God, you sculpted the heavens and the earth,
you painted the sea and the stars.
You made everything and said it was good.
Still, I have to ask…
Why did you make hurricanes? And tornadoes?
Why cancer? Why weapons? Why war?
Perhaps the question I should be praying is,
Why do humans hurt each other
— and our planet?
How do we fix what’s broken?
How do we care for raging waters and hearts?
How do we engender peace?
How do we stay afloat amid such heavy issues?
What will this world become?
And God, I have other, albeit lesser, queries:
Why does my two-year-old always resist sleep? When will the bedtime battles and tantrums end?
Also, why are groceries so dang expensive? And houses? Why wrinkles? Why neurodiversity?
Why depression?
How come I’m still in pain, even months after that trauma? Will these scars ever disappear?
O God, despite the sin and muck in my life
and in creation, why do you keep blessing us
with sunsets? Why is autumn so stunning?
Why does the Lakeshore never fail
to settle my soul?
Why honeycrisp apples?
Why porcupines?
Why snow?
How is it that, whenever I watch my children sleep, I get a lump in my throat? When did I get so lucky and how come I’m often blind to this grace when they’re awake?
How do I keep them safe?
How will I ever let them go?
How do I carry all these fears,
worries,
joys,
hopes?
That’s the wrong question again, isn’t it?
How do I stop grasping for control and start clinging to you, God?
Will you make me an instrument of your peace?
Will you grant me eyes to see your glory?
Tag Archives: motherhood
Finding God
“…have you ever found God in church? I never did. I just found a bunch of folks hoping for him to show. Any God I ever felt in church I brought in with me. And I think all the other folks did too. They come to church to share God, not find God.” ― Alice Walker, The Color Purple
“I’ve been missing you at church,”
a friend wrote, bringing me to tears.
“I hope you are still finding God near,”
she added, her words as gentle as summer rain.
No, I haven’t been there lately,
but I have met God
at open mic night,
he told us he was autistic, he sang
an original song and strung his guitar,
God was in the crowd, too, listening hard,
God clapped long and loud when the music stopped.
God greeted my toddler from the garbage truck,
God cheered each batter at my oldest’s baseball game,
God saw me with my hands full and opened up the gate.
God showed up in
pastel clouds over a shimmering sunset,
the heady scent of roses,
the first bite of a perfectly grilled burger,
strawberry shortcake, delivered by a neighbor,
Scripture scribbled on a postcard,
whispered apologies,
a prayer uttered over the phone,
cottonwood seeds drifting in the breeze,
in hugs and kisses from my children.
No, I haven’t seen my friend at church.
“It’s not a peaceful place for me right now,”
I told her. Yet,
as sure as the stars shine,
God’s been reaching for me,
breathing goodness into everything,
wrapping me in God’s gracious arms.
I CAN’T WRITE
Because school’s out for the summer and my kids are here all.the.time.
Because there’s baseball practice tonight, basketball tomorrow and soccer camp next week.
Because we have swim lessons and playdates and birthday parties on the calendar. Because long luxurious playground visits. Because concerts, nature walks and dining al fresco. Because pool days, beach trips, splash pads and water tables.
Because wet towels and swimsuits are strewn across the floor and need to be hung to dry. Because the dishwasher needs to be loaded, the laundry needs to be changed and the dog taken out. Because my toddler just woke from his nap and needs cuddles.
Because, have you ever felt the grass underneath your bare feet while watching your kids swing in sync, and thought, “This is what I always dreamed of”? Because I want to revel in this tiny slice of peace before the moment passes and these kids start whining again…
Because one wants yogurt, the other watermelon, and they both want ice cream (but need dinner) and it’s hot and I don’t feel like cooking, so I unearth the mint chip from the fridge and the sugar cones from the cabinet and dole out three big cones for us to relish on the patio under the sun and isn’t summer a master class in shirking what’s sensible and savoring all that’s sweet?
Because, when my kids say, “Mom, watch this!” I want to bear witness to their joy — canonballs and somersaults, chasing cicadas and biking down the sidewalk, swishing down the slide and bouncing on a trampoline.
Because, have you ever seen the whole day stretch ahead of you like a giant buffet just waiting to be tasted?
Because the words can always be placed on hold while we live our summer story.
***
Post inspired by Callie Feyen, Dani Elgas and Kimberly Knowle-Zeller.
The champion
In the summer, she’d set up a makeshift baseball field in our cul-de-sac. Mom dug out the bats, gloves and tennis balls from our garage and plopped them down near our mailbox. The driveway held home base. My brother and I must have been in elementary or middle school back then, and she, in her forties.
She roped in our next-door neighbors – the freckled Maher boys – and the handsome bachelor who lived across the street from us for a few years. I don’t remember his name. I do remember his dog, a white and orange mut named Boomer who caught fly balls in his teeth, and the way Mom’s eyes lit up when she’d assembled up a team for pickup baseball.
She pitched. Standing in the center of the cul-de-sac, Mom threw straight, steady pitches, encouraging us to swing with a gentle, “Hey batta-batta, swing batta-batta.” When it was her turn to bat, she smacked line drives and fly balls into the outfield, which was the handsome neighbor’s front yard. Boomer sprinted and strained to snag them.
Looking back today, I get the sense she held back some of her power when we played ball in the street together. A gym teacher by calling, she was a natural athlete and our first coach at everything. Her skilled hands showed our novice ones how to hit, how to catch and how to throw hard. She taught my brother and me that playing with all your heart was more important than winning or losing.
Her love of the game was palpable.
Mom’s the reason I played shortstop in summer league softball. My softball coach said I had a good arm – honed from endless games of catch out with my mother. I could field well, too, but my hitting was unreliable.
This became a problem when I moved on to high school softball. I made the A team, but I ended up benched more often than not. We lost the majority of our games. What I hated more than losing was not getting to play at all.
Mom didn’t come to all my games – school was in session, and she had several after school commitments of her own – but when she showed up in the stands, my confidence blossomed.
After another game lost, I sat in the car with my mother, head in my hands. She put her hand on my arm and said to me, “You should be out there, too, Erin. You’re just as good as the other girls are. You deserve a chance to play.”
She was right; after all, we’d gotten destroyed. It would have been nice if the coaches cut me a break and put me in in the eighth inning. Unlike my mother, I was a mediocre softball player.
The next year, I tried out for the school musical instead. Everyone who could sing made the school musical — it was my chance to get in the game. Mom came to my performance and cheered me on, same as always. She brought me a bouquet. Her love for me was palpable.
Psst! Still need a gift for Mother’s Day? My book, The Beauty of Motherhood: Grace-Filled Devotions for the Early Years, is available in store at Barnes & Noble Old Orchard or Village Crossing and can be ordered via Amazon and other major booksellers.
M A K E
verb; noun
To bring into being / Create / Compose / Shape
As in,
my friend Donna conjures
harmony from thin air:
she hears
a melody, she summons
notes and voices sweetness
like a magician blooming
roses from her wand.
She says, “It’s nothing!”
I say, “It’s a spiritual gift!”
— and we’re both right —
For, isn’t the ability to fashion
beauty from nothing endowed
to us by the Master Artist?
As in,
Merriam Webster offers
25 definitions for the verb “make”
and that doesn’t include all the idioms:
make waves, make up your mind, make light
Something about making is essential to
our humanity
We make believe
We make amends
We make art
We make homes
We make love
We make a difference
I am trying to make
the most of the time I have left
I only know that when I bring art to life
I come alive as well.
As in,
lately I’ve been struggling
to write
I’m tired of these blase winter days
when the wind howls
and bites like a feral dog
I want to be wild like the wind —
soft, too
I want my stories to rattle you awake
and blanket the earth with snow
I want my words to swirl and linger,
to thaw an icy heart —
even mine.
As in,
my husband skitters
his hands across the keyboard and creates
a code that will animate a robot,
our toddler Adam stands at the easel, proud
he’s “writing his name” with a dry erase marker,
our son Jack sits nearby, head bent, dreaming
up new Pokemon, dazzling
the page with drawings and color,
Others bake bread and cook,
Others stitch blankets and clothes,
Others protest and revise law,
Me? I rinse dishes and soothe owies,
sing lullabies, draw baths, compose
a line in my head: Mothering is inherently creative.
As in,
at my first voice lesson,
my teacher tells me he’s heard
too many sad stories of people
who stopped singing because someone said
they didn’t like their voice,
I try to remember this, too, when I write
I became an author
because thirty years ago
someone said, “I like your voice.”
What matters more now: That I like it too.
Isn’t all art forged in courage?
Isn’t all art a window,
an offering?
How many more books or songs
have yet to be born?
Fear and courage
My son declares
“I’m not scared
of anything”
Almost 7 and still a wonder
boy whose life began with a lack of breath,
who, since he found his voice
rarely stops talking, who’s made of
sugar, steel and laughter
“That’s nice, honey,” I tell him, folding
his words and slipping
them into my back pocket
like a note I want to revisit later
Me? I’m scared of all sorts of things:
Showing up late. Wearing
the wrong outfit. Singing off-key.
Saying something off-color.
My kids getting hurt or worse — dying.
Mass shootings. War. Global warming.
Cockroaches in the house and maxing
out my credit card at Target.
Scared of success
and scared of failure.
Missed naps and moldy leftovers.
Scared of parties and public speaking.
Scared of home renovations
—but also scared of moving(?)—
literally anyone who rings our doorbell.
Tantrums at the grocery store. PTA meetings.
The cool moms at school pickup. Forgetting
a deadline. Forgetting
to return a text. Forgetting.
Scared of aging. Scared of dying.
Scared I won’t ever get to the point of this poem.
Scared of tornadoes.
Scared of blizzards.
Scared of men, when I walk alone
at night, midday or early in the morning.
Scared of running into ex-boyfriends,
that band teacher who despised me,
even scarier, my ex-best friend from high school.
Scared of weight gain. Scared of wrinkles.
Car crashes. Insomnia. Cancer.
Losing track of my kids anywhere,
especially near water.
Losing my husband, mother or father.
Scared I’ve said too much.
Scared I ate too much.
Scared of all the want inside me.
Scared how much I love my children.
Scared I’ve not been a good enough mother.
All this fear inside. Where does it come from?
What I wouldn’t give to soak up
some of wonder boy’s courage
Often I feel scared of writing
especially publishing.
Scared I’ll be judged.
Worse, no one cares.
Years of writing and I’m still scared
by all the rejection.
Then I think
of my son, and the world I want
him to inherit, a society steeped
in justice, peace and kindness.
So I keep writing,
keep chasing truth and beauty,
keep confronting my fears on the page,
emerging
braver and stronger,
keep penning hope
into a world riddled
by brokenness.
I could call him a wonder
Today is Adam’s first birthday. From our couch, I watch him cruise the living room, weaving in and out of midwinter sunbeams. He picks up a blue building block and passes it through the mail slot of our front door. Turning to me, he exclaims “Da-da-da!” while I hover my pen over my notebook.
“Good job, baby!” I reply, setting my pen down. I’m trying to think of a metaphor that encapsulates his spirit, but everything I write sounds stale. I guess love does that to you, doesn’t it? Sometimes love leaves you wide-eyed and bewitched, unable to translate the heft of your feelings into words.
Some call the first years of a child’s life “the wonder years” and for good reason. A year ago Adam was just a tiny babe who wanted nothing more than the comfort of my arms, but now he’s crawling and toddling. He’s hungry for new tastes and faces and experiences. And I’m stuck wondering how he underwent metamorphosis before my very eyes. How did he turn from shy smiles to rich giggles? How did he outgrow those tiny onesies? How did he move from tummy time to banging pots in the kitchen?
If my life was a sonnet, Adam would be the volta, the turning point where the speaker shifts her focus and entertains a new perspective. He burst into my world and gave me the courage to claim a new beginning. He was born the day Kim and I received an offer to write The Beauty of Motherhood. He was by my side as I wrestled words to the page in the midst of feeding and diaper duty. He woke me over and over at night and taught me there’s beauty in the darkness. He’s helped me laugh, slow down and appreciate the person I’ve always been and who I am becoming.
I read today that we’re approaching the halfway mark between winter and summer. Outside snow dresses the ground, trees and homes in our neighborhood. Steam rises and twists in the twenty degree air. Inside Adam abandons his game and scrambles toward me. I gather him up in a bear hug, relishing the warmth of his love. I could call him a wonder. I could call him a turning point. I could call him the midwinter sun.
Who you are at six : a birthday tribute
You are an athlete. You sprint across the soccer field, swing from the monkey bars, scale trees, slides and rocks then leap into your next adventure. Motion is your oxygen.
You were an angel in the Christmas play, and though you wouldn’t wear your wings (“too scratchy”) and you might have ignored a few stage cues, you sang so sweetly to baby Jesus. You have an active, playful faith — and a propensity for mischief.
You want to be a “scientist who mixes chemicals” for work, and like your dad, you have a knack for numbers.
Yet, to me, you bear the soul of an artist: You splash color and doodles outside the lines of your kindergarten assignments, you’re the one who says “First, I have to show you something beautiful,” you’re always building something or in the middle of an epic Lego story. Your imagination is boundless. You have a big heart and a lot of love to give, like your mama.
Much of my work in midlife, I recently realized, is launching you into this stunning, cruel, crazy world, where there are dreams to chase and gorgeous places to explore and stories to discover.
My wish for you at six is that you never forget who and whose you are, beloved child. The world will try to stifle your kindness and your sense of wonder. Don’t let it. Cling to hope. Trust your faithful foundation. Use your gifts to spread peace and healing to everyone you encounter. Make your mark: Keep playing and caring and creating.
Happy sixth birthday to the boy who made me a mama.
In This House…
We sing to each other and we tell bedtime stories,
We share highs and lows and prayers at dinner,
We practice kindness and yoga and serving our neighbors,
We play Legos and peekaboo and cards and soccer,
We invite our friends in before everything looks “perfect,”
We make room for laughter and tears, mistakes and questions,
We read psalms, poems, board books, graphic novels,
We craft towers and forts and dreams and artwork,
We try to honor the sacred within all of God’s people,
We stumble, we break, we learn, we do better,
We say “I’m sorry,” “You are good” and “I love you forever,”
We cherish the light softening this world’s shadows.
// Inspired Lindsay Rush and written in the Exhale Creativity “Charmed” workshop.
Year in review
On my 37th birthday, what I wanted most of all was time to write. I put the baby down for his first nap, pacified my older boy with his tablet and retrieved my pale green journal. Before sitting down, I lit a candle, which is my writing ritual. I like imagining the flame as my artistic spirit or even the Holy Spirit, calling me to create.
Curled up in an armchair, I held my pen above an empty page. What could I say about the past year of my life? It’s been a whirlwind, a time of change and, in many ways, a joy. I glanced at the Christmas tree glowing in our front window. Lately getting ready for Christmas had consumed my time, and I was grateful for the chance to let my mind wander.
The page stared back at me. I have written professionally for over a decade and yet every opening humbles me. I rifled through the files of my mind for the perfect words and I quickly realized the naptime clock was ticking — better to pick words that were good enough. So, I wrote:
Chapter 36
It was a year of growth and a year of grace.
The year I birthed my second baby and the year I signed my first book deal. The year I learned that dreams-come-true sparkle from afar, but close up demand grit and labor. The year I stretched my body and mind while nourishing a baby and my stories. The year I realized the most rewarding part of having dreams-come-true is how you tend them.
It was the year I left my magazine job. The year I struggled to adjust to staying home with my children. The year a fog of depression descended and didn’t budge until I began taking my mental health more seriously. The year I received a proper diagnosis for the doubts that haunted me daily.
The year I cried my eyes out and picked myself off the floor and summoned strength to care for my family. The year I trusted my gut and leaned into faith and slept very little but embraced the beauty of the darkness.
It was the year I danced in the kitchen and paced the halls with a restless baby and lived for the laughter of my children.
It was a year of admiring sunsets, the blue of the smoky mountains, the blaze of fall leaves in our woods and the glittering snow that graced Chicago just in time for Christmas.
The year I prayed over my kids and penned more prayers than I ever imagined. The year we found a closer church so we could start going to in-person worship again. The year we baptized our new baby.
It was the year everything seemed heavier with two children. The year I boldly sought help with childrearing and cultivated a stronger village. A year of holding the weight of motherhood and finding others to help me carry it.
The year I watched my oldest grapple with friendship hurdles and expand his social circle. The year he swam, played on a team, and began kindergarten. The year he built with Legos, rode without training wheels, became a big brother. The year I saw my baby’s first smile, roll, crawl and babble, and each left me breathless with wonder. The year I witnessed ordinary miracles.
It was a year of taking turns with my husband, learning to be a team, falling deeply in love again. A year of unloading the dishwasher, doing the laundry, paying the bills, returning library books. A year of shared glances, warm embraces and deeper knowing.
The year I learned the power of silence. The year I paid closer attention to what’s unsaid and tried to say less myself. The year I listened deeply for the voice of my Creator.
It was my phoenix year. The year I burned down my old way of being, the false tales I told myself about myself and reemerged equipped with the knowledge I need to shine brighter.
I nested. I mothered. I cuddled. I messed up. I apologized. I read. I wrote. I gave it my all. I let it all go. I failed. I soared.
My son’s cries came from the bedroom. I set aside my pen and stopped writing. The rest of the day unfolded, same as usual: I scrambled eggs, changed dirty diapers, and loaded the dishwasher. We walked the dog and marveled at the snowflakes and I tripped on a stack of Magna-Tiles.
Later that night, we gathered around our kitchen table for white chicken chili. It was the first family meal we’d shared in seemingly ages given my husband’s aggressive end-of-the-year work schedule. After I put the baby to bed, my older son, my husband and I enjoyed slices of pumpkin pie, my traditional birthday dessert.
I lit my birthday candle and smiled back at my boys while they wished me a happy birthday. Gazing at the flame, I held a simple wish in my heart: More. God, give me more time with them. More beauty. More life. I’ve reached my 37th chapter and I am not yet finished writing a beautiful story.
I’m just getting started.
Written 12/22/22
Erin Strybis 