Can't Make This Stuff Up!

by Susannah B. Lewis

  And one day, she hit the ball. Her little legs ran like the dickens and she was finally on first base, her face covered in a smile. To hear me screaming, you’d have thought she’d just nailed a walk-off homerun in World Series Game Seven! I may have teared up a little, and she may have too.

  Softball soon became a large part of our lives. Natalie Ann took hitting and pitching lessons every week. I hauled an overloaded wagon packed with bats and coolers and umbrellas and bought things like eye black and Frogg Toggs and portable fans. I took more time picking out the perfect folding chair than I did picking out a couch for our living room. We even splurged on a glove and bat that cost more than my microwave.

  One hot afternoon, as I sat in that overpriced, extra-padded folding chair and watched my dusty little girl at second base, I was overcome with admiration. I admired her for having the courage to charge the ball rapidly flying at her instead of screaming, with arms flailing. I admired her for having the courage to get back out there with her head held high and redeem herself after a terrible previous inning. I admired her hard work and determination. I admired her for not just sitting on the sidelines but for playing the game.

  The summer of her 8U season, Natalie Ann made the all-star team. Along with twelve other little girls, she spent the majority of her summer vacation on the dirty softball field. Those girls happily sacrificed lazy nights and weekends to practice perfecting their swings and their slides. They pushed through the fatigue of each early morning game, the heat and the sweat and the scorching sun of every afternoon playoff. Twelve little girls were too busy working to complain. Twelve little girls gave their heart and their all on the softball diamond week after week.

  It’s difficult to accurately put into words the enormous pride that I felt when our all-stars won game after game, championship after championship, proving that their practice and dedication had paid off. As they exited the ball field with sweaty jerseys, stained pants, sandy cleats, and faces covered in smeared eye black and smiles, they knew, we all knew, their team was special.

  Parents and grandparents jumped and shouted with joy as those twelve little girls played undefeated in tournament after tournament. We uploaded countless photos to Facebook declaring our pride for our team as they continued to play their hearts out and seal a spot in the state championship.

  All of their hard work came down to a final game at the World Series, and I wasn’t about to miss it. Jason and I actually cancelled a trip to New York to watch our daughter stand on the pitching mound that weekend. Tired and worn, though, our all-stars lost the final game by one run in the last inning. Did you hear me? One run in the last inning! After so many wins, so many trophies and medals, those little girls finally knew what it was like to lose.

  Tears left clean streaks on their dirty faces as they received the second-place trophy. But those tears didn’t fall just because they had lost a ball game. Sore losers, they definitely weren’t. They cried—and the mamas cried—for a different reason.

  They wiped their eyes because the season was over. They knew this team wouldn’t play together again. Some of the girls would move up to a different age bracket. They cried because that was the last time they’d assemble on the field in their orange and blue 2015 all-stars jerseys. They cried because they truly loved being together, playing together, winning, and even losing together.

  I (poorly) played sports in school, but I never experienced what my young daughter and her teammates experienced that summer. I never formed the kinds of bonds those young ladies formed. They didn’t just play ball on some dusty field. They learned some of life’s most important lessons.

  I watched each girl cheer on her teammates. I watched them pat each other’s helmets and tap each other’s gloves. I watched them build up one another. When someone struck out or missed a pop fly, I watched them share a bench in a dugout and whisper words of encouragement. I watched them bow down on one knee when a teammate was hurt, as worry covered their faces. I watched those girls love one another. And sometimes those twelve little girls were afraid—afraid of a bigger, better team. Sometimes they were afraid they would lose. But they had faith in one another and played the game anyway because giving up wasn’t an option.

  Those girls reminded me we are called to encourage and love one another. And when we are called to do the hard things, things that make us afraid, we have to do them anyway.

  When I self-published my first book in 2015, I was asked to speak at events. I loathe speaking in public, but I did a tri-county tour of libraries and book clubs and talked in detail about plot development, antagonists, and how I found the time to juggle writing and motherhood. I won’t lie. Sometimes I was so nervous about standing in front of a crowd I had to pop half a Xanax and apply a profuse amount of deodorant. I remember pacing backstage at an event and begging the Lord for a hefty dose of courage. I also begged Him not to let me pee my pants or throw up on the podium. And He was faithful to see me through every single speaking engagement.

  Then I was called to speak at bigger events. And I wasn’t discussing fiction and ideas for sequels. Instead, I was talking to people about Jesus! I spoke to a large group of mothers and impressionable young girls who long to gain this world’s (and social media’s) approval and who lose sight of what is eternal and everlasting. I spoke to girls who fervently and tirelessly sow seeds into a worldly, unrighteous, secular field and are disappointed time and time again with what they reap—a temporary harvest of approval that soon fades and is replaced by seeds of doubt and low self-esteem and anxiety and fear.

  And as I looked out upon those young ladies sitting at beautifully decorated tables in an event hall at a gorgeous antebellum home, I was filled with such immeasurable joy. For the first time, I wasn’t nervous to speak. I felt I was right where the good Lord intended me to be. I was right where He’d planned for me to be many years ago, even before I was formed in my mother’s womb. (Remember Jeremiah 1:5?)

  I left the event that afternoon and for the first time in my life, I was pelted with a “spiritual hangover” of sorts. I was exhausted and drained, much like those little girls exiting the softball field, but I was still basking in so much joy and peace that the Lord’s Word was not going to return void. I was basking in faith that the words I’d spoken to those young ladies earlier that afternoon had made a real impact. I was basking in praise (and shock) that the Lord, in His infinite wisdom, had called a mess-up like me to serve as His vessel.

  A few nights later, I was given the opportunity again to share my testimony in a beautiful barn venue adorned with shiplap and gorgeous chandeliers. And as I stood on that stage, the Holy Spirit was undeniably present. Words I had not even rehearsed the night before in my mirror were spilling out of my mouth! God was placing so many new and exciting and fresh ideas on my heart and in my mind, and before I knew it, tears clouded my eyes. And again, He confirmed that I was right where I was meant to be. As I talked about beauty from ashes, He confirmed that every painful thing I’ve gone through in my life was for that moment. He confirmed it was to encourage and remind others that although this temporary life can be awful crappy at times, He works all things for good. He restores joy. He sets captives free. He bestows favor.

  First Corinthians 12:27–28 says, “Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it. And God has placed in the church first of all apostles, second prophets, third teachers, then miracles, then gifts of healing, of helping, of guidance, and of different kinds of tongues.”

  The immeasurable joy of walking in purpose is accessible to everyone in the body of Christ. If you had told me just a few years ago I would be standing in front of people and enthusiastically talking about Jesus Christ, I would have said you were crazy—because although I’ve been saved a long time, I didn’t believe God could use a sinner like me in such a way. I didn’t believe I would actually stand in front of a crowd and talk without passing out or peeing my pants.

  But the Lord so often calls us to do the things we
think we can’t do. He equips us. He qualifies us. And He sends us.

  Being on fire for God and filled with the Holy Spirit doesn’t have to look the same way for you that it looks for me. Maybe God is calling you to stand on a stage and publicly declare His love and faithfulness—or maybe He’s calling you to do something completely different. Either way, my job isn’t more important than yours. Yours isn’t more important than mine.

  Every position has a divine purpose. Kind of like softball, right?

  We are all a vital part in the body of Christ.

  A dear friend of mine who works at the local hospital suddenly felt called to spend her lunch breaks visiting with nursing home residents across the street. So every few days, she crosses the busy intersection and pops in to pray with the residents or play a game of Go Fish. She may simply flash someone a smile or ask how they’ve been or lend an ear and listen to the charming tale of young love in 1947. What she does is beautiful. She shows the love of Christ to the lonely and the lost and the longing, and it’s just as important as my preaching to a group of young girls.

  As born-again Christians, we all have a calling. And if we aren’t the least bit curious about that calling, we need to examine our hearts and our walk with Jesus. We should wake up each day enthusiastically striving to do more and be better than the day before. We should put kingdom work at the top of our priorities—whether we minister to the elderly in a nursing home, anonymously pay someone’s electric bill, work in the nursery, volunteer at a soup kitchen, teach Sunday school, dive into missions, or lend an ear. Whatever we do, we should do it devotedly for the Lord, with the ultimate purpose to show the lost that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life.

  If you aren’t on fire for God or have yet to find your purpose, tell Him. Look to Him. Tell Him you’re ready to roll up your sleeves and get to work. Tell Him you’re ready to get on that field. Tell Him to continue to prepare you for your calling and send you when He knows you’re ready. Tell Him you’re willing. And remember that He doesn’t call the qualified; He qualifies the called.

  And once He shows you the way and you start walking in your purpose and all that joy and peace just overtakes you, don’t get complacent about it. Because we must never be satisfied with our walk. We should strive to do more and do better and be called higher and higher each day. If you have breath in your body, you’re never done serving and loving and walking in purpose.

  I’m a part of the body. You’re a part of the body. And, like our physical bodies, each part has a different purpose. But each one is vitally important. And just like those twelve little girls on that softball field, we all have a position to play. We have work to do. We have encouragement and love to give.

  CHAPTER 12

  Bless This Mess

  As I dressed Natalie ann in her lavender and pink polka-dotted newborn going-home outfit and prepared to leave the hospital, I felt a little panicked. I asked the staff for the instruction manual on how to care for that bald little creature. They laughed. It really irritated me because I hate when people laugh at serious questions.

  Those first few months consisted of fear, prayers, and rampant internet searches. I remember talking to our pediatrician’s nurse so often I considered making her the sole beneficiary in our will. I remember the sleepless nights and the engorged breasts. I remember the bulk buys of Boudreaux’s Butt Paste.

  When the newborn phase passed, I had the false sense that things were going to get easier, but boy, was I wrong. Not only was I still buying Butt Paste, but I had to corner an overactive toddler covered in glitter and Goldfish dust to apply it.

  And what about the real fun stuff: when the three-year-old throws Cheerios at the back of your head while you drive eight hours to Disney World or when your kid throws himself on the floor at Target and you are convinced he will win the 2029 Emmy Award for best lead actor in a dramatic series? When your teen develops an attitude and learns how to roll her eyes and thinks you are the lamest mother in the history of mothers? She won’t even let you play air drums in the carpool line anymore without some sassy remark. Those are the times you come unglued.

  I’m not proud to admit I went “Hulk” after I told Bennett to get in the bed, but forty-five minutes later he was still putting Transformer stickers on freshly painted walls. I reached the end of my rope when my precious offspring refused to stop screaming about the Lego set I didn’t buy him three months ago. I yelled like a banshee when I told eleven-year-old Natalie Ann five times to load the dishwasher but she “forgot because her memory isn’t what it used to be.” I have experienced overwhelming feelings of frustration and anger that only my precious children can conjure.

  I’ve never verbally or physically hurt my babies, but I’ve lost my cool more times than I can count. A dark cloud of guilt hovered over me about that for a long time. I would put them in time-out and then wonder if I was emotionally scarring them for life. I was miserable and felt like an absolute failure. I was certain I was the only mama who blew up when my kindergartener broke a Pier One lamp (it’s never the cheap lamp, is it?) and then pathologically lied about it. I was the only mother who blew a gasket at homemade slime embedded in the carpet or permanent marker on my white quilt.

  We wish we’d breastfed longer. We wish we’d bought the organic gummies. We wish we’d used our inside voice although our children were using their outside voices and they couldn’t hear our inside voice. We wish we’d done so many things differently, and we beat ourselves up over all of it. We have this crazy fear our kids are going to resent us. We fear they aren’t going to come home for Christmas when they are older, and if they do, they will bring home a convicted felon named Blade with a pierced septum.

  After going to a motherhood class at church, I realized I’m not the only woman who feels this way. I’m not the only yeller in the neighborhood, either. I’m not the only mama who has gone completely ape in a Toys “R” Us aisle. I’m not abusing my daughter when I tell her she can’t have Snapchat. I’m not a failure.

  However, I am the very mother God intended for my children. He didn’t make a mistake when He gave me a forgetful daughter and a strong-willed boy. He didn’t make a mistake when He gave me the messiest children on the planet. He knew my weaknesses would come to surface. He knew I would gnaw my nails until they were bloody nubs. He knew I would grit my teeth when Bennett knocked over a huge candy bar display in the grocery store. He knew I would sigh in frustration when Natalie Ann broke another iPad screen. But He also knew I am well equipped to parent them. I have everything they need. I am the perfect mother for them, although I am constantly making mistakes and learning lessons.

  When our family went to Florida for Thanksgiving several years ago, I thought it would be a great opportunity to take some beach photos of the kids. I planned to dress them in their matching Christmas outfits and capture a photo that was worthy of Christmas cards and 250 likes on Facebook. Natalie Ann has always been an easygoing child, so she happily complied when I put her in the red corduroy dress with the Christmas tree applique. Bennett, however, wanted no part in donning the matching corduroy Jon Jon. He was determined to wear his Lightning McQueen swim trunks and a two-dollar Garanimals tee, and soon things went sour.

  “But, baby,” I reasoned with him, “don’t you want to look handsome in the picture with Sissy? Don’t you want the picture to look nice?”

  Newsflash: three-year-olds couldn’t care less about a picture looking nice.

  He kicked and screamed so much I couldn’t even get his fat little legs in the outfit. I just wanted to give up and cry. I wanted to go outside and hotbox a carton of cigarettes. He was going to ruin our Christmas photo. It was the end of the world as I knew it, and I didn’t feel fine. (Extra points if you got that R.E.M. reference.)

  We didn’t take any photos that afternoon. Instead, we went out to eat and I drowned my sorrows in a plate of fried shrimp. When we were leaving the restaurant, I was whining to my family about the boy’s noncompliance. I point
ed at Bennett, in his swim trunks and dinosaur T-shirt, and grumbled about the missed photo opportunity. An older lady overheard my complaining and approached me.

  “You have to pick your battles, dear.” She gave me a wink and walked away.

  Um, excuse me? Who did this lady think she was? Who was she to tell me to pick my battles? Was she judging me? Did she think I was being a whiny baby just because my whiny baby wouldn’t wear a Jon Jon? Did she think letting my kid run all over me was okay? Did she think a Christmas card photo featuring Lightning McQueen was acceptable?

  I was fuming over the day’s events, but on the ride back to our condo, Stranger Lady’s words sank in. I looked over at my precious blond chunk in his car seat watching palm trees out the window. He was happy as a lamb, and I realized he wasn’t trying to defy me when he refused to wear what I’d picked out that morning. He just wanted to wear swim trunks on the beach instead of a corduroy romper.

  I am proud to say I have learned to pick my battles. As parents, sometimes we have to. I’ll never back down when it comes to enforcing rules that keep my children safe or healthy, but Lightning McQueen swim trunks in a beach photo isn’t worth me losing my sanity. Ka-chow!

  Do your children know they are loved? Do you show them affection? Do you support them? Do you believe in them and thank God for them and pray with them and for them? Yes? Then stop sweating the small stuff. They won’t murder you in your sleep because your forehead vein bulged when an eight-ounce glass of grape juice “accidentally” spilled on the new cream couch.

  Lord knows my mother made mistakes with me. Maybe letting me watch Dallas when I was such a young tot was a bad call, but I didn’t grow up and shoot anyone named JR. Maybe pushing me hard to do my best infuriated me when I was a preteen and I hated the world and everyone in it, but I am better for it. I spent every Christmas with her, and I never eloped with a boy with weird piercings. I turned out all right for the most part (except for that time I went to jail, but ignore that) and my children will too.