Grace

January 31, 2021

A Letter to My Son: On Coming into the World Broken

Dear Milo,

Someday, precious boy, you will ask me the story of your birth. How much will I tell you, I wonder? You only recently marked one month in this world, so this kind of pondering is admittedly premature. But how will I be able to communicate to you that your arrival was pure miracle, yet simultaneously tinged with brokenness?

The short version, beloved child, is that they had to break you to get you out. Your shoulders were simply too large for my bones. But our doctor was a pro, and she sprang into action immediately when she recognized what was happening. Knowing that time was of the essence, she chose the lesser of two traumas, cracking your tiny matchstick of a humerus.

And so, in the weeks since, your dad and I have been wrapping your little arm with yards and yards of bandage and asking God to mend the bones he knit together in the first place.

“Babies are like starfish,” the orthopedic surgeon assures me as I look at the jagged bones on the X-Ray screen. You will never remember this, I know. And I’m not sure how much pain you can even register at this point. But we will remember, your dad and I. And we feel the pain like a fracture to our hearts.

As I gaze into your blue-gray eyes that seem at once innocent and wise beyond their years, I wonder if the pain we feel isn’t just about this particular injury. As hard as it is to see such a tiny body hurting—especially a vulnerable someone who is entirely dependent on us—it feels even weightier than that.

The truth is, this is merely the first of many encounters with brokenness you will face. The broken bone on the first day of your life is but a foreshadowing of fractures to come. We are frail and human, made of tender bits like bone and tendon, heart and soul. This means we have the capacity to feel deeply and love with abandon, but it also leaves us susceptible to profound wounds.

And as much as I want to protect you from injuries of all sorts—body, mind, and heart—I am aware of my own frailty as much as yours. I would take on a grizzly bear in hand-to-hand combat if the occasion arose, but despite my best efforts, I won’t be able to stop you from getting hurt. And it wouldn’t be good for you if I could.

They say a broken bone grows back stronger after it heals, and I have to think the same is true of the other parts of us too. The places where we’ve been hurt can rebuild us with more resilience, while somehow making us more tender in all the best ways too.

My prayer for you, today and as you grow, is that you will know that brokenness is not an end point. It is the beginning of your story of redemption. If we let them, the broken places can ultimately be entry points for grace.

I love you, my broken and beautiful son.
Mom

Man is born broken; he lives by mending. The grace of God is the glue.
Eugene O’Neill

August 14, 2019

Imperfect Love

I was recently at a bridal shower, and the bride-to-be was counting down to her wedding. The day was fast approaching—just 20 days left. After asking all the requisite questions about the wedding, I said, “How are you feeling about the being married part?”

“A little nervous,” she admitted. “I just want to do it perfectly from the very beginning!”

I understood what she meant. In fact, a younger version of me might have uttered those very words.

In the moment, I didn’t say anything. But I’ve been thinking about her statement ever since, and this is what I wish I’d said.

***

Dear sweet bride-to-be,

The best moments of marriage aren’t the times you do it perfectly. The best moments are the times when you make a crack wide enough for grace to slip in. Or at least that’s how it’s been for me.

Like the time I left the bag of chicken in the trunk of the car. For three days.

Or the time I made a financial mistake that set us back $5,000.

Or the time I made a crockpot dinner . . . and forgot to turn it on.

Or the time we’d been gone all day and had a cranky toddler on our hands and it was dinnertime, and we arrived home only to realize I’d locked us out of the house.

Or the time our son’s hand got burned on my watch.

Or the time we got the news that we’d lost our unborn baby and I cried and cried until it looked like I’d been in a boxing match.

The times you do it perfectly aren’t the times that bind you together. If I’d done it perfectly from the very beginning, we would have missed so much.

We would have missed driving home from the car wash with the car mat on top of the roof, our arms burning with the effort and our sides splitting with laughter.

I would have missed getting a hug when I felt like I deserved a financial lecture. And we would have missed seeing the ways God would provide.

We would have missed conspiring about creative ways to dispose of two gallons of pot roast.

We would have missed the chance to pray together in the ER and learn how to wrap six feet of bandages on a tiny, squirming person.

We would have missed the sacred gift of shared pain, of loving a child who made it to heaven before we did.

Sweet bride, there is something better than perfection. It’s called grace.

***

The very nature of marriage means saying yes before you know what it will cost. Though you may say the “I do” of the wedding ritual in all sincerity, it is the testing of that vow over time that makes you married.
Kathleen Norris

September 16, 2015

Sometimes you’re the Good Samaritan. Sometimes you’re the guy on the side of the road.

I’ve read the story of the Good Samaritan a number of times, and whenever I do, I insert myself into the story, trying to imagine what part I’d play. Would I be the religious guy, who walks right by the guy in need? Or would I be the Good Samaritan, pulling off to the side of the road to help?

What I’d never really considered before is that sometimes I’m the other guy—the beat-up one who needs medical attention and shelter.

Five days after my husband and I bought our house, we returned home from work and opened the back door to hear the kind of gushing sound typically reserved for a wave pool or, say, Niagara Falls. Not usually an auspicious sign when you’re at an indoor venue.

We opened the basement door to find that water was gushing through one of the windows, creating a pool deep enough (if not clean enough) to swim in.

Welcome to home ownership!

Since this is our first real home, we didn’t have any of the tools or accoutrements you might need to de-swimming-pool a basement. Like it or not, we were officially the guy on the side of the road.

Thankfully, God sent us Good Samaritans—several of them.

Our Good Samaritan looked like my dad, who scrapped the work he needed to do that night to come over with his extra sump pump and wade through the murky waters in our basement.

Our Good Samaritan looked like our new neighbors, who shared all manner of tools and advice. (That wasn’t exactly the way I planned to meet my neighbors: showing up like a drowned rat on their front porch, asking for help!)

Our Good Samaritan looked like my mom, who opened the front door after the rain had cleared to reveal a gorgeous sunset. “This is like your rainbow after the Flood,” she said. “God is reminding you that it’s going to be okay.”

Our Good Samaritan looked like the friend who emailed at 11:02 p.m., just after we returned from a late-night supply run to Walmart, to say that she felt prompted to pray for us and our new house.

This is the other side of grace, I think: the receiving, not just the giving; the getting bandaged, not just the care-taking.

We learn something about ourselves, and about God, when we’re in either pair of shoes (wet and squishy though those shoes may be).

“Now which of these three would you say was a neighbor to the man who was attacked by bandits?” Jesus asked.

The man replied, “The one who showed him mercy.”

Then Jesus said, “Yes, now go and do the same.”

—Luke 10:36-37

***

When have you been the Good Samaritan? When have you been the guy on the side of the road? What did these experiences show you about grace?

August 12, 2015

Nesting

The day after we unloaded a U-haul with all our earthly possessions and deposited everything at our new home, my father-in-law posed this question to Daniel and me: “Hey, do you guys have a chainsaw?”

At that point I wasn’t even sure where I could find two matching shoes, but even if I’d done a better job labeling the boxes, I was pretty sure the answer was no. We’d never had our own yard before, which meant we were pretty lacking in everything power-tool related. Besides, why would we need a chainsaw?

As it turned out, Daniel’s dad had identified a knotty pine tree that was encroaching on the driveway of our new house, and he was ready to take it down. The guys went outside to scope it out, only to return soon than I’d expected.

“No need for a chainsaw now,” Daniel said.

“Really? Why not?”

“Come here. I’ll show you.”

And there, in the lowest branch of the tree, was a dove perched on her nest.

“We can’t take down a tree with a nest in it,” Daniel said.

He was right. We’d spent the past 48 hours packing and unpacking, carrying unwieldy objects up and down stairs, and generally boycotting sleep to get everything settled. We were just beginning to realize how much work is involved in making a house a home. How could we have the heart to evict our feathered tenant?

So we let her stay.

We’ve been causing quite a commotion in the dove’s neighborhood ever since we moved in—hauling in boxes, revving up a borrowed lawnmower to cut the grass, cleaning long-neglected gutters. But Mama Bird just sits on her perch—not squawking at us, but not budging either.

I greet her each evening when I get home from work, walking past her home and into mine. She and I have a lot in common, I think. We’re both feathering our nests, trying to make them comfortable and hospitable and conducive to life.

This is the first home my husband and I have bought together, and there’s something special to be said for that. He moved into the condo I’d bought before we got married, and while that was practical and logical and right for that season, it never really felt like ours.

And what I’m learning as we settle into this place together is perhaps the same thing our nesting guest intuitively knows: It’s more about the ones in the nest than how perfect the nest itself is. Our nest is a little messy (there are boxes still to unpack and items flung rather haphazardly in closets), and it certainly isn’t Pinterest worthy, with its mismatched color schemes and kitchen tile that dates to circa 1987.

But that’s okay. I want this place to be a haven—a place where everyone who lives here can recharge and soak up grace and love and get ready to go into the big world. And I want it to be a place of hospitality—a place where everyone who walks through the door feels wrapped in warmth and welcome, a place where they get a taste of grace.

I want to remember that it’s not about the nest; it’s about the ones the nest is there to protect and nurture.

So we still have a knotty pine tree in our front yard—along with one wise bird who has a lot to teach me about feathering my nest.

Home is the nicest word there is.
Laura Ingalls Wilder

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.

April 22, 2015

Grace in Under 20 Words

Mark Twain once said, “I didn’t have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one instead.”

I can relate—it’s so much harder for me to get a point across concisely than to say it in a verbose way, using lots of decorative, superfluous adjectives (not to mention extraneous parenthetical comments that should just as well be chopped out). (Ahh! See what I just did there?)

When I was a kid, I would tell stories at the dinner table, and inevitably my dad would stop me partway through. “Hold on,” he’d say. “Can you tell me the short version?”

I’d just stare at him blankly. There is no short version! It’s either the whole story, complete with narrative arc, character development, and sensory descriptions, or there’s no story at all.

So when my writing group recently did an exercise in which the goal was to write as succinctly as possible, I found myself all but paralyzed. How can you communicate an entire message in such a short space?

I decided to dust off my old English notes and try writing a haiku. Maybe the strictly enforced parameters would help me trim my word count. Three lines, and only three lines. No wiggle room on the syllables either: five, seven, five. Every word would have to count.

Here’s what I came up with—my story of grace, in under twenty words:

Chasing down my dream
God slams the door in my face
The doorjamb of grace

***

My challenge for you today: Can you tell a story of God working in your life in twenty words or less? Or if you’re feeling ambitious, try your hand at your own haiku. I’d be honored to read it—please share it in the comments!

February 10, 2015

On Grace and Podcasts and Longing for Love

Not long ago I had the privilege of being interviewed by my friend Heather at God Centered Mom. We went to college together back in ye olden days of permed hair and oversized sweatshirts, and those relationships formed on our wing as we bonded over silly dress-up nights and late-night talks about God and boys and life are still some of the most precious ones in my life.

So it was especially fun to get to talk to her about my journey toward grace—how during my single years, as I asked God for a husband, he turned my world upside down with his extravagant grace instead.

The revelation of grace came to me as I was struggling with this longing for companionship and love, but I think it’s a message that hits us all, wherever we are . . . whether we’re moms or wives or daughters or sisters or friends. All of us know what it’s like to have a longing that hasn’t been fulfilled and to wonder who God is in the midst of our unanswered questions.

So wherever you are on your journey of life, I hope you’ll listen in and join our conversation. When have you experienced God’s grace in a way that knocked your proverbial socks off?

You can listen to my conversation with Heather here.

January 9, 2015

A Gift for You in 2015

I’m terrible at New Year’s resolutions, so instead I like to pick a theme for the year. That way there’s a better chance of my actually remembering it come April. This year the theme I picked is “Be present.” I want to be fully present in my relationships. I want to be invested in whatever God has called me to each moment. I want to dig in and be grateful for the right-now.

As I’ve been thinking about the idea of being present, I’ve been overwhelmed with gratitude for all the people who have been present for me. I’m surrounded by people who show up and stick around, and that is a gift beyond words.

So for all of you—my blog readers and friends and family—I’m thrilled to be able to give you this little gift to show my thanks.

You can download this devotional, 30 Days of Grace, for free. I hope God uses it as part of your journey to experiencing more of his grace in the year ahead.

***

Instructions for downloading the ebook: Go to StephanieRische.com and look on the right side of the screen. Scroll down until you see “Free e-book.” Then simply type in your e-mail address, and you’ll get an e-mail with the file to download. That’s it!

Special thanks to Sarah at Parisi Images for making my e-book look so beautiful!

August 26, 2014

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

As 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.

August 12, 2014

Declare His Grace

Last 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 2014 I 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-baker In 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!