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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Especially when the sunrise catches in the bushes, sliding across the sidewalk, gilding every zinnia and robin in its path another day’s on the cusp of unfurling, and I am bursting with possibility and hope,
Especially when two fair-haired boys melt their bodies against mine, sleep dusting their eye creases, last night’s dreams curling in the air like the steam rising off my morning coffee and though the clock tick tick ticks and the piled dishes beckon, Creativity calls me (and I am not one to ignore *her* messages),
Especially when I’ve just read something positively delicious my cup is full — no, overflowing — and my time is scarce the page is blank and ready to be storied I must write. What better time to spin beauty and truth into gold than the present?
// a response to “Especially when,” a prompt from Callie Feyen, Kaitlin Rogers, Jenna Brack, Megan Willome and others
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
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
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!
“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?
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.
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 