Life

March 18, 2019

A Letter to Our Baby 2.0

Dear Baby,

When you were about the size of a blueberry, newly growing inside me, your dad nicknamed you Mo. He imagined that you’d be spunky, with a sense of humor, maybe even a little mischievous. I don’t question him on these things anymore—somehow he just knows.

We’d been hoping for you and dreaming about you for a while, but we first met you at the doctor’s office. Your tiny heart was beating wildly on the ultrasound screen. For the next three weeks, we walked an inch off the ground, fairly bursting with this secret of new life.

***

The morning of our nine-week ultrasound, I felt a lump of fear lodge in my throat. We’d gotten difficult news at an ultrasound once before, and it was hard to swallow my anxiety. I tried to be rational, to remind myself that the past does not dictate the future. Besides, hadn’t we learned a thing or two about trusting God the last time around?

And so I followed the doctor’s instructions, drinking copious amounts of water in the space of an hour to ensure that my bladder would be sufficiently full for the procedure.

“I’ll show you the screen once I start the next test,” the technician promised me.

She didn’t show me the screen.

Two hours later, the doctor called to confirm what I already knew.

“Your baby stopped growing,” she said. “There is no heartbeat.”

***

Your big brother was taking a nap when I got the call. At just a year and a half old, he doesn’t yet appreciate the concept of a little sibling. But he does know about you. On principle, if not practicality, we made sure he was the first to find out we were expecting. For the past several days, he’s been showing off his newfound ability to say your name.

As I lifted him out of his crib, he rewarded me with his trademark cheeky grin. Then he promptly pointed to my belly. “Mo!” he exclaimed.

I put one hand on his head and the other on you, tiny as you are. And in that brief moment I was given to hold you both, I baptized the two of you in the saltwater fountain of my tears.

***

Baby of mine, I don’t weep for you. You are in a place with no tears and no pain and no loss and no death. Best of all, you are with Jesus. I weep for us, because there are so many things we’ll miss. We’ll miss seeing your smile light up a room. We’ll miss hearing your contagious giggle. We’ll miss finding out your favorite color or if you like cherries or if you have an affinity for knock-knock jokes. We’ll miss holding you in our arms and smelling the top of your baby-fresh head.

Your dad says he pictures God’s love like a nest. It’s hard for me to imagine what heaven is like, but I suppose that’s as good a picture as any. Heaven must be the ultimate nest—where we’re covered, protected, hemmed in by Love himself.

I wish you could have stayed in our nest a little longer. There is a Mo-shaped spot we saved just for you.

But maybe I have this backwards. Maybe you are the one who has arrived in the nest already. Maybe you’re the one who’s saving a spot just for us.

Love,
Mom

He will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings. His faithful promises are your armor and protection.
Psalm 91:4

May 4, 2016

10 True Things for Those Who Wait

My niece, waiting for her daddy to come home

As I look around lately, I see so many people I love waiting for something close to their heart. Waiting for a house to sell, waiting for medical results to come back, waiting for a dark cloud to lift, waiting for a long-desired prayer to be answered.

And as Mother’s Day approaches, it seems to me that the holiday can trigger the ache of waiting in particularly poignant ways, especially for those who are waiting for a child to join their family, or for those who are waiting for a child to return home, or for those who long to see their moms again in heaven.

If you find yourself in a waiting season right now, here are 10 true things you should know.

1. Waiting is an act of courage. If you are waiting, believe me: you are brave!

Wait patiently for the Lord. Be brave and courageous. Yes, wait patiently for the Lord.
—Psalm 27:14

2. Waiting can make a person weary. But you are stronger than you know.

Those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.
—Isaiah 40:31

3. God is not oblivious to your waiting.

As for me, I look to the Lord for help. I wait confidently for God to save me, and my God will certainly hear me.
—Micah 7:7

4. When you feel like you can’t wait any longer, there is hope.

I am worn out waiting for your rescue, but I have put my hope in your word.
—Psalm 119:81

5. There are special blessings for those who wait.

The Lord is a faithful God. Blessed are those who wait for his help.
—Isaiah 30:18

6. Your waiting doesn’t mean God has forgotten you.

The Lord is good to those who depend on him, to those who search for him. So it is good to wait quietly for salvation from the Lord.
—Lamentations 3:25-26

7. Even in your waiting, you’re not alone.

Lord, be merciful to us, for we have waited for you. Be our strong arm each day and our salvation in times of trouble.
—Isaiah 33:2

8. Talk to God about your waiting. He delights in listening.

Listen to my voice in the morning, Lord. Each morning I bring my requests to you and wait expectantly.
—Psalm 5:3

9. It is possible to wait well.

I will climb up to my watchtower and stand at my guardpost. There I will wait to see what the Lord says and how he will answer my complaint.
—Habakkuk 2:1

10. Your waiting is making you beautiful.

If we look forward to something we don’t yet have, we must wait patiently and confidently.
—Romans 8:25

***

What are you waiting for right now? I’d be honored to pray for you as you wait. To find out more about my story of waiting, you can read my book, I Was Blind (Dating), but Now I See.

I am giving away a flower delivery with this post! If you share this post, you’ll be eligible to win a flower arrangement . . . delivered to you or someone you love!

March 9, 2016

The Truth about “Arriving”

The moment of disillusionment came crashing down sometime in September during my freshman year of college. I was sitting outside doing some reading for one of my classes when the revelation hit me like a Biology 101 textbook falling from the sky: I will never be the girl on the cover of the catalog!

Before that moment, I don’t think I even realized I harbored any such dreams. Starting my junior year of high school, I’d get mailing after mailing of coeds sprawled on a blanket under pines or yellow aspens (never doing any homework—just smiling perfect, gleaming smiles).

My realization that I would never be the catalog girl wasn’t about the way I looked or about the fact that my outfit didn’t come off the hanger at Gap or even that such handsome guys never sat on my red plaid blanket.

It was that I’d thought I’d somehow feel different once I arrived and became a college student.

As it turned out, I was still me.

It’s a phenomenon that has followed me my whole life. I figured that once I got engaged, I would suddenly feel glamorous and confident and perhaps even a little diva-like. And that once I got married, I’d instantly acquire all manner of wifely abilities, like, for example, being able to whip together a timely, healthy, and delicious dinner, or scrubbing the toilets on a regular basis.

But once again, I was just me, with a diamond solitaire on my finger, or just me, with a Mrs. in front of my name. It was a bit of a letdown to discover there’s no magic spell to transform you into a particular life stage. Instead, it turns out you just have to figure out how the role fits you, particularly. You don’t become someone else.

I recently discovered that the same thing is true when it comes to being an author. When I got my first copy of my book, I was elated to hold it in my hands. But to my surprise, I didn’t transform me into the persona of an author in that moment. The day I got the book, I finished my work day, as usual; commuted home amid much construction, as usual; and arrived home to discover I had no ideas for dinner, as usual. I’m quite certain that Louisa May Alcott and Agatha Christie had no such pedestrian problems.

While it’s a bit of a disappointment at first to discover that a new role doesn’t equate to becoming a new person, it’s ultimately a huge relief. It means that God doesn’t expect me to fit some mold I was never meant to fit into. I never have to step into shoes I wasn’t created to fill. He has millions of patterns of what “college student” or “wife” or “author” looks like, not some one-size-fits-all formula. And that’s ever so much more creative and freeing, for all of us.

It means you don’t have to be the girl in the college catalog.
You don’t have to be the woman at church who seems to have it all together.
You don’t have to be a Pinterest-perfect mom.
You don’t have to be your neighbor or your sister or your mom or your best friend or your online nemesis.

You just get to be you. And you get to figure out along the way what it looks like to be you as a wife, you as a mom, you as an employee, you as a leader, you as a follower of Christ.

You aren’t defined by your roles. God made you to be you, and that is a good thing.

***

I’d love to hear your story! Are there any roles in your life that have surprised you? Did you expect to feel different when you arrived at any of those anticipated life stages?

February 16, 2016

Overcoming Shame

Overcomer I suppose it could be argued that every life stage opens the door for feelings of shame to flood in. When we hit middle school, we become uber-aware of how we measure up (or don’t) to our peers. When we’re in high school, our hearts open to shame over a myriad of things: how we perform in school, how we’re perceived by the opposite sex, how we look compared to the girl on the cover of Seventeen.

And shame, as it turns out, doesn’t graduate. When we get married, we come face-to-face with having someone see all the parts of us, even the parts we try to hide. When we become mothers, we wonder if we will pass on our insecurities to our daughters.

I could be wrong here, but there may be no place where shame is as rampant as in the dating world. There’s something about putting yourself out there and making yourself vulnerable in front of someone you’re trying to impress that seems to push all our shame buttons. Especially in the early stages of dating, it’s risky business. You are entrusting your heart to someone you barely know—someone who has the power to stomp on that tender heart.

Having been on more than my share of blind dates, I know well that feeling of shame that bubbles up when the guy you like doesn’t call you back for a second date. You can’t help but wonder what it is about you that isn’t good enough or likable enough.

I wish I’d had Aubrey Sampson’s book Overcomer during my dating years, but it’s one we all need as women, no matter our life stage. It offers a vulnerable, tender look into shame and how it affects us as women—and how it affects our relationships and our faith. Aubrey speaks words of truth to counteract the lies of culture and the lies of the enemy, and her words are balm to wounded souls.

Here is a sneak peek into Aubrey’s wonderful book:

You—with your specific body type, skin color, facial features, personality, gifts, and passions—are a unique and living reflection of God, designed to carry the image of his love to the world. You were made in his image, but more powerfully still, you were made to be his. You belong to God, not to shame.

Have you ever felt shame over something that wasn’t your fault? What helps you counteract shame . . . for yourself or your daughter or someone else you love?

Be sure to comment below . . . I’m giving away a free copy of Overcomer to one lucky commenter!

June 24, 2015

How Do You Say Goodbye to a Place?

I sat on the bottom step in my living room last week, looking around at my-house-that-wasn’t-really-my-house anymore. The U-haul was parked at the end of the driveway, filled with every earthly possession my husband and I own. Everything had been packed. Every surface had been cleaned. There was nothing left to do but wait for the closing.

As I sat there, memories of the past decade flashed through my mind. I knew it was time to leave my condo and move into our new home—the first place my husband and I picked out together. But a wave of nostalgia swept over me now that it was time to say good-bye to this place—this place that had played such a significant part in my story.

I longed for some way to mark the moment, for some tangible closure, but I wasn’t sure what that would even look like. How do you say good-bye to a place that had been the staging ground for so much life?

I tried to imagine handing over the keys to my home of eleven years. I didn’t know much about the buyer—only that her name was Veronica, and what her signature looked like. Then the thought came to me, out of the blue: write her a note.

I hesitated, certain she’d think I was crazy. Then again, I’d never have to see her again, right? So I pulled out a yellow pad of paper and a blue felt-tip marker—the only writing implements I could find that weren’t packed away.

Dear Veronica,

Welcome home! I bought this condo when I was twenty-five, wide-eyed and terrified by the ream of papers I was signing without really understanding all the fine print. I was doing this on my own, and I never imagined I’d buy a place by myself. But it turned out to be the perfect spot for me—home to fondue parties with friends, Easter brunches with family crammed into the living room, and slumber parties with my sister. This is where I grew brave and grew up. It’s where I learned to paint a room and cook a lasagna and plant tulip bulbs.

And then something unexpected and delightful happened—I got married, and my husband moved in, along with his three bikes, four guitars, and a dozen houseplants. It’s the place we came back to after our honeymoon, the first home we lived in together. The walls are filled with four years of laughter and words and music, with growing pains and good memories from our newlywed days.

I heard someone say once that your home is a character in your story, and I think that’s true. I don’t know how long you’ll stay here or how your story will unfold, but I pray that this home will be a wonderful character in the story of your life too.

So here’s my benediction, over you and this house: May God bless each moment you spend here, and may he bless each person who walks through these doors.

Stephanie

Then I put the yellow sheet on the counter, right under the spare set of keys, feeling relieved that she wouldn’t read this note until she moved in and I was several cities away.

What I failed to account for was that the walk-through. Meaning she read the note right before I saw her at the closing.

When I entered the huge conference room, I realized my tactical error immediately. I also realized that this was not the place for sappy notes. The room was filled with serious-faced lawyers and professional-looking loan officers and a bunch of other people who looked distinctly unsentimental.

But then I saw Veronica hanging back, motioning for me to come closer. She looked just as wide-eyed as I’d been in her shoes eleven years ago. “Thanks for the note,” she whispered. And I saw that her eyes were brimming with tears.

“Congratulations,” I whispered back.

As I learned in snippets during our paper-signing marathon, she was me—a decade ago. Twenty-five. Single. An eighth-grade teacher.

At the end of the closing, I handed her the keys, and I sensed that something inside me had settled. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first, and then it hit me: closure. This was full circle—the closing of a chapter for me as a new one started for her.

I smiled at her and then took Daniel’s hand. It was time to introduce ourselves to the new character in our story.

Happy house to you, Veronica. Happy house.

February 27, 2015

Happy Birthday, Blog (Plus a Free Giveaway!)

We are a people who mark occasions—not just on the day they happen but on subsequent years afterward. Birthdays. Death days. Anniversaries. Class reunions. Mother’s Day. Father’s Day. The commemoration of special events. The day a war started and the day it ended.

And why is that, I wonder? Why don’t we just celebrate or mourn on that day, as the occasion calls for?

There’s something significant about an anniversary, I think. It puts a stake in the ground and lets us see where we are now, and where we’ve been. And this isn’t just nostalgia; God commands us to remember:

Remember the days of long ago; think about the generations past. Ask your father, and he will inform you. Inquire of your elders, and they will tell you.
—Deuteronomy 32:7

So why do we need to remember?

I think we need cues to remember because we’re so forward-focused that we forget the milestones from last month, last year, last decade. We’re so busy forging ahead that we forget the things (the good ones and the hard ones) that made us who we are today. We need a reminder to slow down, to look in the rearview mirror, to thank God for where we are and where we’ve come from.

I think there’s another reason God instructs us to remember. It’s because the emotions of the thing we’re recalling are often too big to be absorbed in a single day. We can’t take in all the joy required when a person is born, so we spread it out and mark that day on each ensuing year. We can’t take in the enormity of a loss on the day we lose someone we love, so we come back and revisit it later. We can’t do justice to all that being a mother stands for on that one day of labor, so we set aside a day to commemorate motherhood every year.

Today marks the one-year anniversary of this website, StephanieRische.com, and it’s gotten me thinking about remembering in general and about staking the mile markers of God’s faithfulness.

I’ve been thinking about how we’re pretty good at remembering the big anniversaries, but we often overlook the less obvious but no less significant ones. I want to do a better a job remembering, savoring, taking note, saying thank you. I want to be aware of God is doing in the moment, and I want to be intentional about thanking him afterward.

I have a lot of remembering to do, but here’s a small start. This month marks five years since I’ve been praying with my Tuesday prayer buddy. Just a few weeks ago marks the day four years ago when the man of my dreams got down on one knee on the cold pavement and asked me to marry him. Last week marks the day my little niece was baptized and charmed the whole congregation with her big eyes and fluffy white gown. This February marks my college roommate’s birthday—the 18^th one I’ve celebrated with her.

I don’t want to take these mini-celebrations for granted. I want to come to God in gratitude for all of them—for his faithfulness in the moment they happened and for all they mean to me now.

***

What about you? What small celebrations do you want to commemorate? I’d love to hear about them.

In honor of my blog birthday, I’m giving away two gifts to two new subscribers! Type in your email address on the right to be eligible for a $10 Starbucks gift card or a $10 Barnes & Noble gift card. I’ll choose two randomly selected commenters on Wednesday.

January 30, 2015

Chasing After Wonder

It’s a curious thing about wonder: sometimes it surprises you. Out of nowhere, a sunrise splatters pink across the canvas of sky. A snowflake lands on the window, and all at once you’re eight years old again.

But other times wonder is a little more elusive. Sometimes we have to get up off the couch and hunt it down.

***

Ever since I was a kid, my family has had a tradition of going for a walk in the woods on Christmas Eve. The tradition originated years ago, on a moonlit night when wonder came up from behind and sneak-attacked us. The snowflakes were falling, plump and sparkly, and the moon cast full shadows on the snowy ground.

We kids were all ready for bed when someone peeked out the window and said, “Oh, it would be such a pretty night to go for a walk!” We all lamented that it was too late to go when Dad surprised us with this proclamation: “No problem! Just put your snowsuits over your pajamas!”

And so, on that magical night, the Midnight Moonlight Walk was born.

***

As I’ve gotten older, though, there are years when the wonder wanes. This year the ground was wet and sloppy, covered in mud instead of glistening snow, and the moon was obscured by clouds. And truth be told, midnight no longer seems as exotic as it once did. It was tempting to stay by the fire sipping hot cider and eating another round of cookies. There was also the matter of my sister’s baby, sleeping soundly in her crib.

But my sister, my wonder-full sister, would hear nothing of the excuses. “Let’s get the baby up!” she said. “She can’t miss her first Midnight Moonlight Walk!”

And so we strapped little Addie into her carrier, donned our coats and boots, and armed ourselves with flashlights. Just a few steps onto the trail, I stepped in a large puddle. Shortly thereafter, I was accosted by a protruding tree branch. I wasn’t feeling the wonder.

Then I looked at Addie’s face, wide eyed and sleepy but taking everything in. Her bulky mittens made fine motor skills a challenge, but that didn’t stop her from pointing at everything we passed. “This!” she said, her gaze following the beam of the flashlight. “This!” “That!”

As we were finishing our walk, we arrived at the top of the hill, with Mom and Dad’s house lit up just below. The scene before us would have made Currier and Ives envious: the soft glow of lights, the smoke coming from the chimney, the Christmas tree in the window. We’d been sitting there only minutes earlier, but at the time I couldn’t have appreciated the beauty.

Sometimes, I think, we have to get out of our comfortable space and look from a new angle to see the beauty we already have. Sometimes we have to move to a new vantage point so we can chase down the wonder.

We may never be able to predict wonder, and surely we can’t hold on to it for long. But if we’re awake and looking for it, we just might be ready when it launches its sneak-attack.

***

The older you get, the more it takes to fill your heart with wonder, and only God is big enough to do that.
—Ravi Zacharias

October 23, 2014

The One Word I Can’t Pronounce

I don’t know how it’s taken me three decades to discover that I have a speech problem, but I do. There’s one word that refuses to squeeze out of my mouth . . . but it’s an important one.

Yes slides out so smoothly, with its smooth y and its slippery s. Okay, with its friendly syllables and happy-go-lucky ways, falls out just as easily. Sure is tip-of-the-tongue, ready to tumble out at a moment’s notice.

But no, on the other hand, regularly remains lodged somewhere in my esophagus. The word does manage to eke out on occasion . . . but only when it’s followed by problem, as in “no problem.”

Last week I met with two amazing people who have an amazing vision and invited me to be part of an amazing project.

My lips were immediately shaping into a yes. But in those fleeting seconds before I opened my mouth, a series of images flashed through my mind: all my current yeses. What would I have to sacrifice to make this new yes happen?

Here’s the thing: there are already some nonnegotiable yeses I’ve committed to. I’ve said yes to following Christ; I’ve said yes to being a wife; I’ve said yes to being a daughter, a friend, an aunt, a sister, a part of a community.

Would saying yes to this good thing mean saying no to those other best things?

And so I said no. I thought the sky would fall, the world would end, fuses would blow. But to my surprise, none of those things happened. I said no and nobody died.

We must learn the practice of saying no to that which crowds God out and yes to a way of life that makes space for God.
—M. Shawn Copeland

If God is calling you to do something, by all means, say yes. But if this yes is crowding out the best thing, then it may be time to say that word that can be so hard to get out.

Practice it with me now: NO.

***

Is there something you need to say no to today so you can say yes to the best thing?

September 9, 2014

Sojourners Here

A few weeks ago on a brilliant Sunday afternoon, my grandparents’ friends, a couple in their 80s, took their own lives. I didn’t know them personally, but I am grieving anyway. I’m grieving on behalf of their children, on behalf of their friends, on behalf of all those they left behind.

***

You were almost there, almost at the finish line. I know you wanted to end in a sprint, with triumph and vigor, arms lifted high. But somewhere along the way you forgot that finishing well sometimes just means finishing. Even if you have to limp across the line.

I wish you could have seen the crowd in the stands . . . all the people who were cheering you on, urging you forward. All the people who loved you.

I suppose you knew what King David knew—that we are but sojourners here on earth.

We are strangers before you and sojourners, as all our fathers were. Our days on the earth are like a shadow, and there is no abiding. (1 Chronicles 29:15)

Life in these shadowlands is hard, it’s true. The losses take our breath away, the pain doubles us over, and it can be hard to see the finish line through the tears.

But with these encroaching shadows, we needed you all the more. We needed your light. We needed the conversations over Sunday brunch, the phone calls to check in, the recipes to swap. You reflected God’s light in a way no one else can, and now your unique brilliance has been snuffed out.

If you were still here, I would hug you first and then chastise you. Instead, I’m left with the secondary grief of mourning you on behalf of those I love.

“People needed you,” I would have said. “My grandparents needed you.”

You were afraid to be a burden, but this burden you leave behind is so much heavier.

All I have is words, and they come too late for you to hear. And so I write in the hope that someone else will read these words and it will not be too late for them.

I want you to know that you are irreplaceable.
That the world needs your light.
That you can make it to the finish line.

So please. Please, fellow sojourner. Do not end your sojourn too soon.

February 28, 2014

Unearthing Your Buried Dream

Picture yourself when you were a kid—say, ten years old. Old enough to have discovered a bit about who you are, but young enough not to be jaded by things like pragmatism and budgets and the real world.

What did you dream about?
What did you hope for?
What visions did you have for the future?

When I was ten, I had aspirations of becoming an astronaut and an author. The intergalactic dream died a quick death when I realized I didn’t like any classes ending in “ology,” but the writing dream was harder to shake. I fantasized about putting words onto paper in a way that clicked with people and made them think and prompted them to say, “You too?”

And so, with some help from Mom and her cabinet full of craft supplies, I managed to put together my own book—a gripping tale about Molly the Mouse, who is deeply misunderstood, gets lost in the countryside, and eventually finds love and a home. (I think this title is actually the first in a two-part series about Molly Mouse, if I could only dig up the next book somewhere in my box-o-treasures.)

When I grew up, I shelved the writing dream, immersing myself with words and books but not believing I could write. That was for people who were smarter than me, more creative than me—people who had something important to say. But that little nugget of a dream never went away.

I think that’s how it is when God plants a desire or a passion or a dream in us. It may get buried for a while, but he never forgets about that dream-seed.

So what are the dreams planted inside of you?
What is buried in your heart under the layers of sediment and years?

It can be scary to dig down and excavate those places, because when we do, we expose tender, vulnerable pieces of ourselves to potential hurt. And we open ourselves up to potential disappointment and failure.

But you know what is worse than failing? Never finding out what God would do with those dream-seeds if we gave him a chance. Never tasting the joy that comes with doing what we were made to do. Never giving other people a chance to be fed by our gift.

“The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

Frederick Buechner

Twenty-five years after writing that first book, I am a little stunned to see my name on the cover of a real book real book. (It’s in small letters, but look closely—it’s there!) This book wasn’t handwritten and photocopied, and it required none of Mom’s craft supplies. But the feeling inside is the same, a quarter of a century later.

Whatever passion is burning inside of you, whatever dream is hiding there under the surface, I encourage you to chase after it—to go after that place where deep gladness and deep hunger collide.

And if you do, I’d love to hear about so I can be there, cheering you on.

***

In honor of launch week for StephanieRische.com, I’m giving away a copy of the Everyday Matters Bible for Women. To be eligible, simply answer this question in the comment section:

What was one of your dreams as a kid? What did you want to do or be someday?

Submit your answer by Monday, March 3, to be eligible to win.