Kelli Stuart's Blog, page 8

Raising World Changers

I was twenty-five years old, a brand new mom, and I rolled slowly to a stop in front of her house. I picked up my weeks old baby boy and walked to the front door, loaded down with an overstuffed diaper bag, several blankets, and a deep need for someone to tell me I would survive.

When Laura opened the door, she whisked the baby from my arms and bounced up and down with him while I set up the pack and play in a nearby bedroom. Once he was settled and sleeping peacefully, little bum up in the air, she and I sat on the couch, and we just talked.

Her kids were all off at school, and for the first time since she’d become a mom herself, she had extended periods of time alone. Her youngest had just begun first grade, and now all three were in school full days. She and I were both in transition.

Laura was looking at her free time and evaluating how she would fill it. Would she go back to work? Would she get another degree? Would she stay home? She had a lot of options, and just as I was adjusting to life with a newborn, she was adjusting to life with quiet spaces.

For the next eight years, Laura and her husband, Tom, would pour faithfully into Lee and I. They, and another couple at our church who also had children one step ahead of ours, were instrumental in our understanding of what it looks like to raise children in a Christ-centered home.

In fact, outside of our own parents, the greatest impact on our lives since we’ve been married has come from the Hughes and Krosley families.

Last night, Lee and I and the kids sat in front of the TV and watched, sometimes with tears in our eyes, as Tom and Laura’s youngest son, the little boy who had just started first grade on that day so long ago, stood up on a stage and received the Wendy’s Heisman award. 

We were as proud as we possibly could have been.

Not just of Zach, though of course we’re proud of him. He’s grown from a squirrelly little boy into a young man who looks out for the needs of others, and who is one of the hardest working kids we’ve ever known.

But we were also so proud of Tom and Laura. They’ve raised three amazing kids – kids who aren’t just talented, though every single one of them are just that – but they’re also kind, loving, giving, humble, smart, and hard working.

I can boast the same things of Kevin and Pam Krosley, the other couple to mentor us through the early stages of parenting. Their (five!) kids are growing into amazing, talented, godly young people who look out for the needs of others. They’re raising world changers, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the impact these families had in our lives at such an early stage.

Even after we moved away, the Krosleys and the Hughes have continued to invest in us through phone calls, visits, and encouragement. They are still two of the couples we look to for advice, and though we’re watching from farther away, we continue to observe how they raise their kids.

Our children are now the same ages that the Hughes and Krosley kids were when we first met them. We’re in the trenches, and some days I’m certain that I’m failing miserably. Other days I take, perhaps, a little too much pride in my children’s outward talents, forgetting that the character of the heart matters above all else.

But we constantly come back to the lessons we learned from the Hughes and the Krosleys. We learned from them the value of focusing on who God has created each one of these children to be, beyond their gifts and abilities. We’ve learned to focus on the fruits that we see developing in our kids: the compassion, and mercy, love for others, and hearts for service.

Were it not for these two families who invested in Lee and I as parents, I’m not sure where we would be. I think back to the days when those dear friends were in the same trench that we now find ourselves, and I remember that it wasn’t always easy or pretty.

They fought for their kids, they prayed over them, and they dug their heels into the process, all the while letting us see what it takes to raise our own world changers. Transparency goes a long way in mentorship, and we hope to pass that torch along to others who may be a step behind us in child rearing.

And so this is my public thank you to the couples who have shaped and molded us, who have loved our kids and let us be a part of their journey. We’re proud to be called your friends.

And Zach Hughes, we are SO proud of you!

Killing Santa: A Repost

I am desperately behind in life. I’ve barely kept my head above water this week (and I can’t even blame it on pregnancy this time), and it doesn’t appear I will catch up anytime soon. So, in lieu of writing any actual new words, I’ll go ahead and repost this blog from April, 2014: Also known as “The Day I Killed Santa.”

And yes, for the record, all of my children are now in on the “secret” of Santa. Luckily we’ve got Annika coming up behind them. Christmas magic, take two! 

I will (hopefully) return with original material next week.

***

My children were all up and dressed before the sun awoke up this morning. This is partly my fault since I put them all to bed before the sun went down last night because PREGNANT MOMS GET TIRED!

I also forgot, yet again, to play Tooth Fairy last night because PREGNANT MOMS HAVE NO BRAIN CELLS! So Sloan, bless him, woke up disappointed one more time when there was no money left under his pillow.

Now let me give you a tiny glimpse into our philosophy on the “magic” of childhood. We have always celebrated things like the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and Santa Clause with our kids. I know some people do not agree with this, but for us, it was fun and we’ve never felt that it was harmful practice.

I destroyed the myth of the Easter Bunny for our children last year because, honestly, it was my least favorite story. I mean, it just logically doesn’t make sense. Bunnies don’t even lay eggs, for heaven’s sake!

Side note: I have a distinct memory from my childhood, when I swear up one side and down the other that I saw the Easter Bunny. I heard a noise outside and went to cross the hall to my parent’s room, and a six foot rabbit stood on his hind legs at the end of the hall. I was so terrified, I dashed back to my bed and pulled the blankets over my ears.

My parents maintain to this day that it was simply a result of my overactive imagination. I’m not entirely sure it wasn’t one of them dressed up to torture me. Either way, the memory is as real as the nose on my face and I will stand by the story until the day I die.

End side note.

I came stumbled into the kitchen this morning at 6:20, and the first words to greet me were, “Mom! The Tooth Fairy didn’t come again. Is the Tooth Fairy even real?”

I’ve been wanting to let Sloan in on the secret of the Tooth Fairy and Santa for awhile now. I just really wanted him to hear from us, and not other people, that these were simply the fun aspects of being parents, so I took him to his room and tried to let him down gently.

“No. The Tooth Fairy isn’t real. I’ll give you a dollar for your tooth later, though, okay?”

Bribery is an art form, friends. Don’t judge.

“Well,” he said, and I knew it was coming. “What about Santa?”

“Yeah, so Santa is an interesting thing,” I answered as sweat gathered on my upper lip. “You know the true story of Saint Nicholas that I read to you every year?”

He nods.

“Saint Nick was a real person, and he really did give gifts to those less fortunate. They hung stockings outside their windows, and on Christmas morning he would leave little treats, or necessary items in their stockings. It’s the magic of giving to others, and that’s a part of Christmas we like to celebrate.”

“Sooooo…Saint Nicholas is real?” Sloan asked.

“Well,” I answered, “Saint Nicholas was real. But he died a long time ago.”

Tact is also an art form. Look at all the things you’re learning from me today!

“And now,” I continued, “one of the fun things we get to do as parents is carry on his magical tradition of giving. We give to others at Christmastime, and we give to our children. We are Santa Clause! It’s a privilege to be Santa for our kids, and now that you know the secret, you can be Santa with us!”

He sat on his bed, face registering utter disbelief. “So you bought all those presents?”

“Well, yes,” I answered. You’re welcome, I thought to myself.

“But I’ve heard Santa’s sleigh on the roof on Christmas Eve!”

There was no real answer to this, so I stayed quiet. This is probably somewhat akin to my vision of the Easter Bunny as a child.

“So,” he continued, still processing. “If I get to play Santa with you, does that mean I get to climb on the roof and slide down the chimney?!” His eyes lit up.

“Uh…no. That doesn’t actually happen. That’s part of the myth of Santa.”

Face fell again.

“Now,” I continued,”part of the fun of being Santa is keeping it a secret. You can’t tell anyone else about this because then it’s not as fun, so can you keep this just between us?”

He nodded slowly. (I give it a week before the other two kids know about Santa.)

“I just can’t believe you’re Santa,” he said, shaking his head. Then he shrugged, stood up, and asked for some cereal, because when you’re a ten year old boy, food conquers all disbelief.

So the basic theme of this entire story is that I was Mommy the Dream Slayer this morning, and I destroyed the magic of childhood before the sun even rose above the trees. Later, after I’d sent them off to school, I got tickled about the whole conversation and called Lee (who is out of town) to tell him that I destroyed childhood for our firstborn today, and to congratulate him for missing out on that parenting milestone.

Then we both thought of this quote from Talladega Nights, and got to laughing so hard we were crying, because, yeah – for Sloan this was akin to being mauled by a cougar and having his favorite Crystal Gale t-shirt ruined.

So…anyone else in need of a little dream slaying today?
Apparently I’m on a roll.
(PS – I know this can be a hot button topic in some circles, so respectfully I ask that it not become one here. Santa and the Easter Bunny always have very small roles in our holiday celebrations. Kind of like Nutella plays a small role in our every day snacking, but it is not our main source of nutrition… )

Writing Under Pressure

I’m currently sitting in a coffee shop, Christmas carols warbling through the speaker behind my head, and my chai tea offering a relaxing scent to what feels like a very holiday heavy morning. The Florida sky is grey today, the temperature a brisk 60 degrees.

It’s about as Christmasy as our sandy state can muster.

I’ve been staring at a blank screen for thirty minutes, willing brilliance to tap it’s way out of my fingertips. I want to start a new novel. I want to tell a new story.

I’m terrified.

I’ve never really had to look for a story before. My first novel came to me. It was practically gift wrapped and placed in my hands. And with the release date coming up in just six short months, it’s time to start in on the second story. Only, I feel like I’m shooting blanks.

There’s a sense of pressure hanging over me now that wasn’t there before. It was easy to say I was writing a novel the first time around because there was a sense of impending excitement surrounding it. There wasn’t a publisher, so anything was possible. But now? Well, to be honest I’m terrified of becoming a one hit wonder.

All of that assuming that my book will be a hit, of course. (And I am believing big, folks!) 

So I type out story ideas, brief synopses of potential books, and I stare at them with a million questions. Are these too cliche? Are they interesting enough? Will people want to read a story about this subject? Will this fit into my brand as a writer?

What is my brand as a writer?!

The business side of writing can be paralyzing, and almost mind numbing. You’ve got to think of marketing and platform building. You have to keep your name on the forefront so potential readers know who you are. You need to stay engaged in the writing community, and most importantly – you must be predictable.

Any mother knows that the idea of predictability is a laughable concept. I cannot predict my days any more than the weatherman can accurately predict the weather. Which means I generally have a basic idea of how a day will go, but a surprise storm could well up and change a predicted sunny day into a deluge at any moment, leaving me completely surprised at the turns of events.

Maintaining predictability in my online interactions is only one part of the challenge, though. Because I also need to establish myself as a predictable brand. And what does that mean?

It means when people go to the book store to buy my books, they should have a basic idea of what they’re going to get.

I’m working to figure out what exactly this means for me, and how to operate within these parameters. Thankfully, I have smart people on my side who are willing to help me figure this out. I’m grateful for these smart people, because otherwise I think I’d stumble around in the dark until I finally threw my hands up in exasperation and decided to call it quits.

I don’t want to call it quits. I want to write. I want to tell stories. I want to ride this wave of creativity that keeps my soul afloat, even in the midst of all the unpredictability.

And so I will keep returning to the blank screen, tapping out ideas, many of which will probably be erased. I’ll keep scratching at the surface, waiting for inspiration to coming calling again. And I will keep my eyes open for the next story that needs to be told, because it’s waiting out there. I can feel it.

The muse is starting to whisper my name.

What are you up to these days, dear readers? What projects are you working on, and how are you maintain predictability in the midst of this unpredictable life?

 

The Thing About Christmas

There’s this memory that sort of hovers over me every year. It floats in sometime after Thanksgiving, and grows increasingly strong until Christmas morning when it roars past me like a freight train.

Sometimes I wish I could catch the memory, maybe climb back into it, and wrap myself up in the warmth of that moment.

It was Christmas, and I was young. My brother and I burrowed beneath blankets upstairs as the winters winds of Wisconsin knocked at the window panes. It was the middle of the night, not even close to being a reasonable time to wake our parents. The clock by my bedside said 3:30. We decided to wait until 4:00 to go downstairs.

Because, obviously, 4:00 is more than reasonable. Ask my mom. She loved getting up that early.

Brett slept on the floor by my bed, and on this night (morning? No…definitely night), I was reading Ziggy to him by flashlight. I’d read the words, then show him the pictures, and we’d both snicker because, for whatever reason, we found Ziggy hilarious.

It’s very tactile, this memory of mine. I remember the darkness that wrapped around our house, the way the windows rattled now and then with the wind. I remember my toes being cold, and not really wanting to get out of bed, but so longing to see what treasures waited for us under the tree.

I remember being happy and excited. I remember feeling both cold and warm, or…maybe it’s just the memory that makes me feel warm?

Mostly I remember feeling completely at peace.

The thing about Christmas is it tends to get under your skin. There’s something about the holiday season that wraps all tight around your heart, forcing you to recall short snippets of time, replaying them like movie reels in your mind.

“The thing about Christmas is it tends to get under your skin.”…
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I love that Christmas memory. I don’t remember the gifts we received that year. I just remember being happy in my bed, giggling with my brother, anticipating the day to come.

There’s another Christmas memory that has loped it’s way into the reel in recent years. This one, too, has been pressing down on me for the last few days, reminding me that I’m not a kid anymore, but that Christmas can still hold a particular brand of magic.

It was three years ago that I sent off our completed dossier to Russia. I’d had eleventy frillion documents tracked down, signed, notarized, and copied, and I sent the stack of paperwork as thick as my arm off with a thrill in my heart.

And the week before Christmas it all sort of unraveled. Whispers of a Russian ban on American adoptions made their way into my heart, and began to squeeze tight.

It was Christmas night, and I was up all alone. The children were in bed, the events of the day having pushed them into slumber swiftly and mercifully. Lee was asleep, too, and so I sat alone.

I curled up in front of the tree, all lit and glittery with memories old and new, and I sipped my hot tea. I thought of a little girl far away, alone and waiting for a family to choose her, and I prayed the prayer that only a mother can pray when she feels powerless to help her child. 

I’m not one to claim to have heard the voice of God often. I don’t toss that idea around lightly. But on this still night, I heard the word Wait.

In this memory that keeps flitting around my subconscious, I hear the voice audibly. I don’t believe it was quite so clear that particular night, but I do remember growing quite still in spirit as the message washed through me.

Wait.

Tonight, we brought home our Christmas tree, and while Michael Buble´ crooned Jingle Bells in the background, we pulled out the lights and ornaments, and we dressed the spruce in our living room.

“Put the breakable ornaments up a little higher so Annika can’t get them,” I told the big kids, and they did. And all the while, Annika stood in the middle of the carpet, her eyes dancing with delight at the wonder of it all.

Three years ago last week, I put our dossier in the mail to Russia. It’s been a long wait, but tonight I felt a warmth spread quick through my soul. It’s the same feeling I get when I think of that Christmas morning in my bed with a flashlight, and a Ziggy book.

Peace. Joy. Anticipation.

The thing about Christmas is there’s always room for one more memory – another snippet to add to the reel.

And it is magic.

Battle Weary

I thought it was a good idea.

It seemed to be so, anyway. As I walked down the sidewalk, in the beginning, I felt proud of myself for the suggestion. This wasn’t just a good idea – it was a great one.

Those happy thoughts lasted all of thirty seconds.

It was a beautiful evening yesterday. It was the kind of Florida evening that we live for down here in the sunshine state. Now that the heat has broken, we are blessed with that perfect, 70 degree air that bathes the skin in delight.

After an afternoon spent relaxing, baby napping, kids playing their electronics, I felt that it was time for everyone to get outside and breathe in the perfect night. So I suggested a walk.

“We need to get out,” I told the family as everyone pushed their feet into flip flops. I plopped the baby into her stroller, and Lee and I together walked down the sidewalk, and I thought this was such a good thing to suggest. We were together, as a family, enjoying a beautiful Florida evening.

What could go wrong?

By the time we finally rolled back into the driveway, I sincerely regretted suggesting the walk. The children fought and bickered the whole time. They hung on Lee and I, tripping us constantly. Nothing about it was relaxing…or really even remotely fun.

I was frustrated.

As we entered the house, everyone made a beeline for their respective electronics again. Sloan grabbed his phone, Landon grabbed my phone, and Tia grabbed my computer. Before I could even get my shoes off, they were back in their solitary corners, eyes alit by the glow of the screens.

With a huff, I demanded all electronics be turned off for the duration of the evening. “This is ridiculous!” I cried, and everyone sort of laughed at me because they thought I was joking. But I was serious.

And yet…

Part of me wanted to just throw my hands up and say, “Screw it!” Because, honestly, the most pleasant, relaxing moments of my days are when they’re all occupied with their screens. It’s just so easy to let them sink into the games, and the videos. Screen time drastically reduces arguing.

But it also drastically reduces imagination, bonding, interaction, and basic togetherness.

Sometimes I feel completely oppressed by electronics. I feel like I’m in a war zone. I’m charging up the banks of Normandy with a water gun in my hand.

I’m losing the battle.

And I’m not innocent in the matter. I’m as drawn to the screen as the rest of my people. It’s always there, begging me to pop it open, to check the news, Facebook, Instagram, email.

Everything is waiting for me, and it’s so easy to get pulled in. No wonder the children enjoy it so much. It requires so little of them. And it requires so little of me.

As moms, we’re constantly told to pick and choose our battles. Know when to fight, and know when to let things go. This maintains a healthy balance inside the home, and I fully and wholeheartedly embrace that wisdom.

But the fight against electronics is not one I want to lose.

We simply must teach our children the art of balance. In a world that’s growing increasingly more isolated, despite the many, many ways to remain connected, it’s not worth it to me to throw in the towel. It’s a battle worth fighting, even on the days when I don’t feel like fighting it.

Limiting kid’s screen time is a battle worth fighting.
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But it’s hard, this battle we’re fighting as parents. And maybe you feel beaten down by it all like I do. Can I offer a challenge?

Put the screens away.

How will this look for your family?

A couple of years ago, Lee and I instituted ‘No TV during the school week’. It’s a good rule. It eliminates at least one temptation daily. But sometimes (most of the time?) I feel like it’s not enough. Because the PlayStation, the iPhones, the computer – they’re all there waiting for little eyes to latch on.

So what will we do?

I’m not sure yet. I’m chewing on it. But as we head into the Christmas season, I do know that I’m feeling so battle weary. We could all use a break from the war. Perhaps, we could even learn to be in the same room together joyfully, without electronics occupying us.

Because I’m tired of being alone together with my family.

How do you combat in the electronic battle? What rules do you have in place to keep your family from being overrun by screens? I’m up for suggestions!

A Pause of Thanks

I’m taking a pause this week so celebrate the gift of family. This means opening my computer as minimally as possible, laughing as often as I can, eating more than I probably should, and choosing to embrace the craziness of the holidays.

We spent two nights in the great outdoors camping with friends – or, well…Lee and the big kids spent two nights sleeping outdoors. I came home the second evening to stay with the baby. It was a mighty sacrifice I made for her, choosing to sleep in my warm, comfortable bed instead of on the cold, hard ground.

Motherhood is sacrifice, man.

Today, family will sweep down upon us, and tomorrow we eat TURKEY!

I love Thanksgiving. It’s such a non-fuss holiday, isn’t it? That’s probably why it gets so easily overlooked. But what a great day! We sit around, eat, and enjoy family. No place to go, no errands to run. Just family and food.

So in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I will be taking the rest of the week off. But I’ve written several posts lately that I’d love for you to check out if you’re in need of a little light reading. *wink*

1.) Merry and Bright: Tips for Enjoying the Holidays

The holiday season can be hectic and overwhelming. I’m over at Extraordinary Mommy sharing a few tips to help you enjoy the upcoming weeks.

 

2.) Baba Yaga: Part I

Have you heard of Baba Yaga – the witch who lives in the forest in a magical house? She’s truly terrifying, and I’m enjoying stretching my fiction chops over at Short Fiction Break with this short story series.

3.) Dear Son

There is so much out there bombarding our children these days. It sometimes makes my head spin. And now that I have a boy in middle school, I find myself increasingly aware of the dangers. This was my love letter to him over at Extraordinary Mommy.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Eat Turkey! Play flag football! Enjoy family!

Yay Thanksgiving!

Respect the Power

“Hey, Mom. In the new story I’m working on, is it okay if I use a cuss word?”

He asked the question casually, as though he were simply speaking to me about the weather. He didn’t look me in the eye, but rather squinted upward, focused on some invisible speck floating above his head.

“Why do you need to use a cuss word?” I asked.

“It just…feels like it will make the story more effective,” he said, the hint of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He’s in 6th grade now, and four letter words fly around him at school every single day. He finds them fascinating, and deeply tempting.

“Well, I’m going to encourage you to try hard not to use any cuss words in your new story.” He opened his mouth in protest, and I held up my hand, shushing him with my best mom-look.

“There are always other words you can use. Sometimes a four letter word is appropriate in writing, but you should try to first come up with other words, because if you can’t think of a way to communicate without using a cuss words, then you’re just not trying hard enough.”

And also, you’re my baby, and you kiss my cheek with that mouth, and you’re supposed to stay sweet and innocent forever and ever…and ever.

I left that last part out.

I’m headed to the middle school today to talk to the kids about the art of writing. It is the Great American Teach In, and many a professional will come in and give these kids a glimpse into their working lives.

Since my working life consists of caffeine, yoga pants, chocolate, and much time staring at a blank screen, I’m having to come up with something more creative. Because to stand up there and tell them that working as a career writer means rejection, emotional exertion, and overall feelings of inadequacy feels a bit like a downer.

Instead, we’re going to talk about the power of the written word, and how with that power comes great responsibility. So basically I’ll be Spiderman in there, only without the skin tight red suit, because my child would disown me.

My sister-in-law recently wrote the most beautiful post about writing. It’s been rolling around in my head since I read it, particularly the last couple of paragraphs.

Before parchment and paper, words meant to last were always cut in with some sort of incision.  The Word was cut in with nail pierced incisions.

If our words are to make a difference today, then how should writers go about the craft?  Sometimes, I throw my hands up in anguish and tell Him that I don’t have enough words to describe Him.  When I try to get Him on paper, I wonder if I’m like a child that’s been locked inside a closet her whole life and yet she is asked to describe the sky.  He is so much more.  There aren’t enough words to contain Him. 

But, if I can offer a piece of my story, then others might get a glimpse of who this beautiful God is.  If I can make an incision into my own heart and let all of the joys and sorrows intermingle out into one grace swirled and bloody mess, then just maybe readers will get a taste of this Good-Good Father who loves deeply.

If we are going to write well, then we must cut into ourselves and bleed out.

Writing with Meaning: The Art of Carving by Becke Stuart

We’re all, writers and non-writers alike, impacted by words, and this is perhaps the message I most long to convey to these young kids.

This generation is growing up in a world full of words. Their entire lives play out in pithy little soundbites, and they’re constantly bombarded with poorly thought through ideas.

It seems we’ve forgotten as a society the weight of the written word.
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We fling words around like they don’t mean anything, constantly stringing together rants and epithets without any thought for the impact those combined letters leave on lives.

But words matter.

The entirety of our history lives on through writing. Everything we know about the early civilizations is because of storytelling and writing. If mankind hadn’t developed the written language, history would have died long ago, or it would be terribly warped.

Imagine if man had simply decided to preserve history by orally telling the generations behind. It would be like a bad game of telephone in which we all ended up believing that we descended from monkeys or something ridiculous like that.

Oh, wait…

The point is this: A great deal of power resides in the written word, and anyone who chooses to chase words and pen them, whether that be in a book, a blog post, an email, or a status update, should respect that power.

Because words matter.

Words ignite imagination. They initiate conversation, reveal new ideas, new ways of thinking, inventions beyond comprehension. Words were written in the beginning, and they tell us of the many great things this world has to offer.

Words are power, and we would do well to respect that power.

Love Wins. Light Wins. Prayer Wins.

The television droned on in the background as I prepared dinner, my eyes ever trained on the flashing screen. I was taking in the horror against the juxtaposition of my children laughing and dancing in the room next to me. The pictures of death a back drop to the sounds of life.

Like everyone else, I watched in horror at the unfolding of events in Paris on Friday night. I did not, however, feel either shock or surprise. Because evil has been lurking in the periphery for some time, and we’ve allowed it to trickle in to our vicinity.

Oh, what charitable people we long to be, but charitability combined with passivity leads to tragedy.

Don’t get me wrong. I want to extend my hands to the people of this world. I want to open my home to the hurting and the deprived, and I would give all I had to the children whose tears bleed through my computer screen. I am not an unmerciful woman, though for much of my life I’ve been painted as such.

On the contrary, I feel deeply. Mercy and compassion cut to my core. I am not one prone to hold on to anger. These are all strengths passed down to me from my parents, and nourished by God Himself, and for them I’m grateful.

I’d rather bask in the grace of forgiveness and mercy than wallow in the darkness of anger and hurt.

But there’s a measure of protectiveness that settles upon a mother’s soul when her children dance and sing, and the world burns just beyond her borders. I will call out evil for what it is, and I will condemn it, and by God I will support the fight against it. And here’s the kicker:

I am not unmerciful in my condemnation of evil.

In the wake of one more wretched attack, the world has rallied yet again. Only nowadays these rallies take shape via social media. Because what else can we do but voice our horror and our pain, and support the cry for swift retaliation?

And for those of us who cannot fight back, what more can we do but pray?

In the days following the attacks, I’ve seen more than one article calling people out for using the hashtag #prayforparis.

“The world doesn’t need your hashtags!” they cry, and maybe they’re right. Maybe the world doesn’t need my post or my photo layered with blue, white, and red stripes. After all, a hashtag and a filter are nothing more than symbols. They mean nothing in the wake of disaster and death.

The carnage in the streets is not revived by mere symbols. And yet…

There is power to be found behind a symbol, if we’re willing to follow through. Will I simply post #prayforparis, or will I drop to my knees and pray for Paris? Will I pray for this world, and for the people who are grappling for security and safety in a land the explodes around them?

It feels so monumental, praying for the world. Dear God, I pray for the world?

What does that even mean?

No, I must pray for them by name. I have to pray for the city of Paris, that life, and laughter, and beauty, and love return to the weeping streets. I will also pray that God would comfort the hearts of His people.

Each country has a name, and that name is not lost on the God who formed the land. #prayforparis

And I can move on – each country has a name, and that name is not lost on the God who formed the land. I believe this. I believe in all the good things of this world – in the beauty of laughter and dancing, of friendships, travel, family, children, and above all things, I believe in love.

And I also believe that evil will always be lurking in the shadows, waiting to snuff out those beautiful gifts. Because evil cannot stand the light, and all those things bring light. Evil hates light – that is why it’s evil. It can only exist in the dark places.

So get up, world! Let not evil darken the doors of our hearts! Let not the darkness snuff out the beauty of laughter and love. Evil may look like it’s winning, but it cannot claim victory because light won’t be chased away. I know this for a fact.

So get up world! Let not evil darken the doors of our hearts! #prayforparis
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As I set dinner on the table, my nine-year-old danced out and looked at the television. She froze as the images pushed into her youthful consciousness.

“What happened?” she asked. I explained as best I could while muting the TV. She looked up at me, bright blue eyes swimming with compassion.

“We should pray for them,” she whispered.

So we did. And we will. 

Love wins. Light wins. Prayer wins.

Every time.

#prayforParis

Dear Writers – I Am For You

It’s cold in here. I’m sitting in the corner, bundled up as I stave off the air conditioner that refuses to quit running. Thanks to an unseasonably warm Florida fall, most buildings are keeping their spaces unbearably cool. Perhaps this is our only means for experiencing fall weather here in the Sunshine State.

The cafe is loud, but I don’t mind because I can smell the stories in the air. The scent of imagination mingles with that of my Cinnamon Spice hot tea, and I feel heady with delight.

If I had my choice, I’d hunker down in more intimate location. Barnes and Noble is a chain, and the cookie cutter nature of this space is less delightful. But still…the books.

I love books. I love words. I love imaginative storytelling.

As a new author, I have such a deep appreciation for the work that went into these books. I had no idea. Writing looks romantic on TV. It’s grittier in real life.

Writing isn’t just sitting in front of a typewriter in a quiet, breezy room tapping rhythmically on a typewriter. Mainly because no one uses typewriters anymore.

But also because writing is awful lot of sitting in front of the screen and staring at a blank page until some muse chooses to show. It’s hard, and solitary, and feels an awful lot like bleeding openly for the world to see.

Then you put your book out there, and you ask everyone what they think. And they can choose whether or not to love this work of your heart.

In short, writing is a profession of vulnerability.

Writers pour their hearts and souls into their stories, and then, if they’re willing to wait and fight for their stories, they find a publisher willing to print their words on paper. After all that, they turn their books in to the waiting publisher, and it’s all VICTORY! YOU DID IT!

Now get to work.

Authoring a book is more than just writing pretty words, and finding a publisher. There is marketing and promotion, pulling together a launch team, and finding endorsements.

Writers have to get their books in front of people who are willing to read them.

Launching a book may be the hardest and scariest part of the publishing journey. It is the moment when writers feel the most vulnerable, because this is when others decide is the work is worthy of their endorsement.

 

In the rocky soil of Texas, there’s a yearly beauty that springs up. Bluebonnets carpet the hot ground each spring, blanketing the state in vibrant color, and they always spring up from the rocks.

In an environment that seems completely unconducive to growth, bluebonnets defy the odds and bring beauty to the landscape.

You writers are doing the same. The terrain is rocky, saturated with others already fulfilling publishing dreams, and it seems that everyone else is springing up, and you wonder if there’s any space for you.

Dear writers – I want you to know that I’m standing in the gap for you. I see more than ever before the fight it takes to get a book to market, and I want you to know I’m on your side.

You’re doing hard things. You’re writing every day, sharing stories and messages with a world that needs to hear them.

You’re facing rejection, fighting to get your words out into a void already full of great works. But you believe you have something to add, so you don’t give up. This is hard, and I admire your tenacity.

You’re putting yourself in vulnerable positions, emailing friends, and perfect strangers, to ask for endorsements. You’re asking people to decide if your words are worthy of a recommendation, and it’s terrifying. I see you, and I’m for you.

You’re sharing your gifts with a small group, but longing to see that message spread to a wiser audience. As you seek to plant yourself in this rocky terrain, I want you to know I see you and you’re doing a good job.

Vulnerability is the precursor to a dream come true.
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Writer friends – don’t be afraid of the hard things. Keep typing those words and sending those awkward emails. Keep putting yourself out there, because beauty grows in the rocky places, and your dreams are beautiful.

Take the First Swing

“There will be many times in your lives – at school, and more particularly when you are grown up – when people will distract or divert you from what needs to be done. You may even welcome the distraction. But if you use it as an excuse for not doing what you’re supposed to do, you can blame no one but yourself. If you truly wish to accomplish something, you should allow nothing to stop you, and chances are you’ll succeed.”

The Last of the Really Great Wangdoodles

I opened up the attachment, and immediately my eyes began to burn. The photo was everything I’d imagined, and nothing I ever allowed myself to dare dream. It was a colliding clash of conflicting emotions, and it all washed over me in a giant wave.

 

When I first dared to dream of writing a book, I was twenty-one years old. I was told it was an attainable goal, and I believed that fully and without doubt. I had no reason not to believe it.

I didn’t understand how difficult the process would be, though – how hard I would have to fight to tell the right story in the right way. I didn’t know that I would sweat and labor and toil, and I had no idea the effect all that fighting would have on my confidence.

All around me, it seemed other people were living out my dream. People launched books, and they all seemed to do it accidentally, never having really wanted to publish in the first place.

So I wondered if I wanted it too much. But then I realized, it’s okay to want it, and it’s definitely okay to fight for it. In fact, the fight makes the end result that much sweeter.

I am constantly telling my children that they have to fight for their dreams. Success doesn’t just fall into your lap – you have to work for it.

This week, my daughter got a much coveted skill in gymnastics – the cast to a handstand on the high bar. When she came home after practice, I asked her how she felt when she did it.

“Scared,” she replied. “I was so scared to try it, and the first time I didn’t get all the way up. But then one of the bigger girls told me to do it again, and I reminded myself that I have to just keep trying, so I got up and tried again. And I did it! The third time I tried, I wasn’t even scared anymore.”

Out of the mouths of babes, right?

Friends, big goals and dreams take courage. You’re holding yourself up on the high bar, arms quaking under the strain of desire and fear, and you have a choice to make. Will you cast, or will you jump off the bar?

Maybe you cast and you don’t get all the way up. Maybe you even fall. That’s okay. Cast again. And again. And again and again and again.

Because one day, after all that casting, you will manage to push into the handstand. You’re heart will thump with adrenaline as you teeter high above the ground, and you’ll realize that all that casting was worth it.

It mattered.

Accomplishing goals takes courage, yes. But it also takes hard work and perseverance. You have to look at your dream for what it is – a bar high above the ground, and it begs for you to swing.

Dreaming is scary, yes. But then again, anything worth pursuing will require courage.
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So what are you waiting for? Take the advice of my tenacious nine year old with the big dreams. Remind yourself that you just have to keep trying, and climb back up on the bar. Because you can do this, friends.

All you have to do is take that first swing.