HIYA!!!

IT IS MY PLEASURE TO INTRODUCE YOU TO NOLIN KAI' TAYLOR

Today, I am grateful.

Gratefulness is flowing from my heart.

And this morning, gratefulness looked like waking up with a head tucked into the crook of my neck and some little feet planted directly in my back.

I don't even know how that's physically possible.

But apparently toddlers are very limber.

And I laid there and thought:

God, thank You.

Thank You for this.

Because what I know to be true now is that I had to operate out of a certain capacity for a very long time.

What Darren needed from me was different.

What Jaxon needed from me was different.

And what Nolin needs from me in this season is different.

And maybe I'm finally learning that different doesn't mean less.

Different doesn't mean I loved one child harder.

Different doesn't mean one kind of motherhood mattered more.

It means there are seasons.

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1

And I prayed for this season.

We prayed for a healthy child.

We prayed for a different parenting experience.

We prayed for life to look different for us.

And for a long time, it didn't.

The prayer didn't come the way I thought it would come.

First came Darren.

Then came Jaxon.

And now...

here we are with Nolin.

And I understand something differently now:

Delay was not denial.

God didn't answer the prayer on my timetable, but that doesn't mean He didn't hear me.

“Though it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come.” — Habakkuk 2:3

I had to mother Darren.

I had to mother Jaxon.

And those boys taught me a capacity I didn't even know a human being could carry.

I had to know medications.

Supplies.

Schedules.

Equipment.

Emergency protocols.

Batteries.

Chargers.

Suction machines.

Backup suction machines.

And, because Mama didn't play about her babies, a backup suction machine for the backup suction machine.

There had to be an emergency kit in every car.

And if we were riding in somebody else's car?

Baby, we still needed an emergency kit.

Something had to stay with his chair because wherever Jaxon went, preparedness went too.

I couldn't just think about today.

I needed to know what we needed tomorrow.

And Thursday.

And next Tuesday.

Because you couldn't just run out.

You couldn't forget.

You couldn't let the battery die.

You couldn't say, Oops.

That was motherhood for me.

That was love.

That was stewardship.

That was survival.

And God gave me what I needed to do it.

“My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9

But I don't need that same capacity for everything anymore.

And I'm learning that.

See, I love garlic powder.

I love onion powder.

We put that stuff on damn near everything.

And there's nothing wrong with garlic powder or onion powder.

Until you're baking a pound cake.

You don't put garlic powder in a pound cake just because that's what you've gotten accustomed to reaching for.

And I think that's what God is teaching me.

Shantrael, the recipe changed.

For years, life required seasoning for survival.

I needed to be sharp.

Prepared.

Watching.

Listening.

Planning.

Protecting.

Thinking three emergencies ahead.

But now?

I get dessert.

God...

I get dessert.

I get pound cake.

Sweet.

Soft.

And maybe there's a little lemon glaze on top that gives it just enough bite to remind me that life is still life.

But it's sweet.

Yesterday, Nolin and I kicked a ball down the hallway.

That's it.

We kicked a ball.

He said,

“HIYA!”

And I said,

“HOO!”

And that baby fell over laughing.

FELL. OVER.

And I didn't have to suction anybody.

I didn't have to check an oxygen level.

I didn't have to calculate medication.

I didn't have to make sure equipment was charged.

I didn't have to prepare for what could go wrong next.

I just had to say:

HOO!

And my baby laughed.

God, thank You.

Because I think I'm finally understanding that I don't have to wear a winter coat in the summertime just because I once survived a winter that almost froze me to death.

“Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it?” — Isaiah 43:19

You don't wear a coat in the summer.

You take a little more allergy medicine in the spring.

Because seasons require different things from us.

And I feel like I have lived through one long, brutal summer.

Not vacation summer.

I'm talking Memphis, heat-index-through-the-roof summer.

The kind where the air itself feels disrespectful.

Heat wave.

Can't breathe.

Can't stay outside.

About to pass out from heat exhaustion.

And somehow God kept me.

But now...

I can feel fall.

My favorite season.

The air is changing.

I can breathe differently.

And maybe everything isn't healed.

Maybe everything isn't restored yet.

Maybe I still have some leaves that have to fall.

But I can feel the season changing.

And God—

thank You for letting me see fall.

Thank You that the pressure didn't burst the pipes.

Because there was pressure.

Oh, there was pressure.

There were moments when I knew these pipes were about to blow.

So I got the duct tape.

I borrowed some hands.

I let people press down on the places I couldn't hold together by myself.

And somehow...

it didn't burst.

“We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.” — 2 Corinthians 4:8–9

Cast down.

But not destroyed.

That's my testimony.

Not that it didn't hurt.

Not that I didn't break.

Not that I didn't question God.

Not that I didn't get tired.

Not that there weren't days when the heat felt like it was going to take me clean out.

But it didn't.

It. Did. Not.

So today I am thankful.

I am grateful for every season.

Every lesson.

Every test.

Every triumph.

Every tear.

Every prayer.

Every answered prayer.

Every prayer I thought He forgot.

Every version of motherhood.

Every version of me.

Every time I thought the pressure was finally going to burst the pipes and somehow God kept enough pressure on the right place to hold me together.

And yes—

every weapon.

Because the Word never said the weapon wouldn't form.

It said:

“No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper.” — Isaiah 54:17

Baby, some weapons formed.

Some of them formed beautifully.

Some of them had my damn name engraved on them.

Some hit me.

Some wounded me.

Some left scars.

Some knocked me completely off my feet.

But they did not prosper.

I'm still here.

I'm still His.

I'm still a mother.

I'm still laughing.

I'm still learning.

I'm still healing.

I'm still becoming.

And now I get to kick a ball down a hallway with my baby and yell “HOO!” just to hear him laugh.

That's holy too.

Maybe that's what I didn't understand before.

Joy doesn't have to be complicated to be holy.

Sometimes the miracle isn't the Red Sea opening.

Sometimes the miracle is a hallway.

A ball.

A toddler.

A ridiculous “HIYA!”

A mama answering “HOO!”

And laughter filling a house that has known entirely too much grief.

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” — Psalm 30:5

Morning came.

Not because I forgot the night.

Not because the night didn't matter.

But because God promised morning.

And today, I can see enough light to say it without forcing it:

Gratefulness is flowing from my heart.

Thank You, God.

For Darren.

For Jaxon.

For Nolin.

For the garlic powder.

For the onion powder.

For the pound cake.

For the lemon glaze.

For summer.

And God...

thank You for letting me live long enough to feel fall.

To God be ALL the glory.

Amen.

P.S. I'M SO GLAD I GET TO SHARE MY DESERT WITH Y'ALL!!!

~Shantrael