embracing grace in the midst of motherhood
The ones to break
news of Jesus’ resurrection
were the women —
Mary Magdalene, Joanna,
Mary, the mother of James
Jesus approached them in the garden
when the women spoke out
some did not believe them
Even now, women speak truth
and many refuse to accept it
My most sacred confessions
have been to women
When I was dead inside,
women resurrected me.
They said I believe you
It wasn’t your fault
You are good
I couldn’t believe in myself
but I believed them.
Plan out your garden,
Imagine basil, tomatoes & peppers,
Try Thai takeout from a new restaurant,
Submit a poem — or three,
Don’t mull over rejection,
Celebrate your courage in trying,
Book flights for a spring break trip,
Stargaze on your deck,
Pick out new sneakers,
Instead of boring, old white choose jade green for
good karma,
Pray for peace on earth,
Vox your girlfriends,
Send them snail mail, too,
Gift old baby books to expecting mamas,
Invite friends over for dinner,
Walk the dog in the cold sunshine, even when you don’t want to, feel the wind bite your hands, feel more alive, feel grateful to be moving,
Drink decaf with a swirl of whipped cream,
Organize a messy drawer,
Donate old toys & jeans that don’t fit,
Buy your kids Lucky Charms for breakfast,
Buy yourself tulips,
Center them on the kitchen counter,
Marvel at their blossoms — the way they guzzle water, unfurl & reach for the sunlight,
Keep the faith: spring is coming,
Even now, you’re blooming.
verb: to reflect or release light
noun: radiance; the brightness caused
by a bounce or outpouring of light
My verbs are:
Reading Frog & Toad, Hilo and The Jesus Storybook Bible
Bringing my boys to church
Giggling together on family movie night
Writing between school dropoff and pickup
Throwing a baseball over and over
Lingering outside until sunset
My nouns are:
Buttered toast and apple juice
Hot pepperoni pizza and fizzy root beer
Magna-Tiles and Legos strewn over the carpet
Bright smiles for “One more race!” in Mario Kart
Handwritten drafts, Google docs and Substack
Prayers for goodness and forgiveness
My confessions:
I do not know how to reconcile
my small life raising small people
with my big dreams of writing.
Am I teaching them to be kind?
Do they know how much I love them?
Or see how hard I’m trying?
Will I ever publish another book?
For every struggle
and every joy,
every sacrifice
and every lesson —
there’s no grade.
Oftentimes, I want one.
God, do you see me?
Am I doing enough
to reflect your grace and your glory?
Here is the better question:
Can I trust you enough to release
my grip on my plans and my ambitions?
// Callie Feyen’s poem “Witness,” from her new book When We Swung from Church Bells, inspired this poem’s structure. “Shine” is my word of the year for 2026.
As a baby, you stuck to me like glue, nursing ‘round the clock and snoozing on my chest. Throughout your first year, we broke all the “sleep rules” with you, and we didn’t care. You were our long-awaited second child, our rainbow baby after miscarriage, and our last child, given my age. Your dad and I were going to savor you.
Adam, you arrived five years and two days after your brother Jack was born, and you haven’t stopped chasing him since. Milestone after milestone, you’d leap frog past our expectations, determined to be just like Jack.
No one told me that younger siblings tend to age faster than their older siblings, and the ache to keep you little is one I’ve felt acutely in your third year. You started preschool this past fall, and each week, you share new revelations with me — singing songs, scribbling your name and chatting about your new pals. After we get home from school, you want to sit on my lap when we eat lunch together; you like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or chicken nuggets and cucumbers.
You also like free building with Legos or Magna-tiles, playing your brother’s Switch, playing with and/or annoying your brother and drinking root beer as a special treat. You are bold, bright and brave, barreling into new experiences and connecting with new playmates. “Watch me, Mom!” is a common refrain. Your zest for life inspires me.
You’re my little buddy, helping load laundry and wipe the kitchen table clean. You accompany me to the library, Trader Joe’s and Target often. Sometimes, we’ll do coffee and pastry dates. And when it’s warm enough, we’ll walk our dog to the playground and play pirates there.
Even though you’re so big, you still like to be close to me when you sleep. After storytime and lights out, I’ll snuggle next to you in your bed for five minutes. When I say, “It’s time for me to get ready for bed,” you protest, begging for “One more minute!” repeatedly. Finally, I say goodnight, and you hold my face in your hands and kiss me on the forehead with relish, an echo of how I kissed your forehead as a babe.
Happy fourth birthday, Adam. It’s a gift to love and be loved by you.
I’ve been writing about him since he was born, nine years ago. Jack arrived in January, quiet as snow.
And by that I mean, I cried for him under the harsh lights of the OR before he ever cried for me. Time slowed to a drip — though it must have been a minute — before Jack’s lungs were cleared and he found his voice, leaving me wordless.
Since then, he’s stunned me at every turn with his strong will, race car brain and active spirit. He’s the boy who made me a mother, and his life inspired me to pick up the pen and tell the truth about motherhood. I wrote because I needed to make sense of this wild, wonderful, challenging calling. I am still making sense of it, years later, still being changed by it. Nowadays, our stories intersect less and less. I know this is for the best, given his growing independence.
But because it’s his birthday, and it’s tradition, here’s what I know is true about Jack:
He’s brave. Being the new kid in third grade isn’t easy, but he’s handled the transition with a lot of grace.
He’s artsy, doodling in the margins of his schoolwork, reading any graphic novel he can procure, dreaming up games and writing his own mini comics.
He’s playful. This winter, he’s into Roblox and board games. Once the weather turns, we’ll have baseball, soccer and bike-riding back.
He’s a good big brother, mentoring Adam and engaging with him, even though they both get on each other’s nerves.
He’s kind. Though he misses his buddies from Queens, he’s fostered warm relationships with his classmates. His favorite thing is making them laugh.
Snow’s falling as I write this tribute, which seems fitting. Jack, usually talkative, is silent, reading Adventure Time. He glances up at me when he turns the page. I set down my pen and study him — my wonder boy who braved a big move and has kept on laughing, learning and growing. Bedtime awaits but I savor the moment.
Happy birthday, Jack. I can’t wait to see what happens next in your stunning story.
There are years that test us, and years that embrace us. I’m grateful that my 39th year has been the latter. In lots of little ways I’ve felt held —
in the abundance of cherry tomatoes from our new garden;
my first glimpse of stars from our backyard in the suburbs;
each time Jay and I drop our boys off with my parents;
through “Hellos” and connections with new neighbors;
sweet messages and meetups with old friends from Chicago;
a perfect latte from a local coffee shop;
by the words of writers and musicians who move me;
walking Miami beach in deep talks with my college girlfriends;
date nights with Jay, especially to see theater or live music;
prayers sent out by family and friends;
when my boys ask for lullabies or games of catch;
and capturing it all on the page, writing. Always writing.
In my calls to write and mother, I spent the bulk of the year planting seeds and nurturing unseen growth. From potty training to helping the boys acclimate to new schools, we’ve conquered several transitions. Freelance projects have come and gone, I managed to keep my Substack alive in the midst of our move. I set aside one manuscript (for now) and started writing another. The work of raising kind humans and putting warm words into the world feels more urgent than ever.
Selling our Chicago home in 2024 was a real trust fall with God. I’m grateful our family landed in such a beautiful house and community this past August. Starting over socially hasn’t been easy. Once a week, I remind myself of a dear friend’s advice to be “the very best version of myself,” trusting that, with time, I’ll cultivate great relationships here.
Today, on my 40th birthday, I’m more at home in myself than I’ve ever felt before. This confidence was hard won; at 38, I experienced a dark night of the soul from which I’m still healing. A commitment to caring for my physical and mental health, plus gaining a greater understanding of how my mind works, has been transformative. God’s grace was evident in the ones whose love carried me when I most needed it.
If I could tell my younger self anything, I’d hug her and whisper, “You are stronger than you think you are. Trust yourself. Believe in your goodness.”
Advent begins with early sunsets —
daylight retreats. The dark descends
like watercolor. Night after night,
twinkle lights appear, brightening
each block. Christmas trees shimmer,
candles flicker on Advent wreaths.
Holy One, let me reflect your love
like the lights shining in the darkness.
Carolers crowd a city square, singing
“O come, O come, Emmanuel…”
Jingle bell ring out, signaling charity
collection on the corner. An organ
rendering of “Silent Night” floats
from a packed sanctuary.
Holy One, let me harmonize with you,
making known your eternal song.
Advent is a time for telling ancient tales
and collecting wishes. For feasting
and giving. Warm laughter and hugs.
Holy One, keep me attuned
to your glow, your music — soon
angels will proclaim that the Light
of the world is dawning. May I wait
in wonder. Amen.
// This prayer first appeared in my Substack newsletter, Nourish, but I wanted it to have a home here as well. Wishing you a peaceful holiday season.
For one night,
this country looks different…
Pumpkins deck doorways,
skeletons adorn front yards,
orange lights glow.
Little princesses, ninjas,
sports stars and singers parade
the sidewalks, parents in tow.
We open our doors,
greet our neighbors’ children,
offer them Twizzlers and Twix,
Snickers and Sour Patch Kids,
pretzels, popcorn, fruit snacks and more.
We say, “Wow, look at that costume!”
“Happy Halloween!”
“Here, have a treat!’
What we mean is,
*I see you.*
*You are welcome here.*
*Take and eat.*
This is a night when
children are cherished.
And I wonder,
what would happen if we
held on to our Halloween spirit?
How would the world change
if we opened our doors
— and shared — more often?
For a decent view of the sunset, I used to climb stairs to the Metra stop in my old neighborhood. At one end of the railroad tracks, Chicago’s skyline loomed; at the other, the suburbs beckoned. Facing west, I’d watch the sky burst with magenta, orange, lavender.
Today I can drive a few blocks west for a clear view of the horizon. Farmland stretches for miles, bookended by subdivisions. The sun is a shiny coin hovering above golden cornfields, casting light over the playground where my sons are climbing. I glance around, curious if anyone else notices the miracle unfolding before us.
A month has passed since my family moved into our dream home in the western suburbs. Our kitchen and rooms are set up. Artwork needs to be hung; some furniture will have to be purchased. Jay and I are still unpacking and searching for our Halloween decorations. Our kids are riding their bikes to the elementary school. We’re learning new names and faces, new routes and routines. Every day, I wake up incredibly grateful for the life we chose, and the house we live in.
Earlier this summer, when our house search was going poorly, and the dream we’d worked a year to pursue seemed to be slipping from our grasp, I struggled to sleep at night. We walked away from bidding wars, lost one, balked at prices. The question of where we’d live haunted me.
This evening, I stand at the edge of the playground and watch the world turn, watch color flame and fade while my boys run around. Children’s chatter rises and falls like a tide. Fall has arrived, but the air is warm.
Although the question of home has been answered, new questions arise: How will I create a home? What will I do here? Who will I become?
Tangerine, yellow and pink bleed across a vast blue canvas. My body feels settled, and at peace. More than ever, I’m less concerned with the future and more interested in leading a quiet life, being kind to everyone I meet. Living in uncertainty taught me to become more comfortable with ambiguity. I can, as Rilke wrote, “live the questions.”
Finally, the sun dips below the horizon and it’s time to collect my children. The view from here is stunning, I think. The view from here is changing me.
“A writer will be interested in what we don’t understand rather than what we do.” —Flannery O’ Connor
Your oldest son asks what you and his dad are whispering about before dinner. Facing a cutting board strewn with tomato juice, you startle as if you’ve been caught passing notes in class. He cocks his head, waiting.
“Dad and I were discussing gun violence… again” would be the honest answer. You glance at your husband. “Don’t worry about it, honey,” is what you say instead, picking up the knife and slicing more tomatoes. Which is ironic, considering the fact that you are indeed worrying — about school shootings, political violence, the genocide in Gaza, wars abroad and division in your country.
Your son doesn’t like your answer, but he’s already moved on, curious about what you’re cooking for dinner. Tacos, you answer. It’s taco Tuesday, after all, and the absurdity of making pico de gallo while grappling with death makes your stomach churn.
At church, your pastors preach that God is good and people are sinful, and while you agree, you also wonder about this message’s effect on the human psyche week after week. And what of the barrage of bad news we receive, almost daily, on our screens? How does that affect one’s heart?
At the start of the creation story, God makes humans in God’s own image and calls them very good. Sinfulness writes headlines, but what about our innate capacity for goodness?
You think of the way your youngest wraps his arms around your back and hugs you hard like he’ll never let go. You think of your oldest, and the stories he tells you before he drifts off to sleep at night, how he loves to have you listen. Yes, your kids fight and whine — all kids do — but oh, what a marvel they are, what a gift of creation.
The next day, when your beautiful children are at school, you sit at a library desk and press your pen to the page. You wonder, why bother writing at all when there’s so much brokenness around us? What good will my words do, anyhow? Why write?
You look up, eyes settling on elegant shelves brimming with books. When you were young, you reveled in storytime with your parents. After you could read on your own, you carried books with you the way you used to carry around your favorite flower blanket. Since childhood, stories have been your compass, a means to navigate a confusing world. You write because you first read.
As a freelance writer, you create work no one wants to pay for, but everyone needs. Articles, essays and devotions guide our thinking. Poems, prayers and stories comfort us at weddings and funerals, birthdays and graduations. Writing often garners measly (if any) wages and is already being replaced by AI. You write because the need to express is human, and our stories are marked by emotions, memories and hard-earned insights no computer can ever comprehend. Human storytellers have had a place in society for eons and they will continue to be vital. Life begets art; art begets life. You claim the title storyteller.
You write because once, an author wrote something that touched the deepest part of you, and you finally felt known and less messy and truly worthy and you want to try and do the same thing for someone else. You fold your memories and reflections with care and fashion them into an origami crane. You place the crane into a reader’s hands and say, “Here. I made this for you, I hope it makes you feel less alone. I hope it makes you feel something.”
You write because holding a pen in your hand is akin to stepping on an express train. It’s as if God handed you a ticket and murmured, Enjoy the ride. You write because the journey beckons.
You write because filling a blank page with ideas empties you like nothing else can. Writing is hard work for a busy mind like yours. You aren’t the kind of writer who can produce graceful material upon first draft. If anything, your drafts are a lot like your garden — in need of weeding, watering and time in the sun. In other words: wild.
Maybe revision is part of the appeal? You spent many years as an editor, clearing space for others’ stories to ripen. After tending wild words, you feel wrought out, clear, purposeful, powerful.
True, you might toil for hours unseen on one paragraph that will be read by two people and cause seven to unfollow you. Nevertheless, you nurture stories for the few who pause to appreciate their beauty — and will then be moved to grow and bloom themselves.
And it’s this beauty that guides you today, as you sort through memories from recent days, searching for evidence of God’s grace among us.
You write to reach for goodness.
How else would you remember a cool breeze rippling through your sweater on a September morning, your first sighting of crimson leaves, foreshadowing the approaching autumn? How else would you remember tossing the football with your eight-year-old son, both of you barefoot in the yard, amber light filtering through the trees, and the glowy feeling inside when he asked you to play with him? (You feel lucky he still asks.) Who else will account for your preschooler’s make believe, and the cookies and fruit he served you in the play kitchen? You write because you love your family, and you love God’s world and this act of documenting what you love is a prayer of thanksgiving.
You write because you can’t imagine not writing. Your hand gets itchy if you aren’t able to write for too many days. Because there is a story waiting to be written that only you can tell. Because readers are waiting to be known by your words. Because you were created to create. Because, in spite of everything, you believe in humans’ capacity for goodness. Everyone is starving for kindness and you will do your small part to serve up hope.
Erin Strybis 