family – Erin Strybis

What the sky can do

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.

Prayers for mothers

Mother’s Day stirs up complicated feelings: For some, it is a day to celebrate. Others, a day to mourn. Some both. Still others, neither. For me, the holiday brings to mind my mom, grandmas, and mother-in-law, plus a myriad of other mother figures whose love shaped the woman I am today. My own motherhood journey has been full of ups and downs — from a traumatic birth to juggling and eventually leaving full-time work to joy at the playground to a healed relationship with my body. All these moments and more brought me to my knees in prayer and led me to write a devotional for moms with my dear friend, Kimberly Knowle-Zeller.

Kim and I wrote The Beauty of Motherhood to provide spiritual nourishment to moms in the thick of raising young children. Our collection of devotions encourages moms to slow down and see the beauty before them, and to know they are not alone in this hard, holy work. In advance of Mother’s Day, we’re sharing four prayers from our book to remind moms that, however you feel this weekend, you are seen, you are surrounded by other mothers who can relate, and you are deeply loved by your Creator.

A prayer for tired moms
God of love, meet me in the dark
and breathe life into these tired bones,
breathe life into me
and show yourself—
you are the light at the end of the tunnel
shining for me
leading me from heartache
to hope
Help me see the beauty of the dark
to know you meet us in every waking moment.
Amen.

A prayer for moms seeking grace
Forgiving God,
when I feel overwhelmed, give me peace.
When I lose my temper, give me peace.
When I can’t stop arguing, give me peace.
When I need rest, give me peace.
Help me to offer forgiveness.
Help me to seek forgiveness.
Trusting, always, your mercy renews me.
In Jesus’ name, I pray. Amen.

A prayer for grieving moms
God of all time and all places, your love reaches beyond our understanding.
Our loved ones are with us even when their bodies are no longer on this earth. It’s a mystery and a gift. We give thanks for those who have died. As we grieve and remember, help us to trust that their love reaches us, and that they are never far from us. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.

A prayer for moms seeking gratitude
All-knowing God,
these are our good old days—
days of crumbs on the carpet
of tucking the covers just so
and planting kisses on our children’s foreheads
of well-worn shirts and toys scattered across the carpet
soccer cleats and socks crowding the doorways
ballet shoes abandoned in the basement
crayoned art hung on the fridge
and picture books stacked on the nightstand
of Sesame Street and Paw Patrol
and favored stuffies
days of hope, grace, love, forgiveness
of feeling your love in the arms of our children

God, these are the good old days
give me eyes to see your presence
woven into the fabric of our ordinary existence.
Amen.

These prayers were excerpted from The Beauty of Motherhood: Grace-Filled Devotions for the Early Years, available via Bookshop, Barnes & Noble, Amazon and wherever books are sold.

Mother at risk of disappearing in children’s messy bedroom

Too-small pajama pants clog
my sons’ dresser, atop which
a blue sabertooth tiger crouches
in a jungle of Pokemon cards
that may never be organized, banked
by my oldest’s treasure box whose key
is mysteriously missing (I suspect
his little brother), and that is just one spot!

Plastic boxes, once organized with toys, spill
out of twin beds’ underbellies, library books litter
the floor, dirty laundry clutters unmade beds,
picture books are uneven teeth hanging
off the edge of the bookshelf. God knows
what lurks in their closet —
the sheer volume of stuff might bury me.

“We have to figure this out,” I sigh,
squeezing freshly folded pajamas in a sliver
of one drawer. My husband just chuckles.
Doesn’t he feel the trappings
of our children’s junk?

Sometimes my life feels like this messy room,
no matter how hard I try to maintain
a tidy exterior, clutter always finds me —
I have ideas that no longer fit hidden
in old shopping bags, regrets overflowing
from the hamper, insecurities stacked beneath
the bed. I’m afraid of what you’ll think when you
see me. You ask if I’ve heard of The Life Changing
Magic of Tidying Up? I have
a hard time letting go.

Someday soon I’ll brave their room to edit
and sort, edit
and sort, but I must remember
spring cleaning has its limits
tidiness always comes undone
there’s no easy way to hide
your humanity.

Turning 40: Real talk about aging with grace

Earlier this month, my friend and fellow writer Melissa Kutsche shared an interview I wrote for her FORTY-something Substack. FORTY-something is a fantastic collection of women’s voices contending with the changes we experience at midlife. Here’s an excerpt from that conversation:

When you were younger, what did you associate with the age of 40? How has reality been similar to or different from those ideas and expectations?

When I was a girl, 40 seemed far away, like a country I didn’t want to visit. I associated the age with low-maintenance “Mom haircuts,” boatloads of bills and raising children. Also, black balloons and those “Over the hill” signs that were ubiquitous in the 90s. I noticed women in their forties taking care of everything from church potlucks to birthday parties while managing full careers and households. They were busy and I revered them. I did not envy them; I wanted to remain carefree.

In the summer, when my family visited the pool, I never understood why my mother—who was in her forties—chose to stay on the deck and read her novel while my brother and I rode waterslides with our dad. Now I get it! Caretaking is all-consuming, and Mom needed her rest.

Even though much has changed since the 90s, I still see forty-something women around me deftly juggling their varied roles and responsibilities, albeit with different outfits and haircuts.

At 40, I’m time rich in a way I wasn’t when I worked full-time with my first child in daycare. The birth of my second son, five years after my first, shifted my priorities. Though I loved working in journalism, I craved more time with my children. My husband and I made some financial sacrifices so I could resign and focus on motherhood and writing.

Playground visits, being present at school drop-off and pickup, writing in a coffee shop during preschool, Lego-building and reading children’s books are my midlife reality. Honestly, I love it. Motherhood awakened me to the holiness woven into little moments with little people.

It’s not all picture-perfect. Being my kids’ primary caregiver is the hardest, messiest job I’ve ever had. Even when you’re doing what’s right (say, setting a boundary) it might feel wrong (there’s whining, or worse, tantrums). Still—and I believe this at my core—raising small people with great kindness matters, more than we can fully comprehend.

How did you feel about turning 40?

I joined the 40 club in December and I have mixed feelings about it.

On the one hand, I’m anxious. The number of Instagram ads I receive for products to help me “manage my wrinkles” is staggering. When I look in the mirror, I see crinkles around my eyes and deepening laugh lines. This is a problem I need to address, I think. Upon further reflection, I ask myself: Is my aging skin a problem? Or, is the problem actually the story marketers want me to believe—that women with wrinkles aren’t beautiful?

To be clear, I’m not judging women for the skincare services we employ. Mainly, I’m frustrated that the beauty industry fosters insecurity in women, distracting us from greater issues that need our attention,such as gender-based wage discrimination.

Additionally, I’m worried about upcoming changes I’ll face—perimenopause, menopause, and the decline of my parents’ health as well as my own. An optometrist once told me that 40 is the decade when everyone begins needing glasses.

On the other hand, I’m quite hopeful about this decade. A former boss once told me that she felt her most confident entering her forties, and now that I’ve reached this milestone, I agree. As a young woman, I struggled with disordered eating, perfectionism and people-pleasing. I have so much compassion for my younger selves—the college grad who was obsessed with running, the newlywed with an intense job and stress-eating habit, the new mom who struggled with guilt—all women who strived to prove their worth.

Nowadays, I feel more at home in my body, mind and soul than before, and I attribute this to years of therapy and a mature faith. Women especially receive messages about all we need to “fix” in our bodies. I still get tripped up by this. Yet, the older I get, the more I recognize these messages as the enemy at work. On my best days, I root myself in the words of the Psalmist, trusting that I am “fearfully and wonderfully made.” There’s an ease of living that comes from believing your worth is inherent.

A new pair of glasses may be in my future. I remain optimistic, because turning 40 has given me lenses for what matters most. In my case, that’s answering my callings to care for my kids and to put loving words into the world. And to spread kindness, always kindness.

What, if any, changes have you noticed as you’ve approached this age/stage of life?

I’m coming out of early motherhood, a physically intense and demanding season, and feeling freer and lighter than I did in my thirties. I do not plan to carry any more babies and I’m done breastfeeding. Most of the time, I don’t have kids clinging to me. This new season is thrilling, like the first spring day you no longer need your heavy jacket.

I also feel bolder. … Read the rest of the interview here.

P.S., If you enjoyed this post, you may also like my monthly(ish) Substack, Nourish. Browse past issues and subscribe here.

S H I N E

verb: to reflect or release light
noun: radiance; the brightness caused
by a bounce or outpouring of light

My verbs are:
Reading Frog & Toad, Hilo and The Jesus Storybook Bible
Bringing my boys to church
Giggling together on family movie night
Writing between school dropoff and pickup
Throwing a baseball over and over
Lingering outside until sunset

My nouns are:
Buttered toast and apple juice
Hot pepperoni pizza and fizzy root beer
Magna-Tiles and Legos strewn over the carpet
Bright smiles for “One more race!” in Mario Kart
Handwritten drafts, Google docs and Substack
Prayers for goodness and forgiveness

My confessions:
I do not know how to reconcile
my small life raising small people
with my big dreams of writing.

Am I teaching them to be kind?
Do they know how much I love them?
Or see how hard I’m trying?
Will I ever publish another book?

For every struggle
and every joy,
every sacrifice
and every lesson —
there’s no grade.
Oftentimes, I want one.

God, do you see me?
Am I doing enough
to reflect your grace and your glory?

Here is the better question:
Can I trust you enough to release
my grip on my plans and my ambitions?

// Callie Feyen’s poem “Witness,” from her new book When We Swung from Church Bells, inspired this poem’s structure. “Shine” is my word of the year for 2026.

Celebrating his story

I’ve been writing about him since he was born, nine years ago. Jack arrived in January, quiet as snow.

And by that I mean, I cried for him under the harsh lights of the OR before he ever cried for me. Time slowed to a drip — though it must have been a minute — before Jack’s lungs were cleared and he found his voice, leaving me wordless.

Since then, he’s stunned me at every turn with his strong will, race car brain and active spirit. He’s the boy who made me a mother, and his life inspired me to pick up the pen and tell the truth about motherhood. I wrote because I needed to make sense of this wild, wonderful, challenging calling. I am still making sense of it, years later, still being changed by it. Nowadays, our stories intersect less and less. I know this is for the best, given his growing independence.

But because it’s his birthday, and it’s tradition, here’s what I know is true about Jack:

He’s brave. Being the new kid in third grade isn’t easy, but he’s handled the transition with a lot of grace.

He’s artsy, doodling in the margins of his schoolwork, reading any graphic novel he can procure, dreaming up games and writing his own mini comics.

He’s playful. This winter, he’s into Roblox and board games. Once the weather turns, we’ll have baseball, soccer and bike-riding back.

He’s a good big brother, mentoring Adam and engaging with him, even though they both get on each other’s nerves.

He’s kind. Though he misses his buddies from Queens, he’s fostered warm relationships with his classmates. His favorite thing is making them laugh.

Snow’s falling as I write this tribute, which seems fitting. Jack, usually talkative, is silent, reading Adventure Time. He glances up at me when he turns the page. I set down my pen and study him — my wonder boy who braved a big move and has kept on laughing, learning and growing. Bedtime awaits but I savor the moment.

Happy birthday, Jack. I can’t wait to see what happens next in your stunning story.

Chapter 39

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.”

What I love about Halloween

For one night,
this country looks different…

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?

The view from here

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.

Reaching for goodness

“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.

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