Emily Conrad's Blog, page 11
May 18, 2017
Go Ye, Therefore, and Sit
by Emily Conrad
I tend to make things complicated. Ask me to plot a novel, come up with a blog post, or give feedback on... well, pretty much anything, and I'll generally come up with something longer than you anticipated unless I take even more time to pare it down.
So when I think about what it means to live out my faith, the list of do's and don'ts can get pretty intimidating.
I'm realizing, though, that it shouldn't be that complicated.
Jesus summed up the two greatest commandments as loving God and loving others. Just two directives hold the key to everything.
Read more »
I tend to make things complicated. Ask me to plot a novel, come up with a blog post, or give feedback on... well, pretty much anything, and I'll generally come up with something longer than you anticipated unless I take even more time to pare it down.
So when I think about what it means to live out my faith, the list of do's and don'ts can get pretty intimidating.
I'm realizing, though, that it shouldn't be that complicated.
Jesus summed up the two greatest commandments as loving God and loving others. Just two directives hold the key to everything.
Read more »
May 16, 2017
To the Lilacs on the Table (a poem)
by Emily Conrad
I’ve cheered for everyone but you.
The daffodils were, to me,
yellow sunrise
after a winter of darkness,
and the tulips,
pinkened clouds of sunset.
Read more »
I’ve cheered for everyone but you.
The daffodils were, to me,
yellow sunrise
after a winter of darkness,
and the tulips,
pinkened clouds of sunset.
Read more »
May 11, 2017
The Seeds that Grow in this Field of Life
by Emily Conrad
I’ve not made a secret of the fact that life has thrown a lot at me and those I care about lately, but here’s something you don’t know that I think you should:
I’m growing organic tomatoes from seed.
I found the kit in the dollar section of the store. It was just a light cardboard box a couple inches across, promising to contain what I needed to start my very own, grown-from-seed organic tomatoes.
I forget if it was one dollar or three, but whatever the case, I made the investment and tore open the box shortly after getting home.
I soaked the little dirt disk and watched it expand. I plunked it in the bio-degradable pot. With my index finger, I poked the tiny seeds into the dirt, and I set the whole thing on my desk in the sunniest room in the house since it’s Wisconsin, after all, and we’re still not past danger of frost.
At one point, I worried I had let the seeds get too dry, but I sprinkled on a few more drops of moisture every time I thought of it and the planting compound felt dusty.
One day, I saw no growth. The next, a little seedling was spreading two tiny leaves this way and that, green and proud.
A day or two later, I saw a little white arch sticking out of the dirt in another spot. Another seedling was lifting its head. And then another.
You can hardly see them in the photos. I know. But the fact that I'm including them anyone tells you how excited I am about them, doesn't it?
And anyway, living a photographic life? Not all that it's cracked up to be.
Give me my fuzzy, half-inch tall tomatoes and I'll love them, photos or no.
Sometimes, I walk out onto the porch just to check on them. To see if any others are braving the air and the sun.
You see, growing one tomato plant, let alone three and counting, is novel for me because in my old yard, the one we moved out of last spring, vegetables wouldn’t grow due to what the gigantic black walnut tree did to the soil. But this house doesn’t have that challenge, and I’ve been thrilled at how easily vegetables grow here.
Lately, life has been one thing after another. Writing struggles. A sick dog. The diagnosis of a family member. A death in my church family.
But even in times like this, something is growing and promising fruit.
And I don't only mean my tomatoes.
I went over a year without writing a new novel manuscript. Inspiration had dried up. And then, just a week or two ago, words sprang up through the soil. Now I’m more than 10,000 words into a new story.
About a rock star because, really, why not? The story’s growing, this rock star has more depth than I thought he would, and I’m celebrating it.
Friendships? Yes, some of those are growing, too, watered with tears I wouldn’t have openly shed if I weren’t in this particular field of life.
I think there’s something to be said for recognizing that a lot in life might not grow this or that right now, but this other thing is begging to be poked into the soil, watered, nurtured with a sunny spot.
I think there’s something to be said for celebrating the things we can cultivate while other fields lie fallow.
And, dear friend, there is so much to cultivate. Even here. Even now.
Dear friend, there is so much to cultivate. Even here. Even now - via @emilyrconrad #hope
I’ve not made a secret of the fact that life has thrown a lot at me and those I care about lately, but here’s something you don’t know that I think you should:
I’m growing organic tomatoes from seed.
I found the kit in the dollar section of the store. It was just a light cardboard box a couple inches across, promising to contain what I needed to start my very own, grown-from-seed organic tomatoes.
I forget if it was one dollar or three, but whatever the case, I made the investment and tore open the box shortly after getting home.
I soaked the little dirt disk and watched it expand. I plunked it in the bio-degradable pot. With my index finger, I poked the tiny seeds into the dirt, and I set the whole thing on my desk in the sunniest room in the house since it’s Wisconsin, after all, and we’re still not past danger of frost.
At one point, I worried I had let the seeds get too dry, but I sprinkled on a few more drops of moisture every time I thought of it and the planting compound felt dusty.
One day, I saw no growth. The next, a little seedling was spreading two tiny leaves this way and that, green and proud.
A day or two later, I saw a little white arch sticking out of the dirt in another spot. Another seedling was lifting its head. And then another.
You can hardly see them in the photos. I know. But the fact that I'm including them anyone tells you how excited I am about them, doesn't it?
And anyway, living a photographic life? Not all that it's cracked up to be.
Give me my fuzzy, half-inch tall tomatoes and I'll love them, photos or no.
Sometimes, I walk out onto the porch just to check on them. To see if any others are braving the air and the sun.
You see, growing one tomato plant, let alone three and counting, is novel for me because in my old yard, the one we moved out of last spring, vegetables wouldn’t grow due to what the gigantic black walnut tree did to the soil. But this house doesn’t have that challenge, and I’ve been thrilled at how easily vegetables grow here.
Lately, life has been one thing after another. Writing struggles. A sick dog. The diagnosis of a family member. A death in my church family.
But even in times like this, something is growing and promising fruit.
And I don't only mean my tomatoes.
I went over a year without writing a new novel manuscript. Inspiration had dried up. And then, just a week or two ago, words sprang up through the soil. Now I’m more than 10,000 words into a new story.
About a rock star because, really, why not? The story’s growing, this rock star has more depth than I thought he would, and I’m celebrating it.
Friendships? Yes, some of those are growing, too, watered with tears I wouldn’t have openly shed if I weren’t in this particular field of life.
I think there’s something to be said for recognizing that a lot in life might not grow this or that right now, but this other thing is begging to be poked into the soil, watered, nurtured with a sunny spot.
I think there’s something to be said for celebrating the things we can cultivate while other fields lie fallow.
And, dear friend, there is so much to cultivate. Even here. Even now.
Dear friend, there is so much to cultivate. Even here. Even now - via @emilyrconrad #hope
May 9, 2017
Jesus, Our Comfort in Grief
by Emily Conrad
I bore witness to grief this weekend.
As I sigh out now, my breath summons tears. Not for my own loss, but for the trauma the unexpected death inflicted on those closest to the one who lifted his own hand against himself.
I didn’t know him, and I am only an acquaintance of those who did. I’m a youth leader who wasn’t sure of the words to pray to comfort hurting students.
Nothing eloquent came out. Just repeated petitions for comfort. For light in darkness. For hope.
My prayer caught there and stayed, circling, fumbling, as I rested my hand on a shoulder shaking with silent sobs.
Jesus, comfort those who mourn. Lord, be a light in this utter darkness. Give us hope that will not disappoint. Jesus, your lambs are hurting. Help.
I’ve read in a couple of places, including when I was researching what to say to teens following a suicide, reminders that the intense phase of grief will not last forever. The overwhelming emotions will eventually subside, giving way to a more manageable grief.
The fact that emotions subside like this is a mercy I can only credit to God. Without Him infusing this world with hope, I cannot imagine a single soul reaching a place of manageable grief after a devastating loss.
And yet, as much as it would’ve seemed like a mercy in that youth room, manageable grief isn’t really a solution.
Read more »
I bore witness to grief this weekend.
As I sigh out now, my breath summons tears. Not for my own loss, but for the trauma the unexpected death inflicted on those closest to the one who lifted his own hand against himself.
I didn’t know him, and I am only an acquaintance of those who did. I’m a youth leader who wasn’t sure of the words to pray to comfort hurting students.
Nothing eloquent came out. Just repeated petitions for comfort. For light in darkness. For hope.
My prayer caught there and stayed, circling, fumbling, as I rested my hand on a shoulder shaking with silent sobs.
Jesus, comfort those who mourn. Lord, be a light in this utter darkness. Give us hope that will not disappoint. Jesus, your lambs are hurting. Help.
I’ve read in a couple of places, including when I was researching what to say to teens following a suicide, reminders that the intense phase of grief will not last forever. The overwhelming emotions will eventually subside, giving way to a more manageable grief.
The fact that emotions subside like this is a mercy I can only credit to God. Without Him infusing this world with hope, I cannot imagine a single soul reaching a place of manageable grief after a devastating loss.
And yet, as much as it would’ve seemed like a mercy in that youth room, manageable grief isn’t really a solution.
Read more »
May 4, 2017
Revisiting: Not What I Had in Mind
by Emily Conrad
It's been quite a week, and as I type this, it's only Wednesday.
Here's part of what has been going on:
Praise God, Sadie seems to be on the rebound, no surgery required.
But for this and other reasons, I'm a bit raw today, and that seems like an unproductive place from which to write a post for you, so I went back to the archives.
Since this week has been Not What I Had in Mind, when I saw that title among my old posts, I had to click. And I'm glad I did.
If things haven't been going your way, either, I hope the post encourages you.
I plan to be back with new content on Tuesday. In the meantime, be kind to yourself, run to Jesus, and remember you are so very loved.
When life isn't what you had in mind, there is #hope in #Jesus - via @emilyrconrad
It's been quite a week, and as I type this, it's only Wednesday.
Here's part of what has been going on:
Praise God, Sadie seems to be on the rebound, no surgery required.
But for this and other reasons, I'm a bit raw today, and that seems like an unproductive place from which to write a post for you, so I went back to the archives.
Since this week has been Not What I Had in Mind, when I saw that title among my old posts, I had to click. And I'm glad I did.
If things haven't been going your way, either, I hope the post encourages you.
I plan to be back with new content on Tuesday. In the meantime, be kind to yourself, run to Jesus, and remember you are so very loved.
When life isn't what you had in mind, there is #hope in #Jesus - via @emilyrconrad
May 2, 2017
Holding onto Hope in the Waiting
by Emily Conrad
I sat in my parents' backyard, waiting to spot the owls that had nested there. A cardinal landed, brilliant red against the new spring grass, and I contented myself with photographing him. When I refocused on the tall pines before me, their scraggly branches mostly bare until their upper extremities, I didn't mind so much that I saw no owls. I believed the owls would appear eventually, so I was ready to wait and wait. And then my mom came out.
“They may have left already,” she said.
I scanned the still pines. “But we just saw them last night.”
Last night, the owls had been three dark silhouettes against a deepening sky. Even with my zoom lens, I hadn't been able to get a good picture. I'd returned early this morning because I'd been assured the owls came out between seven and eight every day, and that's when my sister got some good pictures of them.
“The baby may have learned to fly," Mom said. "When that happens, they just leave. He probably started flying last night. He was getting close.”
I frowned out at the woods, sat a couple of minutes longer, then, feeling disappointed and a little foolish for coming the very morning the owls had left, I wandered into the house. My family had been talking about the owls for a week already. Why hadn't I come sooner?
“Giving up?” Mom asked.
I shrugged and looked out the patio door to the woods one more time.
And then I saw it. Light catching on the back of a gigantic bird as it navigated the narrow spaces of the pine forest. “They are here!”
Another hour and a half of staking out the woods ensued, and I ended up with some pretty good pictures.
To give my mom credit, she’s been my biggest encourager in the waits associated with my writing career. She's believed for me when I had stopped, and she's always cheered me on. But in the case of the owls, if I’d listened and left, I would’ve missed out.
What are you waiting for?
Who is telling you that you’ve already missed it? That it’s too late, and it’s not going to happen?
It's amazing the impact just one discourager can have. We can go from committed and confident to unsure and insecure, especially when the person sounds like they know what they’re talking about.
But maybe the naysayer is wrong, and maybe what you’re waiting for is right around the corner.
The only one who can say for sure is God.
That's why a personal, growing relationship with Jesus is so important. If our faith relies on other people or on a list of do's and don'ts, when someone speaks a "do" or a "don't" into our lives, we're so apt to latch onto it.
But if our faith is based on knowing God and walking with Him through the unique plan He has for each of us, we'll know impostors' voices from His.
Speaking of Himself as the Good Shepherd, Jesus says in John 10:4-5, "When he has brought all his own sheep out, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they recognize his voice. They will never follow a stranger, but will run away from him, because they do not recognize the stranger’s voice." (NET)
If we are one of His, He leads the way for us. By spending time with Jesus, we learn to recognize His voice and to distinguish the voices of impostors whose discouragement we shouldn't listen to.
Jesus' voice alone is the one that should be guiding us, telling us when to move and when to wait. He will be the one to lift our eyes to the right spot at the right time so we won't miss anything He has for us. He’ll reignite hope and lead us in His good plans and in the way everlasting.
If the voice telling you to give up is anyone's other than His, run the other way. Hold on to hope. Watch and see. Follow the Shepard's voice and none other.
This is my tweetable text. Click to tweet it!
I sat in my parents' backyard, waiting to spot the owls that had nested there. A cardinal landed, brilliant red against the new spring grass, and I contented myself with photographing him. When I refocused on the tall pines before me, their scraggly branches mostly bare until their upper extremities, I didn't mind so much that I saw no owls. I believed the owls would appear eventually, so I was ready to wait and wait. And then my mom came out.
“They may have left already,” she said.
I scanned the still pines. “But we just saw them last night.”
Last night, the owls had been three dark silhouettes against a deepening sky. Even with my zoom lens, I hadn't been able to get a good picture. I'd returned early this morning because I'd been assured the owls came out between seven and eight every day, and that's when my sister got some good pictures of them.
“The baby may have learned to fly," Mom said. "When that happens, they just leave. He probably started flying last night. He was getting close.”
I frowned out at the woods, sat a couple of minutes longer, then, feeling disappointed and a little foolish for coming the very morning the owls had left, I wandered into the house. My family had been talking about the owls for a week already. Why hadn't I come sooner?
“Giving up?” Mom asked.
I shrugged and looked out the patio door to the woods one more time.
And then I saw it. Light catching on the back of a gigantic bird as it navigated the narrow spaces of the pine forest. “They are here!”
Another hour and a half of staking out the woods ensued, and I ended up with some pretty good pictures.
To give my mom credit, she’s been my biggest encourager in the waits associated with my writing career. She's believed for me when I had stopped, and she's always cheered me on. But in the case of the owls, if I’d listened and left, I would’ve missed out.
What are you waiting for?
Who is telling you that you’ve already missed it? That it’s too late, and it’s not going to happen?
It's amazing the impact just one discourager can have. We can go from committed and confident to unsure and insecure, especially when the person sounds like they know what they’re talking about.
But maybe the naysayer is wrong, and maybe what you’re waiting for is right around the corner.
The only one who can say for sure is God.
That's why a personal, growing relationship with Jesus is so important. If our faith relies on other people or on a list of do's and don'ts, when someone speaks a "do" or a "don't" into our lives, we're so apt to latch onto it.
But if our faith is based on knowing God and walking with Him through the unique plan He has for each of us, we'll know impostors' voices from His.
Speaking of Himself as the Good Shepherd, Jesus says in John 10:4-5, "When he has brought all his own sheep out, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they recognize his voice. They will never follow a stranger, but will run away from him, because they do not recognize the stranger’s voice." (NET)
If we are one of His, He leads the way for us. By spending time with Jesus, we learn to recognize His voice and to distinguish the voices of impostors whose discouragement we shouldn't listen to.
Jesus' voice alone is the one that should be guiding us, telling us when to move and when to wait. He will be the one to lift our eyes to the right spot at the right time so we won't miss anything He has for us. He’ll reignite hope and lead us in His good plans and in the way everlasting.
If the voice telling you to give up is anyone's other than His, run the other way. Hold on to hope. Watch and see. Follow the Shepard's voice and none other.
This is my tweetable text. Click to tweet it!
April 27, 2017
Embracing the Vulnerability of Joy
by Emily Conrad
Back when I was in college, my boyfriend and I broke up. With some issues to work through from that and some other painful experiences, I saw a counselor for a while. My boyfriend and I got back together after about a week or two, but I confessed to my counselor that I didn’t feel as happy as I ought to about the reunion.
She suggested the problem was that I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I was living in expectation of disappointment.
Incidentally, though there were of course bumps in the road, that disappointment never came. I've now been married to that boyfriend for thirteen years and counting.
And yet, my expectation of disappointment in many areas of my life carries on.
I think of those who are joyful as brave and secure. I envy them. I want to be like them.
But envy doesn’t make me more apt to invite joy in.
Instead, I hesitate to celebrate certain milestones. Instead of rejoicing that I got this or that contract or this or that opportunity or even this or that compliment, I find myself leery, asking, “How will this go wrong? How does this offer false hope?”
But even as I ask these questions, I wonder why I can't just be happy about good events. Why not celebrate while I can?
When I read a Brene Brown quote that listed joy among the experiences that make us most vulnerable, I paused.
She'd nailed it. In one little quote, she'd pegged why I resist joy.
If I let my spirits lift, they have further to crash with disappointment. It’s like tossing my soft heart skyward in hopes of it growing wings when I know a fall is so much more likely.
Or is it?
I take inventory of disappointments and hurt: grandparents dying; a break up; my dad losing his job while I was in high school; losing my own job because of a business going under; other jobs with toxic environments; rejections in friendships; harsh criticism of my writing.
Before the list gets further than that, another list distracts me, and I find myself taking inventory of blessings.
The cloudy day has broken to let yellow sunshine into my dining room. I sit here at a table that’s less than a year old, both of my dogs quietly snoozing nearby. A beautiful vase punctuated by a cloud of yellow daffodils sits in the center of the table. The floor where my bare feet rest might be sprinkled with dog hair and dust, but it’s newly refinished hardwood. I’m typing on a new laptop, my bills are paid, my husband has a reliable job, and my family lives just minutes away. Outside, flowers are blooming (these daffodils are a mix from my yard and my mom’s). And even the fact that our windows don’t seal right is a blessing; all the better to hear the songs of the birds who’ve returned from wintering elsewhere. And this doesn’t even touch on the spiritual blessings.
Even without half of the things in that list—even if all you or I have is Jesus—the truth would remain the same: we have been blessed much more than we’ve suffered. We have flourished in more ways than disappointment has been able to wither. More than that, no matter what the future holds, the eternity of each and every believer is absolutely secure.
When we rest in that security, the vulnerability of joy is worth the risk.
We wouldn’t stay in on a sunny day for fear of getting caught in a thunderstorm, and we shouldn’t refrain from joy in blessings for fear of disappointment.
God is good. We can trust Him. Even in those times when pain is part of His plan, His plan is good. As the Bible encourages us to, can rejoice even in suffering.
Clinging to this, may joy become our default mode and our favorite vulnerability.
PS - You can read the post where I saw the quote over on The Writer's Alley, a blog for novelists that I follow! If you're a writer, too, it's worth checking out!
May joy become our default mode and our favorite vulnerability-via @emilyrconrad
Back when I was in college, my boyfriend and I broke up. With some issues to work through from that and some other painful experiences, I saw a counselor for a while. My boyfriend and I got back together after about a week or two, but I confessed to my counselor that I didn’t feel as happy as I ought to about the reunion.
She suggested the problem was that I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I was living in expectation of disappointment.
Incidentally, though there were of course bumps in the road, that disappointment never came. I've now been married to that boyfriend for thirteen years and counting.
And yet, my expectation of disappointment in many areas of my life carries on.
I think of those who are joyful as brave and secure. I envy them. I want to be like them.
But envy doesn’t make me more apt to invite joy in.
Instead, I hesitate to celebrate certain milestones. Instead of rejoicing that I got this or that contract or this or that opportunity or even this or that compliment, I find myself leery, asking, “How will this go wrong? How does this offer false hope?”
But even as I ask these questions, I wonder why I can't just be happy about good events. Why not celebrate while I can?
When I read a Brene Brown quote that listed joy among the experiences that make us most vulnerable, I paused.
She'd nailed it. In one little quote, she'd pegged why I resist joy.
If I let my spirits lift, they have further to crash with disappointment. It’s like tossing my soft heart skyward in hopes of it growing wings when I know a fall is so much more likely.
Or is it?
I take inventory of disappointments and hurt: grandparents dying; a break up; my dad losing his job while I was in high school; losing my own job because of a business going under; other jobs with toxic environments; rejections in friendships; harsh criticism of my writing.
Before the list gets further than that, another list distracts me, and I find myself taking inventory of blessings.
The cloudy day has broken to let yellow sunshine into my dining room. I sit here at a table that’s less than a year old, both of my dogs quietly snoozing nearby. A beautiful vase punctuated by a cloud of yellow daffodils sits in the center of the table. The floor where my bare feet rest might be sprinkled with dog hair and dust, but it’s newly refinished hardwood. I’m typing on a new laptop, my bills are paid, my husband has a reliable job, and my family lives just minutes away. Outside, flowers are blooming (these daffodils are a mix from my yard and my mom’s). And even the fact that our windows don’t seal right is a blessing; all the better to hear the songs of the birds who’ve returned from wintering elsewhere. And this doesn’t even touch on the spiritual blessings.
Even without half of the things in that list—even if all you or I have is Jesus—the truth would remain the same: we have been blessed much more than we’ve suffered. We have flourished in more ways than disappointment has been able to wither. More than that, no matter what the future holds, the eternity of each and every believer is absolutely secure.
When we rest in that security, the vulnerability of joy is worth the risk.
We wouldn’t stay in on a sunny day for fear of getting caught in a thunderstorm, and we shouldn’t refrain from joy in blessings for fear of disappointment.
God is good. We can trust Him. Even in those times when pain is part of His plan, His plan is good. As the Bible encourages us to, can rejoice even in suffering.
Clinging to this, may joy become our default mode and our favorite vulnerability.
PS - You can read the post where I saw the quote over on The Writer's Alley, a blog for novelists that I follow! If you're a writer, too, it's worth checking out!
May joy become our default mode and our favorite vulnerability-via @emilyrconrad
April 25, 2017
The "Secret" to Success We Would Rather Ignore
by Emily Conrad
Our dog Luther is a lot of things, including a good cuddler, an expert fly hunter, and a habitual problem to walk.
After a particularly bad walk, when I couldn't settle him down to pass a dog that was barking at us from a yard, I made an appointment with a trainer I hadn't been to before.
I've worked with a dog trainer in the past and have picked up tips and strategies over the years, but Luther was clearly out of control, and what I was doing wasn't curbing his instincts to bark and pull.
At the appointment, the advice was nothing new.
And yet.
Starting that night, Luther has become a different dog. He's been impressing everyone he's met since then, and because of his good behavior, that's more people than I normally would've given him access to.
So what's the difference?
For the most part, the trainer forced me to get serious about what I'd heard before. She modified Luther's behavior by modifying mine.
Despite having been warned that tensing up when another dog approaches can cause my dog to react more strongly, I was tensing up. When I did that, I pulled on the leash, which sent a message to Luther that something was wrong. His barking and pulling was, in part, a reaction to that.
Despite knowing that I could curb his constant pulling by changing direction every time he did so, I kept walking in straight lines.
Despite knowing that ten minutes of mentally challenging training, like sitting still when he wants to be barking, is more exhausting than twice that much time exercising, I kept putting distance in our walks ahead of good behavior.
In these ways, I wasn't putting into practice the very things that would solve our problems. In fact, I was feeding those problems.
Once I got serious about practicing what I knew, Luther immediately responded. He's a different dog on leash and around the house. Yes, we still have some work to do, especially on sighting other dogs on walks, but he's already so used to relaxing next to me when I stop outside that he's begun to chill on the floor next to me when I pause in the house. If we keep working at it, I believe he's going to be the best-behaved dog we've ever had.
The implications reach far beyond dog training.
Read more »
Our dog Luther is a lot of things, including a good cuddler, an expert fly hunter, and a habitual problem to walk.
After a particularly bad walk, when I couldn't settle him down to pass a dog that was barking at us from a yard, I made an appointment with a trainer I hadn't been to before.
I've worked with a dog trainer in the past and have picked up tips and strategies over the years, but Luther was clearly out of control, and what I was doing wasn't curbing his instincts to bark and pull.
At the appointment, the advice was nothing new.
And yet.
Starting that night, Luther has become a different dog. He's been impressing everyone he's met since then, and because of his good behavior, that's more people than I normally would've given him access to.
So what's the difference?
For the most part, the trainer forced me to get serious about what I'd heard before. She modified Luther's behavior by modifying mine.
Despite having been warned that tensing up when another dog approaches can cause my dog to react more strongly, I was tensing up. When I did that, I pulled on the leash, which sent a message to Luther that something was wrong. His barking and pulling was, in part, a reaction to that.
Despite knowing that I could curb his constant pulling by changing direction every time he did so, I kept walking in straight lines.
Despite knowing that ten minutes of mentally challenging training, like sitting still when he wants to be barking, is more exhausting than twice that much time exercising, I kept putting distance in our walks ahead of good behavior.
In these ways, I wasn't putting into practice the very things that would solve our problems. In fact, I was feeding those problems.
Once I got serious about practicing what I knew, Luther immediately responded. He's a different dog on leash and around the house. Yes, we still have some work to do, especially on sighting other dogs on walks, but he's already so used to relaxing next to me when I stop outside that he's begun to chill on the floor next to me when I pause in the house. If we keep working at it, I believe he's going to be the best-behaved dog we've ever had.
The implications reach far beyond dog training.
Read more »
April 20, 2017
Changing the Names I Call Myself
by Emily Conrad
I changed my Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest handles this week from @novelwritergirl to @emilyrconrad, because the truth is, I outgrew novelwritergirl years ago.
Simply by reading this blog, you know I write more than novels. Also, I write for women, and I’m striving to be a mature woman of God myself, so calling myself a girl undermined who I want to be and reach.
For these reasons and others, the more I saw it, the less I felt novelwritergirl ought to define me.
So, despite the pull of old habits and the initial confusion a name change can cause, I made the switch. I have to say, emilyrconrad looks a lot more professional to me and feels a lot less limiting.
Unfortunately, as I reflect on outdated names I call myself, I’ve noticed more serious problems than my Twitter handle. It’s just that not all names I identify myself by are quite as obvious as the ones I spell out on social media day after day.
I changed my Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest handles this week from @novelwritergirl to @emilyrconrad, because the truth is, I outgrew novelwritergirl years ago.
Simply by reading this blog, you know I write more than novels. Also, I write for women, and I’m striving to be a mature woman of God myself, so calling myself a girl undermined who I want to be and reach.
For these reasons and others, the more I saw it, the less I felt novelwritergirl ought to define me.
So, despite the pull of old habits and the initial confusion a name change can cause, I made the switch. I have to say, emilyrconrad looks a lot more professional to me and feels a lot less limiting.
Unfortunately, as I reflect on outdated names I call myself, I’ve noticed more serious problems than my Twitter handle. It’s just that not all names I identify myself by are quite as obvious as the ones I spell out on social media day after day.
April 18, 2017
Judas, Peter, Me, and Jesus, a belated Easter post
by Emily Conrad
As I write this, it is Easter weekend, and the magnolia tree in the yard is telling stories. Its white-petaled flowers opened this morning, Saturday, the day before we celebrate the resurrection of our Savior, as if to promise ancient believers that it won’t be long now, that the world wouldn’t keep spinning if its Sustainer were gone for good, if death were the final reality, if One couldn’t rise above all that He’d created to deliver life indestructible.
I went into Easter this year feeling like I couldn’t get into it. Having known the Easter story for years, I didn’t know how to be affected by it anew. Thankfully, God knew.
Read more »
As I write this, it is Easter weekend, and the magnolia tree in the yard is telling stories. Its white-petaled flowers opened this morning, Saturday, the day before we celebrate the resurrection of our Savior, as if to promise ancient believers that it won’t be long now, that the world wouldn’t keep spinning if its Sustainer were gone for good, if death were the final reality, if One couldn’t rise above all that He’d created to deliver life indestructible.
I went into Easter this year feeling like I couldn’t get into it. Having known the Easter story for years, I didn’t know how to be affected by it anew. Thankfully, God knew.
Read more »
