their hard day’s laboring with a soul-breathing, life-giving revelation of just how far he was willing to walk on behalf of kingdom expansion.

Jesus was willing to walk to their table. And two nights ago, he was willing to walk to my back-porch stoop and break bread with me as well.

What a moment of tender grace … to look up and then to look in and sense the assurance of my Father. The lights above me were no match for the Light within me. God was there, gathering information on me. Checking on me. Surveying my heart and allowing me to survey his.

It is the same for you.

Jesus sees you; he loves you; he’s with you. Even now, he’s gathering information on you.

Jesus wants to know how you’re doing. He has some tender moments of grace and time reserved just for you. This is your privilege as children of the one true God.

No other god sees you; no other god loves you. No other god is gathering information on you because no other god is real.

Only Jesus. Simply and profoundly, holy Jesus.

So tonight … look up, child.

Give your soul some room to breathe in these coming hours.

For it is nearly evening; the day is almost over.

Let us strongly urge the Christ to linger around our tables for a few moments longer.

Revelations await our hungering souls.

Revelation comes to lead us home.

Peace for the journey,

Main Street USA

I saw a man today. Actually, I heard him before I saw him.

That happens when you work on Main Street USA … you hear things. The loud squeal of breaks as a semi stops for the red light. Laughter of the ladies passing by on their way to the dress shop. Not so private phone calls of folks who’ve forgotten there’s only a pane of glass between them and me. An occasional solitary soul conversing loudly with herself. The gregarious shop owner across the street who greets her customers as friends.

Yes, life is noisy on Main Street USA, and for the past nine months, I’ve collected a lot of town secrets. I’m tempted to say I’ve heard it all. At least I thought I had …

Until today. Until he walked by.

He had on a feed sack, cinched at the waist. Long hair tucked haphazardly beneath a toboggan. He carried a megaphone. Greater still, he carried a burden.

“Repent for the kingdom of heaven is near.”

He followed it up with scripture and other words, but it was these that stuck with me.

Quietly I collected the tears in my hands while whispering, “Just like the prophets of old … like John at the Jordan.” Instead of thinking him daft, I thought of him with wonder … with wishing that I could be brave, could stop what I was doing and join him on the road of repentance. To come alongside him in his grief. To cry out for a nation that has clearly lost its way. On his return trip down the opposite side of Main Street USA, I snapped a picture and heard him exclaim to the curious,

“I love my country. I care about what’s happening in our country. Repent for the kingdom of heaven is near.”

And I was broken into pieces for I, too, love my country and deeply feel its fracture tonight.

I don’t know how to fix it; I’m not even certain that I want to take on such burden. But what I do know is that, for a few hours today, my heart was completely willing to trade in my khakis and soft sweater for the scratchiness of sackcloth.

It seems the best course of action for the rancor on Main Street USA this evening.

Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is near.

Surely it won’t be long in coming … the kingdom.

Repentance is our only way forward; it’s the only way home.

May God in his mercy give us enough time to get it right.

An Open Door

2020.

What can be said of it? What should be said of it? Of all it has been and for what remains to be written, words fail to calculate its full measure.

It’s been too much; it’s been not enough.

It’s rattled us … scattered us … marked us … changed us.

Some years are like that – completely exhaustive in their shaping of us.

They leave us undone, counting the days (sometimes the hours), until the months accumulate forward to a grand conclusion. And that’s where we are at…

At a conclusion to a year that won’t finish neatly or with grandeur but, instead, one that will carry over onto a new page with fragments … parts of a sentence … segments of a story … that deserve a better ending than their beginning.

Better endings. That is the essence of my prayers in these final days. For all the failures and colossal, sideways’ screw-ups of 2020, prayer remains my gain.

In great loss and at great cost, where else can we go … should we go … but to God?

I am grateful for this spiritual thread that has remained in me and been strengthened in me by the weathering of 2020.

Talking to God is what I have left.

My prayers seem a paltry offering at times, but an offering nonetheless. God has taken it all – all my thoughts and all my words – broken them, blessed them, blown on them, and multiplied them so that they become sanctified at a higher, holier level. History will write the witness of their fruition. I cannot always see the fruit, but thanks be to God, I can always find the Fruit-Giver therein.

And so it was two nights ago when I awakened from my restless slumber and immediately began my discourse with Him (a habit that’s been forming over these past months). Several weeks ago, I changed up the dialogue; instead of telling God what I want, I have begun asking Him regarding his intentions:

Lord, what do you want? What is your heart’s desire?

His occasional revelations to my spirit have been live-giving.

Two nights ago, I probed a bit further, risked a little more with the asking:

Lord, what do you want? What is your heat’s desire? What do you need to move the needle in this situation?

Immediately a scene propped open before my spiritual eyes.

A deep blue night sky, sparkling with just enough starlight to hint at the spectacular. Christ was there, descending from above, arms outstretched, nail-scarred hands turned outward, robed in white with a golden crown on his head.

And just as potent as the scene before me was Christ’s response to my probing:

An open door, Elaine, that’s what I need to move the needle in this situation. An open door.

An open door; an open heart. In that moment of brief revelation, I pictured a single door, then two, then more opening up all across the fruited plains – making a way for this descending Jesus to enter in. To come inside. To make his presence known and to begin the transformation that would move the needle forward toward a better conclusion … a better ending.

And therein, friends, Christmas arrived in my heart.

I remembered Bethlehem. A night sky with just enough starlight to hint at the spectacular. Christ descending from above to the fruited plains below, robed in flesh, and with a cry that cut through the darkness to announce God’s answer to those who are longing for a better conclusion:

An open door, child. That’s what I need to move the needle in your situation. An open door.

“Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me.” (Revelation 3:20)

Oh, that is the grandest conclusion of them all – dinner around the table with Emmanuel – God with us!

Christmas … in 2020.

In loss. In gain. In all that remains.

Between now and then,
between here and there;
From this day moving forward
Until life knows repair.

Prayers for more,
to cover the less;
Prayers for faith,
to believe all is best.

For better conclusions,
for grander ends;
For steps unseen,
for stories to mend.

From fragile to finished,
From weakness to strength;
From waters lain stagnant,
To rivers at length.

To carry us onward,
To move us past now;
To bring us safe harbor,
To tie up the bow.

First steps on a shore,
Of a kingdom unknown;
First steps with the King,
In His land, your new home.

So, all is not lost,
In this year or the next;
There’s more to the story,
Dim the lights, write the text.

The needle’s been moved,
Christ came to earth’s floor;
He knocked, you took notice,
You opened your door.

It’s all that he needed,
He wanted – yearned for;
You and your moments,
With Him evermore.

(f. elaine olsen 12.14.2020 – all rights reserved)

Merry Christmas, friends. May your heart be the open door that brings heaven to earth this Christmas. Christ in us – the hope of glory. Amen.

Peace for the journey,

Carpe Diem (seizing the day with my dad)

Carpe Diem. Seize the Day. It’s one of my daddy’s favorite sayings ever since viewing one of his favorite movies, Dead Poet’s Society. I reminded him of it yesterday in our visit together. I’m not sure if he remembers the movie, but he remembers the shirt. Even more so, he remembers the sentiment; daddy always wants to seize the day even as he struggles to remember what day it actually is.

Dad loved that movie; I think he saw a lot of himself in Robin Williams’s portrayal of John Keating, an unconventional teacher who used poetry to inspire his students to greater heights of expression and creativity.

Like Keating, my daddy is known for his story-telling. “One of the best” they say. Sometimes his stories are hand-made; sometimes, he borrows from others. As a child, I assumed everybody’s dad had that same capacity to spin words into magic. It never occurred to me that his ability was, in fact, a unique gifting from God. Over the years, I’ve come to realize and appreciate that uniqueness about my father, especially now when his words have started to fade.

These days, daddy doesn’t tell me many stories; instead, I’m telling them to him.

“Daddy, remember when …?”

Thankfully, he still does to a degree … remember when. He simply needs a prompt or two or ten therein. Eventually, we get there together, to a memory that brings the old sparkle back to his beautiful blue eyes. And when that happens, the magic returns; for a few minutes, I’m able to set aside my new role as a care-giver in exchange for my old role as simply a child of a story-teller.

Carpe Diem. Seize the day.

Life shifts like seasons.

Winter’s retreat. Spring’s new. Summer’s heat. Fall’s release.

A cycle of transformation. Sometimes swiftly; sometimes more slowly. Almost always, simultaneously.

Moments have the capacity to hold so very much – a full cycle of seasons that grow a heart in all the right ways. And maybe, in the end, that will be the greatest story ever told –

a heart transformed in all the right ways by a full cycle of seasons.

Indeed, very magical.

Carpe Diem. Seize the day.

So…

Thank you, Daddy, for telling me your stories – for capturing shifting seasons with just the right words. For doing so with flare, with imagination, with sparkle, and with understanding. For seizing the day, the moments in so many rich, “Chuck Killian” kinds of ways. You’ve come full cycle, living the words you’ve spoken … a heart transformed in all the right ways.

“One of the best,” they say.

One of the best, I know.

In the end and by God’s grace, I hope to hold one too –

a great story of my own … a heart transformed in all the right ways. 

I can’t think of a better legacy for either one of us to leave.

Let’s keep telling stories; let’s keep seizing our moments. Let’s keep walking home together.

The best is yet to be. 

I love you, 
Lainse

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