Motherhood is messy, no doubt, but let us never forget we are blessed.
Blessed in our broke-the-lamp, forgot-to-load-the-dishwasher, lost-their-expensive-coat, rolled-their-eyes, cracked-the-iPad, tracked-mud-through-the-house, lied-about-homework, failed-a-science-test, spilled-the-grape-juice mess.
CHAPTER 13
Eat the Mississippi Mud Cake
Every year, my mother made a Mississippi mud cake for my birthday. The recipe was her mother’s and it was unique to our family because she didn’t add marshmallows like most Mississippi mud recipes call for. This was because neither my grandmother Lucy nor my mother were fans of the marshmallow. However, they were fans of pecans, so that’s what they substituted for cylindrical pieces of sugar, water, and gelatin. I once ordered a slice of Mississippi Mud at a restaurant and they brought out this gooey, white, nut-free mess and I was so offended that I almost asked for the manager.
At every family cookout, Mama made a Mississippi mud cake (sans marshmallows). Oh mercy. Heaven on earth is a slice of warm Mississippi mud cake (sans marshmallows) with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. When Mama died, I framed her handwritten recipe for MMC (sans marshmallows) and set it on my kitchen counter.
What I’m saying is, Mississippi mud cake (sans marshmallows) is life.
It never failed: the day or two after my birthday, I would sit on the couch with the pan in my lap and finish off that delicacy. I didn’t care about the calories. Or the carbs. Or the points. Or the bathing suit in the drawer. That cake was joy. Bliss. A 13x9 pan of life’s simplest pleasure.
Another simple pleasure in my life is finding a pair of shoes that fit. Bonus points if they don’t make me look like a clown at the circus. What does that mean? Well, I’m blessed with oversized feet that make Sasquatches jealous. When I was in school, my mother attempted to comfort me concerning my large feet by saying, “Susannah, supermodels have big feet!”
And I would retort, “So do linebackers, Mama. What’s your point?”
Anyway, I cannot accurately put into words how much joy I feel when I walk into a shoe store and walk out with an actual pair of shoes instead of a confirmation number because the salesperson had to order my size from the warehouse. (I want to know where exactly this warehouse is and why don’t they open it up to big-footed women like myself. Road trip!)
One night, my sister Carmen, Natalie Ann, Bennett, and I were shoe shopping while on vacation in Florida. My sister has beautiful (small) feet and was trying on shoes that wouldn’t even house my big toe. I admired the cute sandals and mumbled and grumbled a little bit about having behemoth feet, but then I heard a sniffle. I looked down and my precious son had tears forming in his eyes. I asked him what was wrong, and he began to cry. “Mama, I just feel so bad you have big feet and can’t wear any of these shoes.”
“Oh, sweet boy,” I said, “don’t you cry! They can call the warehouse!”
I love life’s simplest pleasures. I love cheering in the stands for my daughter as she storms down the basketball court. I love cuddling with my son on the couch and watching Teen Titans Go! I love singing in the car, rocking on the front porch, riding with the windows down on a warm spring day. I love sitting on the beach and reading a good book. I love writing on my back porch while crickets chirp. I love playing on the floor with my dogs. Simple pleasures are the best.
James, the half brother of Jesus, told us in James 1:17 that every good and perfect gift comes “from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” Mississippi mud cake (sans marshmallows) and cute shoes and pets (I refuse to say fur babies, all right?) are good and perfect gifts. They must come from God!
Those words remind us that our lives, families, talents, abilities, friends, and opportunities—the very things we so often take for granted—are gifts we receive from our heavenly Father’s own hand. He showers blessings upon us, not because we have earned them or deserve them, but because He adores us and wants to give abundantly to His children. And God isn’t like people who often give gifts with strings attached or expect something from us in return. Instead, He is always faithful, dependable, and unwavering in His consistency. He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.
It seems a simple concept, that all good things come from our heavenly Father, but if we really begin to understand it and relish in it, we will look with awe at beautiful sunrises and starry nights and clouds scattered across the sky. We’ll really appreciate the times spent with our loved ones and the warm chocolate cake with a scoop of cold ice cream melting on top. The same good Father who healed our bodies or protected us or gave us children, who blesses us time and time again, painted the sky and aligns the stars for our delight. He gave us our people and invented the cocoa bean. All creation bears witness to His love and majesty.
One of my favorite places in the entire world is Pensacola Beach, Florida. My mother, sister, and I went nearly every summer on a girls’ trip. Some of my fondest memories are sitting on the white beach with Mama and Carmen, listening to the waves, talking about life and laughing until we couldn’t breathe. And when Natalie Ann was born, I brought her along. I can still see Mama building sandcastles with my precious baby girl wearing a pink seersucker bonnet. Mama took dozens of photos of Natalie Ann with her phone that trip and then asked me how in the world to retrieve the pictures. (She wasn’t the most tech savvy, bless her heart. She once called me while I was on a date with Jason and asked me to come home to set her new electric alarm clock because her Big Ben wouldn’t wind anymore.)
I adore the smell of the warm, salty air and the sound of waves lapping onto the white sand. I am in awe of the brilliant sunsets that form over the Gulf of Mexico. I don’t even mind when seagulls dive into my beach bag and eat my chips. Wait, that’s a lie. I don’t like that one bit, but I tolerate it.
In all the years I’ve been to Pensacola Beach, I’ve never fully credited God with making that serene spot for my pleasure. I’ve ooh-ed and ahh-ed at the picturesque ocean, but not until I meditated on James’s words did I really appreciate the splendor of Pensacola Beach. Suddenly what was always such a favored place of mine became even more favored. I was in more wonder of the smells and the sights and the sounds. I was more appreciative of the generous helping of tartar sauce and slaw that accompanied my shrimp po-boy at Peg Leg Pete’s.
I encourage you to take a moment to recognize that every good gift in your life, including life itself, comes from God’s mighty hand. Ask Him to make you more aware and thankful for all He has freely given you. Look at the sunsets, the stars, and even your family, friends, and talents with new appreciation. Praise Him for He is unchanging, and you can rely on His love and mercy every single day.
Life is hectic. Enjoy the simple pleasures. Admire the sunset. Marvel at nature. Buy the shoes if they have your size in stock.
Eat the Mississippi Mud cake.
CHAPTER 14
Praise Him in the Storm
When planning out my future in the pages of my journal in my early twenties, I designed my life with four children. So when Bennett was around two years old, I focused on my third baby. I didn’t foresee any problem getting pregnant because it had always been really easy for me. All I needed was a weekend away with Jason and a margarita and bam! Set me loose in Target with a baby registry scanner because a little one was on the way.
I didn’t care anymore whether I had a girl or a boy. I didn’t care that I was so physically sick during both of my pregnancies. I didn’t care that I suffered through hormonal acne that left my face looking like Pizza the Hutt from Mel Brooks’s classic Spaceballs. I didn’t care about the bat wings I would grow or the triple chins or the chili-cheese tot cravings at 2:00 a.m. None of that mattered, because the moment both of my children were born, all that discomfort was worth it. Bring on the sleepless nights and the smell of baby vomit hanging in the air. Bring on baby number three.
But my third baby just wouldn’t come.
Becoming concerned, I hit th
e internet message boards on pregnancy and tried to decipher codes like TTC, BD, TWW. (Trying to Conceive, Baby Dance, and Two Week Wait. Why not just type out the words? It literally took three more seconds to just type out the words, people!) We started doing the BD more than I care to think about. Good gracious! It’s time to BD again? Didn’t we just BD this morning? And this afternoon? And twenty minutes ago?
Do I need to pee on another stick? An ovulation detector stick? A pregnancy test stick? I’m peeing on more sticks than a dog. Do I need to take my temperature? Do I need to eat more raw honey? Jason, are you wearing boxers? Why am I saying “luteal phase” in everyday conversation? With strangers? At Walmart?
I followed the advice of every message board on the internet and nothing happened. I didn’t have a baby.
All I had was a pile of urine-soaked sticks in my trash can.
Months turned into years and Jason and I both went to the doctor. I was poked and prodded in places that should never be poked or prodded. I spent entire days in the clinic wearing nothing but an unflattering paper gown with my feet in stirrups. I took medications, drank herbal teas, and hung upside down for three hours a day. (I didn’t really hang upside down, but I would if it meant I would get pregnant.) Every doctor and fertility specialist I saw said I was fine, and I was diagnosed with unexplained infertility.
After my second round of Clomid, a medication that triggers ovulation, I finally stared down at the faint positive sign on the pregnancy test. I was ecstatic to say the least. I eagerly announced the exciting news to my husband and children in the form of a short poem I had written years ago for the very occasion. We rejoiced before I rushed out and bought every pregnancy test at Walgreens. And CVS. I wanted to see those pink lines again. And again. And again.
But each time I took a test, those pink lines became fainter. I went straight to Google for reassurance, which is a terrible idea. I was disheartened because so many women on the message boards posted similar questions about fading lines only to update later that they had miscarried. So, I rushed to see my doctor the following day for blood tests. It was confirmed I was losing the baby. “Spontaneous abortion,” they called it.
There was nothing I could do but wait to bleed. I cried on Jason’s shoulder at the loss of the child we so desperately wanted. I questioned God. I became angry. I screamed and grumbled and ate a Quarter Pounder and supersized fries to numb the pain. And then I welcomed the finality and the closure as I passed the pregnancy in my home. I sat on my bathroom stool that evening and asked the Lord why this had happened while my mother stood over me with her hands on my shoulders. Thank God, the familiar peace that is only attributed to the Holy Spirit came upon me.
I’d heard “All in God’s timing” numerous times while trying to conceive, and I nodded at the words. I believed them to be true, but I never fully surrendered the desires of my heart to the Lord. I thought I’d relinquished control to God, but then I saw a lady on the cover of The Enquirer, Betty McBabymaker, seventy-three, had a healthy bundle because she ate guava berries. Yeah, it was in God’s timing, but I should probably buy some guava berries. And I found myself putting all of my faith in guava berries instead of God.
“All in God’s timing,” I’d mumble while I continued to religiously chart my cycle and scribble my calendar with more colors than a bag of Skittles. “All in God’s timing,” I said while I planned every aspect of pregnancy—down to the very month the baby would be born. I needed a summer baby if I wanted him/her to wear my other children’s sleeveless zero-to-three-month onesies in the Rubbermaid totes in the attic. I needed to have this baby before I was thirty-five. I needed more ovulation tests. And thermometers. And raw honey. And guava berries. And herbs. And tea. Plan. Control. Plan. Control. Plan.
And yet, conceiving had nothing to do with my plan.
If I had carried that sweet baby to term, I would have delivered him or her the week before my mother passed away. I could not imagine having a newborn during that time of intense grief and sorrow. I could not imagine bearing the emotional burden of my mother’s death while being hormonal and sleep-deprived. My miscarriage was proof that God works all things together for good.
All the things.
The supernatural peace I felt in my bathroom as I miscarried? It was as if God said, “Hey, Susannah, this is in My time. Are you going to give Me real control now? Are you going to throw away the pens and the calendars? Are you going to take yourself out of it because it has nothing to do with you? Have you forgotten I’m the Creator of the life you so covet? I will plant the perfect seed within you when I so desire. In My time. My calendar. Not yours.”
My miscarriage was necessary for me to realize I’m not the one in control. It was necessary for me to lift my eyes and my hands to Him and say, “Okay, God, I truly surrender and give every desire I have to You.”
I’ve wanted a third baby for six years now, and I’ve given up control. I’ve given up the medications and the charts and the message boards. But I haven’t given up my faith. I still believe the overwhelming desire to have a third baby has been placed within me by almighty God, and I am continually faithful He will grant my family the desires of our hearts. I am thirty-seven years old, but I have the faith spoken of in Hebrews 11:11: “And by faith even Sarah, who was past childbearing age, was enabled to bear children because she considered him faithful who had made the promise.” I don’t know if my third child will be formed in my womb or another. I don’t know if adoption or foster care is God’s plan for our family, but I’m faithful.
Storms come into all of our lives. Sometimes, like radar, we see them ominously approaching. Other times they appear as quickly as the sudden summer shower that causes us to haphazardly throw all our crap in the beach bag and scurry for the hotel. It’s important to remember, though, that God doesn’t always calm the storm in our lives. Sometimes He calms us in the storm instead. But, no matter what, our best umbrella is faith. And we don’t walk around with an umbrella on sunny days, do we? Sometimes a shower is just what we need to exercise our trust in Him.
So I choose to praise Him in the storm.
I also firmly believe life starts at conception, and the child I miscarried wasn’t conceived in vain. That child was conceived as a reminder to me, to you, of who is really in control.
One of the most important and simplest lessons we can learn is to be faithfully content in His will. Not just in terms of family planning, but in all aspects of life. His timing. His plan. His calendar. His will for you is good and perfect.
CHAPTER 15
Sit a Spell
Popsicle juice left sticky streaks on my arms as I sat on the front porch next to my hundred-year-old great-grandmother, Bess Brown. She rocked in a metal-shell-back lawn chair and drank from a Coke can with Kleenex wrapped around it. Her neighbor, Mrs. Mary, would often walk across the green summertime grass to say, “Hello, Ms. Bess!”
And Gran-Gran would respond, “Well, hello there, Mary! Sit a spell.”
Mrs. Mary would sit on the swing as Gran-Gran proceeded to spin hour-long yarns about her childhood. If Mrs. Mary had somewhere to be those afternoons, she was late.
Maybe I’ll be blessed enough to live to a hundred and sit on a metal lawn chair entertaining my neighbors with stories of my youth. Maybe I’ll drink out of Dr. Pepper cans with Kleenex wrapped around the bottom while my great-grandchildren lick melted sugar from their hands. Maybe I’ll one day say, “Sit a spell,” and I’ll tell these tales.
In the summer of 1990 I was nine years old. Mama and I were headed to Texas in Mama’s big Oldsmobile with her Sunday school teacher and dear friend, Mrs. Murphy, and Mrs. Murphy’s granddaughter, Jessica. We were taking Jessica back to her home state after she’d spent the summer with Mrs. Murphy here in Tennessee.
Jessica was a few years older than me, and I thought of her as a big sister. Mrs. Murphy was older than Mama, and Mama thought of her as a big mama. She’d been my mother’s rock since Grandmother Lucy had passed awa
y a few years before. What a blessing she was not only to Mama, but to our entire family. She was with me when that casual EMT told me my father was dead.
My mother, being the humorous lady she was, always had Mrs. Murphy in stitches. Mama thrived on making Mrs. Murphy laugh so hard that her entire body jiggled like Jell-O. I can see her now, laughing and bouncing as little beads of sweat broke out on her hairline of pretty auburn curls. Mrs. Murphy’s laugh—oh my mercy—it was loud and boisterous and contagious. When she was really tickled, she’d snort. Hearing that precious lady chortle and guffaw made my heart nine kinds of happy.
So the lively, laughing, snorting bunch that we were traveled across Arkansas to get to the Lone Star State, and we decided to spend our first night in Hot Springs. Although we only lived a few hours from both the Ozarks and the Appalachian ranges, it was my first time to visit the mountains. My mother had spent a lot of her childhood camping and being surrounded by nature, and she’d had her fill of it. She’d had enough dirt and dust and bugs and fishing to last a lifetime, so she wasn’t keen on vacationing among such things. Instead, she always opted to take us to the beach, and we drove down to Florida every summer of my youth. My mother was happiest on the sand and listening to the waves. She had no need for that camping stuff. She said we had enough pine trees in our own backyard.
But, as the big Oldsmobile navigated up the dark and winding road to our cabin and my ears began to pop while we ascended higher and higher, I was ecstatic. This was new and uncharted terrain for me.
When we finally arrived at our cozy cabin in the Ozarks, my mama began spouting off rules about staying away from cliffs and being wary of bears and ticks with Lyme disease. Mrs. Murphy, howling with laughter at Mama’s paranoia, patted me on the back to assure me that everything was going to be fine.
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