PRAISE FOR Can’t Make This Stuff Up!
“Susannah Lewis’s book is a girlfriend’s call to live better, freer, and like someone loved you enough to die for you. Susannah doesn’t yell at you, or shame you . . . she nudges you through humor and sarcasm and storytelling, which is pretty much the only way a person can get through to me anyway. So I love her!”
—Melissa Radke, author of Eat Cake. Be Brave.
“Can’t Make This Stuff Up! is like a warm homemade biscuit with some apple butter on top for the soul. Susanna delivers practical Southern wisdom with her signature hilarious twist in every chapter. Her transparency and honesty are unfiltered, which is refreshing in a world where so much is!”
—Autumn Miles, author of I Am Rahab
“Have mercy, y’all. This book. I absolutely adore it, and you will too. You will laugh, you will nod your head, you will laugh, you will talk back, and you will laugh some more. But let me assure you of this: underneath the funny stories and the entertaining cast-of-characters (and oh, are there ever some characters), there is so much substance in these pages. This is a book you’ll read and reread and read out loud—one that you’ll go back to when you need encouragement, when you need to smile, and when you need to remember that God is in every detail of this beautiful life. Susannah is honest, she’s hilarious, and she wouldn’t recognize pretense if it walked up to her in the middle of the grocery store and tried to hug her neck. More than anything, though, she has a knack for finding Jesus way deep down in the ordinary, and by the end of this book, you’ll not only know Susannah better—you’ll want to know Him more.”
—Sophie Hudson, author of Giddy Up, Eunice, and cohost of The Big Boo Cast
“Reads like a trip down memory lane with an old friend. You know those songs, movies, or even smells that bring back a warm and joyful memory from your past? That’s what Susannah’s stories are like. If I wasn’t giggling through the chapters, I was smiling ear to ear as her memories and experiences had me right back in my own Southern childhood home. Such a well-written, enjoyable, relatable read start to finish!”
—Carolanne Miljavac, author of Odd(ly) Enough
© 2019 Susannah B. Lewis
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Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Nelson Books, an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Nelson Books and Thomas Nelson are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
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ISBN 978-1-4002-0802-9 (eBook)
Epub Edition February 2019 9781400208029
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Lewis, Susannah B., 1981- author.
Title: Can’t make this stuff up! : finding the upside to life’s downs / Susannah B. Lewis.
Description: Nashville : Thomas Nelson, 2019. |
Identifiers: LCCN 2018036135 (print) | LCCN 2018054106 (ebook) | ISBN 9781400208029 (e-book) | ISBN 9781400208012 (pbk.)
Subjects: LCSH: Lewis, Susannah B., 1981- | Christian biography--United States. | Christian life--Anecdotes.
Classification: LCC BR1725.L4355 (ebook) | LCC BR1725.L4355 A3 2019 (print) | DDC 277.3/083092 [B] --dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018036135
Printed in the United States of America
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To my parents in heaven who are making angels laugh.
To my children, NA and BB, who make me laugh.
To the mean girls in middle school who
pointed at me and laughed.
Thank you.
Contents
Foreword
Introduction: Hey, Y’all!
1. Write, Rinse, Repeat
2. Cry So Hard You Laugh
3. Love the Ones You’re With
4. Tie a Knot Worth Tying
5. Bloom Where You’re Planted
6. Arise and Call Yourself Blessed
7. The Upside to Life’s Downs
8. Hang Up Those Hang-Ups
9. Leave the Trolls Under the Bridge
10. Don’t Wear Them Leggings
11. Get in the Game, Mamas
12. Bless This Mess
13. Eat the Mississippi Mud Cake
14. Praise Him in the Storm
15. Sit a Spell
16. Cancel Your Guilt Trip
17. Comfort Others and You Will Be Comforted
18. Make a Joyful Noise
19. Keep On Keepin’ On
20. Thank You for Bein’ a Friend
21. Whoa! Slow Down
22. Not Crazy, Not Absurd, Simply Beautiful!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Foreword
The South—the place where mud pies are a neighborhood delicacy and sweet tea keeps dentists in business for the duration. It is the place where I learned how to drive a 4x4, use a crockpot, and most importantly, where I learned the word ain’t. Growing up in “the country” is simple living at its best, and if you haven’t been, quite frankly, you haven’t lived.
Susannah and I grew up just a few miles apart, but it wasn’t until adulthood that we became partners in crime. Even though our growing-up years had us in separate circles I can promise you this, the stories in this book are as accurate as a Sunday morning tithe-and-offering count. You know why? Because she’s right—you can’t make this stuff up! When I read these pages I was immediately taken back to my Southern childhood and I found my own little-girl self inside the stories of this book. She transported me back in time and reminded me of the goodness that is Southern living.
Susannah Lewis . . . she just has a way. Her ability to story-tell draws you in and sits you down at the table of her life—right there
beside her mama’s casserole dishes and stained Tupperware bowls. Her endearing honesty, sassy wit, and tender heart give you a glimpse into her Tennessee upbringing—the beauty and the heartache—and leave you with all the Southern feels. The life stories she tells and life lessons she’s learned will bring a smile to your face and tears to your eyes. By the end of this read, if you haven’t made a pecan pie or bought a monogrammed decal for the back window of your vehicle, I question your salvation.
Happy reading, everyone.
And welcome home.
Welcome to the South.
Heather Land
“I Ain’t Doin It”
INTRODUCTION
Hey, Y’all!
Welcome to the South.
(Yes, I capitalize South, and by golly I always will.)
I’m often appalled at the way my region is depicted in movies and on television. The other night I came across a reality show where the guests at an Alabama wedding reception started mud wrestling. As someone who has lived down South all my life, let me assure you I’ve never witnessed such a debacle. I have seen a groom stand on a picnic table in his bare feet and belt out Garth Brooks’s “Shameless” into a beer bottle, but there was certainly no mud involved, okay?
And I’ve never (read: only once) had a cousin arrested for unlawfully trespassing on a mountainside to dig up ginseng. All (read: most) of my relatives have all their teeth and none (read: only a few) have allowed a Marlboro to dangle from their lips while they put five dollars of gas in their Chevrolet Beretta sporting four spare tires. But, contrary to popular belief, it isn’t customary for Southerners to wed our uncles’ sons or wear thongs to the Fourth of July picnic.
Okay, I’ll admit that I have seen an above ground pool inside a garage, therefore making it an indoor above ground pool. I’ve seen grown men cry at NASCAR defeats. I’ve seen a recliner strapped to the top of a Geo Metro. I know someone named Tickle. I know someone named Skeeter. And yes, Skeeter’s stepson, Catfish, once pulled my 4x4 truck out of a ditch.
Heavens, I’ve seen some things.
But, the truth is, down South, you’ll find good-hearted, hardworking people who respect their elders. There’s sweet tea in every refrigerator and piping hot pies on Grandma’s windowsill. Old men rock on wraparound porches they share with lazy dogs, and neighbors bring over casseroles when your mama is sick. There’s a heavyset preacher shouting the gospel from behind a pulpit and wiping his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.
You’ll find kids with Kool-Aid mustaches chasing each other around shady magnolia trees (and tripping over the massive roots). Lakes are crowded with fishing boats, mosquitoes are the size of canaries, and crickets are the size of frogs. Old ladies gossip beneath hair dryers at the Cut N’ Curl. There is a fruit and vegetable stand on the corner of every highway. You’ll see after-church spreads of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and okra on dining tables covered in generations-old tablecloths.
You’ll find hydrangea and honeysuckle bushes spilling onto sidewalks. There’s a storyteller or two at every family reunion. Grandma’s tattered cookbook rests next to the family Bible and a worn apron hangs on the hook by the kitchen screen door. You’ll find kindness and manners and respect, and the works of Tennessee Williams, William Faulkner, and Flannery O’Connor on bookshelves. Things move a little slower down South, but that’s just fine by us.
In the South, you’ll also find me—an orphaned thirty-seven-year-old wife and mother, born and raised in a small Tennessee town, clinging to the promises of God and looking for every opportunity to laugh. I spray Shout on unidentifiable stains daily and wear monogrammed pullovers while hauling kids to ball practice in an SUV that smells like a locker room. I sit in my back-porch swing, in awe of God’s stunning sunsets, with a laptop by my side. I’m often on social media sharing unbelievable shenanigans that take place in my home, childhood memories that will forever bring a smile to my face, and the beautiful promises that the Lord has so graciously spoken to my heart.
This is my world. This is my South.
If you think the South sounds pretty good, stick around as I pass on some of the Southern wit and wisdom I am so thankful was passed along to me. You’ll see purpose revealed through pain and beauty springing forth from ashes. If that doesn’t sound good to you, well, I’ll just put on my Ray-Bans, douse my hair in anti-humidity hairspray, and bless your little ole heart.
CHAPTER 1
Write, Rinse, Repeat
My mother was quite the storyteller. Whether humorous fiction or factual accounts of her youth, her stories captivated me, molded me, and planted a seed within me that would one day grow into a calling.
Mama began filling my head with tales when I was just a little girl. She sat on the edge of my canopy bed, stroked my long hair, and wove a humorous plot about Farmer Brown’s wife and the chickens that flew through her kitchen window. What a mess they made in poor Mrs. Brown’s farmhouse. Those foul fowl wreaked havoc. Silly chickens were the last thought I had before drifting off to sleep.
I also heard numerous anecdotes while I rode in the passenger seat of my mother’s Oldsmobile. She’d point to places in our hometown and tell stories about them. I still know the exact spot where she fell off her bicycle on College Street and will never forget the harrowing tale of the drifter who jumped off the train on Boyd Avenue, banged on her aunt Ottie’s back door, and paced the porch whistling an eerie tune. I’ll forever picture the older couple who lived on Washington Avenue and were terrified their new color television was going to damage their eyes, so they wore sunglasses. I would laugh so hard that I snorted when Mama regaled us with the tale of visiting them and being forced to put on dark glasses to watch Gunsmoke.
I especially loved to hear my mother talk about the summers she spent with her refined and elegant Aunt Nancy on Fairfax Avenue in Nashville. Aunt Nancy was a beautiful woman who wore diamonds and sapphires and loathed dirt. She went so far as to wrap newspaper around the gas and brake pedals in her car to keep them spotless. Aunt Nancy was also often embarrassed by her husband James’s lack of filter. Mama loved to recount the time Uncle James told a chatty dinner guest to “quit talking and start chewing” while Aunt Nancy turned twenty-four shades of crimson and my young mother covered her face with her napkin to stifle her laughter.
And Lord have mercy, I’ll never forget the story about Betsy.
Betsy went to school with my mother and lived in a beautiful house on the hill near the high school. On her way home from school, Mama passed right by Betsy’s house where Betsy’s mother kept her 1959 Impala parked on the street out front. Betsy was not quite old enough to drive, but she would sit inside that car, and each time someone passed her house she’d pump the brakes so it seemed that she’d just parked the massive Chevrolet. She spent many afternoons doing this just so her classmates would think her parents allowed her to drive. Mama said sometimes Betsy would honk the horn and wave too. That visual of young Betsy trying her best to fit in with the older kids will forever live in my mind.
I’d always loved hearing my mother’s stories, but it never occurred to me to write my own until I was eight years old. I had checked out a book at my elementary school library called The Trouble with Tuck. I vividly remember the picture on the cover: a dog and a girl sitting under a tree. The girl’s shirt was tucked into terribly short shorts, and it looked awful uncomfortable, so I thought maybe the trouble she was having was with that shirt tucked into those tiny shorts, but after reading the back cover, I realized that Tuck was the dog. And as a dog lover, I was sold. I took the book home, not knowing it would change my life.
I was lying on my bedroom floor, a chubby kid with a Little Debbie in one hand and the book in the other, when I reached the part where Tuck went blind. Tears poured from my eyes and dampened the pages. I was terrified I was going to get in trouble for soaking (and getting Fudge Round on) those pages by our strict librarian who kept a wooden paddle with holes drilled in it on her desk. But once the fear subsided, I rea
lized something beautiful had happened. That book made me feel something. It brought me joy and laughter as I read about the little girl and her best friend going on adventures, and then the book made me cry my eyes out. Right then I decided that’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to write books. Not books about blind dogs per se, but books that made people feel something.
So I started a little series of stories about two friends named Laura and Sarah. On notebook paper, I penned the tale of their friendship and elementary school escapades. I illustrated the covers with stick people, my only illustrative talent, and stapled the pages together. Then I wrote rave reviews on the back and drew New York Times bestseller stamps on them. Hey, go big or go home, right?
I loved writing so much I decided to give novels a try. I penned twenty whole pages about a girl and her mother who were chased by a truck driver. I cranked out a tale about a haunted garage and another about a kid with the superpower to make things smell like strawberries. I got so lost in those stories every day after school that I forgot to do my homework, but I had found my calling. Math homework did not matter. (Until I got my report card.)
When I was eleven and my father died, I discovered writing was cathartic and therapeutic. I could feel my burdens being lifted when I wrote about the pain and the void that accompanied my daddy’s sudden passing. As I banged out words on my Brother typewriter, I recognized writing was so much more than a hobby.
I stuck with it. I was late for high school many mornings because I’d stayed up late writing a book about some zit-faced boy who’d thrown me over for a girl with prettier bangs. I lost interest in other hobbies (I knew basketball wasn’t for me when I kept trying to make shots in the wrong goal), but I remained passionate about the written word. And, after graduation, I went to college and took creative writing courses to hone my craft. I was delighted when my writing professors left words of affirmation on my essays. (My math professors did the opposite—in red ink.) I was confident writing really was what I was meant to do.
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