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Confessions of a chronic overachiever

April 2, 2012 by

Photo taken my my amazingly talented friend, Sarah, when she was here on Spring Break.

I have a confession to make. It’s not nearly as scandalous as my last confession, so please don’t be worried, but this confession is going to force me to make some changes, some of which might affect this little space I’ve created on the web.

The confession is two-pronged, because I don’t believe in doing anything small. Go big or don’t go at all, that’s how I roll.

First, I have a very nasty habit of biting off more than I can chew. I assume I can handle way more than I actually can and I convince myself that it’s fine, I don’t actually need sleep and Nutella for breakfast, lunch and dinner because I don’t have time to prepare a proper meal is perfectly acceptable.

Which, who am I kidding right? OF COURSE NUTELLA IS ACCEPTABLE AT EVERY MEAL!

Okay – so that’s the first part of the confession. I take on too much and assume I can handle it just fine.

The second part of my confession is I am terribly prone to laziness. It’s true. I am the dog from the movie UP. I can be perfectly engaged in an activity then SQUIRREL!

That’s me. It’s not ADD, though I would LOVE to blame it on that. I’m just easily distracted and I have a hard time pulling myself back.

I’ve struggled with finishing the school year strong with the kids. I imagine every teacher the world over feels this spring time tug when the rigors of a daily schedule must wage battle against the pull of a warm breeze and the call of the outdoors. The fact is, I’m tired. I want to be done and so do the kids. But we can’t, because learning should never end.

I read this post by Ann Voskamp the other day and it reignited my desire to do this home schooling thing well. Whether this ends up being the only year we teach our children at home or we decide to do it again next year, I want it to count. This requires that I fight the laziness that threatens to invade and dig my heels in.

I’ve lost momentum on my book. It’s a lot, this business of home schooling, maintaining a blog, writing a book, trying to keep a household running smoothly, editing a new manuscript and getting into shape.

SQUIRELL!

I need to finish the book and finish it well. Do you see a theme here?

So first order of business – GET MORE SLEEP!

Do you know how fascinating squirells are when you’re tired? Stunning little creatures…

My goal is to be in bed no later than 10:00 every week night most week nights because the whole stay-up-till-midnight-pretending-to-be-working-but-really-reading-blogs-and-surfing-facebook thing isn’t working for me. I’m tired. I need to sleep. I’m not a night owl and never have been. I’m accepting that and moving forward.

This means I need to be diligent with my time and get my butt out of bed early. In fact, I set up my alarm on my phone so that when it goes off, my screen lights up with the phrase “Get your butt out of bed you lazy A…!”

I firmly believe in tough love.

I am going to be kickin’ it on my book this month and I actually do have a book manuscript to finish editing. I will be here, too, but maybe not every day. And I’m going to add a third confession – that’s scary.

Shaun wrote about it last week. It’s sometimes difficult as a blogger to not blog because we fear the audience we’ve worked to build will go away. And honestly, I can’t afford to lose my audience right now. I’m counting on you guys to help me get the word out about Compassion International’s awesome work when I go to Tanzania next month. I want you right there with me!

So I won’t be far away this month, but I may not be here every day. Because I’ll be a little busier than normal trying to keep my head above —

SQUIRELL!

Filed Under: Blogging, Compassion International, Homeschool, Life, Novel, writing Tagged With: , , , ,

Sneak Peek #3

February 28, 2012 by

As promised, today I give you another sneak peek into the book that consumes my thoughts. Of all the characters in the book, this one is the most difficult to write emotionally. I don’t like tapping into his head. It’s ugly there.

This is a young man named Frederick Herrmann. He is a German. He is a Nazi soldier and his deepest desire is simply to be seen as a man by his father, who also happens to be one of Hitler’s confidants. Frederick’s story is sad. It is an inside look at the making of a monster and I have to force my imagination to go to places that are unnatural and dark. It is this character that I fear writing the most.

And so I give you a small snippet of my Antagonist – Frederick Herrmann.

As a boy, I often listened to my father speak with his fellow soldiers about the growing need to create a pure Aryan race. My earliest memories reside in the dusty garden of our home, my mother moving in and out of the house at the bidding of the powerful men. I moved the dirt in circles not because I enjoyed it, but because it gave the appearance of youthful ignorance. My play made me invisible to the men of stature and allowed me to listen and glean.

As I dragged my fingers through Munich’s hallowed Earth, I learned the ways of manhood. I listened closely as my father and the others spoke, their eyes steely blue. Thin lips organizing the mobilization of the masses. As a boy of only four, I knew of the shameful death at Feldherrenhalle that left true German Nationalists martyred at the hands of a misguided Bavarian government. I learned of a man who was to be greater than all others. I heard of his bravery, of the Putsch he ignited against the Beer Hall.

The night after I listened to my father retell the story, my mother forced me to wash the mud, my cloak of invisibility, off of my hands an feet. After the forced cleansing,  I stood before the mirror in my small bedroom imagining what this man they called Hitler must look like. Grabbing the stick I’d brought in from the garden, I marched back and forth, steps of power masked in the body of a child. I was the great, brave Hitler…until my mother came in and ordered me into my bed.

“You must never pretend to be that man again,” my mother hissed, tucking the covers around me so tightly that my chest constricted with each breath. “This game your father is playing is dangerous,” she said, her breath hot on my cheek. “Don’t become like him.”

The last words were a vapor. They wafted from her lips to my ears and locked inside my memory.

That was the night I began to hate my mother.

Two days later, I would see him for the first time. When Hitler entered the room I stopped short. We were inside the house, which left me without the protection of the dusty Earth. The floorboards creaked and the hollow walls reverberated my heartbeat like a warrior’s drum.

After greeting my father formally, Hitler turned and locked eyes with me. I could not hide and so I stood still, awed by his presence. He was not a tall man. My father, in his great stature, dwarfed the mighty Hitler. But the confidence that the future Fuhrer possessed made him a giant to me.

“Hello, boy,” he said. His voice was stiff. It wasn’t warm or friendly. I made him uncomfortable. I knew it and so did my father.

“Leave us, Fredrick,” my father barked and I immediately obeyed. I learned quickly to never disobey my fathers’ command. As I hurried from the room, I heard him speak again. “Train him right, Tomas,” Hitler said evenly. “Train him right and someday he will be a part of history.”

He was right.

It never occurred to me that I might do anything else with my life. I am the son of a German Commander. My father stood in the presence of the Great Furher. Would I be anything but a soldier? Could I be anything else?

©Kelli Stuart, 2012

Filed Under: Novel, writing Tagged With: , ,

Like a marathon, only better

February 27, 2012 by

About once a month I like to convince myself that I could run a marathon. I read all manner of inspiring stories and for a brief moment of insanity I believe that I too could join the ranks of those who run 26.2 miles.

Then I go out for a run and a quarter mile into the jaunt my body starts hurling four letters words at my ambition.

This usually leads to phase two of my insanity, wherein I lower my expectations and convince myself that I could run a half marathon.

Then I go for a run and a quarter mile into the jaunt my body starts hurling four letter words at my ambition.

At this point I decide to accept my limitations as a runner, which usually lasts me a couple of weeks until I read the inspiring story of someone who’s muscles use to curse at her and she overcame and became an avid marathoner who wakes up every morning and without even thinking she accidentally runs eighteen miles and I think, “Huh. I could do that.”

And thus, the cycle begins again.

So listen, I’m not a runner. Clearly. Somewhere deep down I think I know that, but there’s always the hope of a miracle.

I also hope to meet a unicorn someday…

But there are other goals that loom before me and call to me every single day. Like the ever elusive marathon, though, these goals often feel so…hard.

Writing a book is my own marathon. It is the song that calls me from my bed early in the morning and taunts me in the late hours of the night. This weekend the Blissdom conference brought a bit of a revelation to me as I sat in Jeff Goins‘ session on falling back in love with the craft of writing.

See the thing is, I will probably never run a marathon because I don’t love running. I just don’t. I don’t even like running. I think it’s stupid.

And it hurts.

And it’s stupid.

But writing…I love it. I love writing. I love the sound of the keys tapping a rhythm. I love the hum of the pen moving in fluid loops across a blank page. The sound of a typewriter is so romantic it makes my eyes water. I simply and deeply love writing.

I’ve told you I’m writing a book. I even let you see a little sneak peek. Twice. This book that I’m writing is my race. It is the marathon that I simply must run. It’s the story I must tell. But it’s so very, very hard.

For the last few months, as I’ve tried to work on my book only to be met by a wall of resistance, fear and doubt, I’ve wondered why on Earth I chose such a difficult subject to write about. Like a marathoner in her 19th mile, I’ve begun to wonder…can I really do this?

But the revelation that hit me this weekend was this: I didn’t choose this book. It chose me.

It chose me when I was fifteen and I stood on top of the hill at Babi Yar listening to the story of survival that changed my life and forever altered how I view the world as a whole. In that very moment, more than half my lifetime ago, I knew that I would write this book. I didn’t understand the scope of what it would become or the enormity of the task that loomed before me.

I just knew it was mine to write.

And it scares me. It scares the crap out of me. It’s like running a marathon straight up the slope of a mountain knowing that failure isn’t an option because by God, I trained for this.

Jeff challenged us all to write something dangerous this week and to publish it. So here it is: I am going to finish this book by June 1st.

I have 94 days.

And along the way, I may give you all a few more sneak peeks here and there. Because you guys, you’re a part of this journey with me. You are the cheerleaders on the sideline telling me I can do this and throwing me a beer now and again.

Just kidding. I don’t like beer. Wine would be great though.

Come back tomorrow for the next sneak peek at the novel that chose me. I am going to introduce you to the character that depletes me emotionally each time I sit down to write. I loathe him. And I feel sympathy for him. I’d love for you all to meet him. Tomorrow.

For now, though, I’m going to head out for a run.

Just kidding. I’m going to go pet my unicorn…

Image Credit

Filed Under: Blogging, Novel, writing Tagged With: , , , ,

Why writing a book is a lot like life

November 17, 2011 by

I don’t know if I’ve told you, but I’m writing a book.  I might have mentioned it once or twice…or a hundred times.

*cough*self-promoter*cough*

The thing is, I really believe in this book.  I’ve been working on it a long time…and by long time I mean more than a decade.  Oy. I have started and stopped, re-written and tossed.  I have had two characters remain at the core of the novel this entire time.  They are my friends…at least I think they are.  They may hate me since I’ve taken so long to tell their story.

How’s that for deflection?  I’ll blame my ficticious characters for my unfinished novel.

This latest draft, however, is The One.  You know how people always say you’ll “just know” when you meet the person you’re going to marry?  Well, I just knew the second I wrote the first sentence of this version that I had finally tapped into the core of who my characters are.

I found them.

Now, the challenge is to keep them moving and flowing forward in a cohesive manner.

Stephen King, my writing guru, says that when writing a novel you need to get it out as fast as you can.  Don’t stop to make edits, don’t get hung up on the details – just write.  You can go back later and fill in the holes.

I am finding this very difficult, Mr. King.  I see the validity of this and want to follow this advice, but the temptation to edit is powerful.  Because, you see, there are some moments in the book that are wonderful.  I love how they read and the imagery is powerful and I was obviously in the zone when writing.

There are other moments in the book, however, that are worthy of no more than kindling for a chilly night.  The rest of the book falls somewhere in between brilliant and suckalicious.

The problem with having worked on a book this long is I know exactly where I want my characters to go.  For the most part.  Some of them have already surprised me a bit.  But it’s the getting there that is slowing me down.  I’m so impatient to get to the exciting part – the part of the story that I know  – that I’m frustrated with the journey the characters are taking to get there.  I am bogged down in the details.

Life in general is full ofsimilar  ups and downs, isn’t it?  We have moments of excitement – first day of school, graduation, college, wedding day, birth of a child and so on…We live for these moments and anticipate them never really realizing the journey we take to get to those moments is every bit as important.  Those important moments are the peaks and after every peak we must descend for a bit before we reach another milestone.

But don’t we so often find ourselves impatient in the valleys and plateaus of life?  We get bored and frustrated.  We lose sight of the good of right now and only long and hope for the joy of the next big moment.  But we need the valleys and the plateaus.  They are, in fact, what builds…character.

It’s the same with writing a book.  The journey to the peak of each character’s story is so important, but in the anticipation of the big moment, I am impatient.  I’m bogged down in the details and the climb to the big moment feels endless and frustrating.

I just want to get to the good part.

But if I’m willing to relax, take a deep breath and enjoy the process of each step these characters take toward their individual peaks, I may actually learn a little something along the way.  And in the end, the story of their lives will reveal so much more beauty through the toil of their climb to the top.

And yes, as I wrote that sentence I totally started singing this song.

*sigh* I’ll bet Stephen King never busts out with Mily Cirus while he’s writing…

Filed Under: Novel, Random, writing Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Big Foot, Roman Soldiers and the Voices in my Head

September 27, 2011 by

It is quiet and I am alone.  Three children sleep in their beds, the first time all three have slept in their beds since we moved in.

A new house is scary.  There are sounds to fear.  And other things…

“Mom, I can’t sleep,” he said, coming out for the four-frillionth time.  “I’m too scared!”

“What are you scared of?” I ask…also for the four-frillionth time.

“I was just starting to close my eyes and I imagined I was a Roman soldier being killed…”

That is scary.

After assuring him that he would, indeed, not die the violent death of a Roman solider, and also reiterating once again the fact that Big Foot does not indeed exist, we headed back to his room.

“Big Foot is real!” he protested.  “I saw it on TV.”

Yet another reason we did not hook up cable.

“Honey, even if Big Foot were real, he wouldn’t live in Florida.  It’s too hot here.  And there are no mountains or tall trees for him to hide in.  Big Foot lives in Oregon…if he exists…which I don’t think he does.”

Silence.

“But you said bears live in Oregon.”  God help the poor child if he ever has to live in Oregon.  Don’t worry Oregonians (right?), I didn’t pin monsters on you.  I told the kids monsters live in Canada.

S’all good.

“Lay down, babe,” I said, brushing my hand across his silky smooth cheek.  Would that I could bottle his skin up…

“Let’s find something you can hold on to while you go to sleep so you don’t have to be scared,” I said, looking around his room.

“I can hold on to you,” he replied grabbing hold of my hand and looking up with ocean blue eyes.  And I melted…fast.  Knees buckled, a mass of goo, I slid under the covers and held his hand.  Five minutes later, he slept.  All the lights are still on in his room.  Because Big Foot doesn’t like light.  If he did, we’d have caught him and there would be no need for a TV show.

And now I sit in an empty, quiet, semi-organized room.  I believe I have found my writing zone in this new house.  I love this front room.  It’s peaceful and happy and I feel inspired here.  Last night I stayed up, much too late, writing, for the first time focused on my book.  The voices of my characters are swirling and moving again.

I’m going to finish it, friends.  It may mean I have to spend a little less time with you and a little more time with the people I want to introduce you to.  Bear with me as I find my stride.  And in the meantime, if you could all be on the lookout for Big Foot and let me know when and if you find him.

I, on the other hand, will continue to keep the air bed inflated on the floor next to my bed.

Something tells me we’re going to need it for awhile.

Image Credit

Filed Under: Family, Florida, Kids do the darndest things, Novel, Sloan, writing Tagged With: , , , ,

The sliver of light

June 28, 2011 by

When I arrived home from Cali the other night, it was wickedly late.  I stumbled to bed and switched off the lamp that my husband had so thoughtfully left on for me.  Though I was tired to my core, sleep was a bit elusive.  The impending move out of our house has proven to push my mind over the edge.  But there’s more than that.  My mind was full of details that began to oppress my already fragile emotions.

As I lay in the darkness, I willed myself to fall asleep.  I watched the clock slowly tick the hours away.  1:30. 2:30…I finally started to drift off when I felt the room go from darkness to light instantaneously.  I opened my eyes in a bit of a panic to see Lee’s iPad, which was sitting on his bedside table, illuminated.  I figured he must get some kind of notification for emails and closed my eyes again.  Five minutes later the room lit up again.  And I got annoyed.  Who emails at 3:00 in the morning?

Then I marveled at how bright the room was from that one tiny light of the screen.  Turns out he gets weather notifications and his iPad was warning us of the impending storm that rolled through ten minutes later.  But the visual of the light piercing the darkness stuck with me.

As already mentioned, I had a wonderful time in California, but it was hard too.  I was processing a lot of emotions.  And on top of that, the subject matter of the novel I’m writing is oftentimes hopeless and desperately sad.  As I researched the events surrounding World War II, I found myself terribly sad.  The darkness of that time is so deep and as I read story after story of heartache, my stomach turned into a tighter and tighter knot.  I wondered how I would portray the characters in my novel with any sort of redemption, any sort of hope.

And then I saw it.  That one sliver of light that pierced the darkness.

Hope.

As I read the personal accounts of survival during those heinous years of war, I saw a thin trail of Hope.  One woman described seeing a tiny sprig of green growing from the frozen ground as she marched to the concentration camp.  Why did that small plant stick out in her mind?  It was Hope.  It was the knowledge that after winter, spring arrives.  After death, life springs forth.  A sliver of light in the pitch black can illuminate a whole room.

I read an account from a young mother whose infant was killed at birth by her Nazi captivators.  And she rejoiced, because a swift death was better than a slow one behind the barbed wires.  Did her heart ache?  I imagine it tore into a thousand tiny pieces and was never fully reassembled.  But she saw the sliver of light and sometimes that’s all we need to guide us through the darkness.

I read story after story like this.  Some of them were so horrific, I didn’t see how there could possibly be any hope – any redemption.  But many of the stories had a sliver.  Enough to give me the emotional strength to keep reading.  It was the same when I went to Ukraine nine years ago.  I interviewed veteran after veteran and saw so much Hope.  They were happy, jovial and so full of light that I wondered how they possibly survived such horror with their spirits in tact.  That’s the redemption of so many of their stories.  And that spirit is what I hope to capture in my characters.

A blade of green amidst the rubble.

Darkness is repelled by light – even the smallest sliver of it.  Sometimes the darkness is still oppressive and the pain remains ever constant, but that tiny bit of Hope is what keeps us going.  For me, that tiny sliver of Hope is the thing that keeps me moving forward with this book project.  It’s the tiny bit of light in an otherwise very dark story.  I am reminding myself to focus on Hope as I continue to research and write.  If I don’t, I fear the heartache will become too much.

Filed Under: faith, Novel, writing Tagged With: , , , ,

California

June 25, 2011 by

Welcome to my new blog design!  I decided a couple of months ago that it was time to give this space a little more POP!  And Franchesca of Small Bird Designs was the perfect girl for the job.  Hasn’t she done a wonderful job?!  Hang on, hang on!  I need to introduce you to my favorite feature!!!

Watch the header for a minute.  Keep watching.  Keeeeep watching…

Did you see it?!

Fran sent me numerous templates with different color backgrounds and I just couldn’t make a decision on which color I liked best.  So I asked her if she could do all of them in a rolling header and POOF!  She did it.  She’s like my Fairy Godmother, she is.  She’s gotten all kinds of telepathic hugs and high fives from me for her magical design.

I’m still working out a couple of little details, but mostly I’m just desperately happy with these new changes.  And did you notice the picture of my van up top?  See how the sun just gleamed off of it?  It’s like the angels were smiling down on her hotness…

So I’m still in California.  It’s been just an absolutely amazing few days.  I can’t really describe how much my soul needed this break.  I have been loved and poured into and fed and graced and blessed.  I have written a lot – about 60 pages!  I have edited.  I have read and cried and laughed and slept.  It has just been so wonderful here in Clear Lake, California (which, incidentally is one of the most beautiful places in America…you should visit!).

Today we visited a local winery for a lavender festival.  Stunning is the only word I can use to describe it.  I didn’t bring my camera on this trip (what was I thinking?!) so all I have are a few cell phone photos.  But you’ll get the idea.  I am immensely grateful for these five days I’ve gotten away.  I will go home refreshed and ready to tackle next steps.

The Lavender field

Magic and Beauty

My friend Wendy has fed us like Princesses

Filed Under: faith, Life, Novel, Random, summer fun, Travel, writing Tagged With: , , , , ,

The one where Calgon takes me away

June 22, 2011 by

I actually just had to consult with Professor Google on what exactly Calgon is.  It’s body fragrance…who knew?!  I always assumed it was some sort of lotion for muscle pain similar to IcyHot or Bengay.

I was way off.

Yesterday was a rough day.  I’ll mercifully spare you the details, but it was a knot in your stomach crazy kind of day.  I really want my house to be the house that all my children’s friends come to.  I like knowing who is here and what they’re saying and doing.  But on knot in your stomach crazy kind of days…it’s just harder.  The noise is louder.  The work feels like work. The kids weren’t bad ( not all of them, anyway – there’s always one trouble maker), but I was tired and didn’t feel well and overwhelmed and the day felt long.

But today?

Today I am on a plane to sunny Northern California where I have the privilege of sitting in the presence of my dear friend Wendy for five whole days.  Wendy and I met  when we were both newlyweds living in the Dallas, Texas area.  I will never forget our first phone conversation.  Lee had come home from a Bible study the night before and told me about this wonderful guy he met whose wife sounded very similar to me.

“She likes to drink tea!” Lee exclaimed.  My sweet new husband who was still baffled by my girly love of tea parties.

The next morning the phone rang.  “I hear you like to take tea,” she said, her voice all warm and buttery and laced with smile.  And that was the beginning of one of the dearest friendships of my life.

Wendy and I have only lived in the same town for just under two years but our hearts were knit tight together through God’s grace..and through our love for writing, tea and wifedom (that should totally be a word).  We spent countless hours those Dallas years talking about our passion for writing and teaching and speaking and learning and loving and growing.  And we drank a lot of tea.

I get to soak up my dear friend for almost an entire week and my soul soars at the thought.  I also get to spend some time alone, releasing the characters in my head.  They’re up there, churning and begging to get out.  Sometimes I’m afraid of it, though.  I’m scared of the story and of letting the characters down.  Because the story in my head is beautiful and what if I mess it up?  What if the trip from my head to my fingertips tarnishes the story and the people?

What if I fail?

These are my honest fears.  I love writing, but I’m sometimes unsure of whether or not I have the gift to pull off the massive story I long to tell.  Realistically, I know I’m not the best writer out there.  I think it’s my lack of inner angst that holds me back…

Whatever the case, I know I’m not the best, but I also know that I have a story to share and I know I have the ability to tell it.  I just really want to tell it well.  This desire is why it’s taken me ten years to complete this book.  I really don’t want to screw this up!

So I will write with full abandon this week.  I will let go and try really hard not to go back and judge my work along the way.  That’s a terrible, terrible habit.  One should never edit her own work before she’s even finished it.   Stephen King said so himself and given the fact that his book is the most inspirational book on writing I’ve ever read, I’m going to submit myself to Mr. King’s urgings and plow forward without looking back.  My soul will rest in friendship (have I mentioned that one of my very dearest friends from here in town is joining us on this writer’s weekend away?  How blessed am I!) and in solitude and in the joy that comes from allowing God to use my gifts and talents to His glory, because that is my deepest desire.

And when I return I will bid adieu to my home and embark on a new adventure.  It is exciting, this tiny little life I lead.

I’ll be back this week.  I have a something fun and special to share with you on Friday.  Stay tuned.

Filed Under: faith, Life, Novel, Random, summer fun, Travel, writing Tagged With: , , , ,

Sneak Peek, #2

April 12, 2011 by

I am having a hard time focusing on blogging lately.  There are a few reasons for this: First, I am just really busy.  Between the kids activities, Lee being out of town, preparations for Easter at our church, the house on the market and general everyday things that pop up, I have little time to sit and think.

Second, my heart feels anxious right now.  It’s probably mostly magnified by Lee’s absence and all of the aforementioned craziness, but I am truly feeling restless inside.  I feel like I’m not doing enough and equally I’m doing too much.  This morning I got up early, while the house was still.  I opened my Bible and just began to read.  It was so refreshing.  You know when you walk outside on a warm summer morning and step into the cool grass and your whole body buzzes from the cool?  That’s what this morning felt like – stepping onto the cool grass.

Third, when I do have a few minutes to sit down and write, I want to work on The Novel.  I don’t want to edit pictures or video.  I just want to release the characters in my head.  In June, I have a trip planned with a dear friend and a couple of other writer’s.  For four days we will sit on a lake in Northern California and get lost in words.

I’m only mildly excited because it sounds like heaven.

Today I give you one more small sneak peek.  I won’t give too many of these, because I don’t want to give it all away, but a few here and there are fun for me to share…and I hope it’s fun for you to read!  This is, of course, the first draft and contains few edits.  It will change with time and re-reads, but it’s slowly beginning to take form.

This part of the story is told by Ivan Kyrilovich Petrochenko, a father of three teenage children and husband of Tanya.  They are living in Kiev.  This is June 22, 1941, the morning of the bombings, after the smoke has cleared.  Ivan and his son Sergei are headed out to survey the damage.  

The memory of that night will haunt me.  The whistle of the bombs and the thunder as they found their targets still move through my head, my heart, my soul.  Intertwined with the noise is the sound of screaming.  Masha, turning and crying, confused and afraid.  Tanya and Anna gripped in the corner, their cries mingling together to form a low wail.  In the midst of all the noise, I see Sergei, my son.  He is silent.  I watched him through the flashes and tremors.  Between dark and light, he became a man.

As the terror of the night slipped into a balmy, dusty morning, I watched them all closely.  Tanya and Anna, both delicate and small, wrapped in one another’s arms, their faces worn and strained.  Masha sat tucked beneath Sergei’s arm, her head nodding and falling, stubbornness alone keeping her from succumbing to the sleep that so clearly longed to take her away.

And the man Sergei, who sat with his back straight against the wall, protecting the sister he so deeply loved.  I knew the decision he made in those long, quiet hours.  I saw him wrestling, an inward battle flashing through his grey eyes.  And when the war was over, he looked at me resigned, brave, grown.  I nodded, a silent confirmation of what he needed most – my blessing.

Shuffling into the still street, I turned to my son and grabbed his shoulders with both hands.  I felt the muscles that rounded over the tops of his arms and for the first time noticed the sinewy nature of his frame.  My son had developed the taught muscles of a man without me even noticing.  Surely this did not happen overnight.

Looking straight in his eyes, I spoke to him not as a father to his son, but as a comrade.  “You will wait until your birthday.  When you are eighteen, you may enlist.”

My voice came out gruff, almost harsh and tears stung the corners of my eyes.  Sergei’s chin lifted slightly and he nodded calmly.  “Yes, Papa.”

Not caring who might look out and see, I pulled him into my arms and gripped him with the passion that only a father can feel for his son.  Sergei’s arms engulfed me in return and for a long while we held one another.  And in that embrace I bid farewell to the boy I had rocked, fed, played with and taught for nearly eighteen years.  And somehow I knew that when my son left, I wouldn’t see him again.

©Kelli Stuart April, 2011

Have a lovely spring Tuesday!

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