Sunlight slices through the night, washing the world in color. I rise, grateful for earl grey tea in my cup lavender swirled in each inhale, another chance to get it right or rather, live gently — to soften my heart where it’s been hardened toward others (and myself).
Cold nips the air, dew drops deck blades of grass, yellow and purple mums brighten porches, leaves shift their outfits for the season, a reminder that change often seems slow until one day you arrive, bursting with beauty.
The promise that those same leaves will fall, carpet the yard in red and brown, become fuel for a backyard bonfire, smoke curling in the sky while we sip hot cider and embrace its warmth.
The last dandelion puff, placed in my hands by a child who knows how his mama trusts dreams and prayers… in every ending and beginning shining on the horizon, bathing us in hope.
This list of “small graces” was inspired by this reflection.
Why do cicadas hum? Why do chickadees whistle? Why do coyotes cock their heads and howl in the vast darkness?
Because words are oxygen.
Because last summer you were playing in the bathtub with your cars, I let the faucet run too long — I was nearby, absorbed in a story — warm water sloshed higher and higher, when I looked up, I laughed, put down my book and asked, “Honey, do you want to try floating?” Kneeling on tile, I cradled your head in my hands told you to “puff up your chest like a starfish,” couldn’t stop thinking about that stolen summer all we’d lost all that needed mending and then you floated, fingers grazing the edges of the bathtub, you beamed, and how else would I remember?
And how else would I remember the warmth of my grandfather’s voice, indigo mountains cresting over the horizon, my first taste of watermelon, juicy-sweet wonder?
I sift words like grains of sand, craft castles from memory, some days, shaping it all is like trying to contain the ocean — impossible. Hands caked with salt water and sand I build anyway, each story an offering.
A writer I admire once called writing “a miserable, awful business” and also “better than anything in the world.”
She’s right.
Writing is the cure and the sickness.
It feeds me and empties and fills me again. It’s like confession or communion and perhaps that’s sacrilegious? Mostly, I think it’s prayer.
Someone in a church I no longer know, he said something like, “Women’s voices don’t belong in the pulpit.”
He’s wrong.
When I set my pen to the empty page, I only want to tell the truth: half of my life I spent running trying to make myself small. These days I stand tall and sing: this is how I was created — with whole symphonies inside praising.
I know what the coyotes know: my voice is my power.
I. Sunlight streams through the tree outside our bay window. Hearts of shade and light decorate pale hardwood. Green leaves rustle in the breeze. I watch from our couch, right hand poised to write, eyes mesmerized by the interplay of brightness and its absence.
II. At the start of 2021, I chose “light” as my word of the year. 2020 had been a heavy year for our family. I needed a word that evoked levity, joy, hope. I like that “light” is a noun (something that makes sight possible), a verb (to illuminate) and an adjective (of little weight). I like its relevance to Scripture, poetry, nature.
III. I tell my son “God is light” and he watches for the sun in the mornings. “It’s another grumpy, gray day,” he’ll remark when it’s cloudy. “It’s sunny today!” he’ll chirp at fairer weather. How interesting that light — or its lack — changes his mood so completely.
IV. Me, I capture light with my pen and my smartphone camera, committing my favorite images to memory. I cherish dazzling sunsets and the secret dots of light that appear in the afternoon on our bedroom closet. When I walk in the evenings, golden hour sun slips between the slats of fences, striping the sidewalk. God’s signature frames the tips of houses and covers wildflowers in a hazy glow.
V. On “grumpy gray” days, I remind my son that light is still present, it’s just hidden behind the clouds. (I need this reminder, too.) Even at night, stars sparkle in the velvet sky and the moon reflects the light of our closest star. “You can find the light of God everywhere,” I say to him, “if you look closely.”
She used to race, Nikes flashing across worn asphalt, Lakefront wind slicing against her, heart pounding, flying free.
She swam, limbs threading Lake Michigan’s rough, cool waters, gulping air, rocketing herself forward, weightless. Back then, she measured her worth with numbers: pounds, pace, calories. Afraid of everything and nothing.
She once saved two men from drowning.
Nearly drowned herself in tears when she labored for hours, failing to deliver, landing in the OR, waiting with bated breath for her baby’s first whimper. For 20 months, she nourished his small body with her breasts.
Sometimes, I am astonished by her power.
Other times I’ve felt trapped by her, my body: too flat-too heavy-too blotchy-too lumpy. Wished I could shed her like a second skin, my body. The times she’s attracted honks, heckles, stares, touch without permission? Wished she wasn’t so dangerous, my body.
But there was also this: her standing in the dusty infield, mit held high, mit finding the ball again and again and whipping it through the air to the tune of cheers. “You’re out!”
She traded her cleats for tap shoes, dancing across the stage, singing and smiling. Oh how she danced — once at a swanky, smoky club in Madrid with seven levels, dressed in blue jeans, black top, very American, eyes laughing. She was thirsty for pleasure, and drank of it joyfully.
Shape-shifter, she’s spun and curved and stretched her limbs on the mat into a dog, a crow, a cobra.
She’s softer than she was last spring. New creases and curves grace her form, stubborn weight sits at her once taut middle.
Yesterday morning I took her for a walk in the neighborhood. The sun was out, and whirligigs sprinkled down from the Maple trees, twirling lazily in the sunshine, scattering across the pavement like confetti. She can twirl too, this soft, strong, aging body of mine. She still runs on occasion — mostly after her son. She is still afraid of everything and nothing.
Call it foolish, call it futile, say flamboyant if you dare. As for me, I’ll call it radiance, suspended in the air — a glass dragon roaring with amber, fire, maize, mid-flight, bouncing beams, ever-wrestling in its cage. Or a vine of glossy poppies honey, rose, persimmon glow floating high in a rare greenhouse, never meant to seed or grow.
From my vantage point I watch them juxtaposed against blue sky, and Seattle’s Space Needle reaching for the star that grants us light. What was the artist thinking? another bystander might ask. Does a fragile glasshouse matter amid brokenness en masse? (All these tired, hungry people looking for a place to rest. Such extravagance demands we raise our eyes, pause and reflect.)
Me, I could’ve stayed for hours bathed in warmth, beneath the sun roused by beauty, held by brightness from the Maker’s hands was spun.
Where can we get a baby? my son asks, his blue eyes piercing in the morning’s heel. It’s far too early to navigate this task. Oh Jesus, where are you? Please take the wheel!
He wants a brother — he’s an only child. Stalling, I tell the tale he loves to hear, You once lived in my tummy — isn’t that wild? He nods and smiles at me, his joy sincere.
A baby is a miracle divine: from clay the Artist sculpts a newborn soul with aptitude to love, create, refine. How wonderful the sight is to behold! My thoughts don’t make it to my child today; instead I say, It’s a mystery. Go play!
One of my favorite Bible stories is that of Mary Magdalene at the empty tomb. Her grief still fresh and sharp, she believes a visit to Jesus’ burial site promises a private space to mourn.
But when Mary arrives, the stone has been rolled away. The perfume still lingers, but the grave is empty, save for a couple angels. They ask her why she weeps. “They have taken away my Lord,” Mary sobs, hot tears flooding her cheeks.
Nearby a gardener lingers. Mary rushes toward him and begs him for answers. Then, and this is what makes my heart catch every time, the supposed gardener — Jesus — calls Mary by her name. She hears his tender voice, turns to him and cries out, “Rabbouni!” (Teacher.) Jesus is alive; he has risen! Mary sprints to spread the good news.
This moment at the tomb defies all logic and reason and sense. Yet I cling to the resurrection promise because I need Jesus — the master gardener whose radical, inclusive love nourishes new life — alive in my heart today.
If we listen and look closely, signs of the resurrection abound: in the verdant moss covering a fallen tree trunk, the friends who call us by name and hoist us out of depression, in all our endings that offer a fresh beginning.
God, give me eyes for Easter now and all my tomorrows. Alleluia. Amen.
Be gentle with yourself. Listen closely to your heart to the robins’ chirping to neighbors, far and near. Speak slowly, and with intention.
Breathe in the aching beauty of this strange world — open restaurants, churches, playgrounds, children’s laughter sailing in the breeze, your son hugging his grandparents, exhaling without fear of harming them.
(You can cry — it’s healthy to cry.)
Unmask your trauma: name each wound, each loss, and cradle it close apply the salve of time and progress. Remember healing is rarely linear, rather, it unfolds mysteriously.
Make plans but hold them loosely. Let time stretch out before you like a rolling wave. Savor it.
Stay humble, and cultivate kindness. Keep disrupting hate in all its ugly manifestations search your heart call it out call your reps send a call up to your Creator.
Keep tending to simple pleasures — yellow tulips on your table, mint chip in a sugar cone from the corner creamery, a lazy morning snuggling in bed with them, new library books to devour — relish their sweetness.
Move at your pace; don’t let the rush of hustle lure you into the race again.
The truth? There is no race. But there is one sun around which we all orbit searching for meaning and love, and aren’t you glad you made it this far? Can you feel the thrill of spring rising?
Dare to dream again make it bold make it juicy make it lavish with hope. This is your “one wild and precious life” said the poet. Now what will you do with it?
// inspired by Louise Erdrich’s “Advice to myself”; final quotation from Mary Oliver.
The first notable thing about Jay was his hair: shockingly blonde and spiky.
The second: He was late to class on day one, strolling in during introductions. The only open seat was next to me, so he took it. His very presence shifted the air from stale to charged.
On our first date, we talked for hours about school, Greek life and growing up. He was my foil: analytical, relaxed, naturally gifted. Yet we worked. Being together felt like home.
II.
I spent the following semester in Cambridge, England. When a classmate’s boyfriend booked a flight to visit over Thanksgiving, Jay did too.
Under the glow of fluorescent lights, I scanned the crowd at Heathrow Airport. Jay’s hair caught my eye first: blonde spikes gliding across arrivals. When he saw me, his gait quickened. He dropped his backpack and wrapped me in an embrace. A stream of travelers flowed around us, rushing to their destinations, but us? We’d arrived.
We saw several sights that week. Yet the memory that stays is Heathrow — his hands around my waist, my head against his chest. Being held.
III.
We are eight years married, with a home in Chicago. Over this pandemic, we’ve spent most of our time here with our son Jack, a preschooler.
Recently, Jay left for his first work trip in nearly a year. Without him, these walls feel hollow.
One night over video chat, Jay reads Jack I’ll Love You Forever. After Jay closes the book, Jack circles his arms around the phone. Jay “hugs” him back, blowing kisses.
What is home? Not a place, but a feeling inside. It’s the joy that he brings when we’re wrapped in his love.
image: Phoenix Feathers Calligraphy
I wrote this post as part of a Blog Hop with Exhale — an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in the “280 words” series.
