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.
“I will sing praises to my God all my life long” (Psalm 146:2).
There’s a lovely song in the Evangelical Lutheran Worship hymnal that encapsulates Psalm 146: “My life flows on in endless song” (ELW 763). You may know it more by its iconic lyric—“How can I keep from singing?”
Of course, that question is rhetorical, but we can relate. When friends get engaged, a baby is born, a long awaited job offer is extended—we, too, may be unable to keep from sharing our joyful “song” with others. The author of Psalm 146 is caught up in a similar excitement about God!
With rich imagery, this passage implores us to trust God—our creator, healer, liberator, giver. The enthusiasm is contagious; the poet cannot help but praise God for all God’s done and is doing to shower us in love.
This is why singing is important to Lutheran liturgy: Because our God is great. Because our joy is too. Because love. Because pain. Because trust. Because evangelism. Because it feels good in our bodies. Because music is a means of freeing the soul.
Prayer Creating God, thank you for your wondrous works. May I sing your praises all the days of my life. Amen.
This blog post is adapted from “Why we sing” on page 71 of Christ in Our Home devotional Quarter 4 2024. Reproduced by Permission of Augsburg Fortress.
May your backpack be light and your friend circle widened,
May your mind be opened and your mouth shut when the teacher is speaking!
May you multiply joy and create beauty, keep wondering “Why?” and discovering answers,
May your lunch be nourishing and may you actually eat it!
May you recess, leap, laugh, race and be a good sport, no matter the outcome,
May you dwell less on competing and more on doing your very best,
May you stay safe at school and be a safehaven for others,
May you walk tall and stay humble, be slow to anger and quick to apologize,
And when you stumble or cry, may you feel comfort and care, and remember you’re deeply loved by your family and your Creator,
As you enter a new grade, hold onto that “fresh minty feeling,” and even when it wanes, know that the work will eventually end, the bell will ring and free time is coming,
Remember another school year — with its highs, lows, laughter and tears — is part of your becoming.
The first time you swam you leaped into the pool, trusted the strength of your arms and legs, let the swell of water carry you forward, triumphant in your magenta swimsuit.
The call that made you sink to your knees in dread, “Cancer,” the doctor said, and your world stopped turning for an instant.
Your first big heartbreak — dumped before senior year — you thought he was “the one,” he wanted to date around, you ran all summer to ease the pain, you grew beautiful and resilient.
Your wedding day — facing your soulmate in the chapel, warm, white light streaming down on you, promising to love and cherish each other until the day you die, exchanging rings, kissing, basking in his goodness.
Your first dog, whom you’ll always adore, how, as a puppy, he curled up in your arms and looked into your eyes and made you feel safe, known and loved.
The dog who bit you, and drew blood. You thought he was gentle, you thought you could trust him, but he was a wolf all along.
The one you called when you were in trouble, who held you when you howled in pain, who cleaned the wound, kissed the scar and healed you.
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.
And on this splendid summer day, a boy learned to ride his bike.
He zoomed down the alley while Dad jogged behind him and Mom stood with the baby, holding up her camera. The boy couldn’t quite understand the funny look on Mom’s face — was she smiling or crying? Maybe both?
“Wonderful, wonderful,” she kept saying. And it was wonderful to push through the wobbles and ride strong and steady, to feel the slight breeze on his face, to gain speed, to move through the city all by himself. What kind of adventures awaited him this summer? Where would he go? Who would he become?
These are the days of his small head nestled against my chest skin — velvet smooth, unmarred by time — to skin — a soft place to dream, drink, rest, grow (some days, I swear, I can see him thickening in the shelter of my arms) and some days blur into nights cradling him close feeding and being fed by his warmth our two hearts beating in sync his slate blue eyes searching for mine, which of course, are bloodshot and glad (some nights, I swear, holding him feels like heaven on earth) some nights I feel suffocated by all he needs and these are the nights that blend into days when golden light lingers at the edge of the crib each day becoming a little longer as if to say, “Take heart, change is coming, so be sure to treasure these days.”
The morning you turned five, you rocketed out of your bed first thing and crawled into ours. I held you close and wished you a happy birthday. I asked, “Are you excited to be five?” You squealed “Yes!” and woke up your father.
The night before I’d baked you a chocolate birthday cake with blue buttercream frosting and a Superman cake topper, just like you requested. You love blue, and Superman is your favorite hero. At bedtime, you always ask for “a little superhero story” featuring him, you and our dog, “Super Gussy.”
I’m not sure how or when you decided Superman was your favorite hero. All I know is after you were born, your grandmother gave me a stuffed bear dressed in a Superman shirt and cape. I think she meant it to represent me, though I felt anything but heroic. Nothing about your birthday had gone according to plan — and I love a good plan — resulting in an emergency c-section for me and your stay in the NICU. Honestly, I thought I’d failed you.
Yet five years later, I can see the strength in both of us. You bravely scale trees and the heights of playgrounds. You’re sounding out phonics so well and on the verge of reading. You love science experiments and going to swim lessons. I’m proud of the super boy you’ve become, with your kind heart, generous spirit and boundless imagination. I’m grateful for all I’ve learned by mothering you.
My prayer for you at five is that, when faced with conflict, you’ll make a heroic choice. That you’ll voice your values and strive for peaceful resolution.
I pray you keep noticing the beauty of creation and urging me to join you.
I pray you continue loving and learning from stories — from your children’s Bible, favorite shows and books that inspire you. I trust you’ll glean empathy and wisdom from grappling with difficult stories.
I pray you see yourself and everyone you meet as a beloved child of God, including those who think, pray or look differently than you.
Most of all, I pray you know how deeply Dad and I love you and how deeply your Creator loves you. That you keep sharing that love with your neighbors near and far.
Erin Strybis 