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?
Tag Archives: adversity
Some Things You Never Forget
The first time you swam
you leaped into the pool,
trusted the strength of your arms and legs,
let the swell of water carry you forward,
triumphant in your magenta swimsuit.
The call that made you sink
to your knees in dread,
“Cancer,” the doctor said,
and your world stopped turning for an instant.
Your first big heartbreak —
dumped before senior year —
you thought he was “the one,”
he wanted to date around,
you ran all summer to ease the pain,
you grew beautiful and resilient.
Your wedding day —
facing your soulmate in the chapel,
warm, white light streaming down on you,
promising to love and cherish each other
until the day you die,
exchanging rings, kissing,
basking in his goodness.
Your first dog,
whom you’ll always adore,
how, as a puppy, he curled up
in your arms and looked into your eyes
and made you feel safe, known and loved.
The dog who bit you,
and drew blood.
You thought he was gentle,
you thought you could trust him,
but he was a wolf all along.
The one you called when you were in trouble,
who held you when you howled in pain,
who cleaned the wound,
kissed the scar
and healed you.
Advice to myself at the close of a pandemic
Be gentle
with yourself.
Listen closely
to your heart
to the robins’ chirping
to neighbors, far and near.
Speak slowly,
and with intention.
Breathe in the aching beauty
of this strange world — open
restaurants, churches, playgrounds,
children’s laughter sailing in the breeze,
your son hugging his grandparents,
exhaling without fear of harming them.
(You can cry — it’s healthy to cry.)
Unmask your trauma:
name each wound, each loss,
and cradle it close
apply the salve of time
and progress. Remember healing
is rarely linear, rather, it unfolds
mysteriously.
Make plans but hold them loosely.
Let time stretch out before you like
a rolling wave. Savor it.
Stay humble,
and cultivate kindness.
Keep disrupting hate
in all its ugly manifestations
search your heart
call it out
call your reps
send a call up to your Creator.
Keep tending to simple pleasures —
yellow tulips on your table,
mint chip in a sugar cone
from the corner creamery,
a lazy morning snuggling in bed with them,
new library books to devour —
relish their sweetness.
Move at your pace;
don’t let the rush
of hustle lure you
into the race again.
The truth? There is no race.
But there is one sun
around which we all orbit
searching for meaning
and love, and
aren’t you glad you made it this far?
Can you feel the thrill of spring rising?
Dare to dream again
make it bold
make it juicy
make it lavish with hope.
This is your
“one wild and precious life”
said the poet.
Now what will you do with it?
// inspired by Louise Erdrich’s “Advice to myself”; final quotation from Mary Oliver.
To have and to hold
And you have a person in your life whose hand
you like to hold?
“Yes, I do.”
It must surely, then, be very happy down there
in your heart
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
—Mary Oliver
My husband Jay and I celebrate our sixth wedding anniversary on October 13. If you count dating, which I certainly do, we’ve been together over a dozen years. At first, after we married, it didn’t seem much different than dating. For six years we’d been serious about our love, on our wedding day we said vows to prove it. Marriage didn’t change much for us, at least not in that first year.
Our life circumstances have shifted significantly since 2012, the year we became husband and wife. After years of city living with minimal responsibility, we have a car loan, a dog, a mortgage and a baby (procured in that order). We officially crossed into the realm of “adulting,” and have oodles of paperwork to prove it. In recent years, we’ve taken to commiserating with one another, stating the obvious, “Being an adult is HARD!” The hard stuff feels a little easier when you name it.
To that point: Hands down the past year has been the hardest year yet of our marriage. I thought this on our fifth wedding anniversary, the year our son was born, not knowing the challenges we’d encounter leading up to this anniversary. As new parents, we fought over diaper changes, the dishwasher and even dog food. We battled sleep deprivation and took turns caring for our son Jack when he got sick. There were many joyful moments too, like witnessing Jack’s first smile and his first shaky steps. Also figuring out how to date each other again (pro tip: finding a trustworthy babysitter helps). We were shocked by how hard parenting was, but at least we were doing it together.
This past year, however, showed me the meaning behind our vows, “for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health . . .” We faced the greatest obstacle of our life together when my husband got sick. This summer we lived in sickness, for worse and for poorer. We didn’t always live gracefully–in fact, I definitely didn’t live gracefully. Most of the time, I felt terrified and tired. I became intimate friends with anger, anxiety, fear and heartache. A lot of the time, I was parenting alone.
In the middle of the summer, I went on a five-day work trip to Houston, a brief escape from hardship. The trip couldn’t have happened at a more horrible time. Not only was Jay having a difficult health week, but our son managed to catch the dreaded hand, foot and mouth virus two nights before my flight out. Luckily, I’d arranged for my in-laws to visit and care for Jack. Low on sleep, I kissed my family goodbye and headed to the airport, feeling a mix of deep relief and nagging guilt. Ultimately the work trip was fun, and sleeping in my own bed for days, with no snoring or cries or worries to wake me, was heaven.
The last morning of my trip, I looked at myself in the mirror and struggled to hold back tears: I envied my former single self and all my single friends. I wanted to turn back time or fly home to a different life. I wanted to be free. I touched my face, then noticed my ring. My heart ached for my family too.
When I came home, I could barely contain my joy when I hugged and kissed my son and husband for the first time. Later on, snuggling my husband and our dog while they snored along in our cozy bed, I struggled to imagine my life without Jay. I’d spent much of the summer going over what-if scenarios regarding Jay’s health, pushing myself to be a caretaker, primary parent and provider even though it felt like I was barely holding on myself.
Holding my sweet husband that evening, I realized I didn’t have to. I could choose to thank God for each day we have together, rather than worry about the future. This outlook sustained me through the rest of the summer–and continues to be a guiding force in my life today.
Six years ago, on a rainy October day, Jay donned a slate gray tux and I wore cream-colored lace dress as we stood in our alma mater’s chapel and recited our wedding vows. We were–and are–surrounded by a crowd of witnesses who support our union.
That moment in the chapel is where marriage diverges from dating. As one year leads to the next, and life circumstances shift, living vows is not for the faint of heart. Here’s what I know: My husband and I faced great adversity in this past year of marriage and we are stronger for it. And now, as we enter into our next year of marriage, we’ll continue facing lows and highs.
I’m just glad we still get to do it together.
Husband of mine, I’m grateful for everything you do and are. I’m deeply grateful for your presence. Happy Anniversary, my love.
Erin Strybis 