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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