Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

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.”

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.

To My Son on His 2nd Birthday

Dear Milo,

When I went downstairs to dig out the Christmas bins this year, I looked around and realized that ever so slowly, without my being aware of it, our basement has become a graveyard for baby things.

First you outgrew your swing, your legs kicking so energetically that you were becoming a topple risk. When you learned to walk, you no longer needed that exersaucer (the one you did hundreds of laps with while I made dinner). Then came the day when you began protesting your highchair, refusing to settle for anything less than a booster seat like your big brother. It wasn’t long before you started boycotting your crib too, threatening to throw yourself over the side until we finally released you.

As I look at the baby detritus around me, it’s not that I’d wish you back to babyhood. After all, we love the person you’re becoming, and it’s a delight to see your personality emerge with each passing week.

The two-year-old version of you is made of grins and grit, delight and determination, impishness and independence. You live large and love big. You adore dogs and social gatherings and cheese and somersaults and leaping off high places—and, if you have your preference, doing it all without pants on.

You have two speeds: full throttle and asleep. After a day filled with jumping on things and then hurling yourself off, and trying to keep pace with a five-year-old, you snuggle into your bed (not a crib) with a rotating cast of stuffed animals tucked under your knees. Before bed, you inevitably request the car book, pointing out who in our family drives each one (I’ve never envisioned myself as a dump truck driver, but who am I to argue?). You don’t say much, but you certainly know how to get your point across, taking us by the hand to show us precisely what you want or acting out elaborate charades.

Looking around me, I wonder if it’s the rocking chair that hurts most. There’s nothing fancy about the chair—it was handed down by a friend who got it from a friend, and it’s been recovered multiple times. You haven’t sat still long enough to be rocked for some time now, and there’s no reason to keep unused furniture in your room—it would only serve as an unnecessary obstacle to your games of chase and hide-and-seek. Besides, I don’t know how much longer my arms will even be able to hold you.

But doing this the second time around, I know how fast the sands of childhood slip through a parent’s fingers. Now I know how birthday candles accumulate faster than I’ve given them permission to. Now I know how the calendar pages keep turning, even if I’d like to stay in a particular season a while longer.

You won’t remember all the nights your dad and I rocked you in the middle of the night, singing “I Bid You Good Night.” But even after you’ve outgrown lullabies, I think those words and melodies (and the love undergirding them) weave their way into your DNA somehow. Maybe they become part of you, grounding you not only in our love but in your belovedness as God’s child.

So, happy birthday, my little boy who is literally racing your way into your third year of life. Your dad and brother and I love you so much. And please excuse me if I tuck you in more than once every night, while I still can.

I love you, but Jesus loves you the best.
And I bid you good night, good night, good night.

Photo copyright Julie Chen

A Letter to My Second-Born Son

Dear Milo,

Over the past half a year, you have somehow both enlarged me and made my world smaller.

In those first few months, amid a pandemic/social distancing and a winter with record-breaking snowfalls, our world was mostly a cozy four-person cocoon. In the middle of the night, when I fed you by the glow of the Christmas lights we strung on your ceiling, it could have been just you and me in the universe, if not for the snack your dad left for me beside the rocking chair.

Our world was small, yes. But you have also been showing me a grander view of the world.

When I see the man at the stoplight holding a tattered sign, my usually calloused heart is pierced. He was once a baby too, I think. He once had a mother who rocked him to sleep.

When I hear you laugh—without filter or self-consciousness—I can believe in breathtaking joy, the kind that blooms out of the soil of sorrow.

When I see your sense of wonder over the little things—bubbles catching the sunlight just so, a leaf dancing in the breeze—I am reminded to slow down, to bear witness to the miraculous right under my nose.

When I see you and your brother communicating with no need for words, I can embrace a world where reconciliation is possible, where hearts can be glued back together.

You have surprised me, little man . . . and humbled me too. I’ve had a baby before, I remember thinking. Better yet, I’ve had a baby boy. I probably know how to do this. But of course I don’t. Because I’ve never had you before.

You made it clear even before you were born, when the wild rumpus ensued in my belly, that you were your own little person. Ever since, you’ve been on the move, wiggling and kicking and grinning and generally charming your way through life. You refuse to be held on my hip, preferring to be face-out so you won’t miss a single thing.

As a one-toe-in-the-water kind of person myself, I marvel at the way you cannonball straight into the deep end. I admire your moxie, the way you embrace the world and everyone you meet with open arms and a full-body grin.

Just one year—that’s all the time we get you as a baby. I’m trying to drink in the joy of it this time around, knowing it’s like juice concentrate. So much to take in with a single sip, but there’s no way to water it down.

So halfy birthday, little guy. We can’t imagine the world without you; we can’t imagine our family without you. Please keep teaching us—we have a lot more to learn.

Love,
Mom

Split in Two

To be a woman, I would contend, is to feel split in two. Maybe you’re juggling home and career, or marriage and friends, or kids and calling. Whatever the scenario, we all know what it’s like to try to keep the plates spinning without breaking the ones we care about most.

There’s a famous story about a wise king who settled a dispute by offering to split a baby in two split a baby in two. As the story goes, there was one baby and two women, each claiming the child was hers. Solomon called for a sword and said, “Cut the living child in two and give half to one and half to the other.”

At this point in the story, every person with a beating heart cries, “Stop!”There are no circumstances that justify a split-in-two baby. No one wins if Baby is dead.

But what about when it’s the mom who’s split in two?

I recently returned to work after maternity leave, and it seems that wherever I am, I have to leave a piece of myself behind. When I’m at work, my heart is still tethered to the 15-pound cheeky boy who is currently doing tummy time without me and the 3-year-old I promised to build an excavator with when I get back. When I’m at home, I can’t help but wonder what emails are piling up and if my brain will ever recover from its current porridge-like state.

And it’s not just working moms who find themselves tugged in different directions. There are women who are at home full-time while trying to pursue something they feel called to. There are women sandwiched between two generations, caring for kids as well as aging parents. There are single women who are trying to figure out how to follow their passion while also covering the bills.

Some days it feels like there just isn’t enough of us to go around. Not enough energy, not enough time, not enough emotional bandwidth. We need the wisdom for Solomon for this. Is the answer to split ourselves into two (or three or four or five)? If we do, will there be enough of us to go around?

The reality is, it will never work to cut ourselves in half—no matter how sharp the sword or how accurate the slice. We’ll keep giving pieces away until there’s nothing left . . . and it still won’t be enough.

So what’s the answer?

I don’t think there’s an easy solution to this—we may have to reconcile ourselves to living in some amount of tension. But I am learning, by baby steps, that there’s peace in bringing our whole selves wherever we are. Instead of becoming fragmented—separating our work selves from our home selves, our mom selves from our professional selves, our daughter selves from our adult selves—what if we stitched our roles together so we could be all there, wherever we are?

I used to think of integrity strictly in terms of moral uprightness. But what if integrity is about being fully integrated—being the same person, no matter where we are?

I’m still figuring out what this looks like. But maybe it means bringing my editor-self to my parenting and using multi-syllabic words with my toddler. Or bringing my mother-self to my work and letting my baby crash my Zoom calls on occasion.

I wonder what this looks like for you, beautiful woman being tugged in different directions. How are you wrestling with the split-ness of being a woman? What might it look like for you to bring your whole, integrated self to each role you’ve been called to?

However we’re feeling split, may we stitch each part of ourselves together so we can fully love, fully live . . . and be fully ourselves.

The glory of God is a human fully alive.

Saint Irenaeus

Unlearning My To-Do List

It turns out that a person doesn’t necessarily need to be able to speak coherent sentences to be an effective tutor. Case in point: the pint-sized spit-up machine who is currently teaching me that sometimes being is better than doing.

I am a planner by nature. I like to make lists and, even better, cross things out. I enjoy the anticipation of thinking ahead…dreaming and scheming for tomorrow or next week or next month.

But when your schedule revolves around a twelve-pound person who can’t think about the future beyond I’m hungry, I’m sleepy, or I’m poopy, planning ceases to be very effective. You don’t know if the baby will nap (or for how long). You don’t know if he’ll wake up smiley or moody or you’d-better-hold-me-or-I-will-scream-like-a-banshee.

And so my tutor reminds me that sometimes we need to set the to-do list aside. Perhaps that’s one of the things children know that we grown-ups have forgotten: we can’t live in the future. We have only been given today. Children (and those with childlike hearts) have a way of inviting us—practically daring us—into the sacred now.

My little guy wordlessly tells me what God has been trying to say to me all along: that while there’s merit to hard work, it doesn’t define me. My worth isn’t predicated on my productivity. My identity isn’t determined by the number of things I crossed off (or didn’t cross off) my to-do list.

In the quiet hours of the night, after my little one is full and content, I sometimes hold him for an extra moment before stumbling back to bed. I marvel at the way he nestles perfectly into me, with his head tucked under my chin and his limbs curled up against me. I’m all too aware, the second time around this parenting rodeo, that he won’t fit there for long. I’ll blink and his arms and legs won’t fit on my lap. I’ll turn my head for a moment and he will be much too sophisticated to snuggle with his mama.

And so I try to soak in the moments as they come. Not every moment, because heaven knows it’s only possible to savor things one drop at a time, not when they come in a virtual tsunami. But I will try to seize the little moments—a dimpled smile, a tiny sigh, a contented gurgle—and freeze-frame them in my heart.

So maybe we don’t need to throw out the to-do list altogether. But perhaps we’d be better off if we could lose track of it for a bit. If we could look into the eyes of the person we’re with and be all there. In the sacred now.

I have calmed and quieted myself, like a weaned child who no longer cries for its mother’s milk. Yes, like a weaned child is my soul within me.

Psalm 131:2

The Gift of Interruptibility

I think the world can be divided into two types of people:

1. list people
2. non-list people

(Do you see what I just did there?)

I wish I could say I’m one of those free spirits who lives spontaneously and serendipitously, bopping from one adventure to the next. But the truth is, I prefer planned spontaneity. I like the kind of serendipities I can put on my calendar. I enjoy adventures I can pack a bag for.

And yep, I like to make lists. (Confession: I’ve been known to add things I’ve already done to my to-do list, just so I could cross them out.)

My list-ish lifestyle worked fairly well for a large chunk of my life. But now that I have a toddler (aka a streaking boy-comet), the lists aren’t working out the way they used to. I keep making lists; the problem is that they’re now long enough to trip over, and not a thing gets crossed off. It’s not so much that I get interrupted from my lists on occasion; it’s that interruptions are now the default status.

At two, Graham is blissfully unaware of to-do lists. But if he had one, it would probably go something like this:

1. Pick up sticks.
2. Play with toy trucks.
3. Read books.
4. Eat snacks.
5. Repeat.

God knew how much I needed this little person in my life for oh-so-many reasons. One of them is his blatant disregard for efficiency.

“Mama play trucks,” he says.

“Mama read book.”

“Mama come too!”

As we walk around the neighborhood at a snail’s pace, stopping to pick up every leaf and rock on the way, I look at the trees that line the street—a corridor of gold and red and burnt orange. I try to memorize the way the sugar maples glow against the October-blue sky. It is so beautiful it hurts. But I’ve seen enough autumns to know it won’t last. One gusty November storm will be enough to disrobe every deciduous tree in sight.

Why is it, I wonder, that the most beautiful things are also the ones that are gone in a blink?

We must be ready to allow ourselves to be interrupted by God. God will be constantly canceling our plans by sending us people with claims and petitions. 

Dietrich Bonhoeffer

And so I put away my to-do list. I zoom tiny construction vehicles around the living room. I read the book about the blue truck until I have it memorized. I pick up 17 sticks on the way home. I share soggy crackers.

My list will be there when I get back. But this darling interruption? It turns out he’s not an interruption after all. He’s the one item on my to-do list I never want to cross off.

The truth is of course that what one calls the interruptions are precisely one’s real life—the life God is sending one day by day.

C. S. Lewis

Chasing After Wonder

winterIt’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