Author Archives: Erin Strybis

This is three

You always want to be in the driver’s seat. Whether it’s toy cars, trains, or dictating the day’s plans, you love taking charge. 

You’re my little buddy, accompanying me everywhere — to the grocery store, your big brother’s school and Target pickup. Helping me is a favorite pastime. You’ll gladly clean mirrors, wash dishes and sweep. After our work is done, you ask to visit the library, the children’s museum or the pool at our apartment. You love the water, splashing and jumping in like a dare devil. 

You live off Chobani Flips, Chick-fil-A nuggets, fruit, pasta, juice boxes and milk, preferably chocolate. 

You say “kiss me on the nose” and “you’re my best friend” and “shut your mouth Jack” to your brother (I don’t like hearing that last one). Sometimes your emotions come out in strong words or tears. I get it. Being human is hard. We’re working on acknowledging our BIG feelings — together.

You adore your dad, your dog and your big brother Jack (whom you’re always emulating or annoying — often both!). Other than me or Jack, Grandma is your favorite playmate. When you play, you build forts and houses and roads with your imagination. You told us that, when you grow up, you want to be a construction worker. 

Your favorite show is Paw Patrol (Rubble and Crew is also acceptable). You like to read Richard Scarry and Berenstain Bears and Froggy stories. 

Daily you’re becoming more independent. You can put on your pants, shoes and a jacket, but you still ask me to “zip and wrap it up.”  Your favorite outfit is your blue pocket sweater you picked out from Old Navy, black Nike pants and training underwear “just like Jack’s.” You’re currently learning to use the potty, work that’s messy and hard and exhausting. We’ll keep at it. 

At bedtime, you still want to fall asleep in my arms. Lately, you’ve been asking me to stop hugging you — you say you’d rather hug me! I reply, “Alright, Adam, you can hold me. Soon enough, you won’t need to hold me. I think you’re almost ready to fall asleep on your own.”

Unfortunately, I’m not ready. For any of it — new bedtime routines, how fast you stopped holding my hand (you prefer to put your hands in your pockets), and this coming August, when you’ll begin preschool. You are my last baby, and I’m finding it hard to watch you grow. This is motherhood: a delicate dance of holding you and letting you go.

“I’m not a baby,” you’d tell me. “I’m a big boy now.”

You’re right, of course. Today you’re three. Happy birthday to you, big boy. What a joy it is to be your mom. 

I want to remember you like this

Immersed in the world of Dogman,
our dog curled against your chest,
your head resting atop the mega Pikachu pillow,
one leg dangling off the leather couch,
and laughter bubbling out of your mouth.
What I like most about you now is that
when you’re reading, you’re completely at ease.

photo credit: Rachel Liv Photography

I want to remember you like this, too:
Handsome in your chambray shirt,
standing tall with a genuine grin,
your hands anchoring your little brother’s shoulders.
Chances are high that he kicked you before this photo
— you are his nemesis and his idol —
still, you keep answering the call to lead
and love your brother (sometimes giving tough love).
I am awed by your nurturing spirit.

I need to remember you like this:
Far away from me, eyes locked on the horizon,
pointing to something unknown.
Was it the waves breaking?
The impossibly blue sky?
All I know is that, going to the beach was your idea
you asked us all summer when we could go,
and on Labor Day, the wind was whipping like crazy,
but you got your wish.

After I took this photo, you sprinted toward Lake Michigan,
your little brother (naturally) at your heels, by the time you reached
the water, your sunny blonde hair was tousled and sandy. Eyes shining,
you stepped into the tide. Gripping your brother’s hand, I watched. For the first time, I wasn’t afraid if you could hold your own, because this summer, you swam like a fish at the pool. Still you stayed nearby
(a small mercy on a day when the waves were wild),
you even came back to me the first time I called.

One day sooner than I’d like, you’ll swim away for good. Like the stones
your brother collects from the shore, I store up this truth
to revisit later. Today you’re still my boy, content at home
and also pulled toward adventure. I want to cherish you at eight —
so ebullient, so bright.

This poem is dedicated to my son Jack; today is his eighth(!) birthday. The title of this piece was inspired by poet Michelle Windsor.

First snow

Glittering from the heavens
“Stick out your bubblegum tongue,”
I say. “Taste a bit of magic.”

Whole cars are swallowed
Gardens and rooftops blanketed
Take this messy world and make it
cool clean sparkling bright

My son dives in
Soon he’s swimming in sugar
Sifting it with his mittens
Floating on his back, beaming at the sky
Leaving behind imprints of angel wings

And when the 6:00 church bells
start chiming “Joy to the World”
he says,
“Mommy, let’s dance!”

So we twirl and twirl and twirl
in that fine snow
Cool clean sparkling bright.

Chapter 38

Today she turns 39.

Her 38th year is not one she’d ever ask to repeat. “Trying” is how her husband described it in her birthday card. Other adjectives she’d add are “traumatic” and “revelatory.” She has no shining accomplishments to toast. There were more endings than beginnings. More questions than answers. At one point, she disliked herself so much she couldn’t bear to look in the mirror.

Healing took time and courage. She left communities she loved because belonging to them was causing her harm. For a season, she set down her pen and silenced herself. She had hard conversations and made school lunches and folded the laundry and kissed her children and cried in the shower.

Does everyone have these hidden pains they just shoulder quietly? she asked God. Her faith was shaken, but she didn’t stop believing.

Hours of research and reflection helped her see she wasn’t alone. The stories she read — paired with her family’s love — mended what was broken inside. Joy returned. And with it, many wonderful moments; the only possible explanation was grace.

She discovered that some years are gentle and sweet, and other years, everything you think you know burns to ash and you have to fight like hell to rise up after the fire.

After much prayer, she picked up her pen again. She decided she’ll write another book.

At 6:15 a.m. today, her sons tumbled into the master bedroom, searching for her. Her husband rolled back the comforter and the two boys burrowed between them like a pair of puppies. Under the warmth of the comforter, she clung to her children. At least I kept them safe and sound, she resolved. I held them and they held me. That is enough.

It’s a wonderful, magical life 

Wednesday begins with a glimmer.
I strike a match and watch it burn 
away the darkness. Next, I reach 
for my journal. Thoughts pour 
out of my pen and fill pages.

While I scribble, the tick tick tick
of the dresser clock falls silent. Only sunlight — 
slanting in through the blinds — breaks the spell.

The clock reads 7 a.m.
Suddenly, I’m dashing,
dressing, 
rinsing,
running towards my children to rouse them.

Our day unfolds 
with hot coffee and buttered toast, 
school drop off and a package pickup.

Once we’re home,
Paw Patrol plays on the TV for my youngest,
Dishes clink, steam rises, I exhale 
after my chores are finished.

I drive us to our third place — the library.

My new hold has arrived, plus
there are toys and stories to explore.
We choose books on potty training 
and Christmas. Soon Adam needs his nap, 
so we drive and drive until he gives in
to sleep.

Parked safely at a nearby forest preserve,
I recline the driver’s seat and dive into my reading. 
The stories I love most are mirrors; they reflect 
back blemishes and beauty marks, many of which 
I would have missed it if not for the author’s insights.

“Mommy!”
An hour has passed and Adam’s calling me.
I come up for air and announce 
“We’re going home for lunch, 
a dog walk and school pickup.”

Ever since I began staying home with my children
I relish the rhythm of school pickup — 
it may be my only chance to connect 
with another mom all day, to listen 
and be heard, to linger, to belong.

What’s more, I love being there for Jack,
I love that I’m the one who gets to pick up my son.

At home, Adam builds a MagnaTile house for his stuffies
and I make Jack’s favorite snack: 
shredded cheese on tortilla chips warmed
for 30 seconds in the microwave. My mom
made these for me when I was a child.

Between bites of nachos, Jack copies spelling words. 
“What are you doing?” Jack asks, looking up from his work.
“I’m taking your picture — I might write about this. 
Is that okay?” I answer, my heart skipping a beat. 
“Oh sure,” he says, his pale blue eyes twinkling.
“I love when you write about me.”

I feel the pinprick of tears behind my eyes.
I want to hug him, to let him know 
how much his words mean to his writer-mother.

All I can muster is, “Thank you, honey.”

Soon, it’s time to cook dinner.
I boil water and reach for the pasta.
Jack plays on his iPad; Adam watches more Paw Patrol.
I used to feel guilty about this screen time, 
then my mom told me that both she and her mom played television
for their kids while they cooked. That made me feel relieved.

My husband comes home.
His presence is like lighting a fire — he makes everything more cozy.
Over dinner, we tell our boys we have a surprise for them:
We’re taking them to the Christmas circus
TONIGHT!
They squeal. Fed and bursting with jingly excitement,
we all scurry out the door into a world of ice and snow.

Traffic is bad, but once we arrive,
the boys are bewitched.
Acrobats fly high.
Performers balance, streeeeeetch and juggle.
Wonder washes over Jack and Adam’s faces.
I catch my husband’s eye: we took a simple
school night and made it sparkle.

Hours later, we’re home. The boys are snug 
in their beds. My husband and dog doze nearby.
Phone in hand, I sit up in bed and scroll
my camera roll. Images of our comings and goings
fill my screen. They’re simple *and* stunning.

While we rent this apartment and search for  
a new, affordable house, I view our time here as
a hallway between one closing door and another opening.
I can’t see the next door yet.
Like Mary, I’m filled with longing
for the future.

And yet
amid a season when wishes and wants abound,
these photos urge me to claim
contentment. Each image whispering,
Do you see it?
Do you see the magic disguised as mundane?
Aren’t you lucky?
Isn’t this life wonderful?

// I wrote this blog post in response to the prompt #ordinarymagic — an invitation to find the sparkle in our typical days using photos and words. My post detailed my day on Wednesday, December 4, 2024. For variations on this prompt, visit the blogs of Jessica Folkema, Melissa Kutsche and KImberly Knowle-Zeller. To write with us, use #ordinarymagic and tag us in your post.

The heartbeat of my life

Each October, we take family photos. Anyone who shares this tradition knows it’s an ordeal — choosing outfits, ironing shirts, wrangling silly kids, hoping for *just one picture* where everyone is smiling at the camera with their eyes open. Five minutes posing with wiggly children — and a dog! — may feel like five billion hours.

Still, I adore family photos. We smile, we laugh, we bask in the light from the setting sun. The images come back and, like magic, they freeze our family in time and capture our togetherness. The children are taller and cuter, and as for us adults, well, our eye crinkles have grown deeper. Is that really us? I think, my breath catching.

The truth is, sometimes I take my family’s presence for granted. I wish I didn’t, but I think everyone does this a little with the blessings we’ve been given.

In this season of gratitude, I hope you’re able to connect with and give thanks for the family, friends and/or chosen family you hold dear. You know — the ones who spin hours into gold. Cherish them. Pray for them. Let them know how much they matter.

Because when I look at our photos, it’s evident: These boys are the heartbeat of my life. They’re a sweet symphony. They’re pure sunshine. Their presence is a gift from above. And I’m grateful to love them.

Photos by Rachel Liv Photography

Why we sing

“I will sing praises to my God all my life long” (Psalm 146:2).

There’s a lovely song in the Evangelical Lutheran Worship hymnal that encapsulates Psalm 146: “My life flows on in endless song” (ELW 763). You may know it more by its iconic lyric—“How can I keep from singing?”

Of course, that question is rhetorical, but we can relate. When friends get engaged, a baby is born, a long awaited job offer is extended—we, too, may be unable to keep from sharing our joyful “song” with others. The author of Psalm 146 is caught up in a similar excitement about God!

With rich imagery, this passage implores us to trust God—our creator, healer, liberator, giver. The enthusiasm is contagious; the poet cannot help but praise God for all God’s done and is doing to shower us in love.

This is why singing is important to Lutheran liturgy: Because our God is great. Because our joy is too. Because love. Because pain. Because trust. Because evangelism. Because it feels good in our bodies. Because music is a means of freeing the soul. 

Prayer
Creating God, thank you for your wondrous works.  May I sing your praises all the days of my life. Amen.

This blog post is adapted from “Why we sing” on  page 71 of Christ in Our Home devotional Quarter 4 2024. Reproduced by Permission of Augsburg Fortress.

The morning after the election

My phone alarm buzzes, jostling 
me from sleep. I silence it, check
my inbox: The Times’ subject line is
 a gut punch.
I want to silence this news, too.
Tossing my phone aside, I bury 
myself under the weighted blanket.
If I just stay here I can pretend that, 
for once, a woman triumphs.

Somewhere else in America 
someone else woke up, checked her email 
and smiled. In her eyes, his election is 
  a warm hug.
Where I see harm, 
she sees hope — the promise of prosperity. 
Why do we see things so differently?

“Mommy?” my two-year-old approaches 
my bedside, rubbing his eyes. “Come here,” I beckon,
wrapping my arms around his soft, warm body,
Cocooned beside me, he drifts back to sleep. 

How will I teach him to be kind in a world 
that rewards deceit and greediness?
It’s the same question I ask myself daily, yet
this morning it feels urgent, I worry
this country will become more dangerous 
for many. Holding my son close, I pray
for peace, for our leaders, for our nation.

Finally, I rise and open
 the blinds, 
gray clouds envelope the sky.
My boy rustles in the bed; soon I’ll serve
oatmeal and fold laundry, he’ll build towers
and paint pictures, we’ll read stories and find 
shelter in each other. 

No, I can’t pinpoint the Light — not today —
still, I trust it’s here, shining
within us.

Blessing for Election Day

Bless this ballot, God, I pray,
keep peace on Election Day.

Let it be a source of light,
dissolving hate with love so bright.

Let it be a seed of hope
multiplied with every vote,

rising toward a future verdant,
merciful, just & unburdened

by racism, misogyny, pride, greed.
The truth is, we have all we need.

Bless this tired, broken nation,
embolden us to care for creation—

oceans, lakes, mountains, plains.
Rouse us to our neighbors’ pains,

soften hearts if tension mounts.
Bless the people called to count.

Impress your wisdom on our leaders.
Comfort, comfort all believers:

“God is our refuge and our strength,”
the One to whom we release angst.

Bless these ballots, God, I pray,
keep peace on Election Day.