The Art of the Apology

I’ve become really good at sharing highlights on here.

Today I’d like to share a low‑light.

I’ll start with this: one of my biggest strengths is my ability to apologize.

Like most things I’m “good” at, it wasn’t a super‑power I was born with, rather a muscle built through painful reps. A lot of reps.

This past weekend, I was a jerk.

I’m running with less margin than I’d like right now—work is busy, kid‑sport logistics are no joke, a nagging shoulder injury is keeping me up at night, and a few behind‑the‑scenes curveballs have crashed the party all at once. None of that excuses my behavior, but it does explain the cocktail of frustration swirling inside me.

Here's the real problem: I let it spill onto the people I love most.

I snapped at my kids over small things. I was short with Bre, mostly communicating through sarcasm and half‑hearted grunts. I camped out in my own irritation and invited everyone else to feel it. By Sunday night (Easter Sunday to top it off) I looked around at a house full of hurt faces and thought, “Congrats, Captain Encouragement—you steered the ship right into the rocks.”

So I did the only redemptive thing I could think of:

I got down on each kid’s level—eye to eye. I named exactly what I’d done: impatience, harsh words, a short fuse. I explained the “why” without turning it into an excuse.

And then I said the three words every kid deserves to hear from their dad: “I was wrong.”

No surprise, each of my incredible children forgave me way faster than I deserved. They always do. My kids are almost reckless with grace.

Ruby squeezed my neck like nothing even happened. Lila cracked a shy smile and allowed me to kiss her forehead. Jude slapped my shoulder (the good one) and said, “It’s all right, Dad.” Gwyn gave me a hug and asked if I wanted to play Street Fighter on the Super Nintendo later.

I don’t deserve them.

Here’s what I’m learning (and re‑learning):

• Pressure reveals what’s inside—apology reveals what you value. I can’t always control the stressors, but I can control whether my family sees humility or pride when I blow it.

• Leadership at home isn’t about being flawless; it’s about being quick to own your flaws. My kids don’t need a perfect dad. They need a dad who shows them how to course‑correct.

• Apology is fertilizer for trust. Every honest “I’m sorry” breaks up the hard ground and makes room for deeper roots of connection.

• Grace is a two‑way street. The same grace I receive from a nail‑scarred Savior is the grace I’m asked to extend—and, sometimes, receive from a sticky‑handed toddler.

I don’t share this to earn virtual pats on the back. I share because highlight reels without the bloopers are just propaganda.

If you’re scrolling today feeling like everyone else has it together, please remember: the Stewart house has tear‑stained moments, too. We just try to redeem them quickly.

Maybe you don’t have a shoulder injury or a looming deadline, but you do have relationships. And chances are, at some point this week, frustration will leak out sideways. When it does, remember:

Own it fast. Name it clearly. Apologize specifically. Receive grace gratefully.

Final piece of unsolicited advice from me to you:
If you owe someone an “I’m sorry,” don’t wait.

That's all for today.

Godspeed.

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What Ruby Taught Me

What you’re looking at here is a real-life image of power.
This is Ruby Jane, age 3, absolutely thriving.

Wrapped in her favorite blanket.
Fresh from the bath and glowing.
New mani/pedi from her older sister, Lila.
Cucumbers on her eyes.
Hydrating mask in place.

Not a care in the world.

She wasn’t performing rest. She wasn’t trying to prove anything.
She just let the moment hold her.

As funny and adorable as it was to witness, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was teaching me something.

I think that’s sort of the gig as a dad—if you’re paying attention, you catch these little flashes of something bigger and let them work on you a bit.

I’ve never been great at rest.

I like building. Creating. Solving problems. Moving things forward.

Rest has often felt like a pause I had to earn.
If I’m honest, I’ve spent a lot of my adult life confusing rest with laziness.

Somewhere along the way, I bought into the lie that movement equals value.
That my worth was tied to how much I could carry, how quickly I could move, or how well I could hold it all together without flinching.

And while that drive has served me in a lot of ways—built things I’m proud of, pushed me through hard seasons—I’m learning it’s not the whole story.

I don’t want to lose my bias toward action. That’s in my bones.

But I am learning to quiet the voice that says I have to earn rest.
I’m learning to trust that being still doesn’t mean I’m falling behind.

It’s a heavy way to live—always proving, always pushing.

But the older I get, the more I realize:
Sometimes, forward looks like stopping.
Sometimes, growth looks like stillness.

And every now and then, something interrupts that pattern—quietly, beautifully—and reminds me of a better way.

So maybe this is just a post about a 3-year-old with cucumbers on her eyes.
Or maybe it’s about something deeper.

Maybe it’s about remembering that rest isn’t weakness.
That stillness isn’t laziness.
That sometimes the most courageous thing we can do is stop striving long enough to remember we’re already loved.

Ruby wasn’t trying to earn anything in that moment—she was just receiving what was offered.

And maybe that’s the invitation for all of us.

To slow down.
To be fully where we are.
To let the moment hold us.

That’s all for today.

Godspeed.

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My Little Girl

This is my little girl, Lila Blue.

Now, I know what you’re thinking—she doesn’t look so little anymore.
Trust me, I know.

I also know you’re thinking, “Wow, she’s gorgeous.”
Trust me, I know.

Before I go any further: if you happen to be an adolescent male, I kindly invite you to keep scrolling. She’s not dating until she’s 30.

She turns thirteen this week, and we have a family tradition—when you hit the big 1-3, you get a destination trip with just Mom and Dad. No siblings, no distractions. Just time carved out to celebrate you.

So this week was full of sunshine, sandy toes, shopping bags, and plenty of ice cream.

It was a blast, but here’s the part that sneaks up on you as a Dad:

Somewhere between chasing her on the playground and watching her pick out lip gloss at Sephora, she turned into this young woman—one with opinions, style, wit, and a quiet strength that doesn’t ask for permission.

She’s becoming who she was always meant to be and I’ve got a front row seat. What a gift.

This trip wasn’t just about celebrating her age.

It was about recognizing the shift.

She’s crossing a bridge into something new.

And as much as I want to slow time down, I also don’t want to miss a second of who she’s becoming.

So here’s to Lila Blue—confident, curious, and kind.

You’ve got your Momma’s heart and your Dad’s stubbornness (also his jump shot ).

Keep walking with purpose, laughing loudly, loving deeply, and staying true to yourself—even when the world tells you to be something else.

Because you, exactly as you are, already carry something rare and bright.

And the world needs more of it.

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Prone to Wander

There’s a song I keep returning to—not because it’s catchy, but because I feel like it knows me. Every time I hear it, something stirs deep in my chest.

The song is Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.

There’s a line in the final verse that gets me every single time:

“Prone to wander, Lord I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love.
Here’s my heart, Lord, take and seal it—

Seal it for Thy courts above.”

Something about that part wrecks me.

Not in an overdramatic way—but in that quiet, lump-in-the-throat, soul-level kind of way.

I’m not an overly emotional guy. Most days, I take pride in being steady. Disciplined. Focused. I like being the strong one. The protector. The one with a plan.

But something about those words unlocks a part of me I don’t always know how to access.

Prone to wander. Lord, I feel it.
Same.

There have been seasons when I felt so aligned—spiritually, mentally, emotionally—that wandering felt impossible.

But then life happens.

Work piles up. Kids get loud. Deadlines stack. Priorities blur. And I convince myself I’m just “in a season.”

Before I know it, I’m on autopilot—present in body, but not always in spirit.

Truth is, I stopped listening to Come Thou Fount for a while. Not because I didn’t love it—but because it hit too close. It exposed the part of me that prefers performance over presence. Strength over surrender.

But recently, I stumbled across an old playlist I’d titled “All-Time Favorites”. Right there at the top was that song. Against my better judgment, I hit play.

And just like that, the tears came.
Right on cue.

Here’s the thing I’m learning:
a tender heart isn’t a liability. It’s a gift.

For years, I’ve trained myself to be strong—physically, mentally, emotionally. I run. I lift. I lead. I like knowing I can protect my family and provide for them.

But more and more, I’m realizing: my kids don’t just need a dad who’s strong. They need a dad who feels.

A Dad who tears up in worship. Who pauses in the chaos. Who apologizes without defensiveness. Who says, “I was wrong.” “I’m still learning.” “Let’s figure this out together.”

I’ve said before—I don’t want to be remembered as a man who had all the answers.

I want to be remembered as a man who kept asking better questions.

A man who kept coming back.

That line—“prone to wander”—it doesn’t shame me anymore.

It reminds me I’m human. That I need reminders. And that even when I drift, there’s still a place for me at the table.

That’s the heart of legacy, I think.
It’s not about perfection.
It’s about direction.

It’s about the posture of our hearts—even when our steps falter.

So if you’ve wandered a bit lately…
If you’ve stopped listening to the songs that used to move you…
If your faith feels a little numb, or your heart feels like it’s been on lockdown—

Maybe today’s the day you hit play again.

Maybe it’s time to stop pushing past the lump in your throat and start paying attention to it.

Not because you’re weak.

But because you’re strong enough to know that strength alone won’t carry you through.

You were made to feel. To worship. To wrestle. To return.

To come back again and again and say:
“Here’s my heart, Lord. Take and seal it.”

That’s all for today.

Godspeed.

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