Tag Archives: life

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.

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.

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.”

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.

How our flock is surviving summer

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.

book

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. 

To read about more summer favorites, check out Kim’s “What’s Saving My Life” and Jessica’s “What’s Saving My Summer Life.”

Your turn: What’s helping you survive the summer? Leave a comment and let me know.

To mother

“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?

What’s saving my life right now (or, some things that make this winter easier): 

{water} On Valentine’s Day, a pipe broke in our suburb causing our apartment complex and many other homes and businesses to lose access to clean water and plumbing.

This is embarrassing, but in my 39 years, I’ve rarely considered my dependence on water. It’s always been available. After using bottled water to brush teeth, wash hands, cook and more, plus coping with toilets that didn’t flush, I felt painfully aware of those privileges.

Cleaning up a particularly messy potty training incident without water made me crack. “That’s it, everyone,” I announced, surveying the damage. “I can’t take this anymore. I’m calling Grandma.” The kids cheered. Jay and I packed up our things and fled to my parents’ place in Chicago’s western suburbs to wait out the issue.

Meanwhile, an area hospital had to rely on bottled water and brought in temporary sinks to serve its patients. Other residents and businesses found ways to survive without running water. Everyone was humbled by this hurdle.

Two days later, the pipe was fixed and water was restored. Jay and I returned home to run faucets, clean toilets, change filters and empty out the icebox. We caught up on chores and laundry and, in the midst of our housework, we counted our blessings. Standing under my apartment showerhead, feeling hot, clean water rush over my shoulders, I practically cooed. The expression is true: Water is life.

{electric blanket} Each Christmas, my mother-in-law’s extended family hosts a white elephant gift exchange, and through a shrewd trade for a Hello Kitty mini fridge, we acquired an electric blanket. Though I’d never thought to buy one myself, this product is one I never knew I needed and this winter,  I can’t live without. My oldest fights me for it, but the biggest fan of the electric blanket, other than yours truly, is our pug, Gus, who at nine-years-old is becoming more and more like a cranky old man. Whether I’m warming my shoulders at my desk or snuggling underneath my electric blanket while watching TV, Gus is nearby, mooching valuable blanket real estate. I don’t mind sharing with him.

{screen boundaries} Recently, Jay and I banned our oldest from using his iPad on weekdays. Weekend use was fine, for an allotted time. But we were done with weekdays. “You guys are no fun,” Jack huffed. “Why are you doing this?”

I could see one of his iPad games having an addictive effect on him because I’d felt that same pull myself, but with checking Instagram and Facebook. This past January, I fasted from social media for a month. I’ve done this before, often in the summer. Though I missed connecting with my friends there, what surprised me most about this fast was how free I felt without these social platforms, which are designed to be addictive. My mind felt clearer, and I wanted that for Jack.

“Too much time playing [addictive game redacted] isn’t great for your brain, the same way too much time on Instagram isn’t great for mine,” I told him. 

Did this go over well? Absolutely not. Nevertheless, he’s accepted our new boundary and it’s helped his mood stabilize. Meanwhile, I’m dipping my toes back into social media, trying to find a boundary that works for me. For now, I’ll try Fridays only to connect with friends and share stories and photos. I hope our new boundaries will disrupt the addictive nature of our screens while allowing some room for fun.

{notebooks everywhere} Though I write a lot on my phone and computer, my preferred method remains by hand. Writing guru Natalie Goldberg instilled in me the virtues of writing by hand as a means to free one’s inner thoughts and it’s my go-to practice for early drafts and late revisions. Something about moving my hand helps quiet my inner critic (after many years working as a magazine editor, this is crucial to my process as a writer). So how do you write by hand when you’re a busy mom on the go? Stash notebooks everywhere. I have one in my car, one in the kitchen, one on my desk and one on my nightstand. Each is filled with journal entries, stories and lists. “Keep your hand moving,” Goldberg instructs in her book, The True Secret of Writing. “If you say you will write for ten minutes, twenty, an hour, keep your hand going. Not frantically, clutching the pen. But don’t stop. This is your chance to break through to the wild mind, to the way you really think, see, and feel, rather than how you think you should think, see, and feel.” There’s just something about writing by hand. A multitude of notebooks makes it possible.

{the children’s museum} After we moved to the suburbs, I left behind our beloved neighborhood filled with friends we’d known for years for a brand new place where we knew absolutely no one. Though we lost proximity to friends, what we gained was closer access to the local children’s museum. After I sprung for the annual pass, my youngest and I found ourselves there often, reveling in pretend play. When we visit, Adam fixes sandwiches at a restaurant, changes tires at an auto shop, paints a house, drives a train and more. It’s where we celebrated his third birthday, and where we meet up with his buddy from our old neighborhood. This is Adam’s happy place and I’m here for it.

{redwoods} Real talk: this winter, I’ve been moving through the anniversary of a traumatic experience. Some days are steady and even hopeful. Others are shaky and especially tender. 

One thing that helped?

In early February, I traveled to San Francisco to spend time with my writing group. Fay, who lives in the Bay area, hosted. As part of our retreat, she drove us to Muir Woods, home of the ancient coast redwoods. I read in my brochure that redwoods have been in California for 150 million years, and those at Muir Woods are between 500 to 800 years old.

Entering the woods was like gaining access to a secret garden. 

Redwoods soared high. Emerald moss decked their reddish brown branches. Spring green ferns burst from the forest floor. Cool mist hovered around the woods, as if we were stepping inside a cloud. 

Fay, who has faced much adversity in the past year, paused on the path and gazed up at the towering trees. 

“You know, sometimes when I get discouraged by the news or my life, I think, whatever is happening out there, these redwoods have withstood it for hundreds of years, and they’ll still be standing afterwards,” she said. 

Spellbound, I nodded. Though we’d talked nonstop until this point, I’d run out of words. My brave and generous friend couldn’t have known how much her words meant to me. Here in this tree cathedral, I felt as if I’d received communion. I had a renewed sense that what had transpired last winter would not define me. Remember this moment, I thought. Remember her. 

I have thought of Fay’s wisdom a dozen times since we visited Muir Woods with our friends. The redwoods are still standing. We are, too.

// I wrote this post in collaboration with my writing group. To read more “What’s saving my life” lists, visit Kim’s post, Melissa’s post and Fay’s post.

Legacy

At the end of June, my family flew to New Orleans for my grandma Eleanor’s 90th birthday. Two years had passed since our last visit, and I was excited to introduce her to our toddler, Adam.

Upon arrival, I watched with delight as she held Adam and lavished attention on our oldest, who showed off his new Pokemon cards. Later, when she held my hands in hers and murmured, “You have a beautiful family — enjoy them,” my eyes welled with tears.

The day of Grandma’s party, we feasted on a fabulous Mediterranean spread including the best hummus, fruit salad, and doberge cake. We posed for photos with the guest of honor, traded hugs and stories, and raised our voices to wish her a happy birthday.

We sang. Grandma sat beholding her glowing candles, encircled by children, grandchildren and great grandchildren who’d come together to celebrate her life and legacy.

My grandmother has spent her 90 years well. She was a devoted wife and homemaker, cooking from scratch, composting and hanging the laundry out to dry. She loved raising her kids and square-dancing with her late husband, my grandfather. She continues to be a loving mother. She’s an avid reader, zealous churchgoer, and fantastic Scrabble player. She’s an inspiration in faith — the kind of person whose presence warms the room.

After her final candle extinguished, Grandma beamed. Even though the light was out, I couldn’t help but notice the way a glow lingered in her eyes.

I’ll be honest: aging scares me. But then I think of Grandma Eleanor, a woman who has truly enjoyed her family, who keeps living and loving and shining Christ’s light, and I think, maybe aging isn’t something to fear at all, maybe it’s something to look forward to.

Every year, every moment, is a gift to steward, and she has tended her time so well. Happy 90th to my grandma — thank you for showing me the beauty of a life well-loved.

Gratitude list, November 2022

stars glittering
the night sky, when I’m up late
feeding the baby, falling into
bed
& the arms of my spouse
for a few more hours of sleep before
daybreak
fresh coffee & hot oatmeal
little hands reaching for me
for games of peekaboo
songs & cuddles
for the wide embrace of our village —
grandparents
dear friends
good neighbors
teachers
pediatricians
therapists
our congregation — with whom we raise
our children
for music while I’m doing dishes and folding
warm towels just out of the dryer
for naptime, blessed naptime,
a moment of peace amidst the chaos of
Legos & crayons & rounds of Uno & kitchen dance parties & “another snack please!” & playdates & playgrounds & tag
long walks in the neighborhood
the scent of burning leaves
& the way sunight catches in the leaves
at golden hour
dinner to make,
bathtime bubbles & squeals,
for sharing stories & poetry & prayers,
goodnight kisses & “I love you”s
& when the dog curls up on my lap
& the whole house is
quiet
holding a freshly sharpened pencil
& a blank page on which to praise
this one holy and beautiful life.