There are years that test us, and years that embrace us. I’m grateful that my 39th year has been the latter. In lots of little ways I’ve felt held —
in the abundance of cherry tomatoes from our new garden; my first glimpse of stars from our backyard in the suburbs; each time Jay and I drop our boys off with my parents; through “Hellos” and connections with new neighbors; sweet messages and meetups with old friends from Chicago; a perfect latte from a local coffee shop; by the words of writers and musicians who move me; walking Miami beach in deep talks with my college girlfriends; date nights with Jay, especially to see theater or live music; prayers sent out by family and friends; when my boys ask for lullabies or games of catch; and capturing it all on the page, writing. Always writing.
In my calls to write and mother, I spent the bulk of the year planting seeds and nurturing unseen growth. From potty training to helping the boys acclimate to new schools, we’ve conquered several transitions. Freelance projects have come and gone, I managed to keep my Substack alive in the midst of our move. I set aside one manuscript (for now) and started writing another. The work of raising kind humans and putting warm words into the world feels more urgent than ever.
Selling our Chicago home in 2024 was a real trust fall with God. I’m grateful our family landed in such a beautiful house and community this past August. Starting over socially hasn’t been easy. Once a week, I remind myself of a dear friend’s advice to be “the very best version of myself,” trusting that, with time, I’ll cultivate great relationships here.
Today, on my 40th birthday, I’m more at home in myself than I’ve ever felt before. This confidence was hard won; at 38, I experienced a dark night of the soul from which I’m still healing. A commitment to caring for my physical and mental health, plus gaining a greater understanding of how my mind works, has been transformative. God’s grace was evident in the ones whose love carried me when I most needed it.
If I could tell my younger self anything, I’d hug her and whisper, “You are stronger than you think you are. Trust yourself. Believe in your goodness.”
God of ice cream cones and sun-kissed cheeks, God of sticky fingers and pool-soaked bodies, You made summertime, with its warm breezes and ample sunshine.
You gave us wispy, white clouds for watching, Rolling tides for splashing, Sand for digging and building castles.
Be with me now as I parent my children through this season, As we, together, navigate Longer days and unstructured time.
You know that “School’s out for the summer” Contains multitudes — stress and sweetness, dread and relief. “What can we do?” and “Can I have another snack?” The answer varies, depending on the hour.
To support our kids through this season means Pool passes and park playdates, Sports camps and Vacation Bible School, Family travel and time unstructured.
Let us see the blank space on the calendar Not as a challenge to be feared, But as a gift of rest to be savored Moments imprinted on our hearts.
Let us revel in the joy of our children When they witness butterflies soaring Or dandelions blooming, When they take off on their bikes for the first time, And savor that first ripe blueberry.
Let us celebrate their beauty As they learn to swim and bike, As they get lost in their favorite book, As they slide, swing, and run at the park, As they dig in the dirt and help plant tomatoes.
And when the days grow long and tedious, And we cannot fathom grappling with one more tantrum, Let us draw on the support of our village — Neighbors, family, church members, friends Let us hear: “You’re doing great.”
Remind us you are near — in the cool waters of the creek, Juicy bites of watermelon, The surprise rainbow, The light of fireflies, A campfire’s glow, And the joy of watching our children grow. Amen.
“What would you have liked to know before becoming a mom?” a friend asked recently.
“Wow, good question,” I laughed. When I was pregnant, the moms in my circle offered all sorts of sage advice, yet, ultimately, I needed to figure out motherhood for myself.
The first time I held my baby, we were in the NICU. I remember looking into his blue eyes, feeling his weight and experiencing sheer joy — and terror. The nurses had left. Now I was responsible for his well being. Would I be up to the task?
Even today, I wonder what I’d say to an expectant mother. How do you describe the toughest, most beautiful job in the world?
Is it like being a nurse, caring for needy patients? Or more like a teacher, presenting lessons and encouraging budding learners?
At times, a short order cook. A cheerleader. Housekeeper. Zookeeper! Captain of the ship.
Perhaps motherhood is like being a writer, nurturing wild words into stories that stir the soul. You spend countless, invisible hours putting everything you have into your work — then you revise, leaning into whatever the piece wants to become. And here’s the kicker: You can only steward your stories for so long until they’re ready to be set free, with a life of their own.
Motherhood is as impossible to contain as the weather. It’s sunshine and storms. Clear skies and blizzards. Rainbows, too.
I don’t think anyone can fully prepare you for the cataclysmic identity shift of motherhood. The call to mother will stretch you beyond your capacity. You will embody love. You will make mistakes. You will know sweetness beyond understanding. You’re bonded forever and compelled to endure a perpetual state of letting go. And when you feel as if you can no longer hold it all, grace will carry you through.
What did I know of motherhood when I was young? What do I know now? How do you describe a metamorphosis of the heart?
Immersed in the world of Dogman, our dog curled against your chest, your head resting atop the mega Pikachu pillow, one leg dangling off the leather couch, and laughter bubbling out of your mouth. What I like most about you now is that when you’re reading, you’re completely at ease.
photo credit: Rachel Liv Photography
I want to remember you like this, too: Handsome in your chambray shirt, standing tall with a genuine grin, your hands anchoring your little brother’s shoulders. Chances are high that he kicked you before this photo — you are his nemesis and his idol — still, you keep answering the call to lead and love your brother (sometimes giving tough love). I am awed by your nurturing spirit.
I need to remember you like this: Far away from me, eyes locked on the horizon, pointing to something unknown. Was it the waves breaking? The impossibly blue sky? All I know is that, going to the beach was your idea you asked us all summer when we could go, and on Labor Day, the wind was whipping like crazy, but you got your wish.
After I took this photo, you sprinted toward Lake Michigan, your little brother (naturally) at your heels, by the time you reached the water, your sunny blonde hair was tousled and sandy. Eyes shining, you stepped into the tide. Gripping your brother’s hand, I watched. For the first time, I wasn’t afraid if you could hold your own, because this summer, you swam like a fish at the pool. Still you stayed nearby (a small mercy on a day when the waves were wild), you even came back to me the first time I called.
One day sooner than I’d like, you’ll swim away for good. Like the stones your brother collects from the shore, I store up this truth to revisit later. Today you’re still my boy, content at home and also pulled toward adventure. I want to cherish you at eight — so ebullient, so bright.
This poem is dedicated to my son Jack; today is his eighth(!) birthday. The title of this piece was inspired by poet Michelle Windsor.
Glittering from the heavens “Stick out your bubblegum tongue,” I say. “Taste a bit of magic.”
Whole cars are swallowed Gardens and rooftops blanketed Take this messy world and make it cool clean sparkling bright
My son dives in Soon he’s swimming in sugar Sifting it with his mittens Floating on his back, beaming at the sky Leaving behind imprints of angel wings
And when the 6:00 church bells start chiming “Joy to the World” he says, “Mommy, let’s dance!”
So we twirl and twirl and twirl in that fine snow Cool clean sparkling bright.
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?
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.
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.
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!
Erin Strybis 