Advent begins with early sunsets — daylight retreats. The dark descends like watercolor. Night after night, twinkle lights appear, brightening each block. Christmas trees shimmer, candles flicker on Advent wreaths.
Holy One, let me reflect your love like the lights shining in the darkness.
Carolers crowd a city square, singing “O come, O come, Emmanuel…” Jingle bell ring out, signaling charity collection on the corner. An organ rendering of “Silent Night” floats from a packed sanctuary.
Holy One, let me harmonize with you, making known your eternal song.
Advent is a time for telling ancient tales and collecting wishes. For feasting and giving. Warm laughter and hugs.
Holy One, keep me attuned to your glow, your music — soon angels will proclaim that the Light of the world is dawning. May I wait in wonder. Amen.
// This prayer first appeared in my Substack newsletter, Nourish, but I wanted it to have a home here as well. Wishing you a peaceful holiday season.
I wish that I was younger and I wish I wasn’t so concerned about the passage of time seeing lines in my reflection, aging parents, taller kids
I wish that I was richer and I wish I wasn’t bothered by the cost of eggs and our medical bills, how we’ll afford to send our children to college, how to pay for a new home
I wish our government was kinder and I wish there was a crystal ball I could use to predict how to preserve freedom, peace and justice for us all
I can’t wish away the hunger I can’t wish away the hate But I can name what’s broken I call for change and ask myself what I can give to ease my neighbors’ pain
I wish that I was braver And I wish I could give voice to every injustice that I witness and have experienced as a mother as a woman as a girl
I wish I was a better Christian and wife and mom the kind of person who doesn’t use sharp words with the ones I love the most I wish I could sand my rough edges give them the softest version of my heart
All of these wishes I keep them hidden Will any come true? All of these wishes I hope God hears them God, make me new
// Poem inspired by “Wishes,” a song by Tiny Habits
Jack, Adam and I have been watching a group of goslings that live near our apartment. At the start of June, the goslings’ fuzzy yellow feathers began turning light gray. Whenever we’d pass them on the dog walk, their mama would stare menacingly at us, and if anyone got too close, she’d hiss.
“Why is she hissing, Mom?” eight-year-old Jack asked.
“Well, the mother wants to make sure her babies are safe,” I said, giving her a knowing nod. “She’s warning us not to mess around with her goslings… or else.”
“Or else what?” he pressed.
“Or else mother goose will fight us,” I chuckled, guiding us forward. We had an afternoon snack and an hour of screentime to look forward to, maybe a trip to the pool afterwards. Now mother goose was in protector mode, but I wondered if she ever felt exhausted by a barrage of snack requests, or even perplexed by how to entertain her brood. And, what did she look like when she was at peace?
Recently, the boys and I were walking our dog and we encountered the goslings again. I think. Honestly, they looked so large, they passed for geese. Closer inspection revealed their shortened tails and beaks, but, my, my, they’d changed. Astonishingly, their mother seemed nonplussed by their growth and our presence.
So it is with my boys, who, in the course of six weeks, have grown longer limbs and extra bumps and bruises and daily look as if they’re about to take flight. Unlike mother goose, I have zero chill about this reality and luckily, several summers before they leave home. Like our gosling friends, we’ve fallen into a summer rhythm with increased independence. Here are ten things that are helping us survive these long, hot weeks of change and growth.
Baseball: This was Jack’s second year of youth baseball, and while it wasn’t my favorite due to a cool, wet spring, I still enjoyed watching him play. Jack’s catching and throwing improved a lot this past season, and three-year-old Adam even made a buddy on the sidelines. Interestingly, my favorite part of this season hasn’t been the formal games at all, it’s been practicing with Jack and our family. We’ll either meet at a park I love or play ball in the yard at my folks’ house, where my sons’ grandparents, uncle and cousins can join in. Some of our sweetest moments happened with a wiffle ball and plastic bat, racing barefoot around imaginary bases.
My parents: Since school let out, we’ve been traveling to and from Chicago’s western suburbs in search of a new home. As anyone who’s searching for a house knows, the market is moving quickly and if a house comes up that you like, you need to see it ASAP. Bringing kids to showings is… not ideal. Thankfully, my folks have stepped in to watch Jack and Adam while my husband and I visit homes. They are saints for being ready to host the boys, including special treats and trips to the comic store for baseball cards, and I’ve loved seeing their relationships deepen. Grandparents to the rescue!
Summer skincare: As an aging millennial on the cusp of 40, daily facial sunscreen is a must: I use this SPF 50 tinted one on average days and this glowy version when I’m feeling fancy. I’m all about protecting my sons’ fair skin as well. When I’m out in the sun with the boys, we slather on this Unseen Sunscreen dupe I found at Trader Joe’s in June (sadly, this product is no longer available) or waterproof sunscreen from Target.
Simple breakfast: With warmer weather here, I’ve set aside my usual scrambled eggs for breakfast in favor of cool, creamy yogurt. I recently discovered Ratio yogurt, which is low in sugar, high in protein and my new go-to quick breakfast, paired with homemade peanut butter energy balls or fruit. My favorite flavor is vanilla. The boys enjoy Chobani flips (their favorites include mint chip, key lime pie and cookie dough). We’ve also been stocking up on juicy watermelon, which they both eat nonstop.
Library pick up: Lately, we’ve been on the run so often that we aren’t able to spend time lingering at the library. Enter: library hold pick up. Instead of browsing the shelves, I’ll sit with the boys and ask them what they’d like to read, then request those books using my library app. A few days later, I’ll receive a notification email to visit the library. We’ll breeze inside to drop off old books and collect our holds, then go on our way. This is my new favorite thing and it’s helping my boys conquer their respective literary canons (for Jack, the Captain Underpants series and Adam, the Berenstain Bears). As for me, I’m enjoying plenty of poetry and working my way through the School for Good and Evil (YA fantasy) series.
My writing group: I adore the women in my writing group. This year, we leveled up and now have an official Voxer thread in addition to our Slack group and text thread. We swap recipes, drop book recs, celebrate life wins, discuss how we are occupying our kids, ask “Is it just me or… ?” and, oh yes, we also chat about writing. They’ve been my summer lifeline as we all navigate the delight and challenges of parenting in the summer.
Quiet time with screens: Yes, we use screens — with boundaries — as a tool to entertain our children. With a three-year-old who’s fighting his midday nap and a precocious eight-year-old, I need relief. This summer it’s available thanks to Let’s go Pikachu on Switch for Jack and Paw Patrol DVDs for Adam. My rule for the summer is no screens in the morning, so my kids usually spend an hour in their respective universes after lunch or before dinner, giving me an hour to catch up on chores, meal prep or my reading.
Playdates: Without the regular rhythm of school pickup and drop off plus apartment living, my kiddos and I are missing interactions with our pals. They’re with me nearly all day every day, which is wonderful, but we need variety! Consequently, I’ve been intentional about setting playdates with children and moms we love. We’ll meet at the pool, a park or in someone’s home and let our kids run and play together. These connections are like a deep exhale for everyone.
My summer uniform: I’ve been living in these chino shorts (in army green and pink), paired with a cute tank top. To rest my hair from heat styling, I’ve been wearing it wet with a claw clip. These sandals (in almond) have been my go-to shoes for summer for three years running. They can be dressed up or down, and they’re incredibly comfy. As for my boys, they’re choosing comfy athletic shorts and shirts, paired with blue slide sandals.
Flexibility: At the end of every Orange Theory class, the head coach at my studio says stretching is the “secret sauce” to longevity. What works for the body can also work for the mind. Perhaps the biggest thing that has helped me this summer has been a flexible mindset. I’ve never been great at adjusting plans but since summer started, I’ve had to shift gears to address family obligations, child injuries (everyone is okay, but we did have one urgent care visit) and house hunting. Letting go of plans and expectations is a good exercise in humility for someone like me. Maybe by the end of the summer, I’ll be more chill? Maybe. (Hey coach, I’m certainly stretching!) Anyway, I do not pretend to know what’s in store for our little flock amid life’s many uncertainties, but one day soon, I hope we’ll stretch our wings and soar home.
The saying “Bloom where you’re planted” served her well for years
She put down roots, Pale green sprouts stretched tall Tiny buds formed, eager to unfurl She wanted to grow, grow, grow
Lately she’s been wondering, Can I still bloom when the climate changes? Or if the garden grows too crowded? What if there are toxins in the ground?
What if there’s another place with richer soil more space and a more temperate climate?
Few perennials dare uproot themselves Some wither Some are crushed She’s always had trouble letting go
Time ticks by — the hour is late Too long she’s blamed herself for failing to thrive in poor conditions She will look upon herself with love Call herself precious
She’ll be more careful this time She’ll stick her hands in the dirt and plant herself where she can bloom Trust the Master Gardener Turn her face towards the sun
With a measuring stick and a scale? Spreadsheets and pie charts? Photographs from years past? Words you wrote last spring?
How do you see growth when brown leaves cling to the forest floor, when snow is forecast, when a new season swirls beneath the surface, seemingly hidden from view?
In hands that can hold their very own umbrella?
In pony legs that race across the court lickety-split?
In the new paths you explore — and the sunset’s tangerine glow?
In spiky onion shoots, the first to rise from a barren garden?
All March you’ve been searching for flowers, something like the white ones from the yard you left behind when you moved last year.
Last week orange flames danced in the woods outside your apartment. Smoke billowed and plumed, conjuring memories of bonfires past. A prescribed burn is what the city called it. Prescribed burns are healthy for forests; the devastation makes room for new vegetation. You know what it’s like to be burned though. You figure it will be weeks before you see anything bloom from the ashes.
So, when your first flower of spring arrived at your doorway, in the hands of an old neighbor, you blushed. An overdue housewarming gift, she said. Delicate and purple, it fragrances your kitchen.
How do you pinpoint growth?
In sleeping peacefully through the night?
In the “big boy swing” perfectly holding his body?
In the way he climbs trees with ease?
By examining your reflection — with new lines and silver strands forming — and simply … accepting it?
In embracing new beginnings. In forgiving yourself.
Her 38th year is not one she’d ever ask to repeat. “Trying” is how her husband described it in her birthday card. Other adjectives she’d add are “traumatic” and “revelatory.” She has no shining accomplishments to toast. There were more endings than beginnings. More questions than answers. At one point, she disliked herself so much she couldn’t bear to look in the mirror.
Healing took time and courage. She left communities she loved because belonging to them was causing her harm. For a season, she set down her pen and silenced herself. She had hard conversations and made school lunches and folded the laundry and kissed her children and cried in the shower.
Does everyone have these hidden pains they just shoulder quietly? she asked God. Her faith was shaken, but she didn’t stop believing.
Hours of research and reflection helped her see she wasn’t alone. The stories she read — paired with her family’s love — mended what was broken inside. Joy returned. And with it, many wonderful moments; the only possible explanation was grace.
She discovered that some years are gentle and sweet, and other years, everything you think you know burns to ash and you have to fight like hell to rise up after the fire.
After much prayer, she picked up her pen again. She decided she’ll write another book.
At 6:15 a.m. today, her sons tumbled into the master bedroom, searching for her. Her husband rolled back the comforter and the two boys burrowed between them like a pair of puppies. Under the warmth of the comforter, she clung to her children. At least I kept them safe and sound, she resolved. I held them and they held me. That is enough.
“…have you ever found God in church? I never did. I just found a bunch of folks hoping for him to show. Any God I ever felt in church I brought in with me. And I think all the other folks did too. They come to church to share God, not find God.” ― Alice Walker, The Color Purple
“I’ve been missing you at church,” a friend wrote, bringing me to tears. “I hope you are still finding God near,” she added, her words as gentle as summer rain.
No, I haven’t been there lately, but I have met God at open mic night, he told us he was autistic, he sang an original song and strung his guitar, God was in the crowd, too, listening hard, God clapped long and loud when the music stopped.
God greeted my toddler from the garbage truck, God cheered each batter at my oldest’s baseball game, God saw me with my hands full and opened up the gate.
God showed up in pastel clouds over a shimmering sunset, the heady scent of roses, the first bite of a perfectly grilled burger, strawberry shortcake, delivered by a neighbor, Scripture scribbled on a postcard, whispered apologies, a prayer uttered over the phone, cottonwood seeds drifting in the breeze, in hugs and kisses from my children.
No, I haven’t seen my friend at church. “It’s not a peaceful place for me right now,” I told her. Yet, as sure as the stars shine, God’s been reaching for me, breathing goodness into everything, wrapping me in God’s gracious arms.
At 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.
verb; noun To bring into being / Create / Compose / Shape
As in, my friend Donna conjures harmony from thin air: she hears a melody, she summons notes and voices sweetness like a magician blooming roses from her wand. She says, “It’s nothing!” I say, “It’s a spiritual gift!” — and we’re both right — For, isn’t the ability to fashion beauty from nothing endowed to us by the Master Artist?
As in, Merriam Webster offers 25 definitions for the verb “make” and that doesn’t include all the idioms: make waves, make up your mind, make light Something about making is essential to our humanity We make believe We make amends We make art We make homes We make love We make a difference I am trying to make the most of the time I have left I only know that when I bring art to life I come alive as well.
As in, lately I’ve been struggling to write I’m tired of these blase winter days when the wind howls and bites like a feral dog I want to be wild like the wind — soft, too I want my stories to rattle you awake and blanket the earth with snow I want my words to swirl and linger, to thaw an icy heart — even mine.
As in, my husband skitters his hands across the keyboard and creates a code that will animate a robot, our toddler Adam stands at the easel, proud he’s “writing his name” with a dry erase marker, our son Jack sits nearby, head bent, dreaming up new Pokemon, dazzling the page with drawings and color, Others bake bread and cook, Others stitch blankets and clothes, Others protest and revise law, Me? I rinse dishes and soothe owies, sing lullabies, draw baths, compose a line in my head: Mothering is inherently creative.
As in, at my first voice lesson, my teacher tells me he’s heard too many sad stories of people who stopped singing because someone said they didn’t like their voice, I try to remember this, too, when I write I became an author because thirty years ago someone said, “I like your voice.” What matters more now: That I like it too. Isn’t all art forged in courage? Isn’t all art a window, an offering? How many more books or songs have yet to be born?
Erin Strybis 