I watch her tenacity, and I find myself envious at times. My eight year old knows exactly what she wants, and when she puts her mind to something, she doesn’t let anyone get in her way. Her determination and quest for accomplishment are amazing. A goal, no matter how big or small, is all the motivation she needs to put in the hard work, to go the extra mile. And, so far, she has accomplished all that she set out to do.
She is teaching me, reminding me, what it’s like to pursue a goal without fear of failure, and to dream without concern for what others might think.
Something happens when we grow up. We become so predictable, so practical, so…safe. We think through every possible scenario, every outcome that could result from a decision, and more often than not, we choose the path with the least likelihood of road blocks.
Some of that is simply out of necessity. When you have bills to pay and mouths to feed, you cannot live life on a whim. Decisions have to be made with a heavy amount of respect for the future. Sometimes, however, (many times?) we let practicality be the boss of us. We fear a path of imaginary destruction.
But if we choose to follow a different path, one that is less practical on paper, and the road is rockier, the terrain filled with more ups and downs, and the ultimate outcome less guaranteed, then does that mean we made the wrong decision?
All of these people inspire me to live more intentionally. They have each taught me through both their words, and their actions, that life doesn’t have to be predictable, and you can still be responsible while chasing the things you love.
Living a little outside the lines requires that we make a few sacrifices. We can’t be confined to that which is predictable, and we certainly can’t expect the path to be easy. Fulfilling? Yes. Exciting? Most definitely. Challenging? Without a doubt. Responsible? Depends on who you ask.
But easy? Rarely.
Dreams and goals shouldn’t be laid to rest with childhood. We can still be responsible without being predictable. And the beautiful truth is that if we’re willing to make those sacrifices – if we’re up for the challenge of living intentionally, and doing the hard work necessary to live our lives in pursuit of the things that will leave a longer lasting impact than the boundaries of a 401K, we might find that something beautiful occurs.
We may just carve a different path for ourselves, for our children and for the world around us.
In the next week, I will be taking each one of the kids out of school for our annual “hooky day with Mom” event. We all look forward to this day – them because they get a full day away from school just to have a little fun, and me because I get quality, uninterrupted, one-on-one time with each child individually.
It’s amazing what comes out in each of their personalities when they get me all to themselves. Add to that the fact that we’re doing something that they chose to do, that speaks to each of them individually, and I find that I suddenly get to know each one of them in a new and different way.
Sloan is first, because last year he had to be last and it rained on his day, which means we were relegated to seeing a movie at the last minute. It’s supposed to rain again today, but that won’t matter, because this year he’s decided he wants to visit Titanic: The Experience in Orlando.
This is my kid who loves history. He is fascinated by museums and relics, and by the drama of the past. I love that about him. He’s curious, and he comes alive when learning about the lives who came before us. So in just a few minutes, we will pack up the car and make the trek to Orlando. No doubt he will talk my ear off before we arrive.
He has lots of words to say.
I’ll be drinking one more cup of coffee before we leave.
Tia and Landon have already decided they want to go to Busch Gardens on their days off. Tia likes the shows, and most of the rides, though I’ll be stuck watching her ride most of the time this year.
Landon just likes the movement, the animals, and the fact that he can be outside for a whole day alone with me. When it’s just me and one child, I’m able to indulge them all a little more. They get to play games, eat food, and stop at attractions we wouldn’t normally stop at if we were all together.
There’s something magical about skipping school with my kids. I plan to keep this tradition up all the way through high school. I get roughly eighteen years with these kids at home. Eighteen years to build memories before they head out to make memories on their own. I will take every opportunity I can to build memories that last.
I want the kids to know that there’s freedom in life – that you don’t always have to be bound to a schedule, and your time doesn’t have to be dictated by the responsibilities laid out before you.
Life is fun, so why not take a time out now and then to celebrate the fun with the people you love most? Right?!
Happy Wednesday, friends. I’m off to take a step back in time on the doomed old ship with one of my favorite people in the world.
As a 20 year old college student living alone in Kiev, Ukraine, I had my fair share of alone time to explore. I loved every second of that independence, though I fear that I gave the Ukrainian couple I was living with a heart attack or five during that semester abroad.
I never said “no” to an opportunity for adventure during that time in my life. I was 20, after all. I was invincible. It never occurred to me that I might be foolish in my free movements from one part of the city to another. On occasion, I was even known to hop a train for a different part of the country, just because someone asked.
Looking back on that time of life life, I shake my head in wonder at my bravery, my naiveté, my seize the day mentality. Where did that come from? And where did that girl go?!
It’s true that adulthood brings with it an awareness of responsibility. I know now that I am, indeed, not invincible. I know now that it is only by God’s good grace, and probably my mother’s unceasing prayers, that I was not physically harmed on the train I took to Prague, when I was forced to room with a horny Iranian born German who tried to climb in bed with me more than once.
It’s grace that I didn’t find myself hurt or worse when I got lost in a back alley section of Prague after dark…alone.
It’s grace that I didn’t get radiation poisoning when I hopped on a train to visit one of the still functioning towns near the abandoned Chernobyl district.
It’s grace that I always managed to find myself with nice, amiable cab drivers when I hailed a ride home after dark because I’d gotten lost wandering the streets of Kiev…again.
At the time, I thought nothing of any of those experiences. It never dawned on me that those were dangerous situations.In fact, after the adventure to Czech Republic, I found a local cafe and emailed my parents, regaling them with my hilarious tales of fighting off the German, being chased by a man trying to sell me hash, and being groped by a drunk man in the dark alley.
“I’m having such an adventure!” I wrote – as if this were just another day at the local park. I still have the email with my mom’s response. It goes like this:
KELLI,
THERE ARE SOME EXPERIENCES THAT ARE BETTER LEFT UNTOLD UNTIL YOU ARE SAFE BACK HOME ON AMERICAN SOIL. CALL US.
MOM
I laugh, now, at that balls-to-the-walls version of myself. She was a trip. I kind of miss her, and yet I’m not sure I would ever take those risks again, even if given the opportunity.
Of course, if I hadn’t risked that trip to Prague and fought off those men, I never would have stood on Charles Bridge and seen the vast hillside that stretched beyond the waters. I never would have been enticed by the array of colors in the fall trees, or the sight of a woman walking a small herd of goats across the hill. I never would have tightened my backpack and started walking toward that hill, and I never would have climbed it.
And if I hadn’t done that, I never would have seen the city of Prague from such an interesting, unique and romantic vantage point.
Sometimes risks are worth it in the long run.
My first born and I discuss college a lot these days. He’s only ten, but he’s got so many questions. He wants to know what it’s going to be like, where he should go, what he should study, if it’s scary.
All I tell him is that I want him to work hard, to trust in his ability to decide where to attend college, to never be afraid to ask his dad’s advice, and to never shy away from something that feels risky.
Then I pray for him, and my other children. I pray that they’ll be confident and brave. I pray that they’ll have the opportunity to explore the world someday. I pray that they will take every chance they get to see God’s creation from a different angle.
I pray they will be wiser than I was, and that they’ll have grace and protection when they make foolish choices.
There’s still a bit of that risky girl buried inside me – the girl who loves the thrill of adventure, and the independence that comes with exploring new territory. She escapes in the memories, in my dreams, and in the secret hopes that I have for my children. She’s raising a new generation of risk takers.
Are you an adventure seeker? How do you balance the desire to explore with the need to be responsible?
This is the final installment in my series of stories from Ukrainian World War II survivors. I leave you with Maria. I first heard Maria’s story as a sixteen year old, while on a mission trip to Kiev, Ukraine. Her story sparked a passion in me to know more – to understand better how this Great War affected the world.
Maria’s story is the one that started it all. My entire life shifted when I heard her retell of the days she was taken to Germany and forced to build artillery for the enemy. Maria was a delightful woman to speak with. Her eyes danced, moving in rhythm with her words. I will forever be grateful to her for entrusting me with her history.
A story I now share with you.
“The morning came when we were to go to the station. My sister Anna and I left together. My older brothers were already gone, fighting on the front for our safety. Papa was very ill so he could not accompany us.
When we arrived [the Nazis] forced us all to stand in line for hours while they walked around screaming at us. Finally, we were inspected and separated onto different trains.
When I reached the front of the line, a German woman grabbed my hands and inspected them. She did the same to Anna. I found out later that they were looking for young girls with large hands who would be good at physical labor. I guess my hands were what she wanted because as soon as she looked at them, she pulled me away and pushed me onto a train by myself. Anna was sent to another train. I thought I would die of grief and fear that day.
I was only fourteen years old when they sent me away to work in an underground chemical plant. There were many other children there with me. Our job was to fill German bullets with gunpowder all day long. During that time, I never saw the light of day.
We worked long hours with very little food. For some reason the other children in the camp turned to me for support and protection. I don’t know why I was given so much responsibility, but I felt that I could not let them down. I soon became very angry as our captivators cut back our meals from two per day to only one per day. And worse, the food was often infested with bugs. We were all ill, and some children even died. I had to do something.
I refused to work one morning and, using broken German, I demanded better treatment. Instead, the two officers in charge beat me very badly. It’s a miracle that I survived.
I woke up days later. A young woman washed my face and as I began to stir, she sang to me. Her voice was beautiful, and I thought she must be an angel. It turns out she was a young German nurse who took pity on me, and had been nursing me to health.
I was sent to a textile factory after I recovered. This was a much nicer job. I was given regular meals and the work was easier. But I didn’t stay there long. After only a few months I was transferred once again, this time to a tank plant. Here I helped assemble German tanks. This was terrible work for a sixteen year old girl.
A few months after I arrived, word came that the war was over. The next day, I tasted freedom for the first time in two years. I walked out of the terrible camp with great joy, and also great fear. I didn’t know where I was or how to get home.
After a few days of wandering, I came to a train station. As a refugee, I had to sneak onto a train just before it left. I rode wherever I could find room. Sometimes, I could not find room inside a train car, I and was forced to hang on to the rails outside the car for hours.
After two years of near starvation and hard labor, I finally arrived home. It was many weeks before I found my family again. And I found them quite different.
My brothers were all killed in the war. My father had been sent to Babi Yar (a killing ditch outside Kiev, where the Germans killed over 33,000 Jews in three days). He survived this awful place, but not without emotional pain that haunted him. The life went out from his eyes. He tried desperately to continue to be strong for us girls, but he felt defeated. He missed my brothers very much.
Anna survived her years in Germany as well. She had a better time than I did. She was a servant in the house of a wealthy family. She was treated with some kindness though she was often scorned and abused verbally.
Those were very hard years for our country. No one was untouched by tragedy. Everyone lost a loved one. But we survived and we persevered. And now I am an old woman, but I’m happy. I have a wonderful family, and I am always loved.”
This week, two friends offered me a bit of grace, a little encouragement, and just the kind of nudge I needed to push myself out of my creative funk. How did they do this?
Through a simple text, and a ten minute phone call.
There is no way to really stress the importance of having a few people who “get” you. You need people who will come alongside when you’re feeling discouraged, when you want to give up, when you just feel like it’s never going to happen, and who will remind you why you keep pursuing your dreams.
Tribes are how we live our lives. We are constantly banding together with other people to discuss ideas and share information.
Your church is a tribe. Your job is another tribe. Your group of friends is another. You have a tribe. The question is: Do you know it?
Let’s ditch the jargon and just speak in plain English for a second. A tribe isn’t a fan club or mega, super platform; it’s just a group of people who care about something. And we all belong to a few of those, don’t we?”
The benefit to having a tribe, a group of people who will surround you in pursuit of making one another better, is that you’re never really alone. But you must be transparent and let people in. You have to share your dreams, to be open about the things that inspire you toward passionate living, in order for people to walk alongside and help you navigate the path.
For a long time, I was embarrassed to admit that I was writing a novel. I shared the information only with people I knew intimately. My reasons for doing this were not noble or humble. They were riddled in fear.
I was afraid that if I failed, if I never finished the book, or it ended up being terrible, that I would never be able to survive the humiliation. So I shied away from discussing my writing.
I quickly realized, however, that a secret passion is terribly difficult to chase down. Without the benefit of having encouragers by my side, I had no real motivation to press forward with the project. I could see it beginning to die.
So I told a few people, then a few more. Then I shared a few snippets of the book with my readers, and an amazing thing happened.
My confidence grew exponentially, as did the people who were cheering me on. This gave me the momentum I needed to push forward until I could finally type the words, The End.
I couldn’t have done it without my tribe of people cheering me on. And now? Now I’m in the throes of seeking publication. It is a discouraging process, filled with rejection, all of which can leave a writer feeling less than confident.
Just when I began to wonder if maybe I’d made a terrible mistake in trying to publish this story – maybe it wasn’t written as well as I hoped – I received a text from a friend encouraging me not to give up, and offering a prayer for the days when I feel overcome with doubt.
Two days later, a conversation with a mentor and friend who believes in me, and who has been a champion of encouragement to me throughout this writing process, told me he believed in me, and he believed in my book. His gracious words melted the fears and doubts that had crept in over the last few weeks.
Do you see the importance of surrounding yourself with encouragers?
If you have a dream, a goal that you’re working toward, have you shared that? Have you entrusted your pursuit with someone (or multiple someones) who will spur you on toward the accomplishment of that dream? If not, can I ask why?
Don’t be afraid of your dreams, and certainly don’t keep them to yourself, even if they seem lofty, impossible, or ambitious. With the power of a team (a tribe) backing you up, you will find that in the moments you want to give up completely, someone will be there to dust you off, turn you around, and keep pushing you forward.
Benjamin Semenovich Shapolov grew up in Southern Ukraine, near Odessa. Raised in a family of Bible-believing Christians, Benjamin’s story is unique and awe-inspiring. A well-educated man, Benjamin worked hard throughout the war to protect and save the Jews in his area from both the Germans and the Soviets. His life was miraculously spared on numerous occasions.
I will never forget the afternoon I spent with this warm, gentle man. He had a kind face, large eyes, and a mouth prone to wide smiles.
This is his story:
I was born into a family of believers, and I knew the Lord from childhood. My grandparents and parents both taught me strongly to keep the gospel. I was accustomed to look for, and recognize, the will of God.
Right after my father died (in 1932), the horrible famine of the 1930’s began. My mother was left with seven children and herself to feed. It was in these conditions that we lived when the war began. We were always in need – always hungry. We often had only weak soup to eat, but the Lord faithfully kept us through that time and no one died.
In 1937, when I was fifteen, my uncle brought me into the city (Odessa) to live with him. In 1939, I returned to my mother’s village in the northern region of Odessa as a qualified accountant.
The collective farm that my family lived on nominated me to be their bookkeeper when I returned. Though I was only seventeen, I was well-educated and willing to help.
Before he died, my father had a good friend who was a Jew. They often sat in one another’s company and sang hymns together. Early on, our Jewish friend asked the leader of the collective farm to help him build a canteen on his property. When asked why, this Jew replied that a war with Hitler was fast approaching and this canteen would be a hiding place for the Jews.
The leader of the farm agreed to help and for years this canteen was host to many hiding Jews. This was a secret – very few people knew about it. Throughout the war, someone hid inside that canteen everyday.
Because I was the official bookkeeper of the collective farm, it was my duty to issue passports to the villagers. I and the leader of the collective farm both believed in God and we decided to issue all Jews passports in order to help them.
The Soviets frowned upon giving passports to Jews, but without this proper documentation, they were at the mercy of the fascists. The leader and I decided it would be better to save our countrymen by issuing them passports than to submit to the law of the Soviets. By issuing out those passports, we were able to save over three hundred Jews in our region.
When we developed these passports, we always left off the fact that a person was Jewish. Sometimes we had to change a man or a woman’s name from a Jewish name to a Ukrainian name. Now this was very dangerous work, but I always knew that I was following the plan of the Lord and I pressed on without fear.
Three times we were betrayed for doing this work, and each time we were sentenced to be hanged. But the Lord saved us every time, because the Commandant of the German regime who was assigned to our village was a believer in Christ. His mercy saved us, and we continued to help the Jews.
In 1944, the Germans left our village and the Soviet Army came. The Soviets demanded to know how so many people in our village survived the occupation so we gave them the list of names of the people that we had saved. We thought that perhaps we would be commended for our actions, but instead they looked at the list and spoke to us harshly.
For our actions of saving the Jews, the Soviets sent us to a penalty battalion to finish out the war.
We were sent to the front line without any weapons. We were told that the only way we could be redeemed was by our blood. If we were wounded, then our blood would redeem us. If we were killed – our life would redeem us.
So [at the age of 22], I was taken to the front line without protection. Without armor or weapons, we had to get very creative in our battle tactics.
We took empty cans and boxes and cut holes in them so that when we threw them they whistled, sounding like incoming bombs. We frightened the Germans so much that they ran, leaving behind all their weapons and armor. We didn’t have to fire a shot and they all left.
The Lord saved me many times in those years, and by saving me, he saved many other people. Those are only the main important points of my personal history. There are many other stories, but the most important thing to remember is that the Lord saves.
Because I began my service in the Red Army in the penalty battalion, I was never recognized as being a Soviet soldier. But that doesn’t matter to me now. It means nothing to me.
