Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

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.

Announcement Part 2 (Everything You Wanted to Know, Plus Some!)

writingAs promised, here is part 2 of my announcement! (See here for part 1.) Thanks to all of you for being so supportive and encouraging—I am so thankful for each one of you.

So, I’m writing a book. (I need to keep saying that in the hope that I’ll start believing it. . . .)

Ready?

It’s a memoir called Was Blind Dating, but Now I See.

Here’s the premise: Eight setups. Eight awkward dates. Eight things God tried to teach me along the way. (A few of which I learned in a messy, roundabout sort of way, and some of which I’m still trying to figure out.)

***

As my twenties slipped by, with the formidable 3-0 lurking around the corner, life didn’t look quite the way I’d imagined. I had a career, my own home, a queen-size bed, and bridesmaid dresses of every hue jammed into my closet. But notably absent was a wedding ring on my left hand . . . and the man to accompany it.

Although I’d never been one with visions of frothy wedding gowns and sparkly tiaras, I did figure I’d get married and have a family one day. But “one day” was starting to breathe down my neck, with no suitable suitors in sight.

In the decade after college, as my friends jumped into relationships, got married, and moved on with their lives, I couldn’t help but wonder if God had missed me somehow when he was dishing out the marriage and family blessings. Why would he be so quiet about something that was so close to my heart? And so I started praying in earnest for God to bring the right man into my life.

Instead, he brought me matchmakers. Eight of them, to be precise.

Thus began a five-year journey of blind dating mishaps, misadventures, and heartaches, in which I encountered the likes of the Professor, the Linebacker, Uber-Fundamentalist Boy, and Mr. Paper-Perfect. But along the way, a funny thing happened. While I was looking so hard for one thing, God snuck up on me and showed me things I hadn’t even been looking for—things like hope and community and gratitude and joy.

And perhaps most surprising of all, he revealed to me his grace. Grace so amazing that it left me lovestruck.

***

And there you have it—the short version! The book is scheduled to come out in February 2016 (think Valentine’s Day). Thanks for coming along with me on this adventure!

Your turn: Have you ever experienced God’s grace in a totally unexpected way or in a unique way during a certain season of your life? I’d love to hear about it.

That Big Announcement I Was Telling You About

Young Author

Note that my book even had a ribbon tie and a custom spine. Classy!

When I was in fourth grade, I wrote a book called Molly Mouse Returns Home, the riveting sequel to my third-grade debut (curious minds can read about it here).

I loved to write under any conditions as a kid (especially if I had those cool multicolored gel pens), but there was something special about Young Authors week, when everyone in the class got to write, illustrate, and bind our own books. (Mrs. Strukel, if you’re out there, I’d like to thank you, as I now realize what an undertaking it must have been to help some thirty ten-year-olds complete this project, no doubt requiring excessive amounts of time, patience, and rubber cement.)

When it was Young Authors week, suddenly I wasn’t just a writer anymore; I was an author. My words weren’t merely tucked in a notebook in my dresser drawer; they were out there for the world (or at least my twenty-eight fellow classmates) to see. In short, I was getting published.

The final day of Young Authors week was an all-out literary party. We read each other’s books and signed them in the back, and as I read my classmates’ stories, I marveled at these people I thought I knew. Wow, Jackie is so creative! Who knew Darren could draw so well?

The pinnacle of the day was when the local acting troupe came in. They chose one story from each grade to act out in front of the whole school at an assembly, and we all sat on the edge of our seats, wondering whose stories would be chosen. My mind swirled, recalling all the amazing tales I’d read that day. The one scenario I never imagined was what actually happened.

When it was time for the last skit, the emcee stepped up to mic. “Our next story is . . . Molly Mouse Returns Home!”

I sat there stunned. Of all the stories, they had chosen mine?

Fast-forward to 2014. Just a few weeks ago, I received a twenty-six-page packet in the mail, filled with big legaly words like indemnities and proration and force majeure—and also the two most important words: BOOK CONTRACT. It has taken me a while to get my mind around it, but it’s true: For the first time since fourth grade, I’m going to be published.

After I watched my story about Molly Mouse come to life onstage, my ten-year-old self was shaking out of sheer gratitude and awe. That’s when I saw my mom in the crowd. I didn’t know until later that my teacher had called to fill her in on the surprise, but at the time it didn’t matter how she’d gotten there; it just mattered that she was there.

Young Author

This is me rocking the side ponytail with the actors who acted out my book. I have so many questions about this. For starters: Who exactly was Molly Mouse in this scenario?

I threw all my fourth-grade bravado aside and ran straight to my mom’s arms. This big thing had just happened, and I got to share it with someone who knew me and loved me. (Added bonus: My teacher let Mom emancipate me for an hour to get lunch off campus.)

And you know what? That’s kind of how I feel right now. As exciting as it is that someone is making my words come to life in a real-live book, it’s equally an honor that I get to share it with all of you. You have encouraged me, loved me, and shared your stories with me for the last several years. And it feels amazing that God has allowed me to share this adventure with all of you.

I got rather long winded with this post (I guess that happens when you start by going back to the fourth grade), so I’ll save my announcement about what the book is about for the next post.

Until then, I want to know about you: What’s something you’re looking forward to, big or small?

 

Declare His Grace

declare 2014 bannerLast week I went to the Declare Conference, where I was surrounded by hundreds of smart, talented, creative blogger types. I came away inspired, full of ideas, and a little bit turtle-like, as I do believe I’ve used up all my extrovertedness until approximately 2024.

At breakfast on the first morning, when we were introducing ourselves to the other women at our table, someone asked what my blog was about. I said it was about grace . . . and promptly knocked my glass of ice water all over the table and onto my lap. Okay, so maybe I should clarify: my blog is about God’s grace, not so much my own physical grace. Glad I could clear that up once and for all.

Declare 2014I had the distinct privilege of being on a publishing panel on Saturday, where I joined a line-up of editors, agents, and writers to talk about some of my favorite things: books, writing, words, and more words! It was like Christmas (except for the part about how we were in Dallas and it was 110 degrees).

Another highlight was getting to hear my friend Lisa-Jo Baker talk about her new book, Surprised by Motherhood. She was brave and real as she shared stories about being a mom and loving well, and she made us cry and laugh in almost the same breath. (For the sake of full disclosure, I was also Lisa-Jo’s editor. You can thank her for the lyrical beauty of her words, but you can blame me if there’s an errant comma in there somewhere.)

surprised-by-motherhood-book-cover-lisa-jo-bakerIn honor of Declare, I’m giving away a free copy of Lisa-Jo’s book. If you’ve ever had a mom or been a mom, I highly recommend this book. It’s a redemptive story about what God can do through the bond between a mother and a child—and how he reveals deeper parts of himself to us through that relationship.

To be eligible, write a comment below about a highlight of your summer so far. Ready? Go! Be sure to enter your comment by Thursday to be eligible to win!

 

 

Whole Heart

Lyla and Tyler 1When do our hearts splinter in a dozen multitasking directions, I wonder? Whether out of necessity or out of a drive to be efficient and productive, we try to do as many things as we can at once. Making dinner while talking on the phone. Checking e-mail while at a meeting. Texting while walking down the hall. Eating on the run. There’s a certain kind of pride that comes from being so proficient at doing two or three things at a time.

But recently I was with my five-year-old niece and my three-year-old nephew, and they taught me a profound lesson about childlike faith. Childlike faith, it turns out, isn’t just about blind trust; it’s about putting your whole heart into something.

The thing about preschoolers is that they don’t do anything at 90 percent or 75 percent or, heaven forbid, halfway. Whatever they’re doing, they’re all in. Lyla and Tyler didn’t walk from place to place; they ran—or, whenever possible, raced. When they were at the park, they played with every ounce of energy in their little bodies. And when it was time to get in the car afterward, they were asleep before we even exited the parking lot, their treasures slowly slipping out of their clutched fingers.

On the last evening we were together, Tyler asked me to play in his band, replete with plastic drums, toy harmonica, and air guitar. He offered this instruction by way of invitation or warning: “In my band, we sing LOUD!” There was only one setting for this kid: wholeheartedness.

The same was true for Lyla. As she played detective, inspired by her newfound magnifying glass and soaring imagination, I was awed by her ability to tune out everything else around her—the dinner that needed to be made, the two dogs sidled up next to her, the cacophony of voices all around. I, on the other hand, was distracted, simultaneously trying to set the table and scoot into adult conversations while I played with her. But Lyla was looking for 100 percent: “I want you to look in my eyes when we’re playing,” she said earnestly.

And so on Sunday, when we were all in church together, it shouldn’t have surprised me that these kids would teach me about wholehearted worship too.

The keyboard struck a few telling introductory chords, and their eyes lit up. “We know this one!” They were dancing in their chairs before the chorus even began.

I know who goes before me Lyla and Tyler 2
I know who stands behind

These two small voices grew louder and louder, and soon they were belting out the words.

The God of angel armies
Is always by my side

All around us, people started grinning and stealing glances at our volunteer choir. The one who reigns forever He is a friend of mine

Chorus by chorus, these little people were teaching us what worship sounds like: whole voice, whole body, whole heart.

The God of angel armies
Is always by my side

God says, “If you look for me wholeheartedly, you will find me” (Jeremiah 29:13). And that’s exactly what I want. I want to be more like Lyla and Tyler. I want to chase after God not with just a distracted fraction of me, but with all of me. With my whole heart.

 

The One Prayer You Need

Have you ever hit the bottom of the prayer barrel?

You’ve been praying about the same thing day after day, month after month, year after year, yet nothing will budge.

You’ve been crying facedown before the Lord, your heart wrenching right in two, yet he seems deaf to your cries.

And now? Now you have no words left. Whenever you find yourself alone with God, the words stick in your throat. There are no eloquent petitions, no pronouncements of trust. Just the hollow beating of your heart. Even if you manage to squeeze out some words, they bounce off the ceiling, right back at you. You never wanted it to come to this, but you have no idea how to get on speaking terms with him again.

I know what it’s like to have parched lips, mute tongue. I know what it’s like to hear nothing at prayer time but the beating of my own heart. Yet the more I read Scripture, the more convinced I am that there’s only one prayer—indeed, one word—that really matters.

Abba. Daddy.

It was the first prayer the disciples learned to pray:

Our Abba in heaven . . . (Matthew 6:9)

It was the desperate cry of the prodigal son returning home to his father:

Abba, I have sinned against both heaven and you . . . (Luke 15:21)

It was the anguished cry of Jesus himself during that final week of his life on earth:

Abba, Father . . . please take this cup of suffering away from me. (Mark 14:36)

Abba, forgive them. . . . (Luke 23:34)

Abba, I entrust my spirit into your hands! (Luke 23:46)

When we cry out “Abba,” we’re not just picking one of God’s names at random; we’re claiming our special relationship to him. We’re saying we know who he is and we know who we are: his own beloved daughters and sons.

In that case, maybe it doesn’t matter so much how we pray; it’s who we’re praying to.

We don’t need to have all the right words—just the one word that makes all things right. Abba.

Into the Deep

ocean 2She said good-bye to her husband ten months ago. Well, that isn’t exactly right. She’d been saying good-bye to him for nine years . . . the slow good-bye of Alzheimer’s. He took his final breath on a blistering day last August, but he’d been slipping away from her, memory by memory, for some time before that.

She misses him. When she walks by his picture, she wags her finger at him. “You stinker!” she says, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Why did you leave first?”

We laugh, but we both feel the undertow of grief.

“I’m homesick for heaven,” she says. It’s barely more than a whisper.

“Do you ever ask God why?” I don’t even know which why I mean—why Bob’s memories were stolen from him, why she had to say a long good-bye to her beloved, why the Parkinson’s is now stripping her of the things she loves. But I need to know. It’s a question that burns in my own gut.

Ruth is many things to me—a mentor, the wife of my childhood pastor, a friend. But most of all, she’s a mirror of the woman I want to become someday. There’s a half-century between us, but our friendship is the richer for it. I want her wise wrinkles, her words that ooze grace, her ability to laugh at herself until tears run down her cheeks, her knack for making each guest who enters her home feel like British royalty.

And so I need to know how she does this. How does she wrestle with those prayers that go unanswered—or unanswered in the way she hoped? I’m dabbling in the shallow end of faith, and I need her to tell me how to do this when the shore is no longer in sight.

She smiles at my question—gentle, patient. “The older I get, the less I ask God why,” she says. “More and more, I’m in awe that he would entrust these wounds and difficulties to me.”

I stare at her, dumb. I’m more aware than ever that I have a single toe in the water while she’s out in the deep-blue sea. “You mean God works in spite of the wounds?”

She shakes her head ever so slightly. “The wounds are the gift.”

I’m not even Peter, sinking in the raging waves. I haven’t gotten out of the boat.

“I used to think we would bring our medals to God one day,” she says. “We’d get to heaven and show him all our successes, all the good things we’ve done. But I don’t think so anymore.”

I stare at her, wondering if she notices the waves crashing around her.

“God isn’t impressed by our achievements,” she says. “He wants our wounds. I have a feeling he’d tell us, ‘Look at my Son. He just came to me with his scars.’”

When it’s time to go, I hug her good-bye, surprised that someone so frail could squeeze so tight. As I make my way to the car, soul still reeling, I feel a question bubbling up inside me.

Why, Lord?

But this time the question is fueled by awe.

Of all the people in the world, why do I get to be her friend?

I don’t know why. But like Ruth, I’m starting to realize that maybe that’s not the most important question. Maybe it’s time to leave the shore behind and follow her into the deep.

You call me out upon the waters
The great unknown where feet may fail
And there I find You in the mystery
In oceans deep My faith will stand.
—From “Oceans” by Hillsong United

 

Friday Favorites for July

friday_favorites_header1

And now . . . for a few of my favorite things for July. Enjoy!

For anyone who has ever tried to articulate whether they like a book . . .
These book reviews by kids are part insightful and part hilarious. Case in point: “This was a good book but it didn’t make much sense.” Book Reviews by Kids

For bookmark aficionados . . .
I realize a scrap of paper or a receipt would work just as well, but I do love a good bookmark. These are fabulous—especially the bedside lamp bookmark. Creative Bookmarks

For anyone who has wondered if their marital status makes them less valuable . . .
Shauna Niequist nails it again: “Marriage doesn’t make you me more special. It’s not a status symbol.” You Are Significant with or without a Significant Other

For anyone who likes to devour books . . .
These cakes are literary and culinary masterpieces. Just wait till you see the Narnia-themed one! Gorgeous and Delicious Literary Cakes

 

Getting a New Name

Shauna Niequist wrote a beautiful post a while back about the old stories we believe about ourselves. Even though God has been at work in us, transforming us and giving us new identities, we continue to buy into old versions of ourselves—or lies we’ve bought into for too long.

In her post “Change the Story” she says:

There are people and situations that take us back to old, old stories, and even though we’re moms now, not children, or even though we’re business owners now, not adolescents, we find ourselves acting out stories that haven’t been true for a long time, or stories that were never true to begin with.

I’ve been thinking about this lately, and I’ve been reminded of those famous words of Jesus: that the truth will set you free.

One of my friends sees herself as nonconfrontational, fearful of stepping into dangerous situations. But as I’ve watched her parent a son with severe allergies, I see how God is rewriting that story. I first witnessed this growing bravery when she discovered her son’s dairy allergy. She was miles from home and husband, but she confronted every obstacle in her way to find out what was happening to her baby and get him the help he needed. And as I watch her continue to advocate for her little guy at restaurants, at school, and on playdates, making sure he’s safe physically and not being left out, she is growing into many shades of brave.

Another friend holds on to an old version of herself—a story that she is slow to warm up with new people, that no would pursue her or connect with her without a long lead time. But over the years, I’ve seen her stepping out in her job, flourishing in her interactions with clients, stepping into new friendships, making herself rightly vulnerable in relationships new and old. And something amazing is happening: people are seeing her for the beautiful woman she is. God is rewriting her story.

For years I’ve believed that I was destined to live in fear. I worried about big things and little things, about the noise in my attic that was most likely a serial killer and about global warming and about losing the people I loved most. I decided that my condition was chronic—that I’d just have to figure out how to live with it. But somewhere along the way, God began to rewrite that script. Instead of keeping a running tally of my worries, I started to track all the ways I’d seen his faithfulness to me. And ever so subtly, I noticed that fear was no longer in the driver’s seat of my life.

One of the things I appreciate about God is that he loves us just the way we are but doesn’t leave us that way. The evidence is there all through Scripture as he discards old stories and gives people new names, new identities:

  • When God gave Abram a promise for generations to come, he told him, You are no longer Abram. From now on, you will be Abraham—the father of many nations (Genesis 17:5).
  • When Jacob had an encounter with God, God told him, You will no longer be called the deceiver. From now on, your name will be Israel—one who has struggled with God (Genesis 32:28).
  • When Jesus met Peter, he said, Your name is no longer Simon. From now on, you will be Peter, the rock (Matthew 16:18).

I hear God saying the same thing today:

  • You are no longer Timid. My daughter, your new name is Brave.
  • You are no longer Unseen. You are my daughter Beloved.
  • You are no longer Much-Afraid. You are my daughter Learning-to-Trust.

What about you? Is there a story that God has rewritten in your life—or one that he’s rewriting now? Has God given you a new name? I’d love to hear about it, I’d be honored to pray for you on this journey.

What Prayer Tastes Like

Have you ever wondered what prayer tastes like?strawberry-apple pie

Up until yesterday it wouldn’t have occurred to me that prayer intersects with the taste buds at all. But now I can say with pretty firm confidence: prayer tastes like strawberry-apple pie.

I asked a friend to pray for me yesterday. There was something specific on my calendar, and I knew it was bigger than me, so I asked her to go with me through her prayers. And over the course of that hour, I felt covered somehow. Braver than usual, more myself than usual. And I knew I wasn’t alone.

Later that evening the doorbell rang, and it was my friend and her family. In her arms she was carrying something warm and wrapped in a dish towel. When she put her bundle on the kitchen counter and pulled back the cover, a heavenly aroma wafted into the room. It was a homemade pie. Sweet strawberries mingled with cinnamony apples. And it was still warm from the oven.

“I wanted to do something with my hands while I was praying for you,” she said.

I’ve had people tell me they were praying for me before, but it’s not every day that you can see the results of someone’s prayers—let alone taste them.

When I took the first mouth-watering bite, I thought, So this is what prayer tastes like. Sweet and tangy and baked to perfection inside a golden crust.

I pictured my friend rolling out the dough, asking God to smooth out the path before me. I imagined her slicing strawberries and peeling apples as she prayed for God to cut away the obstacles. I envisioned her scooping the flour and sugar, all the while requesting extra measures of wisdom and guidance.

As I licked the last few crumbs from my plate, I thought about what a brilliant idea a prayer pie is. If the thing you’re praying about utterly flops, your sorrows go down much easier à la mode. If things go well, what better way to celebrate than to toast with a forkful of pie? And either way, you will know that the hands that made it were the same hands that prayed you through.

So I guess that’s what prayer tastes like. A little like homemade pie. And a lot like love.