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.
“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.
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.
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?
“…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.
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.
“I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed” — Mary Oliver, from “The Summer Day”
I stand in an open field, watching for signs of rain. An hour ago, I hollered to my family, “I’ll be back later!” and strode toward the woods outside our neighborhood. I walked and walked until my legs ached and landed here—in the company of fading wildflowers.
Gray clouds coat the sky. Somewhere not far from here, leaves are burning. Their scent twists and lingers in the air like incense.
Walking usually soothes my nerves, but today my whole body feels restless. It’s been half a year since my husband and I pulled our son Jack out of preschool due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Months without childcare support have left me utterly exhausted, but I can’t go home. Not yet. A friend once told me she finds peace by grounding herself. I take her advice and collapse into a cross-legged position. Then, instinctively, I fold my hands to pray.
Images clip through my mind’s eye. Another negative pregnancy test in the garbage. My son playing alone in our backyard. Another period come and gone. Why can’t I get pregnant again?
The calendar turning—my 35th birthday marching closer. When Jack asked, “Mom, can we get a baby?” Another pregnancy announcement. Please help me.
A breeze rustles through my coat, and I blink my eyes open, watching it wave through straw-colored prairie grass. I splay out my legs, roll onto my back, and shift my gaze toward the hazy heavens.
God, I think, twitching at a hair that blows across my forehead, are you out there?
It’s surreal to think that this book will be born so soon, and, to follow the birthing metaphor, the exhaustion of expectation has set in. I’m overjoyed and terrified. I’m still finishing up a few more things that need to be done before the (book) baby arrives. Everything aches, literally and figuratively.
Indeed just yesterday I came down with a dreadful set of chills, undoubtedly passed along by my sweet — but sickly — kindergartener. At bedtime, I shivered in bed under a stack of blankets, sipping tea and ruminating over the many emails I had yet to answer and the title of our book. Why had we decided on The *Beauty* of Motherhood again?
“Beauty” was the last word I’d use to describe motherhood at the moment. Overwhelming, yes. Crushing, yes. But beautiful? Well, I wasn’t feeling it after a day of struggling to care for my kids and barely hanging on to health myself. This led to an angsty journal session from which the following prayer emerged:
Dear God,
There are messes upon messes in this house, the baby and I are playing an epic game of spill or save the dog’s water bowl (for the record, I’m losing 3:1), my oldest is home sick from school and passed his cough onto me… I confess, on days like this, I count the hours until bedtime, I fantasize about being anywhere but here (Hawaii sounds nice, don’t you think?) I need a prayer to snap me out of this funk.
After bedtime, instead of praying, I open my photo app on my phone and see life more clearly how my oldest wrapped his arms around his baby brother in the kiddie cart at the grocery store, how my baby isn’t much of a baby anymore, he’s toddling here – there – everywhere
and, I forgot to take a picture, but a few days ago my oldest lost a tooth and found he could read Go Dog Go on his own and you know I took a picture of that (!),
I took a picture of light cascading through the trees when we visited the playground, I took a picture of my shadow while I held my youngest, his weight pressing against me,
Thank you for this weight, O God, for this humbling, holy call for the privilege to nurture my children
Let me taste it all — their sweetness and sourness Let me embrace it all — our messes and our milestones Let me hear it all — the cacophony and melody of grace in their small voices
Let me feel the beauty of motherhood again.
Amen.
My friend Kim and I wrote The Beauty of Motherhood for every mama searching for spiritual refreshment while raising young children. As moms in the thick of the early years, we’re acutely aware that the messages of grace we crafted for readers’ growth are words we still need to hear — daily.
Because we know motherhood manifests in a variety of ways and thus, our stories are limited, we encouraged our reader to share her story, too. I adore connecting with other mothers through storytelling, and so, to both raise awareness of our book and elevate the stories of other mothers whose backgrounds contrast ours, my coauthor Kim and I organized a Writing Tour for The Beauty of Motherhood. Over the course of this March and April, mothers in our network whose voices we admire will respond to the prompt, What does the beauty of motherhood look like in your life? Our first writers will debut their stories this week.
Kim and I will be sharing these stories on social media, and you can follow along on Instagram with me (@erinstrybis) and Kim (@kknowlezeller) and #thebeautyofmotherhood. All are welcome to join in this writing tour, simply tag us when you write and we’ll share with our networks. At the close of the series we’ll offer a concluding post that links to each story.
Erin Strybis 