With a measuring stick and a scale? Spreadsheets and pie charts? Photographs from years past? Words you wrote last spring?
How do you see growth when brown leaves cling to the forest floor, when snow is forecast, when a new season swirls beneath the surface, seemingly hidden from view?
In hands that can hold their very own umbrella?
In pony legs that race across the court lickety-split?
In the new paths you explore — and the sunset’s tangerine glow?
In spiky onion shoots, the first to rise from a barren garden?
All March you’ve been searching for flowers, something like the white ones from the yard you left behind when you moved last year.
Last week orange flames danced in the woods outside your apartment. Smoke billowed and plumed, conjuring memories of bonfires past. A prescribed burn is what the city called it. Prescribed burns are healthy for forests; the devastation makes room for new vegetation. You know what it’s like to be burned though. You figure it will be weeks before you see anything bloom from the ashes.
So, when your first flower of spring arrived at your doorway, in the hands of an old neighbor, you blushed. An overdue housewarming gift, she said. Delicate and purple, it fragrances your kitchen.
How do you pinpoint growth?
In sleeping peacefully through the night?
In the “big boy swing” perfectly holding his body?
In the way he climbs trees with ease?
By examining your reflection — with new lines and silver strands forming — and simply … accepting it?
In embracing new beginnings. In forgiving yourself.
To witness fuschia streak across the sky and tangerine clouds outlined in gold To notice sparrows singing To savor hot coffee without interruption To breathe To untangle a thicket of thoughts on paper before the day unfolds To thank God for another spin around the sun To remember that, as the sky evolves, I can too To dwell in light — and possibility
You always want to be in the driver’s seat. Whether it’s toy cars, trains, or dictating the day’s plans, you love taking charge.
You’re my little buddy, accompanying me everywhere — to the grocery store, your big brother’s school and Target pickup. Helping me is a favorite pastime. You’ll gladly clean mirrors, wash dishes and sweep. After our work is done, you ask to visit the library, the children’s museum or the pool at our apartment. You love the water, splashing and jumping in like a dare devil.
You live off Chobani Flips, Chick-fil-A nuggets, fruit, pasta, juice boxes and milk, preferably chocolate.
You say “kiss me on the nose” and “you’re my best friend” and “shut your mouth Jack” to your brother (I don’t like hearing that last one). Sometimes your emotions come out in strong words or tears. I get it. Being human is hard. We’re working on acknowledging our BIG feelings — together.
You adore your dad, your dog and your big brother Jack (whom you’re always emulating or annoying — often both!). Other than me or Jack, Grandma is your favorite playmate. When you play, you build forts and houses and roads with your imagination. You told us that, when you grow up, you want to be a construction worker.
Your favorite show is Paw Patrol (Rubble and Crew is also acceptable). You like to read Richard Scarry and Berenstain Bears and Froggy stories.
Daily you’re becoming more independent. You can put on your pants, shoes and a jacket, but you still ask me to “zip and wrap it up.” Your favorite outfit is your blue pocket sweater you picked out from Old Navy, black Nike pants and training underwear “just like Jack’s.” You’re currently learning to use the potty, work that’s messy and hard and exhausting. We’ll keep at it.
At bedtime, you still want to fall asleep in my arms. Lately, you’ve been asking me to stop hugging you — you say you’d rather hug me! I reply, “Alright, Adam, you can hold me. Soon enough, you won’t need to hold me. I think you’re almost ready to fall asleep on your own.”
Unfortunately, I’m not ready. For any of it — new bedtime routines, how fast you stopped holding my hand (you prefer to put your hands in your pockets), and this coming August, when you’ll begin preschool. You are my last baby, and I’m finding it hard to watch you grow. This is motherhood: a delicate dance of holding you and letting you go.
“I’m not a baby,” you’d tell me. “I’m a big boy now.”
You’re right, of course. Today you’re three. Happy birthday to you, big boy. What a joy it is to be your mom.
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.
My phone alarm buzzes, jostling me from sleep. I silence it, check my inbox: The Times’ subject line is a gut punch. I want to silence this news, too. Tossing my phone aside, I bury myself under the weighted blanket. If I just stay here I can pretend that, for once, a woman triumphs.
Somewhere else in America someone else woke up, checked her email and smiled. In her eyes, his election is a warm hug. Where I see harm, she sees hope — the promise of prosperity. Why do we see things so differently?
“Mommy?” my two-year-old approaches my bedside, rubbing his eyes. “Come here,” I beckon, wrapping my arms around his soft, warm body, Cocooned beside me, he drifts back to sleep.
How will I teach him to be kind in a world that rewards deceit and greediness? It’s the same question I ask myself daily, yet this morning it feels urgent, I worry this country will become more dangerous for many. Holding my son close, I pray for peace, for our leaders, for our nation.
Finally, I rise and open the blinds, gray clouds envelope the sky. My boy rustles in the bed; soon I’ll serve oatmeal and fold laundry, he’ll build towers and paint pictures, we’ll read stories and find shelter in each other.
No, I can’t pinpoint the Light — not today — still, I trust it’s here, shining within us.
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?
“…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.
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.
Erin Strybis 