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Swirling life in a cup of tea

October 4, 2011 by Kelli

When I made this decision, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Staying at home with your children full time is hard. It’s a different kind of hard when you choose to not only be their mother, but also their full time educator. I knew it would be hard going into this.

And I was right.

Evenings are my refuge and my respite. They are the brief moments when all the world stills and my tea cup sings (or…you know…sometimes it’s a wine glass singin’). Evenings are for the dishwasher humming and the stars twinkling and the melodic breathing of settled youth. I only wish the evening lasted a little longer.

I’ve tried to make evening last too long, lately. I’ve tried stretching it past the point of grace and peace and into fatigue. When the tea cup cools and the dishwasher quiets and my brain forgets how to weave words into paragraphs, the evening has long since passed.

This is not wise.

Because, you see, mornings come all too quickly. They are loud and bright and full of boisterous energy. There once was a time when I was a morning person. I adored the quiet sounds of the day breaking – the applause of heaven as sunlight streaked the darkened sky – the grass that stood tall beneath the drops of dew delicately placed on her blades – the birds that chirped good morning as the heat pushed the cool night air away with the moon.

I loved this time of day.

I still do. I just can’t seem to get up early enough to meet it. This is because I’m too busy flirting with night. And because I spawned three who love the morning more than I and who make it their life’s mission to get up before the sun each. and every. day.

So I continue to befriend the night sky – my tea and I snuggled up inside the quiet. And it’s here that I am trying to find the time to do…everything.

Everything, unfortunately, except the most important thing. The thing that really does need to have its place in the morning, when my mind is most fresh and most willing to hear. There are pictures to hang and walls to paint, books to write and boxes to move, clothes to fold and floors to mop, and all the while three little voices yelling, “Mom!”

There’s a story that my mom tells about my grandmother when she was a young mother living on the mission field with four little ones to care for and more work to do than could possibly be done. When the moment came that she had finally reached her breaking point, she would turn to her demanding little brood and wag her finger. “My name isn’t ‘Mom’ anymore,” she’d say. “My name is ‘Horse’s Butt’ and you’re not aloud to say that so you can’t call me.” And off she’d go, her silenced bunch contemplating the weight of her words.

That is the best. line. ever. Am I right?

I totally get it now. And don’t think I haven’t been tempted to bust that gem out a time or two these last few weeks.

Sometimes all the work needs to wait.

I have a friend who knows me well. She’s one of the Ribbons. And she was knit with me in a special way long ago when we were both newly married and full of love and wonder at God and life. Her mind, like mine, teams with creative energy. Her heart overflows with endless desires. Her children need her fully and her husband craves her attention, as do mine. She knows the pull and the strain of wanting, wishing, trying…to do it all.

And failing.

We are on opposite coasts and yet she still manages to speak Truth and encouragement to me on a regular basis. Through texts, emails and phone calls she reminds me that there is One who craves me above all others. And that One deserves my attention first.

Her text to me today spoke grace completely:

“Take courage today and do the work God has laid before you…What does God desire from you in your heart and in your actions today? Just a thought.”

Swirling hot tea steams before me and my Bible lays open, the magic of the Word waiting for me to dive in. Tonight, I will. Tomorrow, I will try again. I’m thankful for friends from coast to coast who love me enough to keep pushing me forward to better things.

I’m thankful for the Ribbons and for the Ribbon Maker who keeps weaving my life into something grand. I’m thankful for tea and the stillness in which to savor it.

Grant me the ears to hear.

Filed Under: faith, Family, Kids, Life, Motherhood, Moving Tagged With: faith, FRIENDS, Homeschooling, Life, Motherhood

Unexpected Blessings

October 2, 2011 by Kelli

When we began our house search in sunny Florida, we initially told our Realtor we did NOT want a pool. Neither one of us grew up with a pool, therefore the idea of keeping and maintaining one was desperately daunting.

Then we started looking at houses and we realized two things: 1.) Finding a house without a pool in Florida is almost as difficult as finding a house without a basement in St. Louis. They’re almost standard. And 2.) Of the few houses we saw without pools, none were desirable enough for us to get excited.

So we ended up in a house with a pool. And we were nervous. But no need to fear! The owner of our local pool store came out free of charge and gave us a “Pool School,” telling us anything and everything we need to know about pool maintenance. In exchange we plan to give him our business. And that’s the way you run a successful business, folks!

For our part, we are officially glad we got a house with a pool. We have used it every single day and will continue to do so until it gets too cold (we don’t have a heater). The pool has been enjoyable both day and night.

Warning to Grandparents! The following photos contain images of your grandchildren being flung to precarious heights. View at your own discretion…

This child of mine is insane. She is going to send me to an early grave.

He's crazy too. But he had sense enough to know his limits. "Dat's too high, Daddy."

She, on the other hand, came out of the water screeching, "Higher next time, Dad! HIGHER!"

This one has, unfortunately, gotten a little too big for maximum flinging...much to his chagrin.

This week has been full of unexpected blessings. Walking the dog last night, I looked up and the sky took my breath away. Our neighborhood is far enough outside of the city that we get an unpolluted view of the night sky.

Spectacular.

Our neighbors are fun, friendly and have boys who love to play football.

Our house, minor quirks aside, is really coming together and feeling like home.

Home Schooling is going really, really well.

Today were the Powerboat races at Clearwater Beach. With temps in the upper ’70’s it made for the perfect ending to a lovely weekend.

So many blessings.

Front row seats to the race. It's kind of difficult to get a photo of Landon in the water because he's always upside down. I'm pretty sure the kid's got gills...

I pray you all have a blessed October week!

Is anyone else totally freaked out by the fact that it’s October?! The holiday season is upon us, folks. How did it get here so fast?!

Filed Under: Family, Florida, Life, Moving Tagged With: Blessings, Clearwater Beach, Florida, Kids, moving, Pool

Buried Alive

September 25, 2011 by Kelli

I’m writing this from beneath a mountain of boxes. I managed to carve a path from the kids’ rooms to my own where I have prepared a bed on the floor for the first to wake up scared and hightail it this way.

I thought packing boxes was overwhelming, but unpacking them raising the bar of crazy to a whole new level. I think I made a dent today. I can see the kitchen counter and I found the table top later this afternoon. It was a glorious sight.

In lieu of the fact that I have nothing remotely interesting or witty to say, I’m going to send you over to my friend Wendy. You might remember her as the woman who gave me the greatest writer’s getaway ever earlier this year. Now it’s time I gave you all a proper introduction.

Wendy is a mother of three rough and tumble boys and she just may have the best Mom of Boys blog on the world wide web. Wendy is always an inspiration to me not only because she’s talented and filled with a depth of wisdom and grace that constantly challenges me to dig deeper. Wendy is also an inspiration because she’s real. She doesn’t pretend to have it all together. She’s just…authentic. And I love that about her.

This blog post on Family Values inspired me to think about our own core values as a family and how we instill those in our kids. Part two challenged me to make the establishment of our Family Values as something special and fun for the kids.

After reading those posts, I guarantee you’ll want to add Wendy to your blog roll.

So while you head off to be encouraged and blessed, I’m going to start digging out from under a few more boxes. It appears that our possessions multiplied inside the PODS.

Good times…

Filed Under: faith, Florida, Moving, Random Tagged With: Love Covers Blog, moving, Unpacking, Wendy

Home

September 22, 2011 by Kelli

“Love begins at home, and it is not how much we do…but how much love we put in that action.” Mother Teresa

“The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.” Maya Angelou

This laundry room kind of makes doing laundry sound exciting!

“Nothing can bring a real sense of security into the home except true love.” Billy Graham

Yes that's all our yard. Yes it's that big. Yes Lee is frantically saving money for a riding lawn mower. Yes he has to use the push mower for awhile.

“There’s no place like home.” Dorothy

“Like Dorothy, we all long for home. I think God places this longing in our hearts to remind us of the glory that awaits.” A wise friend

“Home interprets heaven. Home is heaven for beginners.” Charles H. Parkhurst

“One may make their house a palace of sham, or they can make it a home, a refuge.” Mark Twain

The hedges kind of make me feel like I have a secret garden. This makes me happy.

“Where thou art, that is home.” Emily Dickinson

“We’re Home.” Some Mom with a minivan and keys in her hand.

Filed Under: faith, Family, Florida, Moving Tagged With: Home, moving, Quotes on Home

Like welcoming an old friend

September 18, 2011 by Kelli

I got my good camera back from the shop the other day.

It was like welcoming an old friend back home again.

I immediately pulled it out of the box and ushered the kids outside for an impromptu photo shoot. They were thrilled…can’t you tell?

I’ve been in a funk these last few days. Sad. Discouraged. Frustrated at everything and nothing. Unsettled and just altogether irritable. This phase of life we’re in has left me vulnerable. Doubts start creeping in like the waters of the beach. They slide up and over my heart and then quickly retreat leaving me unsure of myself.

I doubt my ability to parent well.

I doubt my ability to pen anything worth reading.

I doubt my ability to love well.

I doubt my ability to exhibit grace.

So much doubt.

I know these are lies. I really do. I can see it and feel it and call it out by name. The frequency with which I’m having to identify and put behind me the lies, however, has begun to wear me down.

And I started to believe the doubts.

Do you know what happens when you start to believe the doubts? You compare. I’ve compared myself to everyone these past couple of weeks.

No good can come of that. I know this and I’m constantly fighting against it. Sometimes I just get battle weary.

So when I got my camera and took the time to slow down and observe life happening through the lens, I found myself suddenly encouraged.

I am not a great photographer. I know this very well.

But there is something about snapping a picture that fully encapsulates a brief moment in time.

It’s Grace. Grace. Remember how I told I’m learning about Grace? It’s a daily walk.

A sunset. A giggle. My toes buried in the cool sand.

A house awaits us. This week we will finally begin to set our stake in the sand. After two and a half months of transition, we will begin to start anew. Forward motion.

Our beach side transition is coming to a close. It has been a true blessing to be able to stay here. It hasn’t been easy…on anybody. My parents have given up their space and their peace and their privacy for two and a half months as well.

They’ve never complained. Never made us feel unwelcome or unwanted.

Grace.

Thank you to all of you for supporting us and loving us.

For loving me.

Thank you for the emails and the phone calls. I’ve had communication from perfect strangers, from friends I haven’t spoken with in many years, from friends so dear to my heart that I sometimes physically ache for their presence.

Your love and support have carried us through the moments of funk – the moments of doubt when we questioned every decision, and every ability.

Grace.

Thank you all, my friends both online and off, for showing that to me unfailingly. I am deeply, deeply grateful.

One more...just for fun. Dang, he's cute.

Filed Under: faith, Family, Florida, Life, Moving

And Then We Wept

August 23, 2011 by Kelli

An iron will combined with pure determination make her beauty a little tougher to penetrate. Life ebbs and flows under her watchful eye and she pours forth emotion only when unaware that anyone is watching. Fierce love and sheer delight dance in her eyes, though, and it’s here that her tough exterior shows weakness. The best kind of weakness.

Compassion.

Her white blonde strands dance in the wind and her baby blues swim with concern. Her brother has just been punctured by a catfish – his first fishing wound. As blood seeps and he cries, she makes her move unaware of my observance. She slips an arm around his shoulder and squeezes tight. Concern. Fear. Pain.

She feels it all.

She feels my watchful eye and turns to look at me. I nod, showing as little emotion as I can and for a moment, I see her compassion falter. But a maturity is setting in – one that hasn’t been there before. She is five and a half now. She reminds us every day.

What I see is more than an age, though. It’s God. It’s a given nature settling in, begging to be watered and fed. She is seeking and questioning. Who is God? What is Grace? What did Jesus do for me? She asks and I answer. Then we wait.

“I want to know Jesus,” she says from the backseat. “But I’m not ready yet.” And that is okay. We will let her wait and question and seek, because the time is coming when faith will call and she will make it hers. But it will be in the time that feels right to her. She would have it no other way.

I would have it no other way.

He would have it no other way.

Her younger brother cries. In a fit of laughter he took the corner too fast and head met wall with force. He wails and I look down. Her hand on his ankle and tears in her eyes. She looks entirely surprised by this reaction. Empathy has never been her first reaction. But lately…she’s changing.

“I don’t know why I’m cwying,” she says, her eyes bright.

Compassion.

I say the word to her. Over and over we discuss it. Compassion. I tell her every day now. “You are compassionate. You care. And that’s a good thing.” She needs to know. Because by nature, her independence prefers distance. She likes control and predictability. But compassion…it is unpredictable. You don’t know when it will strike and the tears will flow. Compassion requires surrender.

Late in the evening as a storm meanders off in the distance and the clouds paint the sky in a Master Tapestry of shape and color, she and I walk hand in hand. “Do you want to call her?” I ask. She has been talking about her friend Noelle for several days. I hear the ache in her voice. The tender age of five has not tempered her longing for companionship. She misses her friend.

“No,” she says and shakes her head hard. This is her sign. She doesn’t want to talk. She doesn’t want to process. The tough exterior is up. We return to the condo and I watch her move.

“Tia. Why don’t you want to call Noelle?” I ask, when the bustling movement of masculinity dashes to another room and we two are left alone. She looks at the floor, then at me. Again her eyes are full and bright and sad. She shrugs. She won’t talk because the emotion threatens and wavers and her first reaction is to fight for control.

“Are you afraid that hearing her voice will make you sad?” I ask. And she crumbles. We lay on the bed and weep together. Me for her…and for myself. I miss them too. The friends and loved ones. I miss them. And so does she. She’s only five, but also…she is five.

We spend some time talking about our friends. We remember all the fun we had with them and we rejoice in the blessing of dear, sweet friendships. Then we pray. She clutches to my chest, her hot tears dripping off her nose and together we plead for new friendships to fill the void. For me.

For her.

And one more time before the lights go out we discuss compassion. I stroke her silky soft hair and tell her again. It’s okay to feel. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to love. She possesses all of these emotions in full but letting them out is the trick. It’s the magic.

It’s what makes her so unique and wonderful.

Filed Under: faith, Family, Florida, Kids, Moving, Tia Tagged With: children, compassion, faith, Love, moving is hard

Insignificant

August 15, 2011 by Kelli

Post edit: I wrote this post several days ago and for a number of reasons decided to wait before publishing. I worried that it would sound like I was fishing for encouragement. I realize that many of my recent posts have been bemoaning our move to Florida. I’m sorry for that. This move has been more emotionally exhausting than I ever dreamed it could be. Thanks for your patience in letting me process in this space. I promise I won’t always talk about moving. I’ve got other things rolling through my head right now – get excited! I mean…ya know…if that sort of thing excites you…*sigh* I’m a dork. Read on…

You remember that awkward time in your early teens when you were gawky and moved clumsily through each day like a Great Dane on crack?

Remember those days?

Do you recall looking in the mirror at your oily, marked skin and wondering if you would ever grow into your nose and OMG why did your hair always look so weird and would your teeth really be straight when you finally got all that metal off of them?

Did you ever wander through your days back then feeling small and insignificant?

I mean, I didn’t, of course…but did you? Ahem.

I remember one conversation in particular. I was twelve and we had recently moved from Wisconsin to St. Louis. I felt lost in this new and foreign town. While I still harbored a small crush on the New Kids on the Block (Jordan and Joey...sigh), the people in my new classroom considered them soooo 1991. How did I know this?

We were in 6th grade art class and “The Right Stuff” came on the radio. I, of course, began humming along softly and suddenly the class macho man – let’s call him Troy for kicks because I honestly don’t remember his name – popped his head up.

“Who’s singing along to this song?” he demanded, his eyes scanning the room. I immediately froze and look up wide eyed and innocent.

“The New Kids are stupid,” he declared and everyone laughed and nodded in agreement. And thus ended my love affair with all things New Kids (publicly anyway). Tragic, indeed.

This incident combined with several other prepubescent crises caused me to come home and fling myself on the couch. It was totally melodramatic and very Disney Princess. “I don’t mean anything to anyone here,” I wailed, my hand over my eyes. My mom sat quietly next to me, just listening. After a few minutes, she finally spoke.

“You mean something to me,” she said.

I’d like to tell you that I smiled and leapt into her arms in a true After School moment, but I’m pretty sure I just huffed and rolled my eyes and muttered something incoherent about how she was only saying that because she had to and so on…

I was a peach.

But that conversation never left me. I bet she doesn’t even remember that moment, my mom. But I do – I remember. Because even though I didn’t really accept it, I knew that I mattered to someone. At twelve, I needed to know that.

I’m not twelve anymore.

Obviously.

But moving has brought on that feeling of insignificance once more. The other night we watched the most beautiful, glorious sunset I’ve ever seen. Seriously in all my life, I’ve never seen anything like it. And as I watched God paint the sky in brilliant purple and orange, I realized something.

I’ve felt insignificant since we moved here. Small.

Things happened and came about during the move that I didn’t foresee or expect and as I’ve dealt with those things, I’ve found myself shrinking back against the tapestry before me. And I’ve felt terribly insignificant. Suddenly, all the things that gave me comfort and…well…significance have been stripped away leaving me with nothing but my husband, children and a few earthly possessions that are easily within grasp. I tried to convince myself that these things should be enough. I don’t need any more than that in life, right?

Wrong.

I mean, I guess if I wanted to give the Sunday School answer, I would solemnly say, “All I need is my Jesus and my family. Nothing else matters.” But that’s not true. Relationships do matter. Taking care of my home does matter. Being in fellowship with others and taking part in a community matters. It matters to me.

I didn’t realize how small I felt until I was swept up in the glory of that sunset. And it made me emotional. Sad, even. I just felt so small.

Not that this move has been all stressful, of course. In the past few days, I’ve been overcome with peace regarding some of the bigger aspects of the move. Schooling, housing, etc…These are things that have caused a bit of stress in the last few weeks, but today, I feel nothing but rest when I think of them.

The other day, however, as I watched the sun dip beyond the horizon I wondered how I could feel such a combination of emotions. Peace mingled seamlessly with insignificance. And in a last burst of orange, the sun disappeared and I suddenly felt like that twelve year old girl lying on the threadbare couch once more. Only this time, I felt the Lord sitting over me and smiling gently.

“I don’t have anyone to share my heartaches and joy with,” my soul whispered. “I feel like I don’t mean anything to anyone here.”

And the breeze caressed my face as the sky grew darker, orange fading to deep blue and finally to black. “You have Me,” I heard deep inside.

And I do. I also have the many who are loving us from afar and online and I thank you all for that. Sincerely and truly from the bottom of my heart, I thank you for loving our family. I have received several emails from people I don’t even know that have lifted my spirits in ways I can’t express. And the phone calls from old friends have served as a constant reminder that I am loved and blessed.

I will still feel small from time to time, I suppose, but isn’t that a good thing? Being stripped of all the things that gave me a sense of identity leaves me with nothing left but Him. And for the first time in a long time, I think I’m okay with that.

Filed Under: faith, Family, Florida, Moving Tagged With: faith, Florida, moving, Sunsets

Sunsets with Friends

August 14, 2011 by Kelli

The doorbell rang and I answered, my four month old tucked snugly in the crook of my arm.

“Trick or Treat,” he cried, thrusting out his bag. He was three, dressed as a Power Ranger…or something like that. I pulled Sloan close and tossed some candy into the bag, his eager little face lit with joy. Sloan was dressed as a lion. Cruelly, I had even drawn whiskers on his chubby little infant face.

“Hi, I’m Carol,” she said reaching around the stroller to shake my hand. I also shook her husband’s hand and cooed over their brand new baby girl. We were fairly new to the neighborhood. Having only moved in a week after Sloan was born, I had spent the first several months in first time parents survival mode. I didn’t know many neighbors.

But here they were on my doorstep. And over the next few years, our relationship deepened. We borrowed sugar and eggs and carpooled to preschool. We celebrated birthdays and mourned the loss of beloved pets. We loved and lived and grew together. We created memories in the cul de sac and a beautiful thing happened:

Our children developed lifelong friends.

Three months ago, Carol came over and sat with me on my back porch. I forgot to mention one other shared love we had with these dear neighbors and friends:

Florida.

“So we’re really feeling like God is leading us to Florida,” she said. And I stared back my mouth gaped open. “Um…Lee is in Tampa right now interviewing for a job,” I told her. They were words I hadn’t been able to utter to anyone else.

“We’re thinking about going to Tampa too,” she said with a smile.

Saturday night we sat together and watched our children play as we’ve done countless times over the last eight years. Only this time…they were playing at the beach. Mike and Carol moved into their house last week. When it’s all said and done we will likely live within 15 minutes of one another.

One of the biggest surprises in this move has been the fear that crept in and pounced upon us like a lion in the night. We weren’t prepared to confront the attack. The questions that came up sent us into a tailspin. Did we make the right choice? Are we really supposed to be here? What were we thinking? Will life ever feel normal again?

The deepest sadness I felt was saying goodbye to the people who had known my children since the day they were born. People who visited us in the hospital and watched our children grow from chubby babies to tall, lanky little people. There is something special about having your children surrounded by people who have known them from day one. And I mourned the loss of that. Our move here felt like the end of such a blessing.

Why do I worry? Why do I fear?

This weekend, God gave us what can only be described as a miracle. We had a perfect sunset in the place that is to be our new home with comforts from our old home. By our side were people who had known our children from infancy. They’ve watched our children grow and we have watched theirs. And our hearts rejoiced as all those questions melted into the ocean with the sun. Rays of hope splayed across the sky.

As daylight faded into darkness and the past faded into tomorrow, I once again heard the whispers. “I was here before you and I will remain. The path is laid out before you and blessings abound.”

And we did count our blessings that night. They were wrapped in the rhythmic waves of the ocean, full of giggles. Friends from afar brought near. Love poured forth. Peace beyond what we can understand. Grace and mercy in the sand – dancing in the moonlight.

A lifetime of memories still to be made.

Anybody else want to join us?

Filed Under: faith, Family, Florida, Life, Moving Tagged With: Florida, God's Blessings, moving, Sunsets

Signs

July 27, 2011 by Kelli

We rolled into Florida today, my smokin’ hot minivan dragging a bit under the weight of all the life shoved inside. It has been an emotional roller coaster, this trip into town. Of course any move is fraught with emotion. Change hurts. It’s hard. Tears must be shed in order to cleanse the soul of the fire that rages in your heart.

As we talked today on our second day of driving, we discussed the Why. Why did we make this move? What purpose did God have in picking our family up out of everything comfortable and placing us smack dab in the middle of the unknown. For all practical purposes, this is our wilderness. Albeit a wilderness with a beach (the best kind), but nonetheless this is our journey.

Why are we here?

Suddenly the reasons for the move become clouded beneath the emotion. Did we make the right choice? Was this really the path we were supposed to take? Did we somehow misread the signs? Were we instead chasing our own desires, or own passions?

Why?

While at my in-laws this past weekend, we had the blessing of soaking in their wisdom for several days straight. One thing my father-in-law (one of the three wisest men in my life, my dad and my husband rounding out the trio) said to us has really stuck with me.

“What makes you think,” he said in his thick Arkansas drawl, “that you had anything at all to do with this decision? It was God who moved you in this direction. Don’t forget that God is in full control. When you are seeking Him, you’re not going to make a mistake.”

What freedom that gave us. And what a wonderful lesson on which to dwell. Who are we to question the will of God? There were times when doubt caused us to wonder if, perhaps, we should scrap the plan all together – flee back to St. Louis. It’s peaceful there, simple. We know it. We know what we can and need to do there to stay comfortable.

But then what? Comfort is boring. As we drove today, the Cyprus and Palm trees buzzing by our windows, I held a book in my lap. “Reading the same page of a book over and over is boring,” I told Lee. “You have to turn the page to see what’s going to happen next in the story.”

We turned the page when we left St. Louis. Not that staying there would have meant our story stagnated, but ignoring God’s call and being unwilling to face something new would have been extremely boring. To live life wondering “what if we had?” would be a terrible burden to bear. And even on our trip, the Lord gave us little signs that we are on the right path – we are continuing our story.

Lee was given the opportunity to fly up to Arkansas to be with his family and to help us drive down here. An unexpected blessing and something we didn’t know we needed. Lee got a very encouraging call from his manager. It was unexpected and unprompted. And the words spoken and messages exchanged were a balm to the soul.

As we lay in our frigid hotel room last night, everyone slowly drifting to sleep, Sloan hopped up out of bed and came over to Lee and I. “I have something for you,” he said, the freckles on his nose dancing in the golden lamp light. He pulled two silly bands off his arm. They were shaped like palm trees. “These are to help you remember that we used to live in St. Louis, but now we live in Florida.”

How did he know that was the exact thing tearing at our hearts? We hadn’t spoken of our fears and heartache in front of him.

When we pulled out of the hotel parking lot this morning, the kids screeched and pointed at a beautiful rainbow painted across the gray sky. God’s promises never fail. He is still the same. All of these signs worked together to provide a bit of comfort as we continued to haul our lives southward. Nothing about this move has been easy. A part of me feels a bit like a spoiled brat who’s finally been given what she wanted, but it’s not enough.

“I want it MY way.” Foot stomp.

I want comfort and stability. I want the perfect house. I want it easy and fun. I want friends. I want, I want, I want…

The new goal is to take my eyes off of what I want. Together Lee and I are changing our focus. We’re turning the page. We want to know what’s going to happen next. And we want to know what part we get to play in it. To His glory. Arms stretched out wide, palms open, dancing in the rain. What’s next? And how do we keep our eyes pointed up? Not looking backward and definately not staring inward.

Not about us.

What’s next to His glory?

This is really hard. Really, really hard. As my sister-in-law told us the other night – this is a threshing. It’s a step into the Refiner’s Fire. The selfishness that has pervaded our souls for a long time needs to be burned away. There is nothing fun about that. Nothing at all. We are feeling vulnerable and the only refuge is God Himself. To seek any other would be foolish. There is no hiding – not even St. Louis could shelter us from the need to change these deepest parts.

Join us as we step forward in faith, our hearts open to what He wants and longs for us. And we would like to join you in whatever journey you might be on. What does a next step look like for you? Because we’re all on a different journey. How can we pray for you? What would stepping out of comfort look like for you? Who can you serve? What can you do to step outside of what you know? Or, if you’re already doing that, what are you learning? If you would like to share or ask for prayer, please feel free to comment and we can all join together. Or send me an email (kellistuart00 (at) hotmail (dot) com) and I will be happy to lift you up as you turn your face up.

Let’s dance in the rain together.

Blessings.

Filed Under: faith, Family, Florida, Life, Minivans, Moving Tagged With: faith, Florida, moving, starting over

I fear just one thing

July 25, 2011 by Kelli

Sloan and Landon's seats

The bags are packed and have been strategically wedged into the car in what I can only describe as the worst game of Tetris ever. We have everything but the kitchen sink and that’s because my in-laws wouldn’t let us take it. We even gained a chest of drawers. This was Tia’s birthday present from her grandparents and it’s the first time we’ve been able to pick it up.

We packed it before packing it. Everyone has to carry their weight.

The floors are covered in bags, boxes and with last minute ~~crap~~ treasures we couldn’t bear to part with. In short, we are hauling whatever bits of our lives that didn’t fit in the PODS beneath our feet. For 16.5 hours. Who’s having fun?

I’m not overly concerned about the trip, really. Especially since Lee was able to fly up here and make the drive with us. Not having to do that trip alone? Priceless. Mastercard has nothin’ on that miracle. I’m quite looking forward to the adventure of driving down to Florida. I think it will be fun. Stressful, but fun.

Really...how important is it to see out the back window? On a scale of 1 to 10?

But I am worried about one tiny, little thing. It’s really the only thing that I find myself thinking about pretty regularly with some anxiety. And you would too – in fact, most of you will probably understand and identify with this thing I fear. It’s quite frightening and is worth a bit of trepidation. What’s the one thing I fear?

GAS. And not the kind you purchase at a station (although that has me a little anxious too. Expensive much?) No. The gas I fear is the kind that you don’t want and comes with a price all its own. The “cut the cheese” kind of gas…

Three kids. One dog. And a husband.

I don’t stand a chance.

You coop that many people up in a box for two days straight eating food out of a bag or a fast food joint and the smell is bound to err on the side of ruthless. Add to it my extremely motion sick first born and his tendency to get barfy in the car and you’re looking at a good time right there.

Good. Time.

So there you have. I am afraid. I’m woman enough to admit it. I’m scared of gas. Because it’s hot outside so cracking the windows just stirs around hot air, which only makes everyone sticky and sweaty. It doesn’t help.

Tia and Sadie's seats

We covet your prayers – for safety, for enjoyment, for excitement and for provision. But if you think about it, and you feel so inclined, feel free to say an extra prayer for me. Because I’m about to be trapped for 16.5 hours in a metal box and I kind of have a sensitive sense of smell. Smells get trapped up in my nose and don’t come out. It is a curse.

Good times. Good. Times.

Tell me your favorite, and funniest, car trip story. It will give me something to do while I try to survive the box.