Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

A Letter to My Son on His 6th Birthday

Dear Graham,

This summer we went on a family vacation to the Sleeping Bear Dunes—that veritable mountain range of sand. We squinted our eyes against the electric-blue sky, taking in the towering hills above us. Can we make it to the top? I wondered. It would be a steep enough climb even if we weren’t schlepping water bottles, snacks, and diapers, not to mention two small humans.

Your dad and I listened studiously as the park ranger went over safety guidelines with our group. He told us how sometimes people start the climb but aren’t able to finish, and what to do if you get tired or hot or stuck somewhere between the base and the summit.

We were nodding along, taking in all the tips, when in a surge of panic, I realized you were gone. We scanned the parking lot for your trademark green ball cap. Where could you be? Then I spotted you climbing—no, sprinting—up the dune. Somehow, in the span of minutes, you’d made it two-thirds of the way up, all by your barefooted self.

I tried to call out to you, but the lump in my throat silenced me—a lump that was one part pride, one part fear, and one part I’m not ready yet.

***

You started kindergarten last week. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise—five comes after four, six comes after five, kindergarten comes after preschool. These are linear steps, predictable chronologies. And yet I find myself standing at the bottom of this sand dune, looking up at you with a mixture of pride and fear and I’m-not-ready-yet.

When you were a baby, I heard so many times that the days are long and the years are short. I tried to soak in this advice, but I don’t know if it’s possible to be prepared for the inevitable time-slip of watching you grow up. I am no likelier to freeze-frame you at this stage than I am to preserve a dandelion puff or capture a sunset in my pocket.

You are adamant that I am Mom now, not Mama or Mommy. It’s strange how quickly you are changing while I stay the same. I look at pictures of us together, how you once fit in my arms and how your arms now wrap all the way around me. I remain the same height while you keep inching higher.

As soon as your dad and I think we’ve found a rhythm in a new season with you and your brother, things change. Your brain is growing, your heart is growing, and your soul is growing. Your questions are getting bigger along with your shoe size, and the problems you’re up against are increasing in complexity along with your math problems. And I find myself ever a step behind, racing to catch up.

But maybe I’m growing too, just less obviously than you. At the very least, my rib cage must be expanding, because how else could my heart contain all this without bursting?

And so, as you turn six and climb the mountains God has put before you, know that your dad and I love you. And when you face mountains that you have to climb all on your own, know that Jesus is with you, running to the top beside you.

We’ll be cheering you on, whether we’re ready or not.

Love,
Mom and Dad

Tulip Season

“The tulip field,” he said,
Eyes puppy-wide,
Though I almost missed them on account of my screen.
Not today, I thought,
The inbox as full as the sink as the laundry basket as my List of Very Important Things.

It was the pants that caught my eye.
An inch higher than last week, I swear. His brother’s too.
Everyone warned me this would happen, of course.
The way they shoot up, faster than a field of dandelions, without my assent.

By the time spring comes again, I wonder,
Will you be driving a car, getting a job, calling to check in on a Sunday evening?

So I trade deadlines for hastily slathered peanut butter sandwiches
And we picnic with the tulips.

For tulips bloom bright and brilliant,
But the season is short—
Like morning fog.
Like blinking.
Like last year’s pants.

Everlasting Arms

I was recently asked to share some reflections at a friend’s baby shower. Here’s a glimpse into what I talked about—and it’s a reminder not just for moms-to-be, but for anyone who feels like they’re in over their head.

My son Milo is now 20 months old, and there are two things you should know about him at this point in his life:

  1. He enjoys the sensation of freefalling.
  2. He has utter confidence that someone will catch him.

This is a rather dangerous combination. Here’s what this looks like: wherever Milo is, he finds the highest point in the room or on the playground and scampers to the top. Then he grins like he just won the baby lottery, reaches out his arms . . . and plummets off the edge.

So far Daniel and I have kept him alive for 617 days. But I have to admit my heart has gotten stuck in my throat more times than I can count.

Every time I catch my boy, I marvel at the way he squeals and grins, completely oblivious to the danger. As I try to calm my thumping heart, so many worries race through my head:

  • What if next time I’m not fast enough to catch him?
  • What if sometime I won’t see him when he’s about to jump?
  • What if one day my arms won’t be strong enough to grab him?

One of the most terrifying and trust-building parts of parenting is that from the moment you hold your tiny bundle in your arms, you are met by two overwhelming realizations: 1) you love this little human being more than you ever thought possible, and 2) you are completely out of your depth.

You instinctively know that you will do whatever it takes to protect this little one, and simultaneously that the day will come when you won’t be able to. This is true when you put him in his car seat on your way home from the hospital and when he spikes his first fever and when you drop him off for your first day at preschool. As he gets older, there will be other things that hurt him—not just his body, but his mind and his heart and his soul too.

Motherhood has proven to me just how human I am. I am not all-powerful. I am not all-seeing. I am not always-present. But then I am reminded: there is someone who is all of those things. Your baby has a heavenly Father who is all-powerful, all-seeing, always-present. And that same heavenly Father is watching over that baby’s mom and dad too.

One of my favorite Scripture passages, especially these days, is from the end of Moses’ speech to the tribes of Israel before he dies:

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

I love that image of God’s everlasting arms—arms that have no beginning and no end. They will always be long enough to help your son. They will always be strong enough to grab him. They will never fail him; they will always be under him.

So whenever you feel out of your depth, remember that it’s not all up to you. God’s arms are everlasting. He will catch your son when he’s a baby, when he’s a daredevil toddler, when he’s a teenager, and for the rest of his life. And his arms will be under you, too.

A Letter to Our Son on His 2nd Birthday

Dear Graham,

You have been with us for two years now. Only two years . . . and already two years. In the span of this year, you morphed before our eyes from a baby into a little boy.

Your dad and I sometimes check on you in your crib before we go to bed. We don’t need to anymore, but it’s habit now. Besides, we secretly love those quiet moments, watching your normally active little self in freeze-frame, like a hurricane on pause.

We close the door behind us and marvel at how big you are. “Didn’t those pants just fit him two days ago?” we ask. It’s not just your legs that have grown. But they’re the easiest to measure.

Last year at this time, you were taking your first tentative steps. Your babble was mostly incoherent. You needed help to eat, use a sippy cup, and go down the slide at the park.

Now you are full of opinions and words and dramatic gestures and joy and occasional food strikes. You’ve learned how to string words together and whisper in our ears and rake leaves and mix cookie dough. You’ve learned how to run on your tiptoes and kick a soccer ball and throw rocks in the creek. You’ve learned to beg for Band-Aids and sing silly songs and share your goldfish crackers (when you want to). You’ve learned that a cow says “moo” and a lion says “rawrrr” and a puppy sticks out its tongue and pants. And when I asked you recently, on a whim, what Graham says, you flashed me a sparkly smile and replied, “Happy.”

“Do you think there’s ever another year in a person’s life when they learn so much?” I asked your dad one day. Probably not, we decided. But the more I think about it, the more I realize how much we’ve learned this year, thanks to your tutelage.

This year we’ve learned . . .

  • How to extract a pea from a tiny nostril with a Q-tip
  • That locks aren’t always baby-proof, especially the ones that guard the snack cabinet
  • How to keep a straight face when you say, “No, no, puppy” just before doing something willfully defiant
  • How to find creative protein alternatives during that two-month meat boycott 
  • How to notice every rock, stick, and bug on the way to the park
  • How to read the truck book seven times in a row

Here’s what I’m learning about being a parent: in my eyes, you will forever be every age at once. In your two-year-old face I see who you are right now, with your sticky oatmeal fingers and cheeky grin and affinity for all things with wheels.

But I also see the swaddled bundle we took home from the hospital in an enormous car seat. I see the baby so tiny we were afraid we would break you but who somehow had ninja-like strength whenever it was bath time.

I see the six-month-old who belly-laughed at Daddy’s silly noises and learned to dance before you could walk. I see the one-year-old who adored garbage trucks and flowers and blueberries. I see the 18-month-old who decided one inauspicious day that he was too big for a high chair and insisted on sitting at the table instead.

And at times I see glimpses of the person you may become. In certain moments, you do something beyond your two years, like tell your own joke or give us a pat on the back or insist on wearing a romper with Hawaiian shorts and snow boots, and suddenly the future flashes before my eyes. I see you getting on the bus, going to overnight camp, sitting in the driver’s seat of the car, getting your first job, becoming a dad yourself.

These moments when time folds over on itself are at once beautiful and terrifying. My heart isn’t big enough to hold so many versions of you at once. And so when you blow out your candles, I will try to just count to two and embrace who you are right now, in this moment. And I will tuck the memory in my pocket so I can pull it out again someday.

Happy birthday, my boy. We love who you are and who you were and who you will be one day.

Mom and Dad

Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.

Dr. Seuss

The Groundhog Days of Parenting

Did you do anything to mark Groundhog Day this year? Yeah, me neither. Wait, I take that back. We shoveled the driveway and scoffed at the prediction of an early spring. On the heels of a week filled with –25 degree weather and other unsavory records, I’m not holding my breath.

But the idea of days endlessly repeating themselves, groundhog style, has been floating through my mind lately, especially as we have unequivocally entered the phase of toddlerhood. I suppose it shouldn’t be shocking that “Again!” plays such a starring role in our days, since repetition is a child’s primary method of learning. But I still find myself surprised at my little man’s ability to never tire of his favorite things.

Novelty, it seems, is lost on small children. When Graham and I are driving in the car, we like to sing songs together (he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m perpetually off key). I try to expand our repertoire of songs, but his current obsession is “Deep and Wide”—a song I learned in Sunday school as a kid. I have no idea what hooked him on this particular tune, but he will say “No, no, no” to every other song I cycle through until I finally give in and sing “Deep and Wide,” on endless repeat.

There’s an old saying that was allegedly first said by a rabbi. To me it sounds more like something the parent of a toddler might say, but I suppose it applies whether you’re doing rabbinical things or wiping faces and bottoms forever and ever, amen: “Do not be afraid of work that has no end.”

The theme I chose for 2019 is “Be Present.” With less than two years of parenting experience under my belt, I’m already realizing how true it is that these are “the longest shortest days.” I don’t want to miss the right-now while looking ahead of me or behind me. I want to show up. I want to seize the little moments, the in-between moments, the blink-or-you’ll-miss-them moments.

Sometimes I think we look for meaning in the big events—the vacation, the holiday, the next big thing. But it turns out that most of the moments we end up treasuring most sneak up on us while we’re in the midst of doing work that seems to have no end.

Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, Do it again; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough. . . . It is possible that God says every morning, Do it again, to the sun; and every evening, Do it again, to the moon. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.

G. K. Chesterton

***

How do you choose to be present in your life? What tips do you have for me in the year ahead?

Did you choose a theme for the year? If so, I’d love to hear about it!

Number Our Days

Dear Graham,

You are one year old now. Only a year . . . and already a year.

Time has become a slippery eel of a thing ever since you were born. On the one hand, I can’t believe you’ve only been with us for one revolution around the sun. I can hardly remember life before you. What filled the Graham-shaped spot in my heart for all those years?

On the other hand, how is it possible that an entire year has flown by? If I close my eyes, I can believe you are still the size of a loaf of bread, with tiny fists closed above your head as you slept. But when I go into your room in the morning, I marvel at this jabbering, smiling, squawking person you have become, the boy who toddles single-mindedly toward the potted plants.

After we brought you home from the hospital, all manner of seasoned parents echoed the same advice to us: “Enjoy this—it goes so fast!” I tried to soak in the wisdom, but it didn’t make sense to me at the time. The days stretched on, a blur of feeding and changing and wiping spit-up, eclipsed only by the even longer nights. Time didn’t seem fast—it seemed like it was standing still.

But now it’s starting to make sense. It turns out the best part of parenting is also the hardest: no season lasts forever. When one stage ends, it’s replaced by something else, something equally worthy of being cherished. Case in point: you don’t fall asleep on our chests anymore, and there’s a tote full of tiny onesies you’ll never fit into again. But now you pat us on the back of your own volition, and if we catch you at the right moment, you’ll give us the most delightful slobbery kisses.

By no choice of our own, we have traded rubies for emeralds. They are equally lovely, but we do not have the luxury of holding both at once.

Psalm 90 says, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” What would it look like, I wonder, for your dad and me to number our days with you? Here are some of the numbers from the first year of your life:

  • 1 ER visit
  • 14 pounds gained
  • 365 times we’ve tucked you into bed at night
  • 522 books we’ve read together
  • 2,000-plus meals we’ve fed you

That’s the past year by the numbers (I’ve lost track of the number of diapers). But I’m not sure that’s what it really means to number our days. Numbers have their place, but they don’t tell the whole story. They can’t capture things like wonder and joy and delight and love.

You have taught me so much already, little one. You have taught me to slow down, to notice, to pay attention. Before you, I never realized how interesting a dandelion puff is or how delightful bubbles in the sunshine can be. Before you, I never appreciated watching a squirrel scurry across the backyard or watching the garbage truck pick up its weekly haul.

You have taught me the joy of inefficiency, of putting aside my to-do list and just being present in the moment. You don’t agonize over regrets from the past or fret about the unknown future; you are all in for the right-now—for the sweet tang of a ripe blueberry or the hilarity of your dad’s funny noises.

And so even as time is speeding by faster than I get my mind around, I want to take a lesson from you as we celebrate your first year. I want to enjoy this moment and be fully present in it, not pining for past-you or looking ahead to future-you, just savoring the boy you are right now and thanking God for the gift of curious, observant, silly, joyful, active, bananas-in-the-hair you.

Happy birthday, my boy.

Love,
Mom and Dad

A Father’s Secret Language

What if God had a secret language that he used just with you? Not a universal message that he gave to the whole world, but a direct communication intended only for you?

Maybe you believe that God so loves the world. But have you grasped the audacious idea that he specifically loves you?

They say that babies learn to recognize voices and even melodies in utero. Daniel and I didn’t exactly play our baby Mozart before he was born, but we did start communicating with our little guy almost right away. I talked to him, hand on my belly, all the way to and from work—singing songs, praying over him, telling him things he should know about the big world he was about to enter. Daniel had a special wordless language that he used to talk to our baby—whistling, making clicking sounds with his tongue, playing the guitar for him.

This was mostly for us—I don’t think of either of us was really convinced our communication was getting through the amniotic fluid. But to our surprise, from his first day out of the womb, Graham responded to our voices. Whenever Daniel started talking, Graham would turn his head toward him—even when he was eating (which was, hands down, his favorite pastime). Now when he hears his dad whistling or making any number of silly sounds, he invariably grins and squeals and flails his arms around. They have a special bond that only the two of them share.

If God describes himself as our Father, then surely he must feel the same way about his children. And I have to wonder . . . what if our Father God has a special language for each of his children that he uses to communicate his love?

Maybe you haven’t always felt the love of an earthly father, and frankly you’re not quite sure about the love of God. Maybe it’s easier to picture God with a scowl on his face or disappointment creased into his forehead.

If that’s where you find yourself this Father’s Day, I’d like to offer another image: that of a heavenly Father who has designed a specific language just for you.

  • Maybe he painted that sunset right as you stepped outside so he could capture your heart with its beauty.
  • Maybe he prompted a friend to call you exactly when you needed someone to talk to.
  • Maybe he orchestrated that song specifically for you, because he knew it would speak to the depths of your soul.
  • Maybe he brought words from Scripture in front of your eyes at precisely the moment you needed them.
  • Maybe he created a perfectly ripe strawberry with you in mind.

Can you hear him? Your Father is whispering “I love you” at every turn.

***

The Lord your God is living among you.
He is a mighty savior.
He will take delight in you with gladness.
With his love, he will calm all your fears.
He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.
Zephaniah 3:17

Friday Favorites for February

Happy Friday, everyone! Here are some of my recent favorites, from unusual vending machines to fictional hot chocolate recipes to the funniest things I’ve seen this week.

For anyone who has found themselves with time to kill in an airport . . .

Believe it or not, there are vending machines that spit out short stories for those times when you’re waiting around and in need of some mental stimulation. They originated in France, but apparently there are now some in the US too. I want to find one! Vending Machines Dispense Short Stories Instead of Snacks

For anyone who needs cheering up in this winter weather . . .

These book character inspired hot chocolate recipes will warm you up inside and out. I especially enjoyed the Mr. Darcy recipe and the one about Katniss Everdeen. Hot Chocolate Recipes Based on Fictional Characters

For anyone who wonders if they’re doing this parenting thing right . . .

I’m only a few months into this mommy gig, but that’s long enough for me to second-guess myself approximately eleven times within the hour. These tongue-in-cheek charts cracked me up and reminded me that I’m not alone. Parenting Explained in 5 Simple Graphs

For anyone who needs a laugh . . .

My goal for this year is to laugh more (and to give the people in my life more opportunities to laugh), so I was delighted to find this satirical post: The Proverbs 32 Man.

God’s Favorite

pick_your_portion_logo_circleHave you ever wondered if God plays favorites? I’m over at Pick Your Portion today, writing about Genesis 25.

Time magazine recently ran a cover story with the evocative title “Why Mom Liked You Best.” In it Jeffrey Kluger makes the claim that all parents—even those who vehemently deny it—have a favorite child. Since Kulger’s Time article came out, scientists, psychologists, and parents have engaged in heated discussion about whether this is indeed the case for all parents. It may be difficult to prove his theory scientifically, but there is no denying that parental favoritism has been around since nearly the dawn of time.

In ancient Greece and Rome, parents who knew they couldn’t care for all their children would commit infanticide, killing their newborn daughters in favor of their sons.

Princess Amelia, the youngest of George III and Queen Charlotte’s fifteen children, was widely known to be her father’s favorite, and she was treated as such from her birth.

Author Charles Dickens felt the effects of not being the favored child. His family didn’t have enough money to send both him and his older sister to school, so they sent his sister to school while he slaved away in boot-blacking factory.

But perhaps one of the most well-known cases of parental favoritism dates back to the book of Genesis.

To read the rest of the piece, you can visit Pick Your Portion here.

A Letter to My Sister on Her 28th Birthday

They were going to name you Fart-Dart.

We had a family meeting to discuss names before you were born, and Dad and Kyle formed an alliance, claiming that if you were a boy, Fart-Dart it would be. My indignant protests and sisterly outrage fell on deaf ears. They were too busy trying to figure out a middle name that would go well with Fart-Dart.

At seven, I was pretty sure Mom wouldn’t let that fly, but I wasn’t positive. Those two were a force to be reckoned with when they teamed up together—Dad with his “No, I mean it” expression that made it impossible for me to tell if he was joking, and Kyle with his infectious giggle that bubbled up every time bathroom humor was employed.

heet2And so I prayed.

Every night before I went to bed, I prayed and prayed, with all the seven-year-old faith I could muster, that you would be a girl so you wouldn’t have to live your life under such a curse.

Sure enough, on a Friday in May all those years ago, Mom and Dad called from the hospital with the news. I was sitting on the bed in Grandma and Grandpa’s guest room—the one with the orange flowered bedspread. I could barely breathe as I waited for the announcement.

“It’s a girl,” Mom said.

I knew I was supposed to say something, but my throat was stuck. At seven, I thought you only cried when you were sad. I couldn’t figure out why tears were trying to squeeze out now, when I was so happy.

Finally I eked out the logical question: “What’s her name?”

Mom and Dad hadn’t decided yet. But it didn’t matter—I had a sister. And her name would not be Fart-Dart.

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All these years later, God has answered my prayer in ways beyond what I thought I was asking for back then. I’d been praying for a sister to avoid a name disaster, and he’s given me a sister to talk with, laugh with, whisper with, and do crossword puzzles with. He’s given me a sister who shows me what it means to shine Christ’s light in the way she cares for others and faithfully lives her life. He’s given me a sister who encourages me to try new things, a sister who spurs me to live more fully and abundantly and joyfully. He’s given me a sister who also happens to be my friend.

Meghan, you are the answer to my prayers and then some.

And now in this year of your life, baby sister, you are going to have a baby yourself. And you know what? You’re going to be such a good mom. I’m praying for your baby as we count down these months and days, just as I prayed for you twenty-eight years ago—not about the gender this time, but that this child will love God and love people. That he’ll have a big heart and a pure faith. That he’ll embrace life with his arms wide open. Just like his mama.

But I do have just one piece of advice for you as prepare for this baby’s appearance: please, whatever you do, don’t name this kid Fart-Dart.

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