Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

A Letter to Our Son on His 8th Birthday

My dear son,

When the grown-ups in your life see you lately, they regularly say some variation of, “Wow, you’ve grown so much!” And they’re right—but in more ways than just inches.

How do we measure your growth? How do we chart it?

Do we capture it by how many teeth you’ve lost, how many numbers you can add in your head? Is it how short your pants have gotten, how tight your shoes suddenly are (even though we got them at the start of summer)?

Do we measure it by the way you make up your own jokes, the way you say, “How has your week been?” to our elderly friend at church, the way you make your own lunch and fix a sandwich for your brother while you’re at it?

Years and inches are easier to chart than your ability to follow assembly instructions on my new desk chair or explain the difference between a leopard and a jaguar, or your intuition that our neighbor needs a note to cheer him up.

This independence is exactly what we’ve been working toward—it’s the goal, the endgame. But it still pierces us sometimes, this growing-up version of you.

Madeleine L’Engle once said, “I am still every age that I have been,” and I think that’s true of parenthood too: When your dad and I see you, you are still every age you have ever been.

We look into your big brown eyes, and we’re transported to the hospital room where we locked eyes with our “Baby Spark” for the first time. When we see the freckles that dot the tip of your nose every summer, we can’t help but recall the toddler who spent endless hours investigating bugs on the sidewalk. When we see you run with those increasingly grasshopper-like legs, we are taken back to the moment you took those first wobbly steps, more dance than forward motion. When you ask for a sixth pancake, we’re imagining feeding you sweet potatoes in your highchair, with a success rate hovering around 30 percent. We tuck you in at bedtime, your pillow surrounded by piles of library books, and suddenly we’re time-traveling to your toddler requests for Blue Hat, Green Hat and that little truck book with the handle. We watch you march into school without looking over your shoulder and recall you on that first day of preschool, so proud with your tiny blue backpack, holding my hand with a grip that defied your three years.

So maybe that’s why we can welcome these new stages, even as we miss the old ones: We never truly have to give away those other iterations of you. We hold them in our hearts now, and we will continue to hold them as you grow up. We love every version of you: baby-you, toddler-you, preschooler-you, and eight-year-old you. And the person God is making you to be that we haven’t met yet.

Happy birthday, our beloved son.
Love,

Mom and Dad

Surprised by Friendship

When Daniel and I moved into our neighborhood a decade ago, we were the youngest by far. Almost everyone else had raised their children already, and the nests around us were empty. The neighbors referred to us, endearingly, as “the kids.” We were grateful, since they had all sorts of grown-up supplies and experience, lending tools and advice, giving us tomatoes from their garden, and dropping off meals after we brought our babies home from the hospital.

But I confess that in those early years, I assumed the age gap meant we wouldn’t have neighbor-friends. My imagination was too small to picture the intergenerational friendships that can bloom like a patch of wildflowers on an otherwise unassuming block.

***

We met Judy the way we’ve met most of our neighbors: by trespassing onto her property. One of our kids went traipsing into her yard for some reason I no longer recall—to pick a dandelion or to say hello to her dog or because their bike veered off course. In the weeks after that initial meeting, we exchanged hellos on our way home from school or on our evening walks (an attempt to burn off extra boy-energy before bedtime).

We found out Judy had been a widow for almost two decades. She didn’t have children or grandchildren, and her only family lived in Florida. It was just her and Daisy, her faithful fluffy companion. Now that she was in her 80s, the house was a lot for her to take care of, but she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her home and neighborhood.

On Halloween that year, we went trick-or-treating at her house, and Daisy didn’t greet us with the usual tail-wagging. “She’s refusing to eat,” Judy told us, eyes filling. Then she whispered, so quietly I almost missed it, “What will I do without her?”

After that, we stopped by her house regularly to check on Daisy. And Judy made sure her candy dish was full for her two young visitors.

That Christmas, we brought cookies to Judy’s house. It was ambitious, perhaps even ill-advised, to bundle up a toddler and a baby on a day with a winter weather advisory and a wind chill deep in the negatives. But, insulated by our snow suits and our Christmas spirit, we trekked down the block and around the corner.

The good news was that Judy’s sister was there. The bad news was that Judy had fallen and needed to go to her sister’s house in Florida to recover. “I’ll be back in a few weeks,” she told us.

***

A few weeks turned into a few months. We texted Judy pictures of the daffodils growing in her garden. She sent the boys Easter cards. “I’ll be home by summer,” she said.

Summer came, and Daniel and the boys picked up sticks that had fallen down in her yard. That’s when we met Joe and Linda, who lived next door to Judy’s house. We found out they’d been quietly taking care of problems that cropped up, as problems do in vacant houses. We sent Judy pictures of the roses behind her house; she sent us Fourth of July cards.

The leaves turned, and we sent pictures of the red maple in her front yard. She sent the boys Halloween cards. “I’ll be home by Christmas,” she said. This time she signed them “Grandma Judy.”

Winter came, and we shoveled her driveway, even though no one would be driving on it. She let us know that she had to put her beloved Daisy down. She sent the boys a Christmas card with a puppy on the front.

***

Then Judy’s brother-in-law (who was also her ride back from Florida) passed away. “I’ll find a way to get home,” she promised.

On a walk one day, shortly after a thunderstorm, we noticed that Judy’s welcome mat had split in two.

“Mom, we have to get a new one!” one of the boys cried. “What if she comes home and sees it’s broken?”

I opened my mouth to say that Judy probably wouldn’t be coming home. Several years had passed since she’d left for Florida, and health and age were not on her side. But when I looked into my sons’ eyes, I couldn’t squash the hope I saw there.

And so we went to the store and picked out a welcome mat that matched Judy’s style. The boys proudly carried it from our house to hers, an act of hopeful defiance that she’d cross the threshold again one day.

***

On a hot July afternoon, we were sitting on the porch when Joe and Linda stopped by. Their eyes were wet, and I knew before they opened their mouths what they were going to say. “Judy got pneumonia last week,” they said. “She went into hospice, and she was gone two days later.”

My preschooler buried his head in my shoulder. He was just a baby when she left. I marvel to think that we were in-person friends for just a few months, but our time as pen pals lasted four years. And somehow, in that serendipitous way that happens sometimes, we had a friendship that transcended calendar-time.

***

We’re expecting a For Sale sign in front of Judy’s house any day. I don’t know who will move in—maybe they’ll be young, maybe we’ll call them “the kids.” I may be tempted to think we won’t have anything in common, that we probably won’t be friends.

But with Judy’s legacy fresh in my heart, I’ll try to remember that friendship can be less about age or life stage and more about geography.

So if you see a bud of friendship cropping up near your home, even if it’s in a spot you wouldn’t expect it, don’t be afraid to give it a little water. Something beautiful just might start blooming, right around the corner.

1.8 Million Minutes of Summer

It’s one of those memeable sayings you can’t avoid this time of year: You only have 18 summers with them! Make sure this one counts!

I appreciate this sentiment, but it can feel like inspiration with a millstone around its neck. The reality is, every second of summer isn’t magical. Every second of summer can’t be magical.

Some moments of summer look less like fairy dust and twinkle lights and more like lists and laundry, dirty dishes and deadlines, bills and band-aids. Sometimes people are hot or cranky or bored or tired or hormonal or otherwise off their A-game. Even smack dab in the middle of those very moments we’ve worked so hard to make magical.

So for all the magic-makers out there, I’d like to propose a new equation. What if, instead of putting the pressure of an entire summer on our backs, we thought about it in terms of seizing golden moments within those summers?

We have 100,000 minutes this summer, and some 1.8 million minutes over the course of 18 summers. Every one of those minutes won’t be magical . . . but some will be.

Yes, we can be intentional about making plans and carving out space and putting down our devices and looking our loved ones in the eyes. But maybe we don’t need to sweat so much to make it all count or beat ourselves up when, despite our best efforts, everything goes off the rails.

Maybe the moments that will become magical in our memories won’t be the epic trips we take or the carefully orchestrated itineraries we create. Maybe it will be the popsicles we eat on the porch, the deep conversation that comes out of nowhere while we’re running an errand, the book from the library that strikes our mutual funny bone, the time we make a flour-dusted disaster in the kitchen.

Maybe we don’t have to work so hard to be the makers of magic; maybe we can become noticers of the magic that’s already right here. We don’t need to fear that the time we’re given won’t be enough. We can take the moments the same way we live them: one at a time—one of 1.8 million at a time.

And who knows, maybe this summer can feel less like scarcity and more like serendipity.

A Letter to My Son, on His Last Day of Preschool

You hatched butterflies in preschool this spring. When I picked you up one sunny day in May, you were delighted to report that several of the butterflies had hatched.

“But where did the caterpillars go?” you asked.

We were so focused on the arrival of the butterflies that I guess we failed to prepare you for this seemingly obvious reality: The presence of the butterflies means the disappearance of the caterpillars.

As I tried to talk you through this, my words caught unexpectedly in my throat.

How can I blame you for wishing to keep both? My journey in motherhood thus far has been a lesson-on-repeat that I can’t hang on to two stages at once. Not only that, but I can neither speed up nor slow down this process of metamorphosis.

Hooray! You learned to walk! But I miss kissing your head now that you no longer ride, kangaroo-style, in your Baby Bjorn.

Hooray! You can go to sleep on your own! But I miss those hushed moments, rocking you in that hand-me-down glider chair.

Hooray! You learned how to make that tricky letter sound! But you no longer call your brother by that beloved lispy nickname.

As Augustine said, “Every change is a kind of death.”

As I watched you onstage at your preschool concert, doing the motions to the song with earnest concentration, I sense delight and wistfulness doing a tug-of-war in my heart. Each stage represents a new accomplishment, a new adventure, a new milestone. And I wouldn’t trade any of them in.

But let me tell you a secret, my preschool buddy: I love the butterflies. Still . . . I miss the caterpillars sometimes too.

Is Him Real?

My dear son,

Not long after Easter, we were eating dinner and you looked at me, mid-bite, suddenly serious.

“Is Jesus still alive?” you asked.

“Yeah, he is,” I replied.

“Me thinking . . . is him real?”

“Yes, he’s real.”

Your face broke into a grin. “I knew it!” And you returned to your pasta.

You seem content with that answer for now, but I’ve been thinking about our conversation ever since. What does it mean that Jesus is real? That he’s not like a unicorn or a dragon—a cool mythical being that we wish existed? Or that he’s not like a dinosaur, something that once walked the earth but is now a mere memory?

I don’t have the theology to grasp this fully myself, let alone explain it to someone who wears his shoes on the wrong feet. But maybe, if I’d had more presence of mind in that moment, I could have said something like this:

Yes, him is real. You may not be able to see him with your eyes. But you can see the daffodil he crafted, with its fluttery, buttery petals. You can see the sunset he stretched across the sky, with hues that would make your Crayola box jealous. You can see the ocean he formed, stretching so far it kisses the sky.

You may not be able to hear him with your ears. But if you get really quiet, you just might be able to hear his whispers in your heart: I love you. You are my beloved son. I am so glad you’re mine. I would choose you every time.

You may not be able to feel him with skin or hands or nerve endings. But when you’re scared or lonely, you just might feel the breeze on your face or the sun on your neck and wonder if there’s more to this world than mere atoms and molecules.

You may not be able to catch his scent directly, but one day you might get a whiff of peace you can’t explain. Or maybe, right when your life seems bland and you’re hungering for something deeper than you can name, you’ll get an unexpected taste of grace.

When these things happen, my son, I hope you still have the heart of a child. And I hope you say, like your four-year-old self, “Yes, him is real.”

Grandma’s Story

My suitcase wasn’t even unpacked from my maternal grandmother’s funeral when I got the call about my dad’s mom: “Grandma has been in bed all week. We’re driving down tomorrow to say goodbye.”

I do realize the extravagance of this gift I’ve been given, having grandparents I’ve known into adulthood. I feel almost guilty grieving these losses, like someone in Hawaii complaining about the winter.

And yet grief is so rarely a rational animal. There is little comfort in comparing wounds, no balm in “at-leasting” them. At least I had her so long. At least she went peacefully. At least she’s no longer suffering. It may be true, but it does little to erase the loss.

Grandma celebrated her 102nd birthday this summer, but her mind remained as bright as ever. Whenever I visited, I perused the books on her end table: mysteries, historical fiction, chunky nonfiction titles. As I listened to her delineate the tactical strategies from her recent World War II read, I found myself shaking my head, hoping to be as well read when I grow up.

Books are, after all, how she and I became friends. I knew her as my grandma my whole life, of course, but with twelve children and a gaggle of grandchildren, she always had a lot of voices clamoring for her attention.  

One summer when I was in junior high, we went to her and Grandpa’s condo to swim, and she noticed the copy of Anne of Green Gables under my arm. I told her about Anne, the book’s spunky red-haired heroine. Before long, I was passing along the entire series to her (and eventually to Grandpa too) when I finished each one. As we had our own informal book club over the course of eight books, I realized how much of Anne I saw in my grandma: both were gingers who had lost parents young and had come out resilient (and a little fiery) on the other side. Both were lovers of literature who got an education at a time when not many women did. Both took a legacy of loss and wrote a redemptive story for the generations after them.

Grandma’s story could have been a book itself. I think about the vignettes I’ve heard over the years—how she met Grandpa in college just before the war, how she waited and prayed for his return after he enlisted, how he mailed her a parachute so she could use the silk for her wedding dress, how they got married on a Tuesday right before Lent (so they wouldn’t have to wait until after Easter), how she and Grandpa had a dozen kids in 14 years, how she lived independently (and read independently) until past the century mark.

She didn’t see herself as a heroine, but then again, aren’t all the real heroes the ones who don’t realize it? “Oh, honey,” she’d tell me, “I just did what I had to do.” On every page, her life was marked by humility and grit.

But perhaps more than anything, she didn’t see herself as heroic because she knew she was part of a larger story. And she knew the Author who was writing it:

You saw me before I was born.
    Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
Psalm 139:16

Grandma, your final chapter is over here on earth. But your story on the other side is just beginning. Only this time you get to read the book before I do.

You were never one to spoil an ending, but I’m pretty sure the story you’re living now in is the grandest one of all. In this story, there’s a happily ever after, but no “the end.”

I don’t know exactly what the literary scene looks like in heaven. But I’m putting in a special request to be in your book club just in case.

Hope . . . makes possible our ability to recognize that the world in which we find ourselves has a story; and if there’s a story, there’s a storyteller.
Stanley Hauerwas

What Love Smells Like

What I remember most about Grandma’s house is the way it smelled.

It smelled like pie and cookies and Christmas and memories and love.

Long before my family would begin the 2,000-mile trip across the country to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, Grandma would start preparing for us to come. Most of that work was done in a flour-dusted apron, with rolling pin in hand.

For weeks before we arrived, she rolled out pie crusts, baked bars, and stocked her five(!) freezers with all manner of chocolatey desserts, Scandinavian cookies, and cinnamon rolls (each tray wrapped with a rumpled sheet of thrice-used foil).

As soon as we stepped into her house, the number-one priority (after a round of hugs) was pie. No matter what time we arrived, even if we were bleary eyed, even if it was egad-o’clock in the morning, we would eat a slice of pie. Huckleberry pie, rhubarb pie, French apple pie—every bite made from scratch.  

The next morning at Grandma’s house, my nose would wake up before the rest of me did. From my sleeping quarters with the cousins in the basement, I’d be welcomed into consciousness by the scent of homemade donuts.

Grandma wasn’t one to sit down for heart-to-heart conversations, and she didn’t have much time for lofty words or emotive speeches. She loved with her hands instead of her words.

I love you, she said with every mixer stroke. I love you, she said with every roll of her pie crust (including the leftover bits, which she’d sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon and give to us grandkids). I love you, she said as she preserved another jar of jam made from Grandpa’s fresh-grown raspberries. I love you, she said with every knead of cinnamon roll dough (which she unapologetically served with dinner and were not dessert).

***

I got the call about Grandma’s death on a sunny September morning. She was 96, and she hadn’t made cookies for some years now, so this wasn’t a surprise. But in that moment, decades of memories came flooding over me.

“What was your grandma like?” my boys ask me.

There are so many ways to answer that question. Do I tell them about the tenacious farm girl who loved to ride her horse, Dewey, instead of sew like her sister? Do I tell them about the brave young woman who left her parents’ farm in North Dakota to get a college degree in business at a time when most women were homemakers? Do I tell them about the young teacher who set off for a job in Montana, having never visited, because the people she’d met from there were nice? Do I tell them about the handsome chemistry teacher who saw her picture in the paper and volunteered to pick her up at the train station and how they were married for 66 years?

I open my mouth to respond, but none of the words taste right on my tongue.

“Come into the kitchen,” I say instead. “Let’s make a pie.”

We slice and mix and sprinkle and make a sugary mess before putting the pie in the oven. As the aroma of warm apples and cinnamon filters through the house, I whisper in their ears, “This is what Grandma’s love smells like.” And as we take a bite of buttery apples with strudel, I tell them, “This is what Grandma’s love tastes like.”

***

Don’t let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust also in me. There is more than enough room in my Father’s home. If this were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? When everything is ready, I will come and get you, so that you will always be with me where I am.
John 14:1-3

As I wash the pie tin (the one Grandma gave me), it occurs to me that Grandma is on the other side of the preparations now. The woman who prepared endlessly for meals and holidays and parties and visits from out-of-town grandchildren is now going to a place that has been prepared just for her. Her Savior has been at work, getting his home ready for her, stocking the heavenly freezer for her arrival.

I wouldn’t necessarily bank on this theology, but who knows? Maybe, just maybe, a slice of pie will be waiting for her when she gets there.

Threenager Summer

It was the best of days; it was the hottest of days…

To have a three-year-old is to be thrust into a yearlong summer—the kind with record-breaking heat waves and furious squalls.

You sweat and you play. You love it and you long for a reprieve. You’re convinced you’ll melt, and you don’t want it to end. You duck for cover when tornadic winds touch down. You eat too many popsicles on the front porch.

In this season of parenting a child with a hankering for autonomy and bursting with so. many. opinions., I feel the heat and intensity of these days.

The words of a Van Morrison song have been echoing through my mind the last couple of months:

These are the days of the endless summer…

These are the days indeed.

These are the days of sloppy whispers in my ear: “I wuv you, Mama.” And these are the days of “Me not like you anymore!” when I limit his daily banana quota.

These are the days of “revenge peeing” in the corner (the term so aptly coined by Daniel). And these are the days of being met by squeals and full-body hugs when we walk in the door.

These are the days of brothers sneaking into bed to read together in the morning. And these are the days when Duplos also function as tiny plastic missiles.

These are the days of cute phrases like “croco-gator” (crocodile + alligator) and “mus-beard” (mustache + beard). And these are the days of meltdowns over the wrong color cereal bowl.

Endless summer. Isn’t that the pinky promise summer makes with us? You realize it’s not true—you know it can’t last forever—but as you wipe ice cream from sticky faces, as mosquitoes feast on bare ankles and fireflies blink languidly in the dusk, you can almost be lulled into believing the calendar page will never turn.

But in these long days of August, I catch a whiff of the changing of seasons.

Will this be the last time I buy a box of overpriced diaper genie refill bags?
Will this be the last time our boy dashes into our bed during a thunderstorm, thinking it’s bad guys?
Will this be the last time I do an emergency potty cleanup in the grocery store?
Will this be the last time I carry a sleep-heavy boy to his bed after a playground date?

“It goes by so fast,” they say. They’re right, of course. But I have no more power to slow down these years than I do to pause the sun in its descent or to delay the approach of autumn.

It seems so obvious, but it hit me like a gut punch today: This is the youngest my kids will ever be.

So what can I do, time-bound creature that I am? I suppose my only recourse is to savor the moments as I can and try to make a truce with the calendar. I’ll resist the longing to fast-forward or rewind or press pause. I’ll do my best to remember as many sweet things as I can, and just enough of the spicy bits to empathize with moms of other threenagers one day.

And maybe this afternoon, when the sun is beating down on us, we’ll sit on the porch and eat another popsicle.

Photo by Daniel Rische

Elastigirl Arms

I don’t think it’s a fluke that the superhero Elastigirl (she of Incredibles fame) is a mother. The longer I’ve lived with small humans in my care, the more I find myself in need of superhuman elasticity and flexibility, not to mention arms that stretch to the faraway (and, dare I say, dangerous) places my children fly off to.

***

It was the second day of summer. I was in possession of color-coded calendars and grand visions detailing how we’d strike a balance between structure and play, how we’d avoid the summer slump by filling out reading charts and doing math practice (disguised as fun games, of course!). We’d conquer potty-training and go on adventures and spend quality family time together (and yes, I’d get my work done somewhere in there too).

By day 2, the lists and charts had melted like yesterday’s ice cream on the sidewalk.

“Can we go outside and play?” my boys begged.

I agreed, on the condition that they play in the front yard while I worked on the stoop. “Make sure you stay where I can see you,” I instructed. What I didn’t say: Within the reach of my Elastigirl arms.

It wasn’t long before they rustled up some bungee cords from the garage and rigged the Burley to Graham’s bike. Pretty ingenious, I thought. This wasn’t on the Official Summer Plans list, but there were probably some STEM-adjacent benefits, right?

Seconds later, I looked up. To my horror, the Burley, now disconnected from Graham’s bike, was careening down the driveway . . . with Milo in it.

I threw my laptop across the porch and sprinted like my flip-flops were on fire.

By now the Burley was at the end of the driveway and heading into the road, racing downhill and picking up speed by the second.

As my legs churned, so did my mind, conjuring up every worst-case scenario, from the Burley toppling and my three-year-old spilling onto the asphalt to an untimely collision with an Amazon truck.

At last, my arms reached the handle of the Burley. My chest was heaving so hard I could barely speak, but I blubbered some incoherencies while kissing my son. He just grinned up at me, eyes sparkling with the thrill of his at-home Six Flags adventure.

After making the trek back to the house (and offering abashed nods to the gawking neighbors), I collapsed onto the stoop.

“Let’s do it again!” my six-year-old exclaimed.

When I shot down that idea, he stated emphatically that he was going to live somewhere else—preferably a house with fewer rules.

“Is that right? Where would you want to live?”

“I don’t know,” he sulked. “Probably Australia!”

***

If only for those elastic arms that would allow my body to here and my arms to be there.

How often I wish I could be in more than one place at once—at work and at home, playing with my kids and making dinner, being productive and resting. But these limits we’ve been given—our limited bodies, our limited time, our limited capacity—they’re an essential part of what makes us human.

And as much as I strain against these boundaries, they really are a form of grace. They remind me that I can’t do everything, that I can’t be everywhere at once, that my arms don’t hold the world together. This is at once disappointing and freeing.

Knowing I can only do so much invites me to trust the one who can do everything and be everywhere. The one whose arms are strong and everlasting. Not to mention super-stretchy.

And so I’m trying to accept my ordinary arms, along with the limits I’ve been given. May I see them not as restrictive, but as pleasant—delightful, even.

The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance.

Psalm 16:6

When my arms are too short and not as elastic as I would like, when my grand summer plans melt away, may I find the sweetness in these boundary lines. May I accept the gift of not being responsible for holding the earth on its axis. And may I entrust my children to the one who created them and can catch them when I can’t.

A Benediction for Summer

There is no one like the God of Israel.
    He rides across the heavens* to help you,
    across the skies in majestic splendor.
The eternal God is your refuge,
    and his everlasting arms are under you.

Deuteronomy 33:26-27

On Savoring

I hear it again today,
in the produce aisle this time.
“Savor every moment,” she says,
the smell of nostalgia
mingling with summer strawberries.

I know what she means.
But on this day
The overripeness stings my nose and
I can’t stop the sweat from
beading on all my fleshy parts.

This grocery list of All The Things
required to keep small people alive—
it’s like being served a giant chocolate cake
every single day.
Decadent, delicious . . . even enviable.

But how do you savor something
when there are five mouthfuls
stuffed in your cheeks at once?

How do you savor something
when you must consume every last bit,
even when you’re overfull?

My friend Sarah says,
she with the wise words and two steps ahead:
Savor one bite.
This bite.
The one on your fork right now.
You don’t have to savor them all at once.

So I grab a pint of strawberries
and reach deep
for a smile.

Maybe we’ll make strawberry shortcake
together.
And if some of the juicy ones end up
in the compost pile,
amen and so be it.
I will trust that even there,
they are not wasted.