God, you sculpted the heavens and the earth, you painted the sea and the stars. You made everything and said it was good. Still, I have to ask… Why did you make hurricanes? And tornadoes? Why cancer? Why weapons? Why war?
Perhaps the question I should be praying is, Why do humans hurt each other — and our planet? How do we fix what’s broken? How do we care for raging waters and hearts? How do we engender peace? How do we stay afloat amid such heavy issues? What will this world become?
And God, I have other, albeit lesser, queries: Why does my two-year-old always resist sleep? When will the bedtime battles and tantrums end? Also, why are groceries so dang expensive? And houses? Why wrinkles? Why neurodiversity? Why depression?
How come I’m still in pain, even months after that trauma? Will these scars ever disappear?
O God, despite the sin and muck in my life and in creation, why do you keep blessing us with sunsets? Why is autumn so stunning? Why does the Lakeshore never fail to settle my soul? Why honeycrisp apples? Why porcupines? Why snow? How is it that, whenever I watch my children sleep, I get a lump in my throat? When did I get so lucky and how come I’m often blind to this grace when they’re awake? How do I keep them safe? How will I ever let them go?
How do I carry all these fears, worries, joys, hopes?
That’s the wrong question again, isn’t it? How do I stop grasping for control and start clinging to you, God? Will you make me an instrument of your peace? Will you grant me eyes to see your glory?
May your backpack be light and your friend circle widened,
May your mind be opened and your mouth shut when the teacher is speaking!
May you multiply joy and create beauty, keep wondering “Why?” and discovering answers,
May your lunch be nourishing and may you actually eat it!
May you recess, leap, laugh, race and be a good sport, no matter the outcome,
May you dwell less on competing and more on doing your very best,
May you stay safe at school and be a safehaven for others,
May you walk tall and stay humble, be slow to anger and quick to apologize,
And when you stumble or cry, may you feel comfort and care, and remember you’re deeply loved by your family and your Creator,
As you enter a new grade, hold onto that “fresh minty feeling,” and even when it wanes, know that the work will eventually end, the bell will ring and free time is coming,
Remember another school year — with its highs, lows, laughter and tears — is part of your becoming.
“…have you ever found God in church? I never did. I just found a bunch of folks hoping for him to show. Any God I ever felt in church I brought in with me. And I think all the other folks did too. They come to church to share God, not find God.” ― Alice Walker, The Color Purple
“I’ve been missing you at church,” a friend wrote, bringing me to tears. “I hope you are still finding God near,” she added, her words as gentle as summer rain.
No, I haven’t been there lately, but I have met God at open mic night, he told us he was autistic, he sang an original song and strung his guitar, God was in the crowd, too, listening hard, God clapped long and loud when the music stopped.
God greeted my toddler from the garbage truck, God cheered each batter at my oldest’s baseball game, God saw me with my hands full and opened up the gate.
God showed up in pastel clouds over a shimmering sunset, the heady scent of roses, the first bite of a perfectly grilled burger, strawberry shortcake, delivered by a neighbor, Scripture scribbled on a postcard, whispered apologies, a prayer uttered over the phone, cottonwood seeds drifting in the breeze, in hugs and kisses from my children.
No, I haven’t seen my friend at church. “It’s not a peaceful place for me right now,” I told her. Yet, as sure as the stars shine, God’s been reaching for me, breathing goodness into everything, wrapping me in God’s gracious arms.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
Erin Strybis 