May 2026: Every square on our calendar is full.
Emails crowd my inbox:
Field Trip Thursday
Field Day Monday
Trump in China
Strep in PS3
Someone on Instagram wants me to buy pore strips.
Someone else decries gerrymandering.
Someone else has THE SECRET to staying lean in your forties.
My head spins with each alert, each breaking news story. There’s much to track and tend, much to worry over. Is the issue our smartphones? I don’t think we were made to handle this barrage of information. Can we talk about the sky instead?
How, when school lets out Tuesday, charcoal and periwinkle clouds loom above us, heavy with rain. Children squeal. Unicorn and superhero backpacks bob. Raindrops tickle our noses, tap our shoulders, then chase every student and parent home. Everyone except Jack.
I hold my umbrella out to my son, but he waves it away.
“I love the rain, Mom,” Jack declares, looking up at the sky and strolling toward our car. His little brother mirrors him. Around us, others race ahead. I want to rush home too — I need to cook and serve dinner before the boys’ busy sports night, and with my husband traveling for work, I have extra chores to finish. My hair whips in the wind. Rain falls in thick ribbons, pooling in patches of lush green grass.
My boys saunter towards our gray Tiguan. I shift my pace to match theirs.
Safe in the dry confines of home, I check my phone. Messages roll in:
Soccer cancelled
Checking baseball fields
No game tonight
My heartbeat, which I didn’t even realize is racing, slows. “Baseball and soccer are off tonight, boys!” I call from the kitchen, my voice bright. “Let’s have a cozy night in, okay?”
After dinner, we pop “Zootopia 2” in the DVD player. The boys plop in front of the living room TV, and I unearth the air popper. The music of giggling boys and the pop-pop-pop of our favorite snack fills my ears. I circle an arm around my youngest and lean my head against soft leather, joining them for the show.
By the time the movie ends, we are sufficiently relaxed. I check my watch: late for bedtime. Although my kids want to savor the credits, I morph into a drill sergeant, barking orders. Jack flies up the stairs to start his bath. His brother follows after him to change into his pajamas. I flit across the house to change out the laundry, start the dishwasher and water the flowers in our hanging baskets. Opening the front door, I stop in my tracks.
The delicious scent of wet grass washes over me. Suburban streets shine slick from the rain, which has stopped. I pause on the porch, surveying the scene.
I’m struck by how tired I am. Running a household with little kids is hard enough, but I’m especially weary of every breaking news alert and our broken democracy and war and all the messages vying for my attention. What I want is to slow down and feel awe. To bask in the beauty of the world before me. To know I’m not in control here. To lift my eyes and watch for news from the Creator.
Candy-colored clouds float against a pale blue sky and buttery light gleams in patches on the lawn, everything new and old all at once, inviting me to “be still and know,” if only for a moment. So I won’t forget, I step out and take the picture.
This reflection first appeared in “Headlines to Heartbeats,” a collaborative project by Callie R. Feyen, Melissa Kutsche, Kimberly Knowle – Zeller, and Erin Strybis. We pull real headlines from the news—headlines that surprise, inspire, baffle, enrage, trigger, and entertain—and create art to respond.
Erin Strybis 