Category Archives: life lessons

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.

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.

The Beauty of Motherhood in the world

The Beauty of Motherhood: Grace-Filled Devotions for the Early Years, which I wrote with my friend Kim Knowle-Zeller, has been out in the world for more than two months. Even now, it’s wild to type this sentence, to know our stories have been read by mamas and friends near and far. 

You might have a copy of our book on your nightstand or have gifted it to friends. You may have attended a book event, prayed for us, sent encouraging messages, joined our blog tour, posted about our book on social media or reviewed The Beauty of Motherhood on Amazon and elsewhere. What’s more, you’ve been recommending this book to other mamas looking for spiritual refreshment. For all that and more, thank you!

As our initial promotions for The Beauty of Motherhood close out, I’m taking a moment to celebrate this little pink book and its big message of grace. 

Virtual Book Launch

virtual book launch

On March 28, the evening our book launched, Kim and I gathered for a virtual launch party on Zoom, hosted by our friend, author Ellie Roscher. We shared two readings from The Beauty of Motherhood, then joined in conversation with Ellie about faith, our writing process and takeaways from writing this book. I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude for my coauthor Kim and for the small band of friends that joined us to celebrate. Our host’s warm presence made it a meaningful evening for all. 

Local Launch Event

The morning of my local book launch, I stood in my church sanctuary, clutching my phone as messages trickled in. Two friends’ kids were sick. Another two were tied up with other commitments. A pit formed in my stomach. Would anyone (other than my family) show up? Would I be able to speak eloquently?

Little by little, the pews filled — with friends, fellow church members and my family. Soon we had a small crowd, but I couldn’t shake the tightness that had lodged itself in my gut. I felt the fright you feel at the top of a climbing wall, just before you release your grip and rappel to the earth. I worried: What if I crash?

Then I surveyed the scene. I saw my pastors, and the kind souls who came to hear me read. You are safe, their eyes said. It’s okay to let go.

I stepped into the center of the sanctuary. I felt the heft of my stories in my hands. It was time to release these stories, trusting they would land with their intended readers. I let the Spirit lead me until I was touching solid ground.

photo by Will Nunnally

As I read, which was a new experience for me, my heart began to calm. I reveled in the audience’s bursts of laughter and audible sighs. When their final applause washed over me, I felt a deep sense of peace. They convinced me that the countless hours of work and vulnerability Kim and I poured into this devotional are indeed serving a greater purpose — to connect others with God’s abundant love.

Photo by Will Nunnally

After my reading, I spent time on stage immersed in conversation with my pastor. We discussed what it means to raise children in faith and the challenges we experience along the way. We reflected on how to model forgiveness for our children, and how to be curious together about our faith questions and doubts. Afterwards, I signed copies of books for those present. By the end of our gathering, my cheeks hurt from smiling. At each point during this special day, I had the sense I was being held by my friends, my family and God.

Barnes & Noble Signing

erin at book signing

The weekend before Mother’s Day, my local Barnes & Noble hosted me for a book signing. I had a table near the entrance to greet and connect with new readers who were looking for gifts. A handful decided a signed copy of The Beauty of Motherhood would be a good option for their loved ones, which delighted me. 

In addition, many of the friends who couldn’t make it to my launch event popped in to have their books signed, which brought tears of joy to my eyes. While I would much rather stay in my writer’s cave than be out in public, this event moved me and reminded me that connecting with readers is more fun than scary. The experience was both humbling and holy. 

Connecting with Moms’ Groups

Image courtesy of Immanuel Lutheran Church in Batavia

In April and May, I had opportunities to connect with local parents’ groups both online and in person to offer selected readings from The Beauty of Motherhood and facilitate group discussion. There’s nothing I love more than being in conversation with others about books, and to hear readers respond to the prompts we included with our devotions was such a treat.

Although I entered these group settings as a discussion facilitator, I found myself comforted and convicted by the stories of those who joined us. These gatherings have been powerful, meaningful and Spirit-led. I pray that all attendees walked away nourished by the gifts of community.

If you have a parents’/moms’ group in your church, school or neighborhood that might benefit from a book study of The Beauty of Motherhood, I’d love to hear from you! Use my contact form to be in touch with me via email.

What’s next

Summer’s right around the corner, which means I’m leaning into rest and time with my two boys while I recover from the mental and spiritual challenges of book marketing.

Later this year I have some events in the works, including another local book study and an upcoming women’s conference at which Kim and I will be workshop facilitators. If you’d like to be the first to know about my upcoming events, you can sign up for my monthly newsletter, Nourish.

I’m deeply grateful for each and every act of support readers have offered during book launch season. While my coauthor Kim and I share a byline for The Beauty of Motherhood, we know it takes a village to birth a book. Thank you for being part of ours!

Why I let him nap in my arms…again

Because he woke up early from his nap.
Because he was calling “Ma-ma! Ma-ma!”
Because when I collected him from the crib,
he nestled his head against my shoulder.
Because he needed more sleep.
Because I needed him, too.
Because I could *not* answer another email or tidy another toy or wash another dish.
Because being his safe space is more important to me than being productive.
Because even though sleep experts say to avoid “bad habits,” they can’t deny that nursing a baby to sleep is positively delicious.
Because he just turned one, and his babyhood is slipping away like fine sand.
Because an hour ago, he stuck his hand in the toilet, then dumped out the dog’s water bowl and wailed when I changed his diaper and I just needed to recall his sweetness.
Because here, in the curve of my arms,
he looks like an angel.
Because he is likely my last child.
Because one day I’ll tell him,
“When you were a baby, your favorite
place to fall asleep was in my arms.”
Because he’s not ready to give this up.
Because I can’t let this go — not yet.
Because someday I’ll look back on this season —
when the house was a mess
and I wore tiredness like a uniform
and my baby stuck to me like my shadow — and realize all of it was magic.

If you liked this post, you may enjoy my book, The Beauty of Motherhood, releasing March 21. Preorders are so important; I’d be honored if you purchased this devotional for yourself or a new mama you love. For more information, visit my book page.

The Beauty of Motherhood

In two weeks my book, The Beauty of Motherhood: Grace-Filled Devotions for the Early Years, will be released. 

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.

Learn more about The Beauty of Motherhood and preorder your copy here.

Who you are at six : a birthday tribute

You are an athlete. You sprint across the soccer field, swing from the monkey bars, scale trees, slides and rocks then leap into your next adventure. Motion is your oxygen.

You were an angel in the Christmas play, and though you wouldn’t wear your wings (“too scratchy”) and you might have ignored a few stage cues, you sang so sweetly to baby Jesus. You have an active, playful faith — and a propensity for mischief.

You want to be a “scientist who mixes chemicals” for work, and like your dad, you have a knack for numbers.

Yet, to me, you bear the soul of an artist: You splash color and doodles outside the lines of your kindergarten assignments, you’re the one who says “First, I have to show you something beautiful,” you’re always building something or in the middle of an epic Lego story. Your imagination is boundless. You have a big heart and a lot of love to give, like your mama.

Much of my work in midlife, I recently realized, is launching you into this stunning, cruel, crazy world, where there are dreams to chase and gorgeous places to explore and stories to discover.

My wish for you at six is that you never forget who and whose you are, beloved child. The world will try to stifle your kindness and your sense of wonder. Don’t let it. Cling to hope. Trust your faithful foundation. Use your gifts to spread peace and healing to everyone you encounter. Make your mark: Keep playing and caring and creating.

Happy sixth birthday to the boy who made me a mama.

Grace for the new year

“There are years that ask questions and years that answer.”
—Zora Neale Hurston

It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m trapped in a sunroom making small talk with a child psychologist. 

My husband Jay is here somewhere, as is my oldest, plus our dear friends from college. We’re staying with them for the weekend, and tonight we’ve accompanied them to a neighborhood house party.

“The truth about picky eating,” the psychologist says, and I hold my breath because I don’t want to miss this, “Is that it ebbs and…”

‘WAAAH!” my 11-month-old screeches and arches his back while I pull him away from a very fascinating (and dangerous) outlet. My cheeks burn.

“Excuse us,” I shout over Adam’s screams. “I think this baby’s expired. So nice meeting you.” I dart toward the laundry room, where our coats are stashed. I spot Jay in the kitchen and wave him over. “Here, hold this baby for a sec,” I say, transferring Adam into his arms while I put on my puffer jacket. “He needs to go down now.”

On the trek back, I survey the Christmas lights adorning my friends’ neighborhood. Back when we were young and well-rested, the four of us celebrated New Year’s in the heart of Chicago. I remember cocktails, a private party room, kissing at the stroke of midnight. No doubt I spent part of the night quizzing my friends on their goals and resolutions. I’m a New Year’s gal through and through — I love the champagne toasts and dressing up and dancing. I love big dreams and vision boards and setting intentions. There’s something about the promise of a fresh start that’s irresistible to me.

Adam shifted in my arms and laid his head against my shoulder. The past few years, I haven’t wanted to celebrate New Year’s. The stress of the COVID-19 pandemic and a country struggling with political discord, racism and gun violence tempered my mood and dashed my social plans. Hope was hard to hold onto. How could anyone plan or dream when the day-to-day was so precarious?

I let myself into my friends’ place and start Adam’s bedtime routine. By the time he’s asleep it’s only 9 p.m. Going to bed early seems really lame tonight so I creep into the kitchen and help myself to a shortbread cookie before settling into the easy chair to watch a movie.

Our hosts’ new puppy whimpers from her crate. I better give her what she wants, I think, finishing off the cookie. I open the crate and Macie bounds right into me, all gangly legs and a thumping tail. I pet her back and chuckle, “Did you miss everyone?”

She races around the room and stares at me expectantly. With an older, wiser dog at home, I’d forgotten about New Dog Energy (™). “What do you want, Macie?” I ask lightly.

She cocks her head to the side, and without warning, leaps into the easy chair. 

“Scoot over, girl, that’s my spot,” I laugh, sliding into the chair pulling her onto my lap. Macie rolls onto her back and cozies up against me. I run my hands across her belly, grateful for the company, this comfortable chair and the gentle entry into 2023. Maybe a new year is like a puppy. She’s eager to be released, whether we’re ready or not. She’ll need a little guidance, but also space to explore. Before we put too much pressure on her, we might step back and pay attention to what the new year wants to offer us. Only she knows what she can become. Perhaps we can see her newness, her energy, her possibility for what it’s always been: grace.

I close my tired eyes and snuggle up with Macie. For the first New Year’s in years, I feel something akin to hope.

A version of this reflection first appeared in my monthly newsletter, Nourish.

Year in review

On my 37th birthday, what I wanted most of all was time to write. I put the baby down for his first nap, pacified my older boy with his tablet and retrieved my pale green journal. Before sitting down, I lit a candle, which is my writing ritual. I like imagining the flame as my artistic spirit or even the Holy Spirit, calling me to create.

Curled up in an armchair, I held my pen above an empty page. What could I say about the past year of my life? It’s been a whirlwind, a time of change and, in many ways, a joy. I glanced at the Christmas tree glowing in our front window. Lately getting ready for Christmas had consumed my time, and I was grateful for the chance to let my mind wander.

The page stared back at me. I have written professionally for over a decade and yet every opening humbles me. I rifled through the files of my mind for the perfect words and I quickly realized the naptime clock was ticking — better to pick words that were good enough. So, I wrote:

Chapter 36

It was a year of growth and a year of grace.

The year I birthed my second baby and the year I signed my first book deal. The year I learned that dreams-come-true sparkle from afar, but close up demand grit and labor. The year I stretched my body and mind while nourishing a baby and my stories. The year I realized the most rewarding part of having dreams-come-true is how you tend them.

It was the year I left my magazine job. The year I struggled to adjust to staying home with my children. The year a fog of depression descended and didn’t budge until I began taking my mental health more seriously. The year I received a proper diagnosis for the doubts that haunted me daily.

The year I cried my eyes out and picked myself off the floor and summoned strength to care for my family. The year I trusted my gut and leaned into faith and slept very little but embraced the beauty of the darkness.

It was the year I danced in the kitchen and paced the halls with a restless baby and lived for the laughter of my children.

It was a year of admiring sunsets, the blue of the smoky mountains, the blaze of fall leaves in our woods and the glittering snow that graced Chicago just in time for Christmas.

The year I prayed over my kids and penned more prayers than I ever imagined. The year we found a closer church so we could start going to in-person worship again. The year we baptized our new baby.

It was the year everything seemed heavier with two children. The year I boldly sought help with childrearing and cultivated a stronger village. A year of holding the weight of motherhood and finding others to help me carry it.

The year I watched my oldest grapple with friendship hurdles and expand his social circle. The year he swam, played on a team, and began kindergarten. The year he built with Legos, rode without training wheels, became a big brother. The year I saw my baby’s first smile, roll, crawl and babble, and each left me breathless with wonder. The year I witnessed ordinary miracles.

It was a year of taking turns with my husband, learning to be a team, falling deeply in love again. A year of unloading the dishwasher, doing the laundry, paying the bills, returning library books. A year of shared glances, warm embraces and deeper knowing.

The year I learned the power of silence. The year I paid closer attention to what’s unsaid and tried to say less myself. The year I listened deeply for the voice of my Creator.

It was my phoenix year. The year I burned down my old way of being, the false tales I told myself about myself and reemerged equipped with the knowledge I need to shine brighter.

I nested. I mothered. I cuddled. I messed up. I apologized. I read. I wrote. I gave it my all. I let it all go. I failed. I soared.

My son’s cries came from the bedroom. I set aside my pen and stopped writing. The rest of the day unfolded, same as usual: I scrambled eggs, changed dirty diapers, and loaded the dishwasher. We walked the dog and marveled at the snowflakes and I tripped on a stack of Magna-Tiles.

Later that night, we gathered around our kitchen table for white chicken chili. It was the first family meal we’d shared in seemingly ages given my husband’s aggressive end-of-the-year work schedule. After I put the baby to bed, my older son, my husband and I enjoyed slices of pumpkin pie, my traditional birthday dessert.

I lit my birthday candle and smiled back at my boys while they wished me a happy birthday. Gazing at the flame, I held a simple wish in my heart: More. God, give me more time with them. More beauty. More life. I’ve reached my 37th chapter and I am not yet finished writing a beautiful story.

I’m just getting started.

Written 12/22/22