Category Archives: life lessons

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.

Evening prayer

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?

Blessing for another school year

For my second grader

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.

Finding God

“…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.

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.