Because God promises us He has a good plan for our future—a plan to prosper us and give us hope (Jeremiah 29:11), we must trust He will do what He says. We must say, “Holla!” to yesterday and say, “How you doin’?” to the present.
One day my children will move from their hometown, the same way I did when I went to college. Even as I cry and fall down in the driveway and hold on to their ankles and beg them not to leave, they’ll still have to go if God sends them. And they’ll take those memories of bugs in a jar and the sound of bullfrogs on a summer night with them. They’ll carry a little piece of their hometown with them wherever they go. They’ll carry all the pieces of the puzzle.
But, still, they must go. They must do a new thing.
The time comes when we all must go. When we all must do a new thing.
Instead of being fearful of new beginnings, we must embrace the changes God places in our lives. He gives us a beautiful opportunity to bloom where we’re planted. He has a plan, and it is good.
CHAPTER 6
Arise and Call Yourself Blessed
In the early 1980s, Cabbage patch Kids were all the rage, and I was a mama to four of them: Kirk, Lisa, Alexis, and Brantley. I changed their outfits daily and brushed their yarn hair. When they were naughty, I gently popped them on their little butts where the “Xavier Roberts” tattoo was printed. They meant the world to me, those dolls. I tucked them into bed with me every night and made sure they had toys available to them while I went to school each day. I put them in their Sunday best and strapped them tightly into the back of my mother’s Oldsmobile on our way to church.
I have always been maternal. When I was just a kid, I pictured having a house full of kids. I wanted to be a stay-at-home mother just like my own mama. I wanted to pack lunches for school, buy cute little clothes, bandage boo-boos, and cheer from the bleachers. For as long as I can remember, I always wanted to be a mother.
My first pregnancy was not fun. I was not one of those glowing pregnant women with a perfect baby bump, thick hair, and healthy nails. No. I was a huge, waddling duck with all-day sickness, back pain, and terrible acne. One afternoon I caught a glimpse of my arm in my car’s side mirror. I had a bat wing. A legit bat wing. I had fifteen pounds of dangling fat hanging from my upper arm, so I whipped into a drive-through, ate a bacon cheeseburger, and tried to forget about it.
Because of preeclampsia, I was induced a week before my due date. And despite the agony of having my water broken with what looked like the hickory switch my grandmother used to spank me when I talked back to her, it was the most beautiful miracle I’d ever experienced. It was far better than front-row Pearl Jam tickets or winning that poetry contest in high school or the day my daddy announced we were getting a pool.
When I held that little bundle in a pastel pink blanket, I was overcome with joy. My dream had finally come true. I was a mother.
Not long after my Natalie Ann was born, the nurse brought her into the hospital room. As Jason slept on the uncomfortable chair in the corner, we had our first moment alone. She quietly gazed up at me with the most beautiful blue eyes. She wouldn’t break her stare, and I wouldn’t dare break mine. I stroked her fuzzy head and prayed over her. I prayed for her future and asked God to let me be the perfect mother to her. I thanked Him for this blessing. I thanked Him she didn’t have yarn hair like my Cabbage Patch dolls. It was the most special moment I’d ever experienced because I knew right then my life had changed for the better.
I happily quit my secretarial job to stay home with my daughter. She was such a good baby she even slept through the night from birth. We spent the days cuddling on the couch and watching Baby Einstein videos (the reason she’s in gifted classes today). Lord have mercy, she was so perfect, and I wanted ten more just like her.
I wanted ten more girls just like her because I discovered I loved being a mother to a daughter. I loved the bond and the bows. Kirk, my Cabbage Patch son in overalls, was a fine young man, but I didn’t want any “real” boys. Being a mother to a house full of girls was the new desire of my heart.
And so, I started praying for that. “God, give me more little girls! Give me more girls, God! I want some more girls!”
In December 2009, Natalie was at Mother’s Day Out at First Methodist (sweetly sharing toys with her friends because she was the perfect toddler, remember?), and I was on a table in my obstetrician’s office. Jason stood beside me and we both eagerly watched the monitor as the nurse put cold gel on my large stomach.
The little blob on the screen was a girl. I already knew. How did I know? Because that’s what I’d prayed for countless times. Because my desire was God-given. Because I wanted to dress the little blob and Natalie Ann in matching outfits. Because I wanted to name the baby after my mother. Because I was destined to be a mother to daughters.
The nurse began typing on the keyboard and three little words appeared on the screen hanging over my large stomach:
IT’S A BOY!
Jason’s eyes lit up as he exhaled joyfully. A boy! A boy to catch the football, to dress in camo and join him in the deer stand. A boy to talk to about carburetors and wrenches and spark plugs. He was getting a boy, and he was ecstatic.
I grinned at the words on the screen, but I will admit to you my heart sank. I’m still ashamed to say it, and as vile as it sounds, I did not want a son. I didn’t know how to be a mother to a boy. I wouldn’t possibly have the same sweet bond with a boy as I did with Natalie Ann. I didn’t want a nursery decorated in primary colors and choo-choo trains. I didn’t want to buy overalls that looked like Kirk’s.
I was sorely disappointed.
I managed to smile and put on an Oscar-winning performance that I was excited to bear a boy, but I was really confused and even somewhat devastated and deceived by my intuition, perhaps deceived by God. Hadn’t God heard my prayers? Didn’t He know I wanted another girl? Wasn’t He supposed to grant the desires of my heart? What was I going to do with all of Natalie’s infant hair-bows and dresses I’d saved?
I know it sounds ridiculous to be upset over a child’s gender, but I was, and the distress sent me into a depression. I was low and vulnerable, and not only that, I was physically sick for most of the pregnancy. My doctor chalked both the emotional and physical sickness up to hormones, but I knew something more was happening. I lacked joy and peace.
So, the Enemy did what he does best—he took advantage of my distraught and vulnerable state and started putting despicable thoughts in my mind.
You won’t love this boy.
I heard that horrible sentence in my head relentlessly. I heard it as I folded laundry, as I washed dishes, as I stared at my precious little girl, as I reluctantly purchased ball caps and dinosaur onesies.
You won’t love your own son. You are such a horrible mother.
Repeat times 1,200,999,292.
As if the thought I wouldn’t love the child in my womb wasn’t horrific and depressing enough, I was plagued with new disturbing thoughts of chaos and confusion. The new thoughts didn’t attack my ability to love a son but instead attacked my faith.
God failed you, Susannah. He knew you wanted a little girl. He knew the desires of your heart, but He failed you. He doesn’t care about you.
What in the world? What in the ever-loving world was happening to my mind? Why was I being tormented like this? What was this vicious attack on my thought life?
I cried out to God for help, for restoration, and for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure He was there. I couldn’t hear His wisdom. When I prayed I felt as if I was just speaking into thin air. I was terrified when I cried out to Him but could not feel His presence.
He’s abandoned you. He doesn’t care about you.
I vividly remember locking myself in the bathroom one night while Jason and Natalie slept. I slid my heavy, pregnant body to the cold tile floor, and as my bat wings flapped, I ugly sobbed. I had so much snot covering my face, I looked like a newly hatched Gremlin. I begged God to rescue me from the though
ts running through my mind. I begged Him to fill my heart with love for the little boy in my womb. I begged Him to strengthen my faith. I begged Him for help.
Instead of being blanketed in peace when I prayed, as I usually was, I heard, Who are you praying to? You’ve been a fool all these years to believe in your God. He doesn’t even exist. If He did, He would have freed you by now. He would have comforted you by now.
Over and over I thought it.
He doesn’t exist.
Every hour. Every day. Relentlessly. Repeatedly.
He doesn’t exist.
Worn and weary, I read scriptures I’d read a hundred times, and they no longer made sense to me. I started to question what I was reading. I started to believe possibly God wasn’t real—and if He was, He truly had abandoned me.
And it all started the moment I learned I was going to have a son.
Ephesians 6:12 tells us our struggle isn’t merely against flesh and blood. We wrestle against dark and wicked spiritual forces. The Enemy was dumping lies and garbage into my thought life, and because I didn’t know the first thing about putting on the full armor of God (Ephesians 6:10–18), I believed his crap. I truly believed I wasn’t going to love the boy in my womb. I believed we were going to go through life resenting one another, and I drowned in guilt over it. I believed I was abandoned by a God who may or may not even be real.
See? This is what the Enemy does. He seeks to kill, steal, and destroy. He seeks to rob us of peace and joy. He seeks to throw us into a state of darkness and despair and leave us there.
But, let me tell you, the moment I locked eyes with my newborn son, Bennett, I immediately felt the Lord’s presence and comfort wash over me. For the first time in months, I knew without a doubt my God, my Savior, my Comforter was right there with me. He was just as present as my husband, my mama, and the doctor. He was just as present as the precious boy I held in my arms. I now like to say I was delivered the moment I delivered!
Bennett wasn’t wrapped in a pink blanket or wearing a bow, but I could not have loved that child more. I knew right then all of those debilitating thoughts had been vicious lies. I knew God had given me a son for a great purpose. I knew because the Lord spoke a revelation to me, right there in the hospital room, as I stroked my baby’s head of beautiful dark brown hair and his round peach cheeks while overwhelming joy spilled from my eyes.
You’ve been attacked because the Enemy wanted you to renounce Me. The Enemy wanted to separate you from Me in hopes you wouldn’t raise this boy—both your children—on My Word. Because this child was a threat to the Enemy before he was even born.
Wow. Wow. Wow.
Suddenly it all made sense. Oh, it all made so much sense! All the darkness and the despair and the spiritual warfare finally made sense. Satan knew if he could convince me to believe his lies—God doesn’t exist and the Bible is a storybook—I would not raise my son on the Word. I would not raise my son on the truth. The Enemy was scared to death of my baby boy while he was still in my womb and was doing all he could to disrupt my son’s inheritance. Because Jeremiah 1:5 says God knew us before He formed us in the womb and He set us apart!
I also understood why the Lord allowed me to endure the trial, why He stayed quiet through the storm: because He knew it would mature me spiritually. He knew it would teach me not to rely on my thoughts and feelings or every lie that runs through my head, but instead on the infallible Word of God.
God knew the struggle, and finally the sweet revelation, would make me realize just how significant my role is as a mother. And possibly help you realize just how significant your role is to a child—as a mother or a sister or an aunt.
The Enemy cowers at our children, and we cannot take that lightly. If we care for children in our lives, we have been given them to love, to nurture, to protect, to dress in precious outfits, yes, but we must also mold them to do great work for the kingdom. It’s imperative we pray diligently over them and send them into the world armed with the knowledge found in the Word of God. It’s vital we refute the lies the Enemy speaks to us about our children, our heritage from the Lord, and instead speak words of life and victory over them! It’s imperative we prepare these soldiers of God’s army—to sow into them the Scriptures. It’s our responsibility to help our babies discern the great voice of truth in all the voices coming at them.
In Matthew 9:37 Jesus said to His disciples, “The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few.” Jesus looked out upon the people and said, “Look at the potential here! This is a harvest of souls! Who is going to witness to them and tell them the good news? Who is going to step up and do the work? Who is going to sow the seed? Who is going to be a laborer instead of a loiterer?”
Mamas, our children are our field. They are ready for us, as their mothers, to sow some substantial, life-changing, fruit-bearing seeds into them because the world isn’t going to do it. Kids in the hallways aren’t going to tell your children they are loved and accepted and perfect in Christ. The world isn’t going to tell them they have victory over the fiery darts of the Enemy. The world isn’t going to sow seeds of love and encouragement and witness and righteous testimony into them. In fact, the Enemy and this world will try to kill the field, steal the seeds, and destroy the harvest.
You have to be the diligent farmer in your children’s lives. You have to sow spiritual seeds and then, praise God, watch a sprout bloom within them—a sprout in the form of the Holy Spirit and the fruits of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22–23).
That’s the harvest.
I pray you recognize what a precious, precious gift motherhood is. I pray you realize it truly is a God-ordained calling. I pray you realize it is a monumental commission to be entrusted with these soldiers of God’s army—these soldiers who threaten the Enemy. I pray you see the work to be done and the seeds to be sown.
I pray you recognize it. I pray you receive it. I pray you relish in it.
And arise and call yourself blessed.
CHAPTER 7
The Upside to Life’s Downs
It was November 22, 1992. My father had been sober for a little over a year, but on Saturday, November 21, 1992, he fell off the wagon—and it was a pretty hard fall. He didn’t come home after playing a round of golf that afternoon, and my mother and I were both worried he was tying one on. When he finally phoned her hours later, his words were slurred, and our greatest fear became reality. I’ll never forget watching my mother in her bathrobe, standing by her bed screaming into the cordless phone, “Not again, Billy Brown! We won’t go through this again!”
Mama chain-smoked and paced the house while I worried because my daddy was drunk again. He was in a camp house on the river with a group of friends, strumming the guitar and playing cards while the whiskey flowed like water. I feared Mama was going to leave him this time. I’d be a child of divorce. When would I even see my father? He’d be drinking on the weekends and wouldn’t have time for me, but Mama wasn’t going to spend another thirteen years waiting on that man to stumble in at 2:00 a.m., scorch his supper in the microwave, and pass out on the couch. Her own father was an alcoholic, and she refused to keep going through what her own sweet mother went through.
I spent the night in my mother’s bed, my eyes swollen from the tears and my stomach hurting from the stress. She was on the phone half the night venting to her best friend and my sister who was away at college. I remember her lengthy prayer that night as she held me close to her side. I remember her praying he’d safely get home down the curvy river road. I remember her praying for his conviction. I also remember her praying we’d never go through this again.
And her prayers were answered.
My mother was the pianist in our country Baptist church, so she could not miss services the next morning, but she allowed me to play hooky. I mean, my dad had just fallen off the wagon and I’d spent the entire night crying. I really didn’t want to put on one of my
Simplicity pattern dresses and do a craft in Sunday school. So I cuddled up in the bed with my Lhasa Apso, Peaches, and watched George Bailey run down the streets of Bedford Falls.
My thoughts were consumed by my father. When he had come in the night before, he did not bother coming into my mother’s bedroom to speak to us. He knew he was in trouble and the best thing for him would be to sleep on the couch. Although he’d been out partying all night, he still managed to get up early that Sunday morning and go play golf. So I had not seen him yet, but I assumed we’d have a family meeting later that afternoon. That made me nervous and uneasy.
As George Bailey ran down the black-and-white streets, I heard the squeaky kitchen door open and close. Soon I saw my tall, thin, handsome daddy pass the bedroom door and continue down the hall. When he didn’t speak to me, I got up to investigate. And there I saw him lying on the floor and moaning in pain.
What a hangover, I thought.
I called out to him several times, but he wouldn’t reply. Finally, he pushed himself up and walked toward me. He only made it a few steps, though, before he fell again.
I remembered the old folks at church describing a heart attack like “an elephant sitting on your chest.” Because my father was clutching at his heart and moaning in pain, I knew this must be the problem instead of a hangover, but it just didn’t seem right. My daddy didn’t fit the description for heart-attack victims. He was only forty-two years old. Yeah, he was a drinker and there was a Vantage cigarette hanging from his lips nearly every waking minute, but heart attacks were for grandfathers and people who ate meat for dessert. It just didn’t make sense to my eleven-year-old mind.
While my dog curled next to him on the floor, I ran to the kitchen telephone and dialed 911. I told the operator my father was sick and needed help immediately. Then I dialed the church and told Mrs. Betty to send my mother home. Once the phone calls had been made, I paced the blue floral house, for the first time in my life knowing true terror and anxiety. I’ll never forget Peaches resting close to him, as if she knew something terrible was happening. Her head was down and her brown eyes shifted about the house. I realized at that moment just how intuitive animals are.
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