Jessica Mathisen
@jessicanmathisen

I sat in the car dealership with my dad, wearing a chambray dress and a reticent smile I hoped proved me adult enough to finance my first brand-new car. For months, I saved a little money from each paycheck I made as an elementary school teacher to put toward a down payment. I drove away from the lot with sweaty palms and a lump in my throat. I was twenty-five years old, and I had just made my first significant purchase—a 2013 Nissan Rogue.

My younger sister dubbed it “the mom car,” but I thought it was a rather “hip” crossover SUV with all the bells and whistles a basic model in 2013 had: a Bluetooth speaker for hands-free calls made on my iPhone, a dash indicator that showed whether a door was open or closed, a hidden trunk compartment where I could stash my purse. I was riding in style.

A little over a year later, I drove downtown after a long day of work. Ominous thunder and heavy rains filled the skies that morning, but I had only one thing on my mind—my first date with a friendly, cute guy I met on a dating site. My heart was in my throat and my mind raced as I drove to the restaurant that evening. Would he be cute in person? Would we have anything to talk about after sharing so much online in the last couple of weeks? Would he like me? Would I like him?

After two and a half hours of talking with one another, I thought to myself, ¨There’s something different about this one.¨ I was determined to find out what that “something different” was, and two weeks later, I knew in my heart. I was going to marry this man.

***

Nine months later, we drove away from our summer wedding in the same Rogue, ready to embark on our honeymoon to Aruba. My entire life changed within a matter of months, and my wedding day was the beginning of a new chapter, a chapter I hoped would redefine life as I knew it. “This is the beginning of my happily ever after,” I thought to myself.

That fall, I drove to a Christian support group every Monday night. Everything within me fought against the healing journey—the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. The Rogue held my tears, grief, and questions. I thanked God for what felt like the meager courage to face the issues that held me back from being my true self. I was the youngest by at least a couple of decades, and the women in my group told me each time, “It’s so good you’re dealing with all of this before you have children. You’ll be so glad you did.” I had no idea how true those words were until I stepped into motherhood through a different journey than I would have planned.

***

Nearly two years later, every pregnancy test I took was negative. The number of baby showers I attended or planned was in the double digits. Uterine fibroids and undiagnosed endometriosis do not make for a hospitable womb. When the gynecologist handed my husband and me a pamphlet for an infertility specialist, I refused to consider it. On the drive home from church that week, I cried silent tears of grief and longing, questioning whether I would ever carry a baby in my womb.

A few months went by. We waited. We hoped. We tried to enjoy life, just the two of us. We cultivated gratitude wherever we could find it. After learning of the foster care crisis in our nation, state, and backyard, we finally knew what to do with our emptiness. The empty arms, the empty bedrooms, the empty hearts—they were ready to expand, love, and pour out.

We completed the classes and physical exams and turned in recommendation letters. We asked questions, listened to podcasts, read books, and enjoyed our quiet life before the first placement came. And yet we were not prepared for what awaited us with the arrival of three young elementary-aged siblings.

The Rogue was no longer a quiet place of refuge, but rather a rowdy site for sibling squabbles. A taxi for summer camps, doctor’s appointments, and court hearings. A sacred sanctuary of worship, desperation, and repeated surrender. After two months, the children were torn away from us without warning, and we wondered if we could willingly subject ourselves to this type of pain again.

On a sunny summer Sunday morning, we drove to the mountains instead of to church. We longed for time to ourselves and a new perspective—literally and figuratively. Broken and spent, we craved a glimmer of hope after being exposed to the darkness of a broken system filled with broken people who want to help broken families. We decided to take a break from fostering and trusted the Lord would send us the children who needed to be a part of our family in due time.

A month after the children left, a miracle happened—I was pregnant. Stunned at not one, but two lines on the test, I stumbled into our bedroom, tossed the test at my husband, and said, “Look at this!” A shared look of disbelief gave way to gratitude and awe as we prayed we would meet this precious baby in nine months without any complications.

Not too soon after we received this good news, I parked in the garage of our new home across town, the one we bought to be closer to friends and family and with larger square footage so we could continue to care for children from hard places. I wondered when I would have a passenger under the age of 18 again and what it would be like to bring my baby home from the hospital. The Rogue carried me to midwife appointments, to baby showers, and shopping trips for the nursery.

***

While sitting at work, a text message flashed across my phone screen. “Hey, Jess, a friend of mine knows a fifteen-year-old girl who needs a placement. I know this isn’t what y’all had in mind, but I figured I would ask.” A sweat broke out over my body in the middle of the air-conditioned office. A fifteen-year-old girl? As a young couple barely into our thirties, we never wanted to take in teenagers. Our fear and logic outweighed the risk of welcoming so much unknown into our home. But God said, “Say yes.”

We drove to school with an awkward silence between us. She was timid and reticent, I was insecure and tentative. The radio played as questions raced through my mind. “Does she like us? Is she ok? What is she thinking?” The myriad of unknowns plagued me as I considered the impending transition of bringing our newborn son home in a few short weeks. Would they bond? Would our unconventional family fare well in this major transition?

Three months later, the labor pains began at work and progressed throughout the day. My due date was forthcoming, and I knew something shifted within me—the baby was on his way. However, momentary certainty gave way to doubt as I questioned myself and thought, “Maybe it’s a false alarm.” Later that evening, my daughter and husband sat on the couch, watching another episode of The Voice. I sat on the birth ball, riding the waves of what I was sure were no longer Braxton Hicks contractions. After timing the contractions and calling the midwife, my suspicions were confirmed—there was a pattern to the contractions, and soon, this baby would be in my arms.

As we drove to the hospital on a quiet Tuesday night, we considered how everything would change once the baby came. Seventeen hours later, we held our newborn baby boy in our arms. When we headed home, the Rogue was the cocoon for our sweet bundle of joy.

***

The days bled into weeks, which bled into months and years. After my husband’s (much newer and nicer) car sat in the dealership one summer for three months due to supply chain issues from the pandemic, we sold it and were left with our old faithful—the Rogue. Our family grew and changed yet again, with a tween girl who joined us for a year and another miracle baby girl whose arrival was met with unmatched joy and delight. On her due date, three days after her whirlwind birth, her maternal grandmother met Jesus face to face after a seven-year battle with breast cancer. She never met her long-awaited granddaughter.

I placed my six-pound newborn baby girl into her infant seat and drove ten minutes to my father-in-law’s home. I felt numb inside, even though my heart had broken into a million pieces. I was three days postpartum, yet I sat in the wake of death and all its cruelties. The stark juxtaposition of life and death was shocking. The miles of life had weathered us with more transitions and trials in a few years than we could have prepared for, yet there was a steadiness in our hearts. Two months later, with hearts battered and bruised by grief, we drove seventy-six miles to our new home in Atlanta. We needed a fresh start, and of course, the Rogue was the means to get us there.

***

At eighteen years old, our daughter was ready to learn to drive. With our move to Atlanta, I graduated to the true mom car—a new-to-us minivan, and my husband drove the Rogue to and from his new job. But it was time for our daughter to gain independence and start a new chapter in her life. We sold the Rogue to her, and she began driving around town with my husband, eager to get her license and a taste of the long-awaited freedom on the other side of a passing score. After months of practice with my husband, my daughter got her license on my 35th birthday.

If you told me when I drove away from the Nissan dealership that ten years later, I would have a 20-year-old daughter driving away in the same car, I would have stared at you, slack-jawed in disbelief. God, in His wild kindness, saw fit to make me a mother in an unorthodox way.

The Rogue carried me for 136,000 miles through ten years of transitions, heartaches, triumphs, and failures. I wonder—how far will it carry my daughter?

I am grateful to watch her blossom and grow into the woman God made her to be. I hope the Rogue carries her through many miles of life’s inevitable hills and valleys. But long after the Rogue is gone, I’ll give thanks for the road that led me to motherhood.

Because unorthodox as they were, every mile was worth it.

The miles to motherhood vary for each one of us. Perhaps your journey through motherhood has felt like a straight line, but I’d venture to say it’s been a roller coaster with inexplicably beautiful highs and devastatingly desperate lows. We said yes to this when we became mothers—a life of uncertainty and a lack of control, try as we may. For the beauty lies not in the easy, paved road with nary a bump. It lies in the twists and turns of a resilient life formed through struggle and pain.

Guest essay written by Jessica Mathisen. Jessica lives just outside of Atlanta, Georgia with her husband and three kids (two through biology and one through adoption). She is a former elementary school teacher and a lover of people. As a writer, speaker, podcaster, and coach, her passion is to communicate God's love to others through words and relationships. Her most favorite things are hanging with her family, eating chips and salsa, and reading good books. You can learn more about her on her website, read her latest book, An Overwhelming Hope, listen to her podcast, The Fullness of Joy, and follow her on Instagram.