Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

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

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

The God of the Detour

Over the years I’ve presented God with a number of scripts for my life, largely fleshed out and filled with contingency plans where necessary, just waiting for his stamp of approval. What with him being so busy running the universe and all, I figured I was doing him a favor.

To date, God hasn’t followed a single one of those scripts.

He has unceremoniously scrapped my plans about my career trajectory, where I was going to live, and notably my marriage/children timeline. As I look back on the pattern of God’s work in my life, I notice a distinct pattern: I always ask for the straight line, the shortcut. And he, almost without exception, takes me the long way around.

When the Israelites were set free from their slavery in Egypt, I’m guessing they, too, assumed they’d go right from point A to point B, with no detours along the way. After all, God had just performed ten miracles in the form of dramatic plagues, and now he’d promised them a land of their own. Surely he’d take them straight there, right?

But here’s what the Bible says:

When Pharaoh finally let the people go, God did not lead them along the main road that runs through Philistine territory, even though that was the shortest route to the Promised Land. God said, “If the people are faced with a battle, they might change their minds and return to Egypt.” So God led them in a roundabout way through the wilderness toward the Red Sea. Thus the Israelites left Egypt like an army ready for battle.
—Exodus 13:17-18

As it turned out, the “roundabout way” wasn’t something God did to his people out of spite. It was, without question, an act of grace. He used the detours to protect the Israelites and to build their character along the way.

In retrospect, I’m grateful God hasn’t accepted my life plans. In each scenario, he knew I wasn’t ready for point B yet. There was still some work he wanted to do inside me before I could make it in that new destination. And looking back now, I know that if I’d taken the shortcuts, I’d have missed out on some of the richest parts of my life.

So, God of the Detour, I hand over all my scripts to you. Let me embrace not just the Promised Land you’re leading me to but also the roundabout way you’re taking me to get there.

I’ve taken the challenge of reading the Bible chronologically this year and tracing the thread of grace through it. These musings are prompted by my reading. I’d love to have you join me: One Year Bible reading plan.