Tag Archives: writing

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.

Advice to Young Women

At 13, what I wanted
—more than anything—
was to be thin as a prima ballerina,
so delicate I could pirouette
with ease,
so tiny I’d finally fit in
with the other girls
so slender I’d fade
into school walls rather than risk
being seen.

That spring, I made the school musical,
I had a part and a solo.
When I stepped on stage to sing,
my voice shook, then steadied,
with each verse, I grew feathers,
soon after, I was soaring high in the sky.

That was my first taste of a more expansive life
I didn’t need to hide away; I could offer
hope
and goodness. I could be and do more
than I ever dreamed I might.
I wanted to chase that feeling over and over.

I’d like to say that moment was a revolution,
but that would only be half-true.
For nearly 40 years, I’ve wrestled with
silence and singing
fitting in and standing out
perfection and mess.
On my best days, I claim my power.
On my worst, I’m 13 again, still afraid
of sharing my voice.

If I could warn her, oh if I could whisper
wisdom into my younger self’s ears, I’d tell her:
Some men will try to cage you
and keep you small.
Don’t let them.
Sing your song.
Spread your wings.
Let your beautiful, wild self
be free.

Defining word: Voice

(noun) sound humans create by speaking or singing
(verb) to express one’s opinion

1. In the final stretch of our drive home from Michigan, Adam won’t stop crying.

It’s Christmas break 2022. The Chicago skyline looms ahead like a long-awaited hug. So do fluorescent red brake lights, which means we’re facing an hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic. At 10 months, Adam’s typically laid back and smiley. Today he scrunches up his face and through his wails, says he’s D O N E being stuck in the car, and honestly, I am, too. We’re in gridlock with no means of stopping and I don’t know how to soothe my baby.  

“Can’t you do something?” my husband says, twisting his head back to glance at Adam. “He’s really upset, Erin.”

Adam lets out another loud wail. The sound of “Jingle Bells” filters through our car radio and I shake my head at the irony. This car ride is anything but fun.

A memory materializes: Every December while I was in high school, I’d go caroling with our school’s madrigal ensemble. Back then, bringing joy to others through song was the highlight of my Christmas season. I wonder if I can conjure a little cheer now.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way,” I sing softly, squeezing Adam’s hand. “Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh!” 

At the sound of my voice, he quiets. Two verses in, I begin to enjoy myself. I end up serenading him with Christmas carols for the rest of our trip home.

2. Each December, I select a word to guide my thoughts and actions in the new year. For 2023, I chose “voice.” Voice isn’t just the sound we make or an action we take; in writing, voice is how an author shows her personality, style and point of view on the page.

Difficult to teach and even harder to master, voice makes writing memorable. The most powerful voices leap off the page and are easy to spot when compared with the works of others. Take the writings of Brian Doyle, Ross Gay or Mary Oliver as proof. Through humor, lyricism, diction, imagery and more, each of these authors offers a distinct style for the reader to enjoy. Voice endears us to our favorite authors.

As I anticipated my book release in March 2023, voice was very much on my mind. My friend Kim and I poured our hearts into The Beauty of Motherhood, and now that it was mere months from landing readers’ hands, I couldn’t help but worry how our book might be received.

Even though I believed deeply in our book’s message, I harbored doubts about my voice. Were my devotions strong enough to stand beside those of my coauthor, whose voice I admire greatly? And how could I market this book — which I was dreading — while remaining true to myself? 

I reached out to a friend and mentor for advice. She reminded me that my words intertwined with my faith, and this book was an answer to a call. She mentioned she sensed a bold strength and conviction flowing from me as I approached the final edits of this book. And she encouraged me to trust the voice I’d already developed. 

3. A few weeks after caroling in the car, I’m exchanging emails with the music director of our church. I’d mentioned to the pastor in our new congregation that I used to sing, and she put me in touch with him. We schedule an audition. 

The day we meet, I laugh and tell him that, though I used to sing a lot when I was younger, I’m a little rusty now. That’s not entirely true: every day, I sing to my youngest. On a dreary day, I sing him, “Rain, Rain Go Away.” When it’s sunny, “Mr. Golden Sun.” We have songs for bath time, teeth brushing, the alphabet and more. As the daughter of a music director, music was the first love language I ever learned. I can’t help but sing to my children. But I don’t say any of this to him. I simply sing.

Soon I find myself on stage alongside my church’s praise band. The first time I perform with them, I feel as if I’m soaring. Afterwards, my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. As the weeks pass, I grow to love the “intimacy of [belonging to] a tight group of people who had come together, miraculously, for a brief period in time, for the purpose of making art.”

Making music with the praise band unlocks a hidden part of me I forgot existed. I’m no longer just a mom or even a writer, I’m a creative soul who feels most at home in the world when she’s sharing her God-given voice with others. 

The more music I sing, the more voracious I become for this form of creative expression: Sure, the melody is fine but could I try the descant? Or finish my meal with tight harmony? Sampling the chorus was a delight, but could I taste a solo? 

The answer to it all? Yes, yes and yes. 

4. I am 16 years old. In Ms. McDonough’s Honors English class we’re finishing a unit on persuasive writing. Ms. McDonough has curly black hair, bright brown eyes and insane energy, bouncing around the classroom on her chunky heels. I adore her.

We read various examples of persuasive writing, including Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.” As a classmate reads the letter out loud, I highlight this passage: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”

Just before class ends, Ms. McDonough announces a special writing project. We’ll be writing our own persuasive essays just like Dr. King, she says, passing out the assignment. I wonder what I will write about, I think, but the ring of the bell breaks my attention.

Weeks pass and I’m back in her classroom reviewing a draft of my essay. 

“Right here and here are a couple phrases you could tighten up to make your argument stronger,” she notes, pointing to her green handwriting. (She uses green pen because it doesn’t derive a negative connotation, like red.) “And I think reminding the reader of your proposed solution is a fine way to conclude your argument.”

“Thank you so much, Ms. McDonough,” I say, sitting at my desk and thumbing through her notes. I will bring this home and perfect it, then hand it in on Friday. Then, biting my lip, I add, “I really hope this works.”

My topic is related to music: Recently our music department director had announced that students would no longer be able to participate in both the top band and the top choir, citing that next semester each group would practice during the same period. This change would make it easy for students to collaborate without sacrificing their lunch hour, he explained. The plan is, by all accounts, reasonable.

Except that, I was in both the top band and the top choir, and I didn’t want to choose between them I knew several other students like me, and it didn’t seem very fair for the administration to force us to choose between groups. So for my essay I come up with an argument against the change and offer a new solution to solve the existing issue. Writing this piece feels really good. It flows out of me. 

”I think your words could affect real change here,” Ms. McDonough says, straightening up. “And I’ll be happy to help see that your final paper ends up in the hands of our administration.”

“Really, Ms. McDonough?” I look up at her.

“Absolutely. That’s why I created this assignment — to show you the power of your voice.”

Ms. McDonough is right. The essay does affect change and the administration chooses my solution over that of the music department chair’s. When I learn this, I’m ecstatic. 

I continue participating in the top choir and top band through my senior year of high school. However, something significant does change: Rather than “Music,” I select “English major” on my in-progress college applications. 

5. When our book releases in March 2023, it’s equal parts amazing and terrifying. I am overjoyed and grateful for its positive reception. At the same time, I find myself wavering in and out of a state of existential dread. The book I’d dreamed of writing years ago is now real. But the grind and pressure connected with promoting it overwhelms me. 

After our formal promotional work slows in June, I am relieved and deflated. Staring at my empty planner, I have so many questions: Do I still love writing? Am I all out of stories? I am sure of one thing — I’m burned out. So I step away from writing publicly to prioritize rest and my family.

Over the summer, I tend to my wellbeing: I become more consistent with my workouts. I savor time with my kids. I devour a seven-book fantasy series. I do some freelance writing assignments and journal. The voice of Anxiety that has haunted me much of my life but especially during book season grows quieter. My prayers become more peaceful.

6. For Halloween, I sign up to help with my church’s fall festival. There’s pumpkin carving, trunk-or-treat and a Disney sing-along. I dress up as Elsa and lead a variety of songs, including Elsa’s signature “Let It Go” and Ariel’s “Part of Your World,” the latter of which was one of my favorite songs as a child. 

Growing up, I was a princess girl through and through. I loved watching Beauty and the Beast, Snow White and The LIttle Mermaid, then dressing up and performing my favorite songs for whichever family members would bear to listen.

Now, when it’s my turn to sing “Part of Your World,” a smile blooms across my lips and that familiar soaring feeling arrives. I think, if only eight-year-old Erin could see herself now. She would be so proud. It’s just a sing-along, but it means so much more to me to be here, confident and brave, using my voice to share a song I love.

Surface level, The Little Mermaid is about a girl who runs away from home and changes her appearance in pursuit of a handsome prince. But the real story, the emotional undercurrent of this movie, is about being brave enough to leave old ways of being and explore a new culture. Sure, Ariel makes mistakes along the way — sacrificing her voice for a crush — but in the end, she reclaims it. 

Ultimately, The Little Mermaid is a story about losing and finding your voice. 2023 would be a year of finding my voice, I’d resolved. Yet, looking back today, I wonder if it was there all along? Perhaps I wasn’t ready to claim it.

7. What surprised me most about my word of the year was the voice I found wasn’t just my writer’s voice: it was my choral voice, too. Returning to another form of creative expression helped me cope with the swirl of conflicting emotions I habored about book launch. Through song, I was able to see that the joy of art is not in its reception, rather it’s in the making of it.

I want to keep singing. I want to keep writing stories and sharing them with others. I want to embrace the fire in my voice, and glimmers of insight on the page. I want to finish things — poems and essays and maybe another book (years from now, when Adam is older). I want to keep my pen close to the page and to my heart. I have so many words bubbling up and rising to the surface now… Can I make sense of them and make an offering? I don’t know. But I have to try.

Isn’t the task of the artist that of offering a mirror to her reader to help her see the beautiful truth before her? To say, yes, there is pain in this world, but have you also noticed the grace of wildflowers? And a baby’s tiny toes? What about a woman buying groceries for a needy stranger? Or when you hear music that moves you to tears? Isn’t it an amazing thing to be alive on this fresh day — and human? 

And, if enough of us artists raise our voices — enough singers and painters and pianists and poets and sculptors and weavers and actors and composers and a plethora of others — we could form a mass choir singing for peace and prosperity. We could use our voices to calm the tide of violence that threatens to drown us. We could create a new culture grounded in kindness and human dignity. Wouldn’t that be something? 

This “Defining word essay” was inspired by a selection from Amy Krouse Rosenthal’s Textbook.

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.

Especially when

Especially when
the sunrise catches in the bushes, sliding
across the sidewalk, gilding
every zinnia and robin in its path
another day’s on the cusp of unfurling,
and I am bursting
with possibility and hope,

Especially when
two fair-haired boys melt
their bodies against mine, sleep dusting
their eye creases, last night’s dreams curling
in the air like the steam rising off my morning coffee and though the clock tick tick ticks
and the piled dishes beckon, Creativity calls me
(and I am not one to ignore *her* messages),

Especially when
I’ve just read something positively delicious
my cup is full — no, overflowing —
and my time is scarce
the page is blank and ready to be storied
I must write. What better time to spin
beauty and truth into gold
than the present?


// a response to “Especially when,” a prompt from Callie Feyen, Kaitlin Rogers, Jenna Brack, Megan Willome and others

On growth

Growth in this season doesn’t look like I thought it would.

Sometimes growth is a giant leap, a trust fall into the unknown.

Other times, it’s incremental, a series of small steps taken again and again. Growth is showing up to the path, putting one foot in front of the other, falling into bed at night exhausted, and waking up the next morning to walk again. It’s taking a detour or a rest when circumstance calls for it.

Almost always it’s a bit uncomfortable.

There’s a certain kind of vulnerability to growth too, trusting and leaning into the change and knowing there may be old habits you have to shed in order to reach your full potential. Like a gait that needs to be improved, change requires practice and time.

I’m leaning into that tension. I’m recognizing that much of the growth I have to do in this season is slow and unseen, and it cannot be rushed.

Ultimately, growth is a product of faithfulness and courage.

Being afraid

and showing up anyway —

a pilgrim on the path of life.

36 truths for my 36th year

Today is my 36th birthday. 

It’s also the fifth birthday of this humble little blog. This is the place where I share truths that cannot remain contained within my notebooks but don’t fit another publication. My blog is a memory book, an escape, a means of connection, my attempt to document beauty. To borrow a friend’s metaphor, this is also where I “practice my scales” and play around with the craft of writing.

Another writer I admire tells the story of a Facebook post she wrote titled “25 Things About Me” and how doing so helped her grow. I thought it might be fun to try something similar here, but instead of starting from scratch, I’ve culled 36 truths from some favorite reflections I’ve written.

Piecing this list together helped me appreciate how much I’ve matured in my understanding of motherhood, faith, relationships and more. I hope you find some nuggets of wisdom here to take with you on *your* journey (if something really resonates, find the full piece to which it belongs by clicking on the number above). Cheers to chapter 36 of a crazy, beautiful, grace-filled life!

(1)

The truth is, I’ve always ached to love and be loved, but I wrestle with loving myself. Hearing my own melody helped me see my innate holiness — made in God’s image, blessed and broken, sinner and saint.

(2) 

If my life could be divided into a “before” and “after,” motherhood would be the defining moment. Motherhood has broken, healed and shaped me into the person I am today, and it is often the subject of the stories I share here, along with my faith. Becoming a mother has both pushed me to wrestle with my faith and given me a lens for noticing the sacredness in the mundane.

(3)

This is what I need to pay attention to: my shining son, the leaves, his laughter, the gift of this day. Surely the Spirit is here. 

(4) 

[My son] is scaling a sand dune,
chasing the tide,
pointing me to beauty.
He is the bubble bath, the fuzzy robe,
the last kiss before lights out.
He is not the seeker nor the one who hides but
the feeling of being found.

(5)

I loved being a mother, but it was also the hardest thing I’d ever done. I wondered if I’d ever look or feel like my old self again. I wondered why all the parenting books I read and mommy bloggers I followed failed to fully communicate this tension. My feelings on motherhood were, surprisingly, mixed.

(6)

On the page I belong to no one but myself. There’s no crying to comfort, no milk to fetch, no bottoms to wipe. No texts to return, emails to answer, calls to make. Here I am nothing and I am everything. Line by line, I uncover my identities — wife, mother, sister, daughter, employee, neighbor, friend, believer.

(7)

Occasionally I wake up angry at God. Most days I don’t. Lately I’ve been finding rest in this passage: “So we have known and believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them” (1 John 4:16). I want to teach this to my son over and over: the love we share is a gift from God. And God is Love.

(8)

How often have I denied the gifts of love and rest, thinking I must work to be deemed worthy? It takes several hundred meters, but swimming finally becomes a moving meditation. I come to the end of my thoughts and release my worries. I trust in my body, my breath, these waters, this moment.

(9)

Sometimes it takes traveling halfway across the country to a remote retreat center to stare at a 260-year-old stump to see the truth you hadn’t noticed — that you’d been running away from your fear and pain rather than accepting it. 

(10)

Everyone I meet [here] is searching for something. Some are carrying heartaches far heavier than mine. Others are engaged in vocational discernment. One doctor struggles to see his worth in retirement. A widow bravely embarks on a new chapter of life without her husband. I meet a harpist who recently lost her father, and I hold space for her grief while sharing my fears about my father. That evening her performance of “Ave Maria” makes me weep. She later tells me the harp is “heart music.”

(11)

Something miraculous and mysterious happens when we voice our stories — we give others permission to claim theirs too.

(12)

I wonder how society would change if we looked beyond our own families and started seeing everyone in our world as beloved children. What tender care we could give each other. Just imagine.

(13)

I watch you squint at the draft and think how hard it must be to love a writer. You’ve been loving me like this — seeing me as I want to be seen, cheering me on — since we met in college. I’ve watched with awe as you achieved your goals, never quitting. In 15 years, we’ve seen each other through illness, health, hardship and ease. Isn’t that love, a kind of seeing?

(14)

In a year that often feels like a giant kitchen debacle, in a year that’s separated us from our loved ones or deepened divides between those with whom we disagree, in a year that’s defied all plans and expectations, how do we taste and see goodness in all circumstances? We slow down. We look. We grow eyes for gratitude. We savor the gifts in our midst.

(15)

…we could linger in bed on a Tuesday morning and discuss our dreams. Stay in our pajamas. Savor juicy blueberry pancakes and the view outside our bay window. Beyond the glass is a tree I never used to notice — red pinpricks fleck its branches in early spring before becoming pale green buds that unfurl into cream-colored blossoms. … I witnessed it all. Miracle.

(16)

I didn’t want to go in, but in that moment I knew I could either be the mom who played in the mud or killed the fun. I had only 10 minutes left for this walk and zero supplies for clean up. This would surely dirty my car, delay our daily agenda and screw up Jack’s nap schedule. Plus I was wearing white-soled shoes. No matter what, this was going to be a mess.

“Mommy! Mommy!” my son called again, grinning. Gus let out a little bark.

This time, I didn’t hesitate. I stepped out into the mud to play.

(17)

Sheltering my child and dwelling in his love is the most important work I’ve been called to do.

(18)

I want him to know that there’s a time to be strong and a time to be still, and that grief can find you no matter how hard you attempt to outswim it. Grief is not an enemy to ignore but a friend leading me out of darkness, reminding me that my love was real, my love persists and my baby’s short life mattered. 

(19)

Life is brief and storms are to be expected.

It’s also undeniably dazzling, this joyous race toward home.

(21)

While shedding my coat in preparation for shoveling out the alley, I thought to myself perhaps there’s a metaphor here — something about our lives’ unseen work being uncomfortable but important? Yes, that’s it, I resolved, clearing the way, pressing onward in the winter sun, watching our kids slide and giggle and scale the growing mounds of snow. I am developing grit here, I thought. This unseen, back-breaking work matters. 

(22)

Half of my life I spent running
trying to make myself small.
These days I stand tall
and sing:
this is how I was created —
with whole symphonies inside
praising.

(23)

A well-written kiss is, as Stephen King puts it, “telepathy, of course.” I keep trying to capture life with language the way great authors have for me, for all of us. I still have much to learn, but I continue to practice because writing is the best means of expressing love I know — other than kissing. Good stories sweep us off our feet, make us weak in the knees and kiss our souls with their deep understanding of our secret aches and glories. I want to bless you with that kind of knowing.

(24)

She needs to remember what it means to claim the role of heroine. She’s learning sometimes the bravest thing she can do is ask for help, or be still and sit with her emotions. Other times it means choosing the bigger life or speaking up for her values.

(25)

While I’m still learning to live with my hunger, of this, I’m certain: it no longer scares me. 

(26)

I wanted to tell her I liked her damaged wing. I wanted to whisper, “There’s beauty in your brokenness, butterfly. You’ll soar again.” I wanted to say all this, then I realized she already knows. She’s been through metamorphosis before. 

(27)

She can twirl too, this soft, strong, aging body of mine. She still runs on occasion — mostly after her son. She is still afraid of everything and nothing. She isn’t done changing. Not even close. I wonder, what will she do next?

(28)

I used to think there wasn’t a place for the carefree girl in motherhood. Now I’m starting to believe I was wrong. Who better to teach my son what it feels like to run barefoot in the grass on a summer day? Who better to take him to water parks and on rollercoasters and white water rafting? Who better to show him there’s no shame in pursuing audacious dreams and simple delights? Who better to show him there’s strength in independence?

(29)

What we model, our children inherit. Children soak up the words we speak and the actions we take and reflect them back to us like a mirror.

(30)

On “grumpy gray” days, I remind my son that light is still present, it’s just hidden behind the clouds. (I need this reminder, too.) Even at night, stars sparkle in the velvet sky and the moon reflects the light of our closest star. “You can find the light of God everywhere,” I say to him, “if you look closely.”

(31)

Perhaps God also speaks to us in our darkest moments. In the silence. In the doubt.

(32)

God formed Adam out of dust. Bodies laid to rest turn into dust when they decompose in the earth. Dust, invisible, yet everywhere, clings to the ceiling fan, the baseboards, the window panes. It twists in the wind, tumbles across the streets. Ice latches onto dust to create something entirely new — sparkling snowflakes, each a tiny marvel, raining from the heavens like manna. Jesus rose from the dust so that we might leave our dusty bodies behind and join him in heaven. What does our Creator hope for us at Lent? I think that we might pause and confront our dustiness, and live differently because of it.

(33)

I know it’s easy to cast myself in the role of hero, rather than admit my faults. I know the story we read is missing repentance and reconciliation, true justice and mercy, grace and healing. It’s missing a hero who modeled the way of love. What will it take for us to write a new story? What will it take for us to create a just society?

(34)

You were created with gifts, passions and a unique capacity for serving others. Maybe you had a mentor like Mrs. Jackson who noticed your talents and encouraged you to shine. Perhaps you have a dream hidden away beneath the surface. Only you know what kindles joy inside, what it takes to say “yes” to your dreams, a call that I believe comes from the Holy Spirit.

(35)

She wasn’t sure how high she’d go
or if she’d ever reach the summit.
What mattered more was
the view
the climb
& all it’s teaching her.

(36)

…maybe light wasn’t something she needed to catch. Maybe it was inside her all along. 

Diary of another day

as part of the #onedayhh challenge led by Laura Tremaine, I captured a handful of moments from November 9, 2021:

begin

7 a.m. // When I get back from a long, hot shower, I find my boys waiting for me in bed. I’d hoped to sneak in some writing, but our schedule’s off due to daylight saving time. Wrapped in my bathrobe, I climb into bed and snuggle my son and our dog. “You know what day it is, Jack?” I ask. My son shakes his head side to side. “It’s Gus’ sixth birthday!” I reply. We sing happy birthday and give Gus some extra pets before starting our day.

8 a.m. // I finally sit down to breakfast after feeding both boys, taking the dog out and getting dressed. It’s day two of what will be a 10-day solo-parenting stint while my husband travels for work. I’m already tired. Jack, still in his Star Wars pajamas, peruses a catalogue filled with holiday gifts for kids. “Mommy, look at all the toys!” he squeals. “Which is your favorite?” “Which is yours?” I counter. “All of them!” he replies. I chuckle and take a sip of my coffee. “Remember to pick your very favorite things as ideas for Santa. You won’t get everything you want.”

9 a.m. // I’m home after dropping Jack at preschool with a kiss and the words, “I love you, buddy. Be kind today.” As he entered his classroom, I sheepishly handed his teacher an extra sock. (He’d refused to wear both socks this morning and I didn’t feel like arguing.) Leaves confetti the streets of my neighborhood with color. The sight causes me to release an exhale I didn’t know I was holding. Before entering my home to begin my workday, I pause and give thanks for the beauty of this day.

10:30 a.m. // Pen in hand, I line edit a story about a Midwestern ministry. Two things are top of mind for me as I work: How does the writing reflect the dignity of each person in this story? What needs to change, if anything, to engage the reader in this narrative? Mid-way through the piece, I realize I have more questions for its writers related to structure, so I shoot off an email requesting a call.

work + play

12:30 p.m. // Gus paws at my leg, letting me know it’s time for his mid-day walk. I finish my lunch and root around for my walking shoes and his harness. Once we’re ready, I burst out the door, inhale the fresh fall air and jog down our stoop. Steps into our walk, I greet a friend and neighbor who’s just brought her little one back from music class. Later, I pop in ear buds and listen to the newest episode of the Coffee + Crumbs podcast featuring one of my favorite writers, Shauna Niequist. During the episode, she says something I know I’ll need to copy in my journal: “The more we invest in our health and healing, the more we have to offer the people in our homes. Most of us get that math backward.”

2:30 p.m. // Time to face the blank page. I’ve just hopped off a call with the freelance writers whose work I edited this morning. Now I need to finish my assignment. I’m covering the work of an agency that’s helping resettle Afghan neighbors in the U.S. As I run through my interview notes, this quote unsettles me: “the trauma these families and children are facing is massive.” I close my laptop. With folded hands, I offer silent prayer for peace and wholeness.

4:30 p.m. // “Welcome to my castle!” my son cries, surveying the playground next to his preschool. We’re catching the last drops of daylight before nighttime descends on our city. My little prince beckons me inside to show me around, then abandons his throne at first sight of the tire swing. A sliver of crescent moon brightens the quickly darkening sky. Cool air wraps around my body. I push Jack’s swing, and watch him spin. He smiles back at me, eyes shining. Dinner beckons, but we linger, drinking in this sacred, mundane moment on a cool night in November.

rest

6:15 p.m. // Jack turned up his nose at my original dinner plan — bean tacos — so we’re eating leftovers. I’ve heated up a bowl of African Peanut Soup for me and a hot dog in a whole wheat bun plus carrots and peas for him. We both munch crisp red grapes on the side. Between bites, Jack asks *me* about my day. I share that I especially enjoyed our visit to the playground, then volley the question to him. “I’m so excited to make a treat for Gussy’s birthday!” he exclaims. After dinner, we’ll make a “pupcake” for Gus’ birthday using a recipe I Googled.

7:15 p.m. // Gus gobbles up his pupcake. Jack tries a few bites of the extra one we baked, declaring it “dis-GUST-ing!” I giggle, rubbing our dog’s coat. “I think Gussy loved it.”

8:15 p.m. // While I read Dream Animals by Emily Winfield Martin, Jack leans back against my already-too-big pregnant belly. His brother jabs my rib cage, asserting his presence. I close the book and Jack crawls into bed without much protest. I sing him “Goodnight My Someone,” a favorite lullaby. Before prayers and a final hug, Jack’s already snoring.

9:15 p.m. // I let Gus out for the last time, make a cup of Nutty Almond Cream tea and cozy up in bed for some me-time. First things first: finish writing this post. Then I hope to dive into my latest read, Regina Porter’s The Travelers, which explores racism, aging and the search for meaning. A yawn overtakes me, then another. I don’t have long before I’ll fall asleep myself.

I must confess, I almost didn’t participate in this challenge because I was afraid. This morning a voice from within asked gently, Self, who told you to be afraid of taking up space? I’m still pondering this question, however, asking it emboldened me to act.

Something miraculous and mysterious happens when we voice our stories — we give others permission to claim theirs too. I hope we keep telling the truth about our lives. I hope we make extra room for those whose stories have been traditionally ignored. I hope we hear and amplify the voices of others, especially those unlike us. May we practice the holy work of showing, telling and listening again and again.

Why I write

Why do cicadas hum?
Why do chickadees whistle?
Why do coyotes cock their heads and howl
in the vast darkness?

Because words are oxygen.

Because last summer you were playing
in the bathtub with your cars,
I let the faucet run too long —
I was nearby, absorbed in a story —
warm water sloshed higher and higher,
when I looked up, I laughed,
put down my book and asked,
“Honey, do you want to try floating?”
Kneeling on tile, I cradled your head in my hands
told you to “puff up your chest like a starfish,”
couldn’t stop thinking about that stolen summer
all we’d lost
all that needed mending
and then you floated,
fingers grazing the edges of the bathtub,
you beamed, and how else would I remember?

And how else would I remember
the warmth of my grandfather’s voice,
indigo mountains cresting over the horizon,
my first taste of watermelon, juicy-sweet wonder?

I sift words like grains of sand,
craft castles from memory,
some days, shaping it all is like trying to contain the ocean
— impossible.
Hands caked with salt water and sand
I build anyway,
each story
an offering.

A writer I admire once called writing
“a miserable, awful business”
and also “better than anything
in the world.”

She’s right.

Writing is the cure
and the sickness.

It feeds me
and empties
and fills me again.
It’s like confession
or communion
and perhaps that’s sacrilegious?
Mostly, I think it’s prayer.

Someone in a church I no longer know,
he said something like,
“Women’s voices don’t belong in the pulpit.”

He’s wrong.

When I set my pen to the empty page,
I only want to tell the truth:
half of my life I spent running
trying to make myself small.
These days I stand tall
and sing:
this is how I was created —
with whole symphonies inside
praising.

I know what the coyotes know:
my voice is my power.

A slant of Light

Advent journal, 12/22/20:

It’s my birthday. As I write, I am wondering what wisdom I have to share after 35 revolutions ’round the sun. Probably something about motherhood or paying attention. Or how to listen, how to make peace with your body, how to spot a seed of faith in a field of doubt. Those are essays I’ll write someday, once I find that pesky seed.

Earlier this month, I took a Zoom writing workshop led by an author I admire. I hoped the experience would advance my work in progress. Yet, as I sat across from a screen filled with accomplished writers, many of whom have degrees and accolades I could only dream of obtaining, I thought, “How did I end up here? What lessons do *I* have to offer?” I found myself lost in doubt.

Honestly, I thought I’d have more figured out by 35. My peers are growing their families and platforms and making job moves. During a pandemic! It’s been a good year, all things considered, but my two big dreams? Neither came to fruition.

While walking to the woods, I confess this to a friend over Voxer and my voice cracks. She is a pastor, and someone I can trust wholeheartedly, and sometimes when I Vox her it feels like I’m talking to God. My voice cracks as I finish my message and I’m confronted with the reality that my plans aren’t God’s plans, and perhaps I ought to loosen my grip.

When my boots touch the trailhead, the sun’s dipping toward the horizon. Sunlight washes over barren branches and brittle leaves, painting them gold with its Midas touch. I turn toward the source of light and a word comes to mind: Peace.

***

I don’t know what you’re longing for this December. Maybe it’s rest. Maybe it’s an end to loneliness or too much togetherness. An end to this pandemic, to injustice. A baby to adore. Someone to notice your unseen work and tell you it matters. (It matters.) Maybe it’s all that and more.

I’m sharing this because I’d forgotten: as surely as the sun sets, waiting seasons end. You uncover answers — or not (a non-answer is an answer, too). You release old ways and make room for revelation. You stop searching, scatter new seeds, trust their growth. A virus dies. A long-awaited child is born.

We witness a slant of Light.