Author Archives: Erin Strybis

I CAN’T WRITE

Because school’s out for the summer and my kids are here all.the.time.

Because there’s baseball practice tonight, basketball tomorrow and soccer camp next week.

Because we have swim lessons and playdates and birthday parties on the calendar. Because long luxurious playground visits. Because concerts, nature walks and dining al fresco. Because pool days, beach trips, splash pads and water tables.

Because wet towels and swimsuits are strewn across the floor and need to be hung to dry. Because the dishwasher needs to be loaded, the laundry needs to be changed and the dog taken out. Because my toddler just woke from his nap and needs cuddles.

Because, have you ever felt the grass underneath your bare feet while watching your kids swing in sync, and thought, “This is what I always dreamed of”? Because I want to revel in this tiny slice of peace before the moment passes and these kids start whining again…

Because one wants yogurt, the other watermelon, and they both want ice cream (but need dinner) and it’s hot and I don’t feel like cooking, so I unearth the mint chip from the fridge and the sugar cones from the cabinet and dole out three big cones for us to relish on the patio under the sun and isn’t summer a master class in shirking what’s sensible and savoring all that’s sweet?

Because, when my kids say, “Mom, watch this!” I want to bear witness to their joy — canonballs and somersaults, chasing cicadas and biking down the sidewalk, swishing down the slide and bouncing on a trampoline.

Because, have you ever seen the whole day stretch ahead of you like a giant buffet just waiting to be tasted?

Because the words can always be placed on hold while we live our summer story.

***

Post inspired by Callie Feyen, Dani Elgas and Kimberly Knowle-Zeller.

Advice to Young Women

At 13, what I wanted
—more than anything—
was to be thin as a prima ballerina,
so delicate I could pirouette
with ease,
so tiny I’d finally fit in
with the other girls
so slender I’d fade
into school walls rather than risk
being seen.

That spring, I made the school musical,
I had a part and a solo.
When I stepped on stage to sing,
my voice shook, then steadied,
with each verse, I grew feathers,
soon after, I was soaring high in the sky.

That was my first taste of a more expansive life
I didn’t need to hide away; I could offer
hope
and goodness. I could be and do more
than I ever dreamed I might.
I wanted to chase that feeling over and over.

I’d like to say that moment was a revolution,
but that would only be half-true.
For nearly 40 years, I’ve wrestled with
silence and singing
fitting in and standing out
perfection and mess.
On my best days, I claim my power.
On my worst, I’m 13 again, still afraid
of sharing my voice.

If I could warn her, oh if I could whisper
wisdom into my younger self’s ears, I’d tell her:
Some men will try to cage you
and keep you small.
Don’t let them.
Sing your song.
Spread your wings.
Let your beautiful, wild self
be free.

The champion

In the summer, she’d set up a makeshift baseball field in our cul-de-sac. Mom dug out the bats, gloves and tennis balls from our garage and plopped them down near our mailbox. The driveway held home base. My brother and I must have been in elementary or middle school back then, and she, in her forties.

She roped in our next-door neighbors – the freckled Maher boys – and the handsome bachelor who lived across the street from us for a few years. I don’t remember his name. I do remember his dog, a white and orange mut named Boomer who caught fly balls in his teeth, and the way Mom’s eyes lit up when she’d assembled up a team for pickup baseball.

She pitched. Standing in the center of the cul-de-sac, Mom threw straight, steady pitches, encouraging us to swing with a gentle, “Hey batta-batta, swing batta-batta.” When it was her turn to bat, she smacked line drives and fly balls into the outfield, which was the handsome neighbor’s front yard. Boomer sprinted and strained to snag them.

Looking back today, I get the sense she held back some of her power when we played ball in the street together. A gym teacher by calling, she was a natural athlete and our first coach at everything. Her skilled hands showed our novice ones how to hit, how to catch and how to throw hard. She taught my brother and me that playing with all your heart was more important than winning or losing.

Her love of the game was palpable.

Mom’s the reason I played shortstop in summer league softball. My softball coach said I had a good arm – honed from endless games of catch out with my mother. I could field well, too, but my hitting was unreliable.

This became a problem when I moved on to high school softball. I made the A team, but I ended up benched more often than not. We lost the majority of our games. What I hated more than losing was not getting to play at all.

Mom didn’t come to all my games – school was in session, and she had several after school commitments of her own – but when she showed up in the stands, my confidence blossomed. 

After another game lost, I sat in the car with my mother, head in my hands. She put her hand on my arm and said to me, “You should be out there, too, Erin. You’re just as good as the other girls are. You deserve a chance to play.”

She was right; after all, we’d gotten destroyed. It would have been nice if the coaches cut me a break and put me in in the eighth inning. Unlike my mother, I was a mediocre softball player.

The next year, I tried out for the school musical instead. Everyone who could sing made the school musical — it was my chance to get in the game. Mom came to my performance and cheered me on, same as always. She brought me a bouquet. Her love for me was palpable.

Psst! Still need a gift for Mother’s Day? My book, The Beauty of Motherhood: Grace-Filled Devotions for the Early Years, is available in store at Barnes & Noble Old Orchard or Village Crossing and can be ordered via Amazon and other major booksellers.

Some Things You Never Forget

The first time you swam
you leaped into the pool,
trusted the strength of your arms and legs,
let the swell of water carry you forward,
triumphant in your magenta swimsuit.

The call that made you sink
to your knees in dread,
“Cancer,” the doctor said,
and your world stopped turning for an instant.

Your first big heartbreak —
dumped before senior year —
you thought he was “the one,”
he wanted to date around,
you ran all summer to ease the pain,
you grew beautiful and resilient.

Your wedding day —
facing your soulmate in the chapel,
warm, white light streaming down on you,
promising to love and cherish each other
until the day you die,
exchanging rings, kissing,
basking in his goodness.

Your first dog,
whom you’ll always adore,
how, as a puppy, he curled up
in your arms and looked into your eyes
and made you feel safe, known and loved.

The dog who bit you,
and drew blood.
You thought he was gentle,
you thought you could trust him,
but he was a wolf all along.

The one you called when you were in trouble,
who held you when you howled in pain,
who cleaned the wound,
kissed the scar
and healed you.

M A K E

verb; noun
To bring into being / Create / Compose / Shape

As in,
my friend Donna conjures
harmony from thin air:
she hears
a melody, she summons
notes and voices sweetness
like a magician blooming
roses from her wand.
She says, “It’s nothing!”
I say, “It’s a spiritual gift!”
— and we’re both right —
For, isn’t the ability to fashion
beauty from nothing endowed
to us by the Master Artist?

As in,
Merriam Webster offers
25 definitions for the verb “make”
and that doesn’t include all the idioms:
make waves, make up your mind, make light
Something about making is essential to
our humanity
We make believe
We make amends
We make art
We make homes
We make love
We make a difference
I am trying to make
the most of the time I have left
I only know that when I bring art to life
I come alive as well.

As in,
lately I’ve been struggling
to write
I’m tired of these blase winter days
when the wind howls
and bites like a feral dog
I want to be wild like the wind —
soft, too
I want my stories to rattle you awake
and blanket the earth with snow
I want my words to swirl and linger,
to thaw an icy heart —
even mine.

As in,
my husband skitters
his hands across the keyboard and creates
a code that will animate a robot,
our toddler Adam stands at the easel, proud
he’s “writing his name” with a dry erase marker,
our son Jack sits nearby, head bent, dreaming
up new Pokemon, dazzling
the page with drawings and color,
Others bake bread and cook,
Others stitch blankets and clothes,
Others protest and revise law,
Me? I rinse dishes and soothe owies,
sing lullabies, draw baths, compose
a line in my head: Mothering is inherently creative.

As in,
at my first voice lesson,
my teacher tells me he’s heard
too many sad stories of people
who stopped singing because someone said
they didn’t like their voice,
I try to remember this, too, when I write
I became an author
because thirty years ago
someone said, “I like your voice.”
What matters more now: That I like it too.
Isn’t all art forged in courage?
Isn’t all art a window,
an offering?
How many more books or songs
have yet to be born?

Defining word: Voice

(noun) sound humans create by speaking or singing
(verb) to express one’s opinion

1. In the final stretch of our drive home from Michigan, Adam won’t stop crying.

It’s Christmas break 2022. The Chicago skyline looms ahead like a long-awaited hug. So do fluorescent red brake lights, which means we’re facing an hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic. At 10 months, Adam’s typically laid back and smiley. Today he scrunches up his face and through his wails, says he’s D O N E being stuck in the car, and honestly, I am, too. We’re in gridlock with no means of stopping and I don’t know how to soothe my baby.  

“Can’t you do something?” my husband says, twisting his head back to glance at Adam. “He’s really upset, Erin.”

Adam lets out another loud wail. The sound of “Jingle Bells” filters through our car radio and I shake my head at the irony. This car ride is anything but fun.

A memory materializes: Every December while I was in high school, I’d go caroling with our school’s madrigal ensemble. Back then, bringing joy to others through song was the highlight of my Christmas season. I wonder if I can conjure a little cheer now.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way,” I sing softly, squeezing Adam’s hand. “Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh!” 

At the sound of my voice, he quiets. Two verses in, I begin to enjoy myself. I end up serenading him with Christmas carols for the rest of our trip home.

2. Each December, I select a word to guide my thoughts and actions in the new year. For 2023, I chose “voice.” Voice isn’t just the sound we make or an action we take; in writing, voice is how an author shows her personality, style and point of view on the page.

Difficult to teach and even harder to master, voice makes writing memorable. The most powerful voices leap off the page and are easy to spot when compared with the works of others. Take the writings of Brian Doyle, Ross Gay or Mary Oliver as proof. Through humor, lyricism, diction, imagery and more, each of these authors offers a distinct style for the reader to enjoy. Voice endears us to our favorite authors.

As I anticipated my book release in March 2023, voice was very much on my mind. My friend Kim and I poured our hearts into The Beauty of Motherhood, and now that it was mere months from landing readers’ hands, I couldn’t help but worry how our book might be received.

Even though I believed deeply in our book’s message, I harbored doubts about my voice. Were my devotions strong enough to stand beside those of my coauthor, whose voice I admire greatly? And how could I market this book — which I was dreading — while remaining true to myself? 

I reached out to a friend and mentor for advice. She reminded me that my words intertwined with my faith, and this book was an answer to a call. She mentioned she sensed a bold strength and conviction flowing from me as I approached the final edits of this book. And she encouraged me to trust the voice I’d already developed. 

3. A few weeks after caroling in the car, I’m exchanging emails with the music director of our church. I’d mentioned to the pastor in our new congregation that I used to sing, and she put me in touch with him. We schedule an audition. 

The day we meet, I laugh and tell him that, though I used to sing a lot when I was younger, I’m a little rusty now. That’s not entirely true: every day, I sing to my youngest. On a dreary day, I sing him, “Rain, Rain Go Away.” When it’s sunny, “Mr. Golden Sun.” We have songs for bath time, teeth brushing, the alphabet and more. As the daughter of a music director, music was the first love language I ever learned. I can’t help but sing to my children. But I don’t say any of this to him. I simply sing.

Soon I find myself on stage alongside my church’s praise band. The first time I perform with them, I feel as if I’m soaring. Afterwards, my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. As the weeks pass, I grow to love the “intimacy of [belonging to] a tight group of people who had come together, miraculously, for a brief period in time, for the purpose of making art.”

Making music with the praise band unlocks a hidden part of me I forgot existed. I’m no longer just a mom or even a writer, I’m a creative soul who feels most at home in the world when she’s sharing her God-given voice with others. 

The more music I sing, the more voracious I become for this form of creative expression: Sure, the melody is fine but could I try the descant? Or finish my meal with tight harmony? Sampling the chorus was a delight, but could I taste a solo? 

The answer to it all? Yes, yes and yes. 

4. I am 16 years old. In Ms. McDonough’s Honors English class we’re finishing a unit on persuasive writing. Ms. McDonough has curly black hair, bright brown eyes and insane energy, bouncing around the classroom on her chunky heels. I adore her.

We read various examples of persuasive writing, including Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.” As a classmate reads the letter out loud, I highlight this passage: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”

Just before class ends, Ms. McDonough announces a special writing project. We’ll be writing our own persuasive essays just like Dr. King, she says, passing out the assignment. I wonder what I will write about, I think, but the ring of the bell breaks my attention.

Weeks pass and I’m back in her classroom reviewing a draft of my essay. 

“Right here and here are a couple phrases you could tighten up to make your argument stronger,” she notes, pointing to her green handwriting. (She uses green pen because it doesn’t derive a negative connotation, like red.) “And I think reminding the reader of your proposed solution is a fine way to conclude your argument.”

“Thank you so much, Ms. McDonough,” I say, sitting at my desk and thumbing through her notes. I will bring this home and perfect it, then hand it in on Friday. Then, biting my lip, I add, “I really hope this works.”

My topic is related to music: Recently our music department director had announced that students would no longer be able to participate in both the top band and the top choir, citing that next semester each group would practice during the same period. This change would make it easy for students to collaborate without sacrificing their lunch hour, he explained. The plan is, by all accounts, reasonable.

Except that, I was in both the top band and the top choir, and I didn’t want to choose between them I knew several other students like me, and it didn’t seem very fair for the administration to force us to choose between groups. So for my essay I come up with an argument against the change and offer a new solution to solve the existing issue. Writing this piece feels really good. It flows out of me. 

”I think your words could affect real change here,” Ms. McDonough says, straightening up. “And I’ll be happy to help see that your final paper ends up in the hands of our administration.”

“Really, Ms. McDonough?” I look up at her.

“Absolutely. That’s why I created this assignment — to show you the power of your voice.”

Ms. McDonough is right. The essay does affect change and the administration chooses my solution over that of the music department chair’s. When I learn this, I’m ecstatic. 

I continue participating in the top choir and top band through my senior year of high school. However, something significant does change: Rather than “Music,” I select “English major” on my in-progress college applications. 

5. When our book releases in March 2023, it’s equal parts amazing and terrifying. I am overjoyed and grateful for its positive reception. At the same time, I find myself wavering in and out of a state of existential dread. The book I’d dreamed of writing years ago is now real. But the grind and pressure connected with promoting it overwhelms me. 

After our formal promotional work slows in June, I am relieved and deflated. Staring at my empty planner, I have so many questions: Do I still love writing? Am I all out of stories? I am sure of one thing — I’m burned out. So I step away from writing publicly to prioritize rest and my family.

Over the summer, I tend to my wellbeing: I become more consistent with my workouts. I savor time with my kids. I devour a seven-book fantasy series. I do some freelance writing assignments and journal. The voice of Anxiety that has haunted me much of my life but especially during book season grows quieter. My prayers become more peaceful.

6. For Halloween, I sign up to help with my church’s fall festival. There’s pumpkin carving, trunk-or-treat and a Disney sing-along. I dress up as Elsa and lead a variety of songs, including Elsa’s signature “Let It Go” and Ariel’s “Part of Your World,” the latter of which was one of my favorite songs as a child. 

Growing up, I was a princess girl through and through. I loved watching Beauty and the Beast, Snow White and The LIttle Mermaid, then dressing up and performing my favorite songs for whichever family members would bear to listen.

Now, when it’s my turn to sing “Part of Your World,” a smile blooms across my lips and that familiar soaring feeling arrives. I think, if only eight-year-old Erin could see herself now. She would be so proud. It’s just a sing-along, but it means so much more to me to be here, confident and brave, using my voice to share a song I love.

Surface level, The Little Mermaid is about a girl who runs away from home and changes her appearance in pursuit of a handsome prince. But the real story, the emotional undercurrent of this movie, is about being brave enough to leave old ways of being and explore a new culture. Sure, Ariel makes mistakes along the way — sacrificing her voice for a crush — but in the end, she reclaims it. 

Ultimately, The Little Mermaid is a story about losing and finding your voice. 2023 would be a year of finding my voice, I’d resolved. Yet, looking back today, I wonder if it was there all along? Perhaps I wasn’t ready to claim it.

7. What surprised me most about my word of the year was the voice I found wasn’t just my writer’s voice: it was my choral voice, too. Returning to another form of creative expression helped me cope with the swirl of conflicting emotions I habored about book launch. Through song, I was able to see that the joy of art is not in its reception, rather it’s in the making of it.

I want to keep singing. I want to keep writing stories and sharing them with others. I want to embrace the fire in my voice, and glimmers of insight on the page. I want to finish things — poems and essays and maybe another book (years from now, when Adam is older). I want to keep my pen close to the page and to my heart. I have so many words bubbling up and rising to the surface now… Can I make sense of them and make an offering? I don’t know. But I have to try.

Isn’t the task of the artist that of offering a mirror to her reader to help her see the beautiful truth before her? To say, yes, there is pain in this world, but have you also noticed the grace of wildflowers? And a baby’s tiny toes? What about a woman buying groceries for a needy stranger? Or when you hear music that moves you to tears? Isn’t it an amazing thing to be alive on this fresh day — and human? 

And, if enough of us artists raise our voices — enough singers and painters and pianists and poets and sculptors and weavers and actors and composers and a plethora of others — we could form a mass choir singing for peace and prosperity. We could use our voices to calm the tide of violence that threatens to drown us. We could create a new culture grounded in kindness and human dignity. Wouldn’t that be something? 

This “Defining word essay” was inspired by a selection from Amy Krouse Rosenthal’s Textbook.

Fear and courage

My son declares
“I’m not scared
of anything”

Almost 7 and still a wonder
boy whose life began with a lack of breath,
who, since he found his voice
rarely stops talking, who’s made of
sugar, steel and laughter

“That’s nice, honey,” I tell him, folding
his words and slipping
them into my back pocket
like a note I want to revisit later

Me? I’m scared of all sorts of things:
Showing up late. Wearing
the wrong outfit. Singing off-key.
Saying something off-color.
My kids getting hurt or worse — dying.
Mass shootings. War. Global warming.
Cockroaches in the house and maxing
out my credit card at Target.

Scared of success
and scared of failure.
Missed naps and moldy leftovers.
Scared of parties and public speaking.
Scared of home renovations
—but also scared of moving(?)—
literally anyone who rings our doorbell.
Tantrums at the grocery store. PTA meetings.
The cool moms at school pickup. Forgetting
a deadline. Forgetting
to return a text. Forgetting.

Scared of aging. Scared of dying.
Scared I won’t ever get to the point of this poem.

Scared of tornadoes.
Scared of blizzards.
Scared of men, when I walk alone
at night, midday or early in the morning.
Scared of running into ex-boyfriends,
that band teacher who despised me,
even scarier, my ex-best friend from high school.

Scared of weight gain. Scared of wrinkles.
Car crashes. Insomnia. Cancer.
Losing track of my kids anywhere,
especially near water.
Losing my husband, mother or father.

Scared I’ve said too much.
Scared I ate too much.
Scared of all the want inside me.
Scared how much I love my children.
Scared I’ve not been a good enough mother.

All this fear inside. Where does it come from?
What I wouldn’t give to soak up
some of wonder boy’s courage

Often I feel scared of writing
especially publishing.
Scared I’ll be judged.
Worse, no one cares.
Years of writing and I’m still scared
by all the rejection.

Then I think
of my son, and the world I want
him to inherit, a society steeped
in justice, peace and kindness.

So I keep writing,
keep chasing truth and beauty,
keep confronting my fears on the page,
emerging
braver and stronger,
keep penning hope
into a world riddled
by brokenness.

Especially when

Especially when
the sunrise catches in the bushes, sliding
across the sidewalk, gilding
every zinnia and robin in its path
another day’s on the cusp of unfurling,
and I am bursting
with possibility and hope,

Especially when
two fair-haired boys melt
their bodies against mine, sleep dusting
their eye creases, last night’s dreams curling
in the air like the steam rising off my morning coffee and though the clock tick tick ticks
and the piled dishes beckon, Creativity calls me
(and I am not one to ignore *her* messages),

Especially when
I’ve just read something positively delicious
my cup is full — no, overflowing —
and my time is scarce
the page is blank and ready to be storied
I must write. What better time to spin
beauty and truth into gold
than the present?


// a response to “Especially when,” a prompt from Callie Feyen, Kaitlin Rogers, Jenna Brack, Megan Willome and others

Legacy

At the end of June, my family flew to New Orleans for my grandma Eleanor’s 90th birthday. Two years had passed since our last visit, and I was excited to introduce her to our toddler, Adam.

Upon arrival, I watched with delight as she held Adam and lavished attention on our oldest, who showed off his new Pokemon cards. Later, when she held my hands in hers and murmured, “You have a beautiful family — enjoy them,” my eyes welled with tears.

The day of Grandma’s party, we feasted on a fabulous Mediterranean spread including the best hummus, fruit salad, and doberge cake. We posed for photos with the guest of honor, traded hugs and stories, and raised our voices to wish her a happy birthday.

We sang. Grandma sat beholding her glowing candles, encircled by children, grandchildren and great grandchildren who’d come together to celebrate her life and legacy.

My grandmother has spent her 90 years well. She was a devoted wife and homemaker, cooking from scratch, composting and hanging the laundry out to dry. She loved raising her kids and square-dancing with her late husband, my grandfather. She continues to be a loving mother. She’s an avid reader, zealous churchgoer, and fantastic Scrabble player. She’s an inspiration in faith — the kind of person whose presence warms the room.

After her final candle extinguished, Grandma beamed. Even though the light was out, I couldn’t help but notice the way a glow lingered in her eyes.

I’ll be honest: aging scares me. But then I think of Grandma Eleanor, a woman who has truly enjoyed her family, who keeps living and loving and shining Christ’s light, and I think, maybe aging isn’t something to fear at all, maybe it’s something to look forward to.

Every year, every moment, is a gift to steward, and she has tended her time so well. Happy 90th to my grandma — thank you for showing me the beauty of a life well-loved.

Blessing for the first day of summer

This summer, let there be light — 
sunlight, starlight, delight
featherlight bags, lightsome days, a lightness
of being (best conjured when we are on vacation),
Let there be flashlights and fireflies,
campfires and fireworks,
Let us feel light.

Let there be play —
baseball games and frisbee
chalk art and bubble-blowing
swinging so high you could touch the sky
racing on your bike with the wind in your hair
and an open path with heat waves glimmering in the distance
and miles to go before you tire
Let us be carefree.

Let us add water —
the garden hose and the kiddie pool
sprinklers, splash pads and slip-n-slides,
Let us visit the creek, the beach, the pool,
Let there be cannonballs and splashing,
Let the tide lap against our toes and wash away our worries,
Let the water hold us, cool us, baptize us in grace.

Let there be feasting —
Let us grill hamburgers, mushrooms and pineapple
Let us twirl hotdogs and marshmallows over the fire
Let us taste a juicy bite of watermelon and revel in our sugar high
Let there be popsicles, ice cream cones and lemonade stands,
picnic lunches and coolers filled with Capri Suns and Coronas
Let us savor all summer has to offer us, let us give thanks for our abundance.
Let us feel content.

Let us be bored, and even a little lazy,
Let us trade our screens and work 
for poems and novels and meditation,
live music and a little mischief
Let us scour the earth for four-leaf clovers and honeysuckle,
Let us count clouds and stars and rollie pollies,
Let the hours stretch like a dog dozing 
in a sunbeam
Let us, too, drift off into a blissful nap 
(preferably in a hammock),
Let there be rest.