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The eyes to see

September 5, 2011 by Kelli

Like a petal dancing on the wind, the theme of Grace has been floating across the internet this past year. Everywhere you look, people are seeing it, feeling it and living it.

Grace.

Grace is not a movement. Grace has simply always been. Grace hasn’t changed or altered or moved. Grace has been dancing for us for all of eternity – we just haven’t always seen it. But it isn’t fair for me to speak of you, for perhaps you have seen it. Perhaps only I have missed it.

Grace.

In the past two months, our life has changed drastically. The known has been replaced with the unknown and the comforts of predictability have been stripped away. Filled with fear and doubt, we’ve moved forward with faltering steps, our eyes truly open for the first time.

Grace.

It’s always been there, just waiting for me to see it. A sunrise over the dark waters, bursting forth the light of day. Grace. A palm tree swaying and bending in the stormy winds, a sign of water coming to renew the ground. Grace. A bird singing, a lizard racing and the pealed laughter of children with eyes wide to Grace. All these things were here.

And I can finally see.

Ann’s book opened my eyes. Her blog moves my heart. And I looked, not only in nature, but at man – God’s most glorious creation. Grace.

I sat on the plane last week, my head and my ears tight. The cabin pressure left me with a headache and I could never quite get my ears cleared. As we descended, the man across the aisle leaned over. “Would you like a piece of gum?” he asked, a kind and understanding smile on his face. I accepted gratefully.

Grace.

Standing up to deplane, I watched the man in front of me help an elderly woman with her bag. He pulled it down and as she reached for it, he shook his head. “I’ll get it off the plane for you, ma’am,” he said.

Grace.

Life is full of Grace…when you’re watching for it. And in the looking, another miracle takes place. Life slows down. As a mother, this is the greatest miracle of all. Because the passing of time takes with it the sweetness of youth. Newborn cries turn into toddler giggles turn into the lengthening of limbs and deepening sounds of a growing man’s voice. And it all happens in a blink.

But when you’re looking for Grace, the moments last a little longer. The sticky arms flung around your neck hold on tighter. The giggles ring a little louder. The wet kisses are a little sweeter. Life is grander.

Grace.

How are you seeing Grace these days?

Filed Under: books, faith, Family, Florida, Kids, Life, Motherhood Tagged With: All's Grace, Ann Voskamp, faith, Life, Love

Third World Symphony: Not for the Simple-Minded

August 30, 2011 by Kelli

Alright, friends, lean in close. Im’a bout to get real with you.

I’ll be the first to admit that I am one with deep faults. I just am. I know what most of my flaws are, although every once in awhile a new one (or old one that had been ignored, whatever) crops up that takes me by surprise.

You mean I have to deal with that now?!

One of my biggest struggles and greatest weaknesses, however, is one I’ve known about a long time. It just may be the thorn in my flesh. Simplicity.

How is simplicity a fault (sin – let’s call it what it is)?

I’ll tell you.

I’m a “Jesus Loves Me This I Know” sort of person. I always have been. I’m not analytical. I don’t sit and question and ponder and search and try to figure things out. Since I was a child, I just knew and accepted my Faith as my own and I’ve never ever doubted who Jesus is – not to the world and certainly not in my life.

This is my greatest weakness – but it’s also my greatest strength. It means that very little has ever shaken my faith. Even the nasty, ugly trials of life never really knocked me off the foundation of who I believe God is. And I’ve been through some ugly. I’ve questioned Why, not ever really expecting or needing an answer but just because it felt good to ask, “Why, God?”

But in the end, I am very comfortable with the answer, “Because I Am.”

This spirals into weakness, however, when I find myself with little urgency to seek scripture for answers outside of, “God is Love. God is Grace. God is Mercy.” I just don’t seek Him.

But blogging has challenged me in a lot of ways – or,more specifically, reading blogs has challenged me. And the blogger that has most challenged me to think outside of my simple little box is Shaun Groves. You’ve heard me mention his blog here before – I’m kind of a stalker.

Creepy.

But the fact of the matter is that Shaun’s writing has encouraged me in so many ways to search deeper into scripture. Why do I believe what I believe? What do I understand about God and who He is regarding the deeper issues of life? Who is God?

Today, Shaun released his new album, Third World Symphony. Inspired by his work with Compassion International, Shaun began writing and developing this album sometime last year. And he brought his blog readers along the journey as he sought and wrote and dug into the heart of the gospel.

In case you hadn’t heard, this move has been kind tough on Lee and I. Really tough. Hard. About a week after we came down here, as I was wallowing in emotions, I hit play on Third World Symphony. I had heard rough cuts of several of the songs, but this was the first time I listened to all of them. And I sat in bed and wept.

You know that moment when lyric and song blend perfectly into a melody that doesn’t just please your mind but rather stirs your soul? The moment when you hear harmonies so lovely that your stomach flip flops and your lungs constrict? Yeah…I had a couple of those moments.

The album is really good. You can see for yourself just how good it is by going here and buying a copy. As an added incentive, when you purchase the album, I will personally send you telepathic fist bumps and feelings of all over awesomeness.

You. Are. Welcome.

I was not asked to write this post. I just wanted to help spread the word about the album in the hopes that you can be as blessed by it as I was.

The End.

Filed Under: Compassion International, faith, Ministry Tagged With: faith, Internet, Music, Shaun Groves, Third World Symphony

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

On forgiveness

August 18, 2011 by Kelli

One of my favorite Sassy Bloggers (we should form a club…), Jessica, posted her Plank Pullin’ series today. I like this series. I admire Jessica’s courage to put her planks out there. You’ll notice I haven’t put any out there myself. There are two reasons for this:

– I’m lazy

– I’m a scaredy cat

BOOM!

But Jessica’s post today hit a particularly raw nerve with me. Forgiveness. It’s such a loaded word, isn’t it? It requires action and intention no matter what end of it you’re on. If you’re the one needing forgiveness, you must intentionally act. If you are the one to extend forgiveness you must intentionally act.

Sometimes you must do both…at the same time.

Oh forgiveness…why dost thou tease me so?

One thing I have always valued highly, a trait that was instilled by my parents, has been loyalty. I value loyalty over just about everything else. I believe in it and I try hard to live by it.

Because loyalty is so important to me, restoring relationships that have been damaged is also important. It pains me to my core to think that I have ever offended someone and generally I will go to great lengths to try and restore that relationship. Sometimes this is hard. It requires the swallowing of the pride. And my pride?

It can be a big pill to swallow.

Huge.

Ginormous.

Megatronic.

You get the picture…

Even if I don’t understand my offense against someone, I try to make it right. When Lee and I were newly married we made our first married couple friends at our church in Texas. We had barbeque’s and took walks with this couple feeling ever so grown up and…married. They were our closest, and only, married friends in town. Or so I thought.

Lee came home from work one day and gave me a look. “I talked with Bowzer* today,” he said. “We have a problem.”

“What?” I asked.

“Princess Pea* thinks you don’t like her. She feels offended because you have never called her to get together one on one.”

*Names changed to protect the innocent. But wouldn’t it be funny to have friends named Bowzer and Princess Pea? I bet they’d be a really fun couple…Can you tell my kids have been playing a lot of Super Mario Bros?

Now, let the record show that I think this is a silly little thing to get upset about. I did then and I still do. But that wasn’t the point – the point was that I had somehow inadvertently offended someone and in doing so a friendship was damaged. Never mind the fact that I am suckalicious at talking on the phone – always have been. That’s why I don’t call people very often.

Suck.a.li.cious.

I sat on this for a few days mulling over what to do. I mean, it really was kind of petty. Because the fact of the matter was this girl had never called me either. But I couldn’t feel right if I didn’t at least call and make things right. So I did. It was terribly awkward and uncomfortable, but I asked her forgiveness for hurting her feelings and asked if she’d like to get together for coffee.

We never did do that. And I haven’t heard from that couple in almost ten years now. So the issue obviously wasn’t mine, but I felt better knowing I had tried to make things right. I wanted forgiveness, truly and deeply.

Recently another issue has cropped up that has affected me a bit. A friendship ruined over something silly, trivial and petty. I tried to make it right and instead met resistance.

Hurtful.

Painful.

And unity was not restored but was, instead, further denied. And I had a part in it. That makes me sad.

I don’t like that. I hate disunity with others. I want it to be right. I feel all Monica Gellar…I want her to like me, dang it. (Five points to anyone who remembers that FRIENDS episode) And I keep questioning myself, looking inside, trying to decide what action I need to take to restore unity. But I’m a little scared, because last time I tried that it only got worse.

Forgiveness.

It’s a tough one, isn’t it? Forgiving, moving forward and loving unconditionally. Whew. As Jessica put it:

“It’s one thing to forgive someone and a whole ‘nother thing to be reconciled with them, and Christians can be so dad blame unrepentant of their arrogance, or unhospitality, or fill-in-the-blank that I occasionally find a very hard time building bridges with them.

And yeah, I’m on the guilty/unrepentant end sometimes, too.”

So on I press, ever aware of the fact that I am only responsible for my own actions. How can I live today in a way that restores unity and peace with others? Because I value loyalty. I don’t like to end or walk away from friendships.

So what is my plank?

I think it is my indignation when others don’t value loyalty as I do. I tend to get judgemental. I don’t like it. I’m constantly working on dying to myself and I am an admitted work in progress.

My deepest desire is to continue to search my own heart and seek to live whole with others, making things right when I offend and offering grace if ever needed. And drop the judgement. It’s very unbecoming.

It doesn’t match any of my outfits.

So Jessica, consider that my first plank pulled.

BOOM!

Filed Under: Blogging, faith, Life Tagged With: faith, Forgiveness, Friendship, Loyalty, Plank Pullin'

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

Whispers

August 2, 2011 by Kelli

Image Credit: www.moopandsaba.blogspot.com

“I have a secret,” he whispers. Or a “theekwet,” in his lispy language.

“What’s your secret?” I ask, leaning down so my nose is inches from his freckled face. (Oh how I love his dotted little nose.)

“I wub you,” he answers with a grin.

And then I melt. And promise him all the Cheezit’s he could ever want. And a pony. And his sibling’s inheritance.

How is it that children know the exact words to say when we need it most? I was tired this morning, and a little crabby. I wanted to sleep longer and wake up happier. My yummy little guy was actually still waking up himself and had snuggled his warm body close, his sippy cup tucked under his arm. (Because my third born does not function in any capacity in the morning without a sippy cup of juice or milk first. He’s a toddler coffee addict…without the coffee.)

How did he know that I just needed some kind of encouragement to get the day started? When I pulled back from our “theekwet” he grinned at me slyly. He’s a heartbreaker that one. Mama’s lock your doors, cause this kid is trouble. Adorable, squeezable trouble – the most dangerous kind.

There have been so many encouragement’s these past few days. Are you guys praying? Because I am feeling the power of God working in ways I didn’t imagine. Tangible delight being poured upon us. From “theekwets” to the making of new friends. From house hunting encouragement to just an overall feeling of contentment.

Today, I went with Lee to the bank to be added to our new account. The woman who helped Lee last week when he first went in wasn’t available, but another woman was there to help us. Her name was Ekaterina, or Katya – her accent was Russian. After we sat down, she left the room briefly and Lee looked at me with eyebrows raised.

“Hmmm…” he said, all smug-like.

“Don’t, please,” I groaned. “I don’t feel like it.” You see, friends, my husband feels the need to tell every single Russian we ever meet that his wife speaks Russian. Then he slaps me on the back and tells me to talk. It’s not my favorite.

But I’m also really grateful to him for it. Because, honestly, my personality is one that I would let all those opportunities just slide right by because it makes me a little uncomfortable and embarrassed. And this morning…well, the “theekwet” hadn’t totally burned off my crabby mood.

When she returned the firs thing Lee asked was where she was from. “Russia,” she replied in the accent that is so familiar to me. “Huh,” he said, looking at me. I sighed and turned and began speaking with her in Russian. And you know what?

It was awesome!

Why do I resist that sexy man of mine?!

So my new friend and I will be getting together sometime soon to go shopping at some local Russian stores. And it was yet another whisper – a “theekwet,” if you will – that everything is going to be okay. I love making Russian friends. Love it, love it, love it. And I would have completely passed that opportunity up today had it not been for my ~~annoying~~ supportive husband. And God once again whispered to my heart. “I’ve got you covered, young one. Just enjoy the ride…and stop complaining when your husband brags on you.”

I feel like I’m getting a lot of those whispers lately. And a few slaps upside the head.

Moving is hard. But right now, in this moment, I’m kind of enjoying the ride.

Thank you for riding this roller coaster with us and praying us from one side to the other.

*For more awesome pictures of my kids, and my nephews, visit my sister-in-law’s blog. Not only is Becke’ an amazing photographer, but she is a spectacular writer as well. She inspires me. You can see more of her photography here.

Filed Under: faith, Family, Florida, Kids, Lee, Life Tagged With: children, Encouragement, faith, God, Signs

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

The In-Between

July 24, 2011 by Kelli

He didn’t want to try it. Fear prevented him from true joy, from enjoying to the fullest that which stood before him. The vibrant blue waters of the pool were enticing and he tasted the joy when he stepped into the water.

But fear held him back.

He couldn’t bring himself to put his face in the water. The fear of the unknown was too much and so he simply watched in longing. Every once in awhile he put his chin beneath the surface, delighted to feel the cool water – such a contrast to the blazing heat of the sun. If, by accident, water splashed into his eyes he cried and dashed for a towel, wiping it away before realizing how refreshing it could actually be.

I wondered if he would ever overcome this fear. I wondered if he would ever experience the miracle and joy that comes with taking the plunge and diving beneath the surface. I wondered if he would ever realize that conquering fear leads to freedom.

And then one day he did it. He stepped off the edge and took a leap of faith. Faith that he wouldn’t sink, but would indeed return to the surface as promised. Faith that fun awaited if he just took a chance. And do you know what happened?

Photo courtesy of my sister-in-law, Becke'

Inexplicable Joy. Freedom. And he hasn’t looked back.

We’re stuck in the in-between right now. We’re in Arkansas for a week visiting family, which simply feels like any other vacation. I am having a hard time wrapping my mind around the fact that we won’t be going back to St. Louis from here.

We head to Clearwater to stay in my parent’s condo until we either find a house or decide to rent. That, too, will feel like a familiar vacation, which in the past has always ended in us returning home. But Florida is home now. It doesn’t feel that way yet, but that’s what it is.

Mark Twain once wrote, “Change is the handmaiden Nature requires to do her miracles with.” I so hope for miracles as we make this move. What does a miracle look like? I don’t know. Maybe it will be something big and measurable. Maybe it will be something that can’t be seen but only felt…realized only upon looking backward after time has propelled us past this unsure moment.

Maybe the miracle is our willingness to take the plunge – to face our fear of change and dip our head beneath the cool waters of the unknown. We would have been fine splashing in the waters of familiarity, but then we might have missed out on the joy and freedom that comes from taking a plunge beneath the surface.

Maybe the miracle will be my children suddenly waking up each morning with smiles on their faces and nothing but kindness on their lips. Maybe the miracle will be my children sleeping past 6:30 every morning!

I can dream can’t I?

Change leaves your heart and spirit in a vulnerable place. When you’re cut off from the passivity of the familiar, suddenly a whole new world of options are opened before you. There are no schedules to keep up with, no obligations to meet. Those will likely develop quickly, of course, but in the beginning, when life has finally, mercifully, slowed down the prospects of a clean slate leave me excited. What will we finally do that we’ve been dreaming of but lacked the time? What lies in wait for our fragile hearts?

It’s terrifying and exciting and wonderful. A tightly woven ball of “What if?” What if we had the time to finally do that? What if we were closer to finally participate in this? What if we finally set aside the resources to accomplish that dream? What if we watched in grand expectation and looked for the miracles?

While the in-between has given me a touch of vertigo, unsure of which way to turn, it’s also left me excited. I love what ifs. I love to see miracles happen and for the first time in a long time, I’m finally watching for them.

“Change is the handmaiden Nature uses to do her miracles with.”

Have you seen any miracles lately? Let’s share and all join in the excitement!

“For I know the plans I have for. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you a hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11

For more pictures by my awesome sister-in-law, visit her blog. We’re having some wonderful, sweet cousin time.

Filed Under: faith, Family, Florida, Life, Moving Tagged With: Conquering Fear, faith, Freedom, moving, thoughts

The sliver of light

June 28, 2011 by Kelli

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: faith, Hope, Novel, World War II, writing

California

June 25, 2011 by Kelli

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.