Kelli Stuart's Blog, page 7

The shortest distance

“It’s not fair! You’re just…you’re putting to much pressure on ME!”

With face in hands, the child ran from the room and slammed the door leaving me bewildered in the kitchen. All I asked was for help putting the dishes away.

Too much pressure?!

With a shake of my head, I left the dramatic child alone for a few minutes, because we both needed a time out. I pulled the box of old photographs down off the shelf and began rifling through. Sometimes memories bring a soothing balm to the rocky places of the present day.

When I came across the pictures from my trip to Ukraine in 2003, I let out a little yelp of joy. I’d been looking for those pictures for weeks, wanting to jog my memory of the events that so clearly marked the path for my book. I ran my fingers across the photographs, willing myself to remember the moments.

2003: A Meeting with veterans in Kam’yanets Podilsky, Ukraine.

Some of them seemed vague. The time I spent in that country was a whirlwind, and I was rather pregnant great with child, so not all the memories were cohesive. But a few were, and as I sifted through them, my dramatic child came and sat by my side.

“Who’s that?” The voice was soft, with the hint of apology floating at the edges.

“Those are men who battled evil,” I answered. “Those are men who know pressure. Real pressure. They understood suffering.”

I turned and offered a crooked smile. “Those are men who probably didn’t enjoy cleaning the kitchen, either. But they wouldn’t call it pressure. Maybe just more of an annoyance?”

A smile in return. The ice was breaking just a bit.

“Do you remember their stories?”

I looked carefully at the photo. “Not specifically,” I replied, “but I have them all written down. I’ll look them up later.”

“Why are their stories so important?” The innocent question was met with a quizzical stare, and all I could offer was a shrug at that moment. I couldn’t formulate the right answer, so I let the question hang in the air.

“Why are their stories so important?” 

Long after the kitchen was cleaned and the house grew silent as the sun set low, I continued to mull over that one, simple inquiry.

Why are their stories so important?

These men are not American. Their stories and experiences tell of not only a time unfamiliar to most of us, but also a culture. Why is it important to tell their stories? Why should you care? Why should I care?

It’s said that the shortest distance between two people is story, and if that’s true then the question we should be asking is why wouldn’t we care?

These men stood up before their peers, and before a strange American girl, and they shared their stories. They shared them because they wanted me to know, and they wanted you to know.

They wanted us to see that the distance between us and them isn’t really all that far after all. We share the common longing for peace in a world that often quakes with violence.

We were all uniquely designed by a common Creator, and that design draws us together even if the miles, the language, and the landscape of our lives looks different.

So why are their stories important? Why should you care about the histories of a handful of men and women from half a world away?

Because their stories offer the connection between then and now, and in a time when evil runs rampant and we watch the world with wide eyes, a reminder of man’s capacity to overcome evil is beautiful, indeed.

In the months leading up to the release of my book, I will offer more background on the stories and events that inspired the novel. In the meantime, visit the War Stories page to read the histories of the four people who most impacted me as I researched this novel.

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Rediscover

Eight years ago this month, I typed my first blog post. I resisted starting a blog for a long time because it sounded so ridiculous. Type out my thoughts and publish them for strangers to read?

Weird.

But I quickly grew fascinated with the art of not just recording my day to day life, but rather telling stories. After a first, bumpy year of blogging (Oh, the first months of posts are painful to read), I fell into a rhythm. I told the internet funny stories, and together we laughed our way through motherhood.

It was instantly gratifying, you seen, because I’d longed to be a writer for so long but the world of publication kept slipping through my fingers. With blogging, I was in control. People could read my words because I had the power to put them out there.

The first four years of this blogging journey can only be described as fun. I simply enjoyed the process. I knew exactly who I was as a blogger, and I embraced that, and the internet embraced me for it.

Then I went to Tanzania with Compassion International and everything changed. I came home having seen and experienced things I’d never seen and experienced before, and I didn’t want to go back. I longed for a depth in my writing that I didn’t know I was missing.

Shortly after that, we experienced the termination of our adoption, and blogging took a back burner to my grief. Instead of spending time online, I poured myself into my novel, the process of finishing that keeping me from slipping fully into the sadness that constantly threaten to engulf me.

During that time, a longing to publish traditionally was reignited, and within two years I had a contract to publish two books. It was then that I considered bidding a fond farewell to blogging.

Only, I just can’t seem to let it go.

I love the interaction that happens here in the online world. It’s ebbed and flowed over the years, of course. That’s mostly my fault as I lost the grip on my online voice. When I stopped being Minivans Are Hot, I didn’t know what was expected of me.

I didn’t know what to expect of myself.

Life will naturally bend and twist and turn with the passage of time. Blogging is no longer what it was eight years ago, not just because I’ve changed, but because the nature of online interactions have changed. We’ve progressed beyond the online journals, and now we want something more out of these cyber spaces.

We want reality.

We want to be moved.

We want pretty pictures and practical advice.

We don’t want to spend a lot of time reading words.

I’m rambling a bit – a blogging no-no. But I’m winding through this path to say that I know I haven’t been very focused lately. I’m working on it. I’m finding my footing in this online world once again.

This weekend, my parents are coming to take care of the children while Lee is out of town, and I am headed to their condo in Clearwater for twenty-four hours of alone time.

I KNOW!

I’ll be spending that time lining out the next six months, preparing myself to curate better, more consistent material online because I want to honor the time you spend here in my little circle of the online world. I want it to be worth your while.

So don’t give up on me just yet. I’ll find my way back to the blogging path, and I hope that you’ll join me as I journey toward the launch of my first novel. It feels nice to know you’ve got people in your corner, cheering you one toward the finish line.

Happy Thursday, friends. I’m thankful for you!

 

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How Does She…

She crawls out of bed, her feet padding lightly against the cold, tile floor. Moving almost silently past closed doorways, she holds her breath hoping that the simple increase of her heartbeat doesn’t somehow rouse the little ones from their own needed slumber.

She pulls boots onto her feet because the winter air leaves her chilled. For a brief moment, she considers crawling back beneath her warm covers, the thought of snuggling deep down into her bed wrapping itself around her in tendrils of desire.

Instead, she takes a deep breath, grabs a glass of water, tosses a longing look at the coffee pot that she can’t yet turn on for fear of waking anyone up, and she sits down. It’s time to work. This is the only time work.

And work she does.

I’ve spent the better part of the last year watching and observing how creative women merge their art with motherhood. It’s such a beautiful, messy blending together of two callings isn’t it?

In the past few months I’ve been asked several times, “How do you do it? How do you find the time to write with kids around?”

My answer? I don’t really know – I just do it.

There are so many books out there offering tips on time management. We could all probably share the many bits of advice we’ve been given or read for building a business, generating a successful brand, or creating a successful work environment. The pointers and tips are thorough, and I’ve no doubt they’re effective.

To be a writer, you must write every day.

To build a successful brand, you need to constantly engage in your arena of expertise.

A painter needs to paint, then share her work.

A baker needs to spend time in the kitchen experimenting, developing, and perfecting her craft.

Only…what about the children?

Some of us have a few sacred moments of quiet built into our days. The children head off to school, and for several blissful hours the house is quiet. That doesn’t, however, make fitting creativity in any easier because there’s still the issue of setting the time apart.

There are always a thousand things for mom to do on any given day, even with the children in school. There are field trips to chaperone, homes to clean, meals to prepare, and a myriad other things that beg of her time.

Finding the time to create takes discipline, even when the quiet hours stretch long.

Many of the creative mothers I’ve observed and spoken with in the last year, however, don’t have those extended slivers of time alone. They’re mothers of very young children, fitting art into the cracks of their days.

They’re homeschool moms piecing creativity in the crevices while the kids are at “recess”, eating lunch, or reading a book. They’re simply fitting it in where they can.

I have a book coming out later this year, co-authored with Wendy Speake, in which we offer a glimpse into the lives of these beautiful, amazing, successful creative mothers. It answers the question “How does she do it?” but even more than that, it answers “Why?”

Why do we forgo that extra hour of sleep to tap away on the computer?

Why do we slip away each day while the children are at school and put paint brush to canvas?

Why do we study the art of photography and dedicate ourselves to capturing the beauty of the world through a lens?

Why do we find joy in helping others decorate their homes, pulling together spaces that bring joy and peace?

Because the truth is we can’t really answer the question “How” without also addressing the “Why.” The two go hand in hand, and they have to be examined simultaneously.

In this present digital age, we have the ability to enter right into the living spaces of women around the world. Women are showcasing the beauty and the glory of life and art and motherhood in their online spaces, and the picture of it all is stunning. Because the truth is, it’s all art.

Life and motherhood are simply a moving picture of art – creation – and all of it an extension of the Creator.

Life and motherhood are a picture of creation-an extension of the Creator.
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So it is that in the midst of all that living and mothering, women are showcasing their art, and it is worship. Every bit of it.

So how do I do it? How does she do it? How do any of us do it?

We get up, pad across the tile floor, blink the sleep from our eyes, and we give in to the call to create. There isn’t a one size fits all formula. There’s simply an acknowledgement that this is what we do. It’s life.

And all of it is art.

 

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On Gluten and Sacrifice and Doing the Hard Work

Lee came to me shortly before Christmas and dropped a bombshell. I didn’t see it coming, and when he shared it with me I didn’t know what to do with the information.

I reeled from the news for a few days before heading into denial. From there, I moved into frustration, and shortly after that I worked my way to acceptance.

He wanted to go gluten free.

I know. I know.

After I got over feeling mildly amused by his nutritional conviction, I began to accept his challenge for a new way of life. I could do this gluten free thing. I mean really – how hard could it be?

Turns out it’s hard.

Not impossible, but really hard. Eating a diet that consists almost solely of unprocessed foods that are free of gluten seems like it should be easy. But let’s not forget that I am not a woman who loves spending time in her kitchen.

Our first hurdle was getting the kids on board and, surprisingly, they’ve rolled with the punches fairly well. Although when I denied one of them McDonald’s the other day, I was met with an emphatic, “YOU’RE JUST GOING TO MAKE ME GO HOME AND EAT STUPID GLUTEN FREE FOOD THAT ISN’T GOOD BECAUSE YOU JUST WANT TO TORTURE ME!”

So, you know...we’ve got some work to do.

We have no deep health issue that requires this sort of diet, so I’m offering myself a wide berth of freedom. When we go to restaurants, I won’t even consider trying to avoid gluten. I won’t impose these dietary restrictions upon friends and family when we go visit, because I just don’t have to.

But I admit, I am curious. What will happen if I replace our old, processed foods with wholesome, nutritionally sound foods? How will we each respond if I really put in the effort?

I’m calling this an experiment.

This is hard, though. It requires work, organization, and preparation, and I don’t really love any of those things. But aren’t the hard things worth pursuing? Have you ever noticed that the greatest rewards come from the deepest toil?

My husband meets regularly with a friend where they push and challenge one another to dig deeper into life. What does it look like when we’re willing to live a life of sacrifice?

How do the people around us respond when we’re willing to suspend convenience and comfort, and instead give ourselves fully to serving those around us?

Living a life of sacrifice looks an awful lot like a gluten free diet.
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Living in sacrificial obedience requires effort and sacrifice. It begs you stand up and work, to think beyond what’s easy and safe. The convenience of tearing open a box of noodles and fake cheese may taste good temporarily, but it really only fills you up temporarily. Are you seeing the metaphor here? 

There’s no nutritional value in comfort food. And likewise, there’s no substantial comfort in living life on easy street.

If I’m going to make any kind of impact on my family’s overall health, I’m going to have to put in the effort. I’ll need to plan ahead, and shop wisely. I’ll need to spend time in the kitchen preparing meals, and researching recipes. And I will have to accept that this way of eating is going to be harder, and will take more effort.

I have to say “Yes” to the effort in order to see results.

More than that, though, if our family is going to make any kind of impact on others, we’ll need to put in the hard work. We’ll need to be ready to say “Yes” to the challenge, remembering one important fact:

Just because something is hard doesn’t mean it’s wrong.
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Serving others will be hard. It will require sacrifice.

Bringing a child into your home who needs the love of a family will never be easy. But that doesn’t make it wrong.

Pouring your funds and resources into loving the least of these will require sacrifice. It will require you saying “No” to things that you want, or even need, so that you can say “Yes” to someone else. And make no mistake – it’s hard.

Giving of yourself in a sacrificial way will always and forever be hard. But that doesn’t make it wrong. Discomfort isn’t a sign of a wrong decision.

It may just be a sign that you’re doing something right.

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The Writer’s Life of Insanity

I received the kindest text from a dear friend the other day. One of those texts that you wish you could frame and hang on a wall to read over and over again.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you for MONTHS how proud I am of you and your awesome book-ness and being an Author. Capital A, Author. Like Emily Dickinson, or Charlotte Bronte, or Mary Wollenstonecraft. Minus the crippling insanity, of course. Or maybe with a touch of insanity…it’s all good.”

This text came through at a moment of true insanity, of which I will spare you all the details. I’ll just say that it involved a toddler, an exposed diaper, and flinging excrement.

If that doesn’t define insanity, then…

That well-timed text brought encouragement in more ways than one. Besides simply making me smile after a harrowing mothering experience, it also boosted my confidence at a time when I feel like I’m wavering under the strain of this writerly life.

No one tells you that after you finish a book, all the words flee from your brain for a time. Since I turned my second manuscript in to the publisher in September, I’ve felt completely wordless. Everything I type feels silly, boring, and stale. I’m just out of words.

After speaking with a number of writer friends, however, I’ve come to the realization that this is totally normal. I’m not alone in my word fatigue – it’s a real thing.

I’ve wondered in the last few months what it must have been like to be an author back in the days before social media dictated the industry. Writers were always a bit mysterious back then, weren’t they?

By nature, most writers are introverted and reclusive, so the anonymity of writing works to their benefit. Only nowadays, one can  no longer be reclusive as a writer, and even the introverted has to push herself beyond the boundaries of comfort and engage with the masses.

Social media demands that writers stay out there, constantly reminding the people that they can write. There’s no time for any of us to become insane because we can’t hide behind the walls of our cabins in the woods long enough to give in to insanity.

Okay, so most writers don’t have cabins in the woods. Except for maybe Stephen King, but he’s always been a touch insane, so he doesn’t count.

In this digital age, with an emphasis on “platform building”, however, one can feel quite insane in her efforts to stay current and fresh, and to keep writing. So what is to be done? Here are a three quick tips:

1.) Simply refuse to give in

I decided some time ago, after spending several years making myself blog every day even when I had nothing to say, that I wouldn’t write unless it was authentic. At least not publicly.

Behind the scenes, I do write most every day. But writing for public consumption has changed for me. Pushing content out into the world just so people remember me as a writer isn’t really to my benefit, especially if I end up pushing bad writing out.

I’d rather keep it locked up, and retreat into my metaphorical cabin in the woods, than shoot meaningless words out into an already oversaturated market.

2.) Give yourself some space to breath

Writing is an intense practice. It demands all you have mentally, and sometimes physically. It’s emotionally draining, sending you up and down a roller coaster of euphoria and despair as you try to finish your project. Sometimes, you just need to take a break and breath a little.

And you need to know that’s okay.

3.) You don’t suck

I’ve watched this (poor quality) clip from the show Mike and Molly several times, and I cannot stop laughing, because there’s so much truth behind the humor.

What you do, writer, is hard. You don’t suck, and neither does your writing. You’re just wrestling with words, and it’s an esoteric battle that you’re forced to fight in front of the world. So keep swinging, and cut yourself some slack. Don’t set the manuscript on fire just yet.

If the words aren’t flowing, it’s okay. They’ll come again. New stories will flood your mind. A new message will begin to take shape again when you allow yourself a little time to escape.

There’s a reason most writers are reclusive. It’s easier to write in the silence. But there’s also a reason that writers of old were known to be insane – all that alone time fighting battles with words, and riding the emotional roller coaster in seclusion, is bound to make you a tiny bit crazy.

But then so are children, so the truth is I’m probably destined to end up going insane at some point, no matter what.

Awesome…

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Growing Up Mom

We sat close to the back of the plane, on a (mercifully) half full flight. Taking turns, Lee and I passed Annika back and forth across the aisle, her indignant wails reverberating off the airplane walls in a cacophony of torture.

We avoided contact with the other passengers as much as possible, but when a furtive glance was accidentally exchanged, we were mostly met with pitying stares. Thank you, kind people of Southwest flight 2150. Your patience was noted and deeply appreciated.

As the plane made it’s descent, she finally collapsed on Lee’s shoulder, gasping and snorting from ALL THE CRYING. With five minutes left in our flight, she fell fast asleep, completely exhausted by toddlerhood. And in the few minutes of silence that followed, I reflected on just how far I’ve come.

I thought back to the time when Lee and I flew with Sloan to California and he, too, had an epic melt down on the plane. I was so stressed, near tears myself, entirely frustrated with my uncontrollable toddler. I was certain his behavior was a reflection of my poor mothering, and I’m pretty sure I vowed on that flight that I would never, ever, in a million years have another child because  MOTHERING IS TOO HARD!

Yesterday, however, as Annika screamed bloody murder, Lee and I simply laughed. We found her screeching wails quite humorous, mostly because the look on her face was so accusatory. I’m pretty sure she cussed us out more than once as we forced her to sit in our laps.

Child abuse…

More than anything, though, I realized that what would have sent me into a fit of frustrated tears and angst a decade ago now only left me mildly amused. I don’t have time to worry about mid-flight temper tantrums anymore. And I also have the experience to know it won’t last forever.

This was one small moment in a very long timeline of events.

I was twenty-five when I had my first baby. I didn’t yet have wrinkles on my forehead, and the weight from that first pregnancy melted away like magic within six months.

I was quite idealistic back then, and even though I tried not to show it, I pretty much thought I had the whole motherhood thing figured out. At least I thought so until that tiny baby grew into a little human with ideas and opinions. Very strong opinions. Very, very strong opinions.

By the time baby number four arrived at thirty-six, I had changed in more ways than one. There are now these pesky lines across my forehead that mock me every time I look in the mirror, and the baby weight hasn’t so much melted away this time around as it’s sort of just shifted around and informed me it doesn’t intend to go without a fight.

I’m no longer idealistic, and I’ve found that motherhood isn’t something you figure out. You only live it, one step and one cup of coffee at a time.

While I would like to have the smooth forehead and wicked fast metabolism of my youth back, I’m not really sure I’d want to relive those days. I’m better now – more comfortable in my skin, more confident with my dreams, and far more open to the kinks that my children like to throw in my otherwise well-planned days.

So bring it on, kids! I’m Mom-ing like a boss these days, so you can come at me with your temper tantrums and your eye-rolling. I may not always handle it perfectly, but I can guarantee I’m more likely to laugh than cry, because I know something now that I didn’t know then:

This is one small moment in a very long timeline of events.

Yesterday has passed.

Today is a new day.

And the baby is now three hours into a nap.

Life is so good.

Has anyone else experienced the hell of a screaming toddler on a plane? Do share. We can commiserate with one another.

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2016: Pursue

We started last year with a hush. It was a quietness of spirit hovering slowly over a blanket of grief. And yet there was this burst of light sprinkled inside the fog, because for those who believe, death is victory.

And so it is that we enter into this new year with another victorious hush. We celebrate and we mourn as we head into the one year anniversary of Herb’s death. We celebrate that he’s had a full year to sit at the throne, though I imagine for him it’s been but a moment in time.

Entering into last year, I didn’t set any resolutions. I had no word to dictate my days. Or…well, actually maybe I did, but I didn’t know it at the time. In hindsight, if I were to pick a word for last year, it would be survive.

We survived the death of a parent, increased travel for Lee, a baby who didn’t want to sleep through the night, busy sports schedules, and my parents living in Europe. It was hard, but it was also overflowing with blessing.

There was a lot of good in 2015, and for that I rejoice.

Heading into 2016, I’m a little more focused. My mind isn’t quite so numb, and the fuzziness of the past year has lifted considerably. So I’m focusing again on a new word for the year.

 

I don’t want to survive this year. I don’t want to get lost in the haze of life again.

This year, I want to pursue.

The idea of a resolution is intimidating. A resolution demands some sort of success. It begs for, well, for resolution. An end. A satisfactory result.

It also sets one up for failure. Anything short of resolved feels undone, and I do hate for anything to be undone.

Pursuit, however, feels more open-ended. To pursue something means to chase after it. Perhaps you catch that which you pursue, and perhaps you don’t, but if the goal is to simply pursue, then whether or not you catch it isn’t really the point.

The goal is in the chase, and so I’ve set PURSUE my word for 2016.

There is no satisfaction in stagnancy, and I refuse to allow it creep into my life. There’s this sort of mentality that creeps up on you when you all approach forty – a feeling that perhaps the best years are already behind you.

I refuse to entertain such thoughts.

This year, I’m pursuing that which is ahead of me. And so I’ve written down bullet points of the things I want to pursue:

A deeper intimacy with the Creator: What is life if we don’t constantly long to know Him more?
The hearts of my children: I often get so caught up in the day to day moments of our days that I forget to pursue my kids – to really know who they are deep down, beyond their outward gifts and abilities; beyond their personality quirks and challenges. This year I want to pursue their hearts.
The heart of my husband: We will celebrate sixteen years of marriage this summer, and I’m still learning more about this man I love. I want to pursue a greater depth of knowing who he is in the coming year.
A better use of my down time: This year I plan to read more (I’m open to book suggestions – preferably fiction!), and to spend more of my time pursuing those things that expand my mind, rather than simply shut it down (I’m talking to you, Facebook).
Excellence in the use of my talents and gifts: I hope to write another book this year. I will be launching two books in the summer and fall. I want to  continue to pursue excellence in my career.
Health: I’ve simply let it slide in the last year. I refuse to let my laziness make me old. This year I’ll pursue more healthy living.
Friendships: I’ve been richly blessed with dear friends both near and far. I want to continue to cultivate and grow those friendships.
Laughter: I just want to laugh more heartily and readily at the days to come.

These are the things I’ll pursue, and in the pursuit I’ll offer myself loads of grace. I don’t have specific goals inside these pursuits as I want to simply enjoying the chase. 

2016 is here. The future is upon us! This is our time to pursue all the beauty that life has to offer. Won’t you join me in the chase?

Have you chosen a word for the year? Feel free to share it in the comments!

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The Good Truth

Good.

I like that word.

When I think of the word good, I like to think happy thoughts.

Good is smiling. It’s warm and colorful. It’s happy endings and Christmas mornings. Good is the thing that makes you smile. It’s the light that drives out darkness – the opposite of evil. Good is just so…good.

But sometimes good doesn’t really look like good.

I sat against the back of the pew at church last week and let myself sink into the plush material a little more than usual. I wanted to make myself small, to maybe shy away from the honesty of the message. I wanted to shield myself from the hardness of Truth – a Truth that reveals God to be good.

Even if good doesn’t look good.

“My soul glorifies the Lord

and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,

for he has been mindful

of the humble state of his servant.

He has filled the hungry with good things

    but has sent the rich away empty.”

Luke 1: 46-48; 53

We’re now engulfed in the post-Christmas fall out, and I’m currently sitting at my kitchen table surrounded by a holy mess. There’s an open can of dog food sitting next to me, a dirty coffee cup, three dirty glasses, several napkins, and a huge stack of yet-to-be-mailed Christmas cards.

The table is scratched and scarred, an homage to this life I live. It’s well-worn, three out of the four chairs just a few sits from falling apart completely. We need a new table. We keep saying this over and over.

But there’s something about the scarred table that I love.

If I look to my right I see a kitchen counter piled high with crusty dishes. Just yesterday, I mentioned to Lee as I cleaned the house for the eleventy-frillionth time that had someone told me early on in marriage I would spend the better part of the rest of my life cleaning, I might have been tempted to run far away.

Because motherhood doesn’t always feel good.

With Christmas behind me, I’m reflecting on where we’ve come in the last year. In a very real sense, there’s been so much good for our family this year. Good that actually looks and feels good.

But there’s been heartache, too.

This time last year, my father-in-law was swinging his final punch at cancer. He fought valiantly through Christmas so that he could meet his newest granddaughter, and then it was time to let go.

It didn’t feel good.

The way it all went down when he passed away still doesn’t feel good. Not to me. I will never get over not being there when he took his final breath. It doesn’t feel good.

Likewise, this week is exactly three years since Putin signed into law the ban on American adoptions, an event that has continued to shape and mark me. Three years ago, every hope and dream I had for my family hung in the balance, and as I wade through the darkness of that time, the benefit of hindsight allows me to now claim God’s goodness.

But at the time, I couldn’t see beyond my devastation, disappointment, and doubt.

And so it is that I must continually embrace the hard truth that God alone is good. He is the giver of good things, though my eyes veiled by this earth tend to miss it.

Last week, Lee asked me what I would say to a younger version of myself. What would I tell the fresh-faced, wide-eyed, newly married, twenty-two year old Kelli to prepare her for the journey to come? I had to pause and think through that question. It’s not that easy to answer.

Of course, the obvious first response was, “Dear child – you will have four children, and they will be awesome. You will love them immensely. But you will also spend the better part of the rest of your life cleaning up after them. Prepare yourself.”

But that was a lame answer.

After some thought, I finally gave my halting reply: “I’d tell her that God’s goodness doesn’t hinge upon answered prayer and fulfilled dreams. I’d tell her that God is good because He is God, and that is enough. The heartache to come isn’t a stain on God’s goodness, but is rather an opportunity for you to lean into it.”

God is good because He is God. And that is enough.
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As we head into 2016, I pray that each one of you has the opportunity to lean in to God’s goodness; to fully embrace the beauty of who He is, simply because He is God.

May He fill you with good things, and may you all laugh at the days to come.

Happy New Year.

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Merry Christmas

The stockings are all hung by the chimney with care…

Well, most of them are, anyway. I don’t have a sticking for Annika yet, because FOURTH CHILD! I can’t be bothered with such details right now, thankyouverymuch.

We had two days of nippy weather down here in Florida and it put us right into the Christmas spirit. Of course, it will be 86 degrees on Friday, so instead of building a snowman, we may go to the beach and build a sandman instead.

I’ve spent the better part of an hour trying to craft a beautifully worded post for the internet, and I’ve scrapped every post I started because they all felt forced.

I won’t force words on you today. And I’ll quit forcing them on myself.

But if you’re looking for some beautiful words in poetry form, then I would suggest you visit Wendy’s site and take in her Holiday Haiku series. She’s brought us all into Christmas using fewer words.

While you all enjoy a few holiday haikus, I’m going to pack my kids up in my (smokin’ hot) minivan, and we’re going to go out to lunch. Because it’s the first day of Christmas break, my house looks like Santa’s elves threw up all over it, and I don’t feel like doing anything – not even feeding my children.

So I will simply leave you with Christmas greetings, from my family to yours.

May your days be merry and bright.

And may your Christmas be whiter than mine.

Happiest of holidays to all of you. I’m thankful that I get to take this journey with so many of you cheering me on. I’m looking forward to 2016.

Cheers!

Eight is Great

The very first time I went home with Lee Stuart, I heard all the stories about him. I heard about how he didn’t go anywhere without a basketball in his hand; how he could be found asleep at night, his arm slung over his dirty ball; how he had to be reminded to set the basketball down at the dinner table and actually sit in a chair.

I heard the stories, and I laughed, imagining that dirty little boy who loved the rhythmic sound of the ball hitting pavement. But I didn’t really understand who that little boy was because I couldn’t merge him with the grown man I married.

I couldn’t, that is, until Landon came along.

It took us a long time to find the right name for Landon. We’d had one all picked out, stored in our arsenal after Tia surprised us with all her girliness upon arrival. But by the time Landon came along, too many others had discovered our treasured name and it no longer felt special, so we went back to the drawing board.

For months we went back and forth until we finally settled on Landon as the first name. Then it came time to pick a middle name. We tried combinations of Landon with our father’s and grandfather’s names, and it never seemed to fit just right. Then one night, shortly before he was born, I sat up in bed and looked at Lee.

“What about your name?” I asked.

A slow smile spread across his face. “Landon Lee,” he said, and we both knew that was it.

Lee was pleased with our choice for the obvious reason. What man doesn’t feel a twinge of pride at the thought of his son bearing his own name?

I was pleased for other reasons. First, I found a sort of comical sweetness in Landon carrying Lee’s name given that Lee was so shocked by this surprise third pregnancy that he didn’t talk to me for two days after I told him.

As if I was the sole culprit in our rapidly expanding family.

Second, I just liked the ring of it: Landon Lee. It sounded strong and manly, and the two names slid together like a puzzle piece.

Today, we celebrate Landon Lee’s 8th birthday, and more and more as this child grows I see evidence of the fact that we really had nothing to do with his naming. This was the name chosen for him from the beginning of time – we had only to stumble upon it, and how glad I am that we did.

See, Landon bears more than his dad’s name – he also possesses a great deal of his dad’s personality.

As I watch Landon maneuver around the house, I think back on those stories I’ve so often heard of Lee as a boy, and I see now who my husband must have been as a child.

Delightful.
Funny.
Passionate about sports.
A jokester.
People Pleaser.
Unable to function without a ball nearby.

Landon’s chosen sport (of late) is soccer. He lives, eats, and breathes the sport, and when things settle down, and the corners of our house fill with blissful silence, it won’t be long before you hear, or see, Landon kicking a ball against the wall.

He spends hours each day outside, often by himself, kicking the ball into the soccer net, roaring through the yard as he wins yet another World Cup. It’s all in his mind, of course, but it plays out like a vivid dream for the rest of us to enjoy alongside him.

Though he looks the most like me, he bears his father’s spirit. And so it is that Landon Lee was the perfect name for this delightful boy with the twinkly blue eyes. He plays hard, sleeps hard, laughs hard, and wakes up each day to do it again.

And I’m the one with a sideline view as he grows up.

Lucky me.