Pumpkins deck doorways, skeletons adorn front yards, orange lights glow.
Little princesses, ninjas, sports stars and singers parade the sidewalks, parents in tow.
We open our doors, greet our neighbors’ children, offer them Twizzlers and Twix, Snickers and Sour Patch Kids, pretzels, popcorn, fruit snacks and more.
We say, “Wow, look at that costume!” “Happy Halloween!” “Here, have a treat!’
What we mean is, *I see you.* *You are welcome here.* *Take and eat.*
This is a night when children are cherished.
And I wonder, what would happen if we held on to our Halloween spirit?
How would the world change if we opened our doors — and shared — more often?
For a decent view of the sunset, I used to climb stairs to the Metra stop in my old neighborhood. At one end of the railroad tracks, Chicago’s skyline loomed; at the other, the suburbs beckoned. Facing west, I’d watch the sky burst with magenta, orange, lavender.
Today I can drive a few blocks west for a clear view of the horizon. Farmland stretches for miles, bookended by subdivisions. The sun is a shiny coin hovering above golden cornfields, casting light over the playground where my sons are climbing. I glance around, curious if anyone else notices the miracle unfolding before us.
A month has passed since my family moved into our dream home in the western suburbs. Our kitchen and rooms are set up. Artwork needs to be hung; some furniture will have to be purchased. Jay and I are still unpacking and searching for our Halloween decorations. Our kids are riding their bikes to the elementary school. We’re learning new names and faces, new routes and routines. Every day, I wake up incredibly grateful for the life we chose, and the house we live in.
Earlier this summer, when our house search was going poorly, and the dream we’d worked a year to pursue seemed to be slipping from our grasp, I struggled to sleep at night. We walked away from bidding wars, lost one, balked at prices. The question of where we’d live haunted me.
This evening, I stand at the edge of the playground and watch the world turn, watch color flame and fade while my boys run around. Children’s chatter rises and falls like a tide. Fall has arrived, but the air is warm.
Although the question of home has been answered, new questions arise: How will I create a home? What will I do here? Who will I become?
Tangerine, yellow and pink bleed across a vast blue canvas. My body feels settled, and at peace. More than ever, I’m less concerned with the future and more interested in leading a quiet life, being kind to everyone I meet. Living in uncertainty taught me to become more comfortable with ambiguity. I can, as Rilke wrote, “live the questions.”
Finally, the sun dips below the horizon and it’s time to collect my children. The view from here is stunning, I think. The view from here is changing me.
“A writer will be interested in what we don’t understand rather than what we do.” —Flannery O’ Connor
Your oldest son asks what you and his dad are whispering about before dinner. Facing a cutting board strewn with tomato juice, you startle as if you’ve been caught passing notes in class. He cocks his head, waiting.
“Dad and I were discussing gun violence… again” would be the honest answer. You glance at your husband. “Don’t worry about it, honey,” is what you say instead, picking up the knife and slicing more tomatoes. Which is ironic, considering the fact that you are indeed worrying — about school shootings, political violence, the genocide in Gaza, wars abroad and division in your country.
Your son doesn’t like your answer, but he’s already moved on, curious about what you’re cooking for dinner. Tacos, you answer. It’s taco Tuesday, after all, and the absurdity of making pico de gallo while grappling with death makes your stomach churn.
At church, your pastors preach that God is good and people are sinful, and while you agree, you also wonder about this message’s effect on the human psyche week after week. And what of the barrage of bad news we receive, almost daily, on our screens? How does that affect one’s heart?
At the start of the creation story, God makes humans in God’s own image and calls them very good. Sinfulness writes headlines, but what about our innate capacity for goodness?
You think of the way your youngest wraps his arms around your back and hugs you hard like he’ll never let go. You think of your oldest, and the stories he tells you before he drifts off to sleep at night, how he loves to have you listen. Yes, your kids fight and whine — all kids do — but oh, what a marvel they are, what a gift of creation.
The next day, when your beautiful children are at school, you sit at a library desk and press your pen to the page. You wonder, why bother writing at all when there’s so much brokenness around us? What good will my words do, anyhow? Why write?
You look up, eyes settling on elegant shelves brimming with books. When you were young, you reveled in storytime with your parents. After you could read on your own, you carried books with you the way you used to carry around your favorite flower blanket. Since childhood, stories have been your compass, a means to navigate a confusing world. You write because you first read.
As a freelance writer, you create work no one wants to pay for, but everyone needs. Articles, essays and devotions guide our thinking. Poems, prayers and stories comfort us at weddings and funerals, birthdays and graduations. Writing often garners measly (if any) wages and is already being replaced by AI. You write because the need to express is human, and our stories are marked by emotions, memories and hard-earned insights no computer can ever comprehend. Human storytellers have had a place in society for eons and they will continue to be vital. Life begets art; art begets life. You claim the title storyteller.
You write because once, an author wrote something that touched the deepest part of you, and you finally felt known and less messy and truly worthy and you want to try and do the same thing for someone else. You fold your memories and reflections with care and fashion them into an origami crane. You place the crane into a reader’s hands and say, “Here. I made this for you, I hope it makes you feel less alone. I hope it makes you feel something.”
You write because holding a pen in your hand is akin to stepping on an express train. It’s as if God handed you a ticket and murmured, Enjoy the ride. You write because the journey beckons.
You write because filling a blank page with ideas empties you like nothing else can. Writing is hard work for a busy mind like yours. You aren’t the kind of writer who can produce graceful material upon first draft. If anything, your drafts are a lot like your garden — in need of weeding, watering and time in the sun. In other words: wild.
Maybe revision is part of the appeal? You spent many years as an editor, clearing space for others’ stories to ripen. After tending wild words, you feel wrought out, clear, purposeful, powerful.
True, you might toil for hours unseen on one paragraph that will be read by two people and cause seven to unfollow you. Nevertheless, you nurture stories for the few who pause to appreciate their beauty — and will then be moved to grow and bloom themselves.
And it’s this beauty that guides you today, as you sort through memories from recent days, searching for evidence of God’s grace among us.
You write to reach for goodness.
How else would you remember a cool breeze rippling through your sweater on a September morning, your first sighting of crimson leaves, foreshadowing the approaching autumn? How else would you remember tossing the football with your eight-year-old son, both of you barefoot in the yard, amber light filtering through the trees, and the glowy feeling inside when he asked you to play with him? (You feel lucky he still asks.) Who else will account for your preschooler’s make believe, and the cookies and fruit he served you in the play kitchen? You write because you love your family, and you love God’s world and this act of documenting what you love is a prayer of thanksgiving.
You write because you can’t imagine not writing. Your hand gets itchy if you aren’t able to write for too many days. Because there is a story waiting to be written that only you can tell. Because readers are waiting to be known by your words. Because you were created to create. Because, in spite of everything, you believe in humans’ capacity for goodness. Everyone is starving for kindness and you will do your small part to serve up hope.
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.
“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?
You always want to be in the driver’s seat. Whether it’s toy cars, trains, or dictating the day’s plans, you love taking charge.
You’re my little buddy, accompanying me everywhere — to the grocery store, your big brother’s school and Target pickup. Helping me is a favorite pastime. You’ll gladly clean mirrors, wash dishes and sweep. After our work is done, you ask to visit the library, the children’s museum or the pool at our apartment. You love the water, splashing and jumping in like a dare devil.
You live off Chobani Flips, Chick-fil-A nuggets, fruit, pasta, juice boxes and milk, preferably chocolate.
You say “kiss me on the nose” and “you’re my best friend” and “shut your mouth Jack” to your brother (I don’t like hearing that last one). Sometimes your emotions come out in strong words or tears. I get it. Being human is hard. We’re working on acknowledging our BIG feelings — together.
You adore your dad, your dog and your big brother Jack (whom you’re always emulating or annoying — often both!). Other than me or Jack, Grandma is your favorite playmate. When you play, you build forts and houses and roads with your imagination. You told us that, when you grow up, you want to be a construction worker.
Your favorite show is Paw Patrol (Rubble and Crew is also acceptable). You like to read Richard Scarry and Berenstain Bears and Froggy stories.
Daily you’re becoming more independent. You can put on your pants, shoes and a jacket, but you still ask me to “zip and wrap it up.” Your favorite outfit is your blue pocket sweater you picked out from Old Navy, black Nike pants and training underwear “just like Jack’s.” You’re currently learning to use the potty, work that’s messy and hard and exhausting. We’ll keep at it.
At bedtime, you still want to fall asleep in my arms. Lately, you’ve been asking me to stop hugging you — you say you’d rather hug me! I reply, “Alright, Adam, you can hold me. Soon enough, you won’t need to hold me. I think you’re almost ready to fall asleep on your own.”
Unfortunately, I’m not ready. For any of it — new bedtime routines, how fast you stopped holding my hand (you prefer to put your hands in your pockets), and this coming August, when you’ll begin preschool. You are my last baby, and I’m finding it hard to watch you grow. This is motherhood: a delicate dance of holding you and letting you go.
“I’m not a baby,” you’d tell me. “I’m a big boy now.”
You’re right, of course. Today you’re three. Happy birthday to you, big boy. What a joy it is to be your mom.
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.
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.
Wednesday begins with a glimmer. I strike a match and watch it burn away the darkness. Next, I reach for my journal. Thoughts pour out of my pen and fill pages.
While I scribble, the tick tick tick of the dresser clock falls silent. Only sunlight — slanting in through the blinds — breaks the spell.
The clock reads 7 a.m. Suddenly, I’m dashing, dressing, rinsing, running towards my children to rouse them.
Our day unfolds with hot coffee and buttered toast, school drop off and a package pickup.
Once we’re home, Paw Patrol plays on the TV for my youngest, Dishes clink, steam rises, I exhale after my chores are finished.
I drive us to our third place — the library.
My new hold has arrived, plus there are toys and stories to explore. We choose books on potty training and Christmas. Soon Adam needs his nap, so we drive and drive until he gives in to sleep.
Parked safely at a nearby forest preserve, I recline the driver’s seat and dive into my reading. The stories I love most are mirrors; they reflect back blemishes and beauty marks, many of which I would have missed it if not for the author’s insights.
“Mommy!” An hour has passed and Adam’s calling me. I come up for air and announce “We’re going home for lunch, a dog walk and school pickup.”
Ever since I began staying home with my children I relish the rhythm of school pickup — it may be my only chance to connect with another mom all day, to listen and be heard, to linger, to belong.
What’s more, I love being there for Jack, I love that I’m the one who gets to pick up my son.
At home, Adam builds a MagnaTile house for his stuffies and I make Jack’s favorite snack: shredded cheese on tortilla chips warmed for 30 seconds in the microwave. My mom made these for me when I was a child.
Between bites of nachos, Jack copies spelling words. “What are you doing?” Jack asks, looking up from his work. “I’m taking your picture — I might write about this. Is that okay?” I answer, my heart skipping a beat. “Oh sure,” he says, his pale blue eyes twinkling. “I love when you write about me.”
I feel the pinprick of tears behind my eyes. I want to hug him, to let him know how much his words mean to his writer-mother.
All I can muster is, “Thank you, honey.”
Soon, it’s time to cook dinner. I boil water and reach for the pasta. Jack plays on his iPad; Adam watches more Paw Patrol. I used to feel guilty about this screen time, then my mom told me that both she and her mom played television for their kids while they cooked. That made me feel relieved.
My husband comes home. His presence is like lighting a fire — he makes everything more cozy. Over dinner, we tell our boys we have a surprise for them: We’re taking them to the Christmas circus TONIGHT! They squeal. Fed and bursting with jingly excitement, we all scurry out the door into a world of ice and snow.
Traffic is bad, but once we arrive, the boys are bewitched. Acrobats fly high. Performers balance, streeeeeetch and juggle. Wonder washes over Jack and Adam’s faces. I catch my husband’s eye: we took a simple school night and made it sparkle.
Hours later, we’re home. The boys are snug in their beds. My husband and dog doze nearby. Phone in hand, I sit up in bed and scroll my camera roll. Images of our comings and goings fill my screen. They’re simple *and* stunning.
While we rent this apartment and search for a new, affordable house, I view our time here as a hallway between one closing door and another opening. I can’t see the next door yet. Like Mary, I’m filled with longing for the future.
And yet amid a season when wishes and wants abound, these photos urge me to claim contentment. Each image whispering, Do you see it? Do you see the magic disguised as mundane? Aren’t you lucky? Isn’t this life wonderful?
// I wrote this blog post in response to the prompt #ordinarymagic — an invitation to find the sparkle in our typical days using photos and words. My post detailed my day on Wednesday, December 4, 2024. For variations on this prompt, visit the blogs of Jessica Folkema, Melissa Kutsche and KImberly Knowle-Zeller. To write with us, use #ordinarymagic and tag us in your post.
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.
Erin Strybis 