Susan Merrill

Last year's Christmas card picture!

When I was 17 years old, I had a cardiac arrest. Four or five days later, I received a pacemaker. I was living with my grandmother at the time because my parents had allowed me to stay behind in Florida to finish my senior year in high school when they moved to Texas. I was alone without my parents. But I was never afraid.

My 16-year-old daughter was recently diagnosed with a treatable but potentially life-threatening illness. I am more than afraid. A few days ago, she became ill and I had to quickly give her a shot for the first time. It didn’t bother me to administer it, nor her to receive it, but I couldn’t help a surge of panic as that voice whispered in the back of my mind “but what if you hadn’t been here to give the shot?”

What is this mystery of giving life that sharpens our instincts to an alarming height when that precious life is threatened? It is so much stronger than our care for our own lives. It can bring me to a panic I have never felt about anything or anyone. It started the day I gave birth and it doesn’t stop when the kids grow up and head out on their own.

This Thanksgiving, more than others in the past, I am most thankful for the lives of each of my children, for I have been reminded that the number of days of their lives has been written in a book I cannot read.

And when I measure that thankfulness against the struggles of living day-to-day in this uncertain world, in this economy, in this season… well, things just seem to drop quickly into perspective.

I focus, not on what I don’t have – or might not have in the future, but on the blessings that are here, right in front of me, every day. How could I not be thankful?

“To be or not to be…?” With apologies to Shakespeare, sometimes it’s a question only the stick can answer. A friend, Lesley Ryden, took me back to those roller coaster days when I read this…

It’s 6 o’clock on Sunday morning. I’ve been awake since 4:45 a.m., when my 3-year-old daughter woke up convinced that Maleficent (the witch from Sleeping Beauty) was somewhere nearby. The reason I can’t sleep has nothing to do with the little arm that is now flopped across my face… I can’t sleep because I find myself at that crossroad again, with that huge question flashing in my mind… Am I?

I finally just get out of bed, carefully of course, and tip-toe to the bathroom. I open the cabinet, unwrap the box, and pull out the stick. I glance at the directions, but who am I kidding? I know how this works. As I proceed with the… ah… procedure, I think about the other fateful moments I have shared with this little stick.

There were the months of wanting so badly for that little line to appear and the disappointment when it didn’t. Then finally it did, but that little one wasn’t meant to be, and the heartache was so much greater than the absence of the line. The stick was the first to bring me the joyous news of my baby girl who was meant to be… the balm to past heartache, and our sparkling, strong-willed princess. How different the day was when the line appeared again… but much too soon. As my infant girl cried in her bed, her mommy cried on the bathroom floor. But, two-and-a-half years later, that line is my gorgeous little man who I am absolutely head over heels for.

While the hour glass flashes back at me from the stick, I think of all the other women who have shared this ritual with me… the teenage girl terrified and praying for a negative…. the tired wife, poked and prodded who has not waited months but years and my never see a positive. Oh, the power in this little stick.

The three minutes are up and with shaking hands and a pounding heart I look again at the stick. Even in the early morning light there is no missing it…. that little line. I’m pregnant! I touch my flat(ish) tummy and share a quiet prayer of thanks to the Creator of life. But racing thoughts overtake the peaceful moment. How sick will I be? How big will I get? Can I do it? Three kids in four years? No more coffee?! Well… maybe less coffee. And then I stop… I place the stick on the counter to share with Daddy when he wakes up. I crawl back into bed, snuggle up to my sweet sleeping beauty, close my eyes and dream of who this little line will become.

The stick can bring great joy into our lives.

But for many women, the stick has brought nothing but disappointment. They battle the stick time after time, hoping to see the little line that will signal the beginning of a whole new life. But what if it never appears? I have a friend who couldn’t conceive, but refused to stop trying. It cost her so much time, money and a multitude of sticks.

Finally, someone asked her, “What is your goal here – to be pregnant or to be parents? If it’s to be parents, you don’t have to get pregnant to accomplish your goal.”

Well, that little shift in emphasis, away from the stick, changed her life. My dark-haired, brown-eyed friend and her dark-haired, brown-eyed husband achieved their goal by adopting, and are now the parents of two blonde-haired, blue-eyed children. Of course, they are often asked how they produced the blonde hair and blue eyes and they laugh and say, “We made parenting, not pregnancy, our goal.”

How has the stick changed your life?

I have a friend, Carla – she’s from Birmingham… I tell you that so you can read her words with a Southern accent. One day I happened to call her right after she picked up her carpool, and she had a carful of kids. As I was chatting with her she interrupted our conversation to caution her children.

“Hey ya’ll, listen up! I am on the Peace Train today and you are fixin’ to make me get off. If I have to get off the Train, you will regret it!”

I laughed and asked what in the world she was talking about. She shared with me her wisdom for finding peace in her hectic life and how she humorously put it into a word picture for her children.

Her take is – in the life of a mom, peace can be elusive. It is not going to reign in your life without some action on your part.

“Susan,” Carla said, “if I want peace in my life, I must take it. I must make a conscious effort to pursue it and make it a part of my day. So I decided that every day, if possible, I’m going to have peace in my house. I’m going to get on the train that is on the right track to peace not strife. When I discovered I could get on the “peace train” by choice I started recognizing things that were making me get off the train. I began to share with my children what got me off the train like attitudes, arguments, or behavior. It wasn’t difficult for my kids to see what actions disrupt the peace in our house and why it was better that we don’t engage in them – because if they don’t go there, Mommy stays on the Peace Train.”

Now, when play gets out of control at Carla’s house, and she has to admonish her children, it’s not uncommon for them to explain to their friends, “Hey, let’s go do something else – it’s not a good thing if we get my mom off her Peace Train.”

Could you use a ride on the Peace Train? Whether you have toddlers or teenagers, peace minus strife makes for much better relationships. I have five teenagers and a daily trip on the peace train would be heavenly. I’m going to get on the train tomorrow and I will let you know how far I go! Let me know if you have any revelations as to how to get on and stay on.

ALL ABOARD!