So, we did this today...

That's an adoption application.  

I wish you could see the grin on my face as I just typed those words.

We've been talking about adoption for months now, but I'm sure people doubted that we would actually go through with it.  I doubted, at times, that we would actually go through with it.  Yet, the paperwork is finished and ready to be mailed to the agency tomorrow.  

None of this felt real until we sat down today and worked through the questions together.  It's like the first time I went to Peru.  I had raised support to go, gotten my passport, and bought my plane ticket, but I don't think it occurred to me that I was leaving the country for the first time ever until I was sitting on the plane.  It's also like when we got married.  We had been talking about and planning the wedding for a year, yet it didn't click that the guy at the end of the aisle was, indeed, going to be my husband- until I was on my daddy's arm and the doors of the chapel flew open so that I was looking at Andrew.  In both of those situations, I was simultaneously overjoyed and terrified, and I find myself there again today.  Overjoyed because I'm going to be a mom.  And terrified because, well, I'm going to be a mom.

Our journey toward becoming parents will probably look much different than most people's.  While our friends are having gender reveal parties for their babies, we'll be creating a scrapbook and praying that a birth mom chooses us.  As moms-to-be sit through childbirth classes, we'll be at adoption seminars.  When other families are going to doctor visits, we will be having our home study done.  I used to resent that our road would be different, and it is still hard to accept sometimes.  But, different just means different- not better and not worse.  The end result is the same, anyway.  

Let's be real for a second and get back to that part about me being terrified.  I have no idea where we will get the money for all of this.  Do you know that adopting from an agency costs $15,000-$20,000?  Oh my.  I'm a teacher, and Andrew wants to go into ministry.  Here's a shocker- we're not wealthy!  We'll take out a loan, apply for grants, be creative, and work hard, but still... that is a lot of money.  

I'm also afraid of the questions that people will ask.  "Where did you get that baby?" or, "Are you ever going to have your own children?", as if our child is on loan from the public library.

My parents worry that an adopted child of ours might exhibit some unfortunate tendencies of his birth parents, consequently making our lives difficult.  I'm not worried about that one.  Honestly, if we ever have a biological child and she ends up anything like me, she will be a hot mess.

Mostly, I am terrified that an adoption might fall through.  Maybe the birth mom will change her mind.  Maybe we'll get attached and then the dad won't come to sign his paperwork.  Maybe we won't get picked at all.  I can't think about those things happening right now.

In short, 2013 already looks like it will be full of all kinds of unknowns.  A couple of years ago, I would have been panicking about that.  But, I've learned that the unknowns always have a way of working themselves out in the end, and that my worrying is only going to make me miserable.  I can't believe I am saying this, but I am really at peace, even with our lives completely up in the air in so many ways.

We saw Les Miserables last night, and I bawled my eyes out, like everyone else.  (Go see it.)  There is one scene in particular that struck me.  It is when Jean Valjean has found Cosette and carries her on his shoulder, away from the innkeepers, promising to forever "be a mother and a father to her."  The years pass in a matter of seconds in the movie, and as Valjean continues to carry Cosette through life, he says something about how he has found love like he has never known before.  Because he adopted her.

Maybe 2013 will be the year that we get to experience the love of being parents.  There are not enough words to express my excitement, and there is not enough room in my heart to contain my joy.  

Friends, this is big.

 

Why I came back to church

(I'm never quite sure who reads my blog, so I'm not going to post names of former churches or our current one.  My intention is not to denounce one church while singing the praises of another; I simply want to sing the praises of a God who showed up when I was convinced that He didn't exist or care.)

"It don't matter if you don't believe,

Come Sunday mornin' you best be

There in the front row like you're supposed to.

Same hurt in every heart..."

-Kascey Musgrave

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I love country music for its honesty.  The song says it like it is; this is what we expect: Do the church thing regardless of what you do or don't believe.

There was a point in time, not very long ago, when I used to cry and feel physically sick before going to church most weeks.  In the one place where people should be able to come and feel safe when falling apart, I felt constant pressure to slap on a smile and pretend that all was well when my soul felt dead.  Despite the fact that most churches say they want you to "come as you are," they really only want you to come a certain way, because honesty can be uncomfortable and people with problems are a lot of work.

Another contributing factor to my anger and bitterness toward the church was Christians.  Christians can be some of the most ignorant, hateful, arrogant, and cheesy people that exist.  I wanted no part of that (and still don't).

So I gave up on God, and I was determined to walk out on church, too.  That's a big deal for someone who grew up in church every Sunday and has always done the "right" things.  I just didn't care anymore.

I don't know how I eventually stumbled into our current church, except that I came with dragging feet and a lot of encouragement from my husband.  I came with cynicism, doubt, and unbelief.  And in the midst of all of that mess, God came, too.

I don't understand it and I can't explain how it happened, but as I kept coming back to church, I started to find that I wasn't so resistant.  We had a family event a few weeks ago and couldn't make it to church.  And for the first time in years, I missed it.  Not because I felt pressured or obligated to go, but because I wanted to be there.

You see, Christians can still be hateful, ignorant, arrogant, and cheesy.  And unfortunately, those voices are often the ones that speak the loudest.  But as I have tried to figure out what Jesus is like instead of letting Christians influence my perception of God, I have learned that he is kind, wise, honest, and good.  I can't answer all of the tough questions about why He allows certain things to happen, nor can I prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that He exists; I only know what He has done for me and that in my darkness, He has proved himself to be very real.

I was determined to never be a member of a church again because of the perception that people generally have of churches.  But, we recently joined our current church, and I'm actually glad that we did.  Not because it is a perfect place, but because, with all of its faults, the Church does many things well.  I think that there is value in being a part of that.

Ultimately, I didn't come back to church because I suddenly started thinking that all Christians are awesome, that churches aren't full of hurt and hate, or that I was good enough to make an appearance again.  No, I came back precisely because I'm NOT good and I somehow found rest in a church and in a merciful God when I had nowhere else to go.  In turning my life upside down over the past two years and taking away many of the things that I wanted the most, He gave me the one thing that I needed the most: himself.  That is still incomprehensible to me, because I never would have wished for the events which have o ccurred since 2010, and yet I am thankful (finally) that they have happened.  More than anything, I am thankful for the grace that does not let me run away forever.

When tragedy strikes

I hugged my students a little tighter this afternoon as they walked out my doors.  Tragedies sure have a way of putting things in perspective, don't they?  The disaster in Newtown, Connecticut, hit especially close to home for me, an elementary teacher.  The faces on the news immediately brought to mind the faces in my classroom.  As much as I sometimes despise grading papers, writing IEP's, and updating data sheets, I would do all of that a hundred times over rather than lose a single one of those precious children to the hands of a wicked man.  My heart hurts.  Such devastated parents.  Such lost siblings.  Such a broken world!

Facebook has blown up with all of this, naturally.  I can hardly read my NewsFeed without tearing up at the gut-wrenching sadness that is being manifested.  I can also hardly read it without feeling angry at the fact that people can be so insensitive as to ignore the hurt of this tragedy in order to promote their own agendas.  I'm sure you won't have any trouble thinking of examples.

We are on our way to Dallas for my Uncle Ross's funeral, and I can't help but think of how wildly inappropriate it would be to walk up to my aunt tomorrow and tell her about other matters which should concern her more than her husband's passing.

How, then, should we react to death?  When Jesus's friend, Lazarus, died, Jesus was "deeply moved." He wept. He hurt.  In that moment, Jesus did not promote other agendas.  He knew anguish, and he showed that Emmanuel ("God with us") means entering into people's heartache.  Jesus, of course, cared about "issues".  But he cared about sorrow, too, and he knew that there is a time for both.  Lazarus's funeral was not the time to discuss gun control, because the answer to tragedy is not more or less legislation but God himself.

I am awkward in sad situations.  I don't quite know what to offer, so I have a tendency to say something ridiculous and immediately wish I could hide under the nearest table.  Friends, in the midst of this tragedy, perhaps we would do well to be silent.  Now is a poorly chosen moment for debating issues and stirring unnecessary controversy.  Out of respect for the families affected, let us do our best to understand their hurt, to "be deeply moved" by their sadness, and to grieve over lost lives.  Let's step off our platforms and allow our silence to scream that people matter and that all is not right with the world.  

"I don't know."

As a little girl, I was always inquisitive.  I'm sure that most small children are.  In new locations and situations, I consistently had at least one question.  God bless my sweet parents.

Does everyone on the planet have a different number of hairs?  Yes.  Everyone?!  Yes.  Even identical twins?  Yes.

Can I skip my vegetables?  No.  Why does Dad get to?  Your dad is a grown man.  Do all grown men skip their vegetables?  No.

Where do babies come from?  Maybe we'll discuss that later.  When?  Not now.  Later.

Why did Grandma get cancer?  I don't know.  Does Granddad know?  No.  Then who does know?

Obviously, I was not only inquisitive, but I was also persistent.  I wanted answers, I wanted complete answers, and I wanted them immediately.  Not a lot has changed.  Then, and even now, "I don't know" is insufficient and unsettling.   

When Andrew and I went back to the doctor for his second follow-up appointment a couple of weeks ago, we weren't expecting our situation to be any different.  (We recently found out that his surgery in April yielded unfavorable results, and we didn't think that that had changed.)  What we were hoping for was a reason why, an explanation.  Because of the vast amount of medical research and technology available these days, we anticipated that the doctor would be able to say, "Your situation is like this because of X."  "You will be able to have children if Y."  I would have even been okay with, "It is highly unlikely that you will get pregnant because of Z."  A "no" would have allowed me to close the door and move on.  Instead, he looked sympathetically at us and said, "I'm sorry.  I really don't know.  I've done all there is to do." 

We are one of the thousands of cases of "unexplained infertility."  I hate those words.  I've felt sick about the whole situation.  I've been angry.  I've been confused.  I'm still all of those things at least some of the time.

But what I'm slowly discovering is that freedom does not come in having the answers that I want, or in having answers at all.  On this side of eternity, there will always be questions that don't have answers.  I think freedom must come from resting in the knowledge that God can make beautiful things out of the "I don't knows," because He does know.  I'll probably forever be attempting to make sense of that. 

Back to when I was little, my parents never told me, "MR, we really can't take another question."  They never got annoyed.  They never told me that I was foolish for not knowing.  Instead, they encouraged me to keep asking.  So today, I will keep asking.  And I will try to trust that "I don't know" isn't the end of the story.         

   

The Christmas Craze

I can't believe how early the Christmas craze started this year.  Black Friday is now Black Thursday.  Christmas commercials began airing on the TV and radio well before Thanksgiving.  Worst of all, Hobby Lobby has been selling trees and ornaments since July.  Really?!

Just before Thanksgiving Break, I had my students do a writing assignment about their favorite holiday.  I guess I shouldn't be surprised that every one of them chose Christmas, and when asked why, every one answered, "Presents!"

All of this seems to speak directly to the state of our culture.  Call it generosity, call it "the spirit of giving," call it "the joy of the season," or whatever else you want.  I'll call it what it is: greed.

Let me be clear: I'm not saying that everyone who gives or receives gifts on Christmas is greedy or wrong.  I am saying that our society has gotten out of hand.  This "living for what's next" mentality makes us forget the gifts right in front of our faces.  The irony of counting our blessings on Thanksgiving and then going out mere hours later to fill our closets and homes with more things we don't need blows my mind.  And yet, it makes sense.  Nothing causes me to devalue my possessions like a trip to the mall.  All of a sudden, my nice clothes aren't cute enough, our TV isn't big enough, and our house really needs that mirror or chair.

Growing up, my family never celebrated Christmas.  I hated it at the time, and I still don't agree with all of the reasons my parents chose for not doing it, but I now see the value in their choice.  The true joy of the season has gotten muddled in the mass card-sending, wild shopping sprees, expensive decorations, and Santa.  (I include myself in all of those things, by the way.)  We wolf down our turkey and dressing, it seems, and then (or possibly before then), we are quickly on to "better" things.

Back to my students and their writing assignment... They couldn't believe that my favorite holiday is Thanksgiving.  "Why?!" they asked.  "It's boring, and you don't get anything cool."  Why do I love Thanksgiving so much?  I guess because it's simple.  For me, there is so much joy in sitting around a table, eating good food, and laughing about pleasant memories.  No strings attached.

I'm not saying that I know what the solution to the Christmas situation is.  All I know is that it bothers me.

Maybe I'm a Scrooge.  But when I think of how much I have, how much I don't need, and all of the other nonessentials tied into this holiday that has potential for being so beautiful, I also think of people around the world who are just hoping for a meal on Christmas Day.  And then I wonder if just maybe, they have more going for them.  Here in America, our bank accounts are bulging (although significantly less so after the holidays), our bellies are satiated, and our homes are overflowing with "stuff".  So often, though, materialism leaves our hearts empty, and the quest for more never satisfies.

Granddad's House

I don't know why it has taken me six years to write this.

Granddad passed away in 2006, when I was a freshman at OU.  Cancer.  Such an ugly word and such an impartial disease.  As we have been celebrating the holidays, I've thought about Granddad more than usual.  And as much as I love everything about Thanksgiving, it isn't quite the same because we don't gather at his house. 

Granddad had the best house.  You could get lost in a book from his extensive library for hours, sit on the swing of his wrap-around porch as you sipped your morning coffee, wander down to the creek to shoot clay pigeons, or drive the golf cart downhill at top speed on the gravel road so that it almost tipped over.  Because Granddad lived in the middle of the country, you could blow up all of the fireworks you wanted on July 4th with no worries about setting anyone's house ablaze.  On Thanksgiving, Granddad would wake up in the middle of the night to check the turkeys in the smoker, and then his house would smell of cinnamon, pies, and pure deliciousness for hours after everyone left.  But what made holidays and other events at Granddad's special was not his house; it was Granddad. 

For a couple of years after Granddad passed away, we didn't sell his house, and my family continued to gather there to celebrate Thanksgiving.  We still ate savory smoked turkeys, fired shotguns, and played board games, but something (someone) was missing.  Everyone always laughed a little louder, listened a little better, and stayed a little longer when Granddad was alive.  His hospitality made people feel comfortable, and his selflessness made them feel important. 

Not only was Granddad kind, but he was smart- a rocket scientist, in fact.  He worked on the Apollo 13 Mission at NASA.  He was one of the very few people who, to me, didn't make Christianity seem cheesy or burdensome.  Because his life proved that "the ancient ways" of Jeremiah 6:16 are truly the best ways, he made me want to know God when everyone else made me question Him.

I still miss Granddad every day.  I wish he could have come to our wedding.  I wish Andrew could have met him.  I wish he had been at my marathon last week so he could "hug my neck" and tell me how proud he was.  I wish heaven wasn't so far away.

Mom and Andrew say that once we get to heaven, nothing else will matter but seeing Jesus.  True, I can't even imagine what a glorious day that will be.  However, I can't help but think that heaven will not be an eternity of sitting on the clouds as we play harps and sing "Jesus Loves Me."  (For the record, I don't think Mom and Andrew believe that, either.)  Since heaven is the completion of God's "making all things new," I want to believe that the things we enjoyed here on earth will be perfected there.  Before sin existed, Adam and Eve walked with God- and yet, they enjoyed each other's company.  One day when there is no more sin, perhaps we'll get to enjoy community again, in its perfected state.  Maybe one day Andrew will get to meet Granddad.  Maybe that's just me being naive.

Either way, I know that Granddad is reaping rich rewards for his beautiful life here, and I also know that everyone who knew him has a Granddad-shaped hole that won't completely be filled again.  I'm thankful for Thanksgiving and Granddad's house, but mostly I'm thankful for the 18 years that I got to spend with such an amazing man. 

 

 

 

Thankful

My blog has been quiet lately, as you may have noticed.  For one, I've been super busy.  Sixty-or-seventy-hour-work-weeks busy.  Wake-up-at-4:30-for-marathon-training busy.  (Good news: Andrew is making me work less, and the marathon is over.)  But really, I have just had a lot on my mind and have been unsuccessful in trying to collect my thoughts.

I've been thinking a lot about thankfulness.  I'm one of the many who has jumped on the "Thirty Days of Thanks" bandwagon and flooded Facebook with reasons to be happy.  The idea seemed dumb to me at first.  (Shouldn't people be thankful all the time??)  Honestly, though, I have enjoyed seeing the positivity on my NewsFeed every day, as opposed to snarky comments related to presidential candidates, or grumblings about one's terrible job/husband/kids.  More than anything, "Thirty Days of Thanks" has been good for my own ungrateful self.  In the midst of this crazy month of November, two stories in particular have reminded me that thankfulness has nothing to do with what you actually have and everything to do with the state of your heart.

One.

I stumbled across a blog of this woman whose daughter just died after being alive for four hours.  Four hours!  The thing is, Sarah knew that this would happen since Baby Evie was 20 weeks old and doctors discovered a rare and fatal disease in her.  Sarah carried her baby for almost 20 more weeks, knowing that it would die.  Wrap your mind around that for a minute.  Sarah's story amazes me because she never once complains about her situation.  She finds ways, however small, to be grateful.  You need to read her blog.  You'll cry your eyes out, like I have, and then you'll count your many blessings.

Two.

One of my students, Taylor (that's not really his name, and he may or may not be a boy), lights up my world at work.  Taylor comes to school dirty and hungry most days.  His parents, though supportive, are unemployed and undereducated.  They have at least a couple more mouths to feed at home, aside from Taylor's.  And they (Taylor included) are among the sweetest people I have ever met.  When Taylor gets to choose from my Treasure Box for good behavior (which he always exhibits), he could not be more excited.  I have silly little prizes in there, like Playdough or funky pencils, but to Taylor, it's a pot of gold.  One time, he chose a prize that another student had been eyeing.  "That's okay, Chris.  You can have it," Taylor said as he handed it over.  That's not all.  Our school recently had "Share Your Shelf" week for families who need food for Thanksgiving.  Taylor's family is exactly the type who would benefit from this food drive, but wouldn't you know- he was the only one in his class who brought something to share.  Thankfulness is not about what you have. 

Even as I sit in my warm, cozy house with my loving husband and a refrigerator full of food, my restless heart can always find reasons to complain.  (I don't want to clean today.  I hate making dinner.  My job can be stressful.  My marathon time was terrible.  We don't have a baby and I want one.)  Just within this month, I've realized that being thankful doesn't mean ignoring the hard facts of life- it just means remembering the blessings.  Maybe I hate making dinner, but we always have dinner to eat.  My marathon time was a personal worst, but I can run!  My job can be stressful, but at least I have one.  We don't have a baby, but we have each other.

Life is hard, but it's good, too.  In our current phase when things sometimes feel as though they are spinning out of control, a simple, "Thank you, God, for this life and XYZ" at the beginning of my days has changed everything.

Why are you thankful this year?

The Joshua Tree

Yesterday, one of my good friends asked me to stand next to her on her wedding day.  I couldn't be more excited or honored.  I met Jenna in fourth grade in Texas, and somehow our lives continue to converge so that now I share a classroom with this girl (who was also my college roommate) at an elementary school in Norman, Oklahoma.

Best day ever.

We're crazy.

I quickly started considering ideas for bachelorette parties, showers, gifts, and the like.  And then, a whole day and a half later, it occurred to me that I am supposed to give a speech.  Thankfully, I have all kinds of time to plan this (and if you know how wonderful terrible I am at giving speeches, you'll know that I should start now).  I have a high standard to uphold: my Matron of Honor's speech at our wedding was a knee-slapper and a tear-jerker at the same time.

People had plenty to say to Andrew and me before we got married.  Some advice was practical ("Learn some patience because Andrew is ALWAYS late"), some was noteworthy ("Dating shouldn't end when you get married"), some was perhaps unwarranted ("Wait at least a year before you get a pet or have kids"), and some was hilarious ("Buy Febreze odor canceling spray for the bathroom and wait to poop until after he leaves for work").  Some of it just stuck, particularly this:

Marriage is a lot of hard work.  

I didn't believe this in our first year of wedded bliss.  In my opinion, couples didn't have good marriages if they had to work at them.  The first year was an easy, "sleep-in-and-make-pancakes-every-Saturday" type of year for us.  Then life happened.  Marriage is hard because life is hard.  That's it.

I love this quote from The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls:

“One time I saw a tiny Joshua tree sapling growing not too far from the old tree. I wanted to dig it up and replant it near our house. I told Mom that I would protect it from the wind and water it every day so that it could grow nice and tall and straight. Mom frowned at me. "You'd be destroying what makes it special," she said. "It's the Joshua tree's struggle that gives it its beauty.”

I'm hoping and praying that our struggles, like those of the Joshua tree, make us more beautiful.  (They've certainly made us more humble.)  

Maybe the story of the Joshua tree isn't the kind of thing to put in a speech at a wedding, but it's oddly the kind of thing that I'll pray for my friends before they tie the knot, because everyone needs enough success to make them thankful but enough struggles to make them beautiful.

Chasing hope.

It hurts to have hope.

I feel like I have been on such a roller coaster of emotions lately.  Normally, I'm pretty even-keeled, but life has thrown so many curveballs over the last year or so that I sometimes don't know what to do.

Another dreaded phone call came yesterday.  You'd think that we would be used to these by now, but I still feel like I'm going to be sick every time.  After my surgery a couple of weeks ago, we started to hope again.  Everything on my end was clear.  I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I started imagining how we could tell our families that I was pregnant.  Except that I probably won't be.

"Mrs. Fenrick?  We have the test results from your husband's surgery.  Do you have a pen and some paper so that you can write down some numbers?"

Scribbling madly as I tried to cram lunch down my throat on the way to work, I was only halfway listening.  I was so certain that the odds would be in our favor.  And then the pen dropped, I was looking through blurry eyes at the red traffic light ahead, and I suddenly felt like I was going to throw up.

"I'm sorry, Sweetie.  I know that wasn't the news you wanted to hear."

After Andrew's surgery in April, we were told to wait several months to determine whether or not it was successful.  Not only was it not successful, but his condition is actually far worse than it was prior to surgery.  No, not the news we wanted to hear, especially after the miracle on my end. 

IVF is an option...for people who have fat stacks of cash just sitting around (not us).  I'm not sure we would try it even if we did have the money.

What I want more than anything at this point is not even a baby.  I just want peace.  I want it to stop hurting so bad.

A lot of people have asked us how they can help.  That's a tough question to answer, because there isn't a lot that anyone can do.  The most meaningful words are often, "I'm sorry," "That really stinks," "I love you," "I'm praying for you," or, "I don't understand it either."  Thanks for asking us how we're doing, and mostly for just being present in our lives.  Nothing is more lonely and scary than feeling like no one cares.  Thankfully, we have never felt that that is the case.

On the other hand, some words are very difficult to hear.  I am so glad that people have amazing pregnancy stories when doctors told them that their chances of conceiving were impossible.  However, that doesn't happen for everyone, and it may not happen for us.  I do think that one day, our story will have a beautiful ending, but that ending may not be pregnancy.  I don't want to hold onto false hope and wrap my mind around something that may never come to fruition. 

And finally, a quick word on abortion, because it has been heavy on my mind (and we're on the subject of babies).  You had better believe that I am against abortion, as someone who wants a baby.  But I am often not for the approaches taken in opposing it.  On a personal note, I have to say that when unborn children and babies become such a valuable commodity, to the point that all other issues are ignored, it sure does make people who are unable to have children (like us) feel small and insignificant, as if we have nothing to contribute to society.

More importantly, though, there must be other issues that matter aside from abortion.  Life outside the womb must be just as highly esteemed as life within it.  Why don't we do more to care about kids in DHS custody or foster care?  I'm not sure if you've noticed, but that is a pretty messed up system in Oklahoma.  Why don't we value the lives of kids with special needs more?  Why don't we help children, women, and men who are being abused in ways that I can only imagine?  Why don't we look for ways to give to the public school system, where so many children and teens spend their time?  Why don't we care about the story of that woman who is walking through the doors of Planned Parenthood?  These are people, too, and people matter.  Life is valuable in the womb, yes.  But please, let's be just as careful to value and protect the lives of those right next to us.

I could say more, but I'll leave it at that for now. 

Restless

It has become very apparent to me in recent days that I do not know how to rest.

I know, resting seems like it should come naturally.  Not for me.  Two days after my surgery, I went back to work and was already freaking out about laundry, behavior intervention plans, catching up on lesson plans, and cleaning our "dirty" house. (If you've ever been to our house, you've probably noticed that I have some OCD tendencies when it comes to cleaning.)  Four days after surgery, I set out to run 18 miles.  (My body quit after seven.)  It has now been two weeks since the operation, and I'm back to working 60-70 hour weeks, running 4-5 times per week, and trying to somehow fit in all of the other things that every "good wife" does. 

I lost my keys a couple of days ago, only to find them in my running shoes. This morning, I got almost 15 minutes away from the house before realizing that not only had I left my lunch in the fridge, but I also wasn't wearing any shoes.  Do you think I'm trying to do too much? 

Why do important things often seem so urgent?

Why are our friends/significant others often better judges of our own stress levels than we are?

Why can't I just...slow...down?

I'm not sure of the answers to any of those questions.  I'm just hoping to find some sort of balance.  Work is important, but I don't want to be defined by my job.  Running is good for me, but maybe not when my body is in recovery mode.  A clean house is wonderful, but no one feels very comfortable in a museum.     

Sometimes, I get mad at Andrew for sitting on the couch and watching a show instead of running around like a chicken with his head cut off.  I often think that everyone should operate in the same way that I do, and that people are lazy if they do not.  This, I realize, is unfair and ridiculous (and my mode of operation doesn't work well anyway).

Resting.  I want this to happen more often.  For starters, I backed out of the marathon that I was supposed to run in November.  If you know me at all, that is sad and disappointing... and also a huge step in the right direction. 

 

 

A Miracle

Disclaimer:  I'm still a little groggy from surgery, so I'm hoping this blog won't sound totally crazy.  Andrew jokingly told me that I should have blogged yesterday, when I was still under the influence of all kinds of pain meds and anesthesia.  I have no idea what might have come out of my mouth then (and still really don't know what might come out today).

***
Saturday, 11/26/11.
(a prayer from my journal)

"Take the dearest things to me if that's how it must be,
To draw me closer to Thee
Let the disappointments come, lonely days without the sun
If through sorrow, more like You I'll become."

*** 

There have been so many days in the past year when I wish that I never would have prayed that prayer.  Little did I know that almost everything in which I placed my trust would be ripped out of my hands.  And when that happened, I stopped praying altogether.

Lately, I've started praying again.  Simple, childlike prayers.  (God, I need help.)  Honest prayers.  (Lord, I have no idea where you are or if you care.)  Sometimes angry prayers.  (Why does it have to be THIS hard?!)  Desperate prayers.  (I just want all of this to go away.)  Not always the prayers you're "supposed" to pray (like, "I am so thankful for this big mess because I know it's all for my good!").  I pray the things that come from my heart, like David did in the Psalms, and I am becoming more and more convinced that He hears.

What happened yesterday in the operating room is nothing short of a miracle, and honestly the last thing I was expecting.  Andrew came in afterward and said, "Babe, great news!  You're fine!  The problem is gone."  Just like that.  Big tears rolled down my cheeks, and for the first time in a long time, they were tears of relief and joy.  I don't know if this automatically means that I will be able to get/stay pregnant now, but it is certainly the best news we've gotten since this whole process began almost two years ago.           

The pieces of the puzzle are slowly starting to fit together for me.  Six months ago, no one could have convinced me that they would.  People's words are meaningless unless, in your own heart of hearts, you actually believe them.  I'm scared that maybe things still won't work out the way I had planned, but perhaps what I plan and what I actually need are not always the same thing.

In November last year, I prayed for God to increase my faith.  In his own way and time, he has.  I'm not the same person I was, and that's actually a good thing.  I don't like being stuck in a pit or being dragged through the mud, and maybe I have more pits ahead.  But somehow, and I can't even explain how I know this to be true, He is there.  Thanks to those of you who have prayed with and for me when I haven't had the words.  He truly does answer the cries of our hearts.

Every storm runs out of rain.

It rained ALL. WEEKEND. LONG. 

I was supposed to run 16 miles as part of my marathon training this weekend, and the original plan was to do that early Saturday morning.  Nope.  Already raining with 100% chance of more showers through the remainder of the morning.  So, I made plans to run that afternoon.

Nope.  Still raining.  Despite the fact that the meteorologists kept saying that the storm was on its way out, the rain hadn't let up this morning (Sunday).  I just decided to run in the rain, and it's a good thing I did because it is now 4:30 p.m. and the sun JUST poked its head out, almost 48 hours later.

"Hey, the sun came out!" I heard Andrew comment from the living room.  As much to myself as to him, I said, "Yeah, it always does."

I can't get enough of this new Gary Allen song that has been coming on the country radio station lately.  "Every storm runs out of rain," the song says.  Sure enough, it does.  Even in places like Seattle, the sun comes out, and everything looks a little greener and healthier because of the storm. 

It feels like it has been raining in my life for a long time.  I'm having surgery this week, and I'm scared.  We'll know the results right away, and although we got some really bad news a few weeks ago, I'm not sure that the worst has come.  But at the same time, I know that it won't rain forever.  Every storm runs out of rain.

Politics

Up until today, I wasn't really sure who would get my vote in the upcoming election, mostly because I didn't feel informed enough to make a decision.  I just haven't had time to follow politics lately and to be honest, I haven't cared about it as much as I probably should.  I don't always vote Republican, and I don't always vote Democrat, so my choice has not been an obvious one.  Of course, I still don't know everything there is to know about Obama or Romney, but I did some research this afternoon and at least feel like I have personal grounds for the box I'll check on November 6th.  I'm not sure that voting without being informed, or voting for a certain party regardless of the candidate, is the definition of being "a responsible citizen."

Here's the thing- everyone has convictions, and certain issues are more important to some people than to others.  I'll say it quickly, like pulling off a Band-aid: Politics should never be so important that people become divisive and hateful because of their convictions, or that others who do not share the exact same beliefs are alienated and made to feel stupid.  I could do without all of the Facebook posts and comments on the radio/TV that are only intended to rip the other party apart, couldn't you?  I think that there is a way to stand one's ground and still be kind.

I'm not entirely free from guilt of this myself.  Though I might not say things out loud, I often have thoughts like, "I can't believe anyone would actually think that is a good idea."  Sometimes my thoughts err on the side of hate, too.  Lord help us all.

Hateful comments have been made by Democrats and Republicans alike, without a doubt.  But the most concerning thing to me is when Christians are the ones doing this.  There are many important issues facing our country today , but none so crucial that we need to start bashing our political leaders.  Aren't we supposed to hope for their best, to respect them, and to pray for them as they make big decisions every day?  They're not going to get it all right all the time, but they're only men.

I don't adhere to everything that either candidate does or says, but I do believe that both deserve consideration, and that my decision needs to be informed.  Call me crazy, but I also don't think that we should vote or not vote for a person based off of whether or not he says he is a Christian.  (As you may have noticed, claiming to be Christian doesn't mean much these days anyway.)  Despite all kinds of leaders, God has been and still is at work in a broken world.  Christians have done some great things for our country, and some terrible ones.  And although America may have been founded on Christian principles, we have long since strayed from those and in my opinion, can't be considered a "Christian nation" when the majority of people in America do not go to church.

I haven't become super political all of a sudden.  I just want people to have some grace.  I want to have some grace.  No matter which way you're going to vote this time around, I encourage you to consider your decision.  It's an important one.  Hold fast to your convictions, and talk with others about them.  Just remember that no one ever changed another's mind or heart by being unkind, and that whoever becomes president deserves to be respected.  That doesn't mean you have to agree with him on everything.

Fences

Unexpected things always happen to me on Thursdays, it seems.

I got home from work late on Thursday this week and decided to lay down for a nap.  Moments after I closed my eyes, I thought I heard footsteps on our roof.  "Um, surely not," I thought, but after laying in bed (petrified) for a few minutes, it became apparent that those were indeed footsteps on our roof.  And tree branches brushing up against our window before crashing to the ground. 

The man on the roof seemed surprised when I asked him why his ladder was propped up against our house and his big clunkers were stomping around on top of it.  Clearly, he had just let himself in through our gate and climbed up.  "I'm trimming your neighbor's tree so that it doesn't make your roof crash in when the storms come.  Do you not want me to do that?"  I have to admit, I had noticed the looming branches, but the fact that the man just helped himself into our backyard left me a little unnerved.  I let the man finish his job but made sure to ask if he would please knock on the front door next time before barging in (and scaring my pants off).

That incident made me think about the fence in our yard.  Currently, we have a short chain-link fence, but I thought back to the eight-foot wooden fences that surrounded our backyard in every home my parents bought as we were growing up.  The fences were intended to keep out all of the things that we didn't want in our yard- pets, people, trash, eyesores- as well as to give us privacy.  But looking back on it now, I wonder if those fences also kept out some good things, like tomatoes picked straight out of the garden, or help with a home improvement project- both of which come from having a relationship with the neighbors.

I think we build these fences up around ourselves, too.  The fences establish understood rules that we will not enter into someone's life when it is messy, that we will only let people come this close to us and no further, that we will always be "fine" when people ask how we are doing, and that we will learn how to be independent instead of asking for the help we so desperately need.

In Indiana, where Andrew's family lives, there are no fences.  You can see straight through someone's back yard and across the neighborhood.  I was horrified when I saw this for the first time.  Fences make life so much easier in many ways.  Leave people alone, give them their space, and everyone gets along just "fine."  Why on earth would I want for someone to know what is going on in my life?

The answer is simpler than I ever realized: Sometimes I need people to help me trim the branches on my tree so that when a storm rolls in, the roof that protects me won't collapse.  I hate asking for help, and I hate letting people love me because doing so means that I'm not self-sufficient.  But I'm not always tall enough, strong enough, or skilled enough to do a job myself.  Tearing down my fences and letting people in isn't easy for me, but in trying to keep out the bad things, I have also been keeping out the people who will help me weather the storm.

Often, mere presence is the best way to care about someone, but no one can be present with eight-foot fences enclosing him on all sides.  Maybe we could all work together to tear down fences so that "I'm not doing well" would be an okay answer, so that we are honest and authentic instead of slapping on a smile in the name of privacy, and so that we don't just look the other way when weeds start growing in our neighbors' backyards.  If you're the "man on the roof," I probably need you, and I'll do my best to let you help and love me.  You might just knock first before letting yourself in the gate.  :)

Not my plan

Thursday was a bad, bad day- the kind of day that you wish you could wake up from to realize it was only a dream.

Without sharing every last detail of our personal lives (because you probably don't care and you definitely don't need to know), we got some terrible news from my doctor.  After experiencing the worst pain of my life (and I've had a kidney stone, y'all), the doctor told me in the kindest way possible that my chances of ever conceiving a child naturally are slim to none.  At that point, the physical pain was no comparison to the emotional blow.

Until now, our "problem" with fertility has always been Andrew.  Now it's me, too.  Inadequate doesn't even begin to describe the way I feel.  Thankfully, I have basically the sweetest husband ever.  Boy, am I glad that we are in this together.

Found this on the bathroom mirror today.

Less than two weeks ago, I was posting about how excited we are to adopt.  Nothing puts a damper on joy like a big dose of bad news.  We're still excited about adoption, but clearly a larger part of ourselves than we realized was (is) still attached to the idea of having biological children.  I wonder if that will ever go away.

I'm amazed at how quickly the anger and doubt came rushing back yesterday.  I immediately started asking the same old questions again.  Why those people, who are yelling at their child(ren) in the hallway at the school where I work?  Why is this so hard for us?  Why is God withholding this good thing from us?  Ugh.  I thought I was done with these questions.

I asked my mom why God allows these things to happen.  She replied, "Because he wants us to trust him."  I have to admit that I don't like that answer very much sometimes.  Okay, a lot of the time.  But at this point, I don't know where else to turn.

If you would have asked me in 2007 where I thought I would be in five years, this is certainly not the story I would have written for myself.  In a conversation with our friend the other night, he stopped at one point and said, "This has really been a crazy year for the Fenricks, huh?"  I teared up.  Yeah.  Not even close to what I envisioned.

I'm trying to hold onto the hope that perhaps there is an even better ending to the life I had planned.  As I sobbed into Andrew's chest on Thursday, I asked him to tell me that everything is going to be okay.  "I don't know if things are ever going to be okay," he said, "but maybe, hopefully, we will find rest."  I just want that to be true. 

Change of Heart (Part 2)

As promised, I am continuing with the second crazy event of last week.  I know, I know.  You were all hanging on the edges of your seats.  (That's sarcasm.  Too bad you can't convey tone of voice through text.)

Two.

We went to an informational meeting at an adoption agency in Oklahoma City last Thursday.

Back up.  I have always said that I wanted to adopt, but never for the right reasons, and always with a long list of conditions attached.  Really, I didn't want to adopt at all.  Here are some of the things that were running through my head:

-Adoption, especially international adoption, has too often become "the cool thing" that all "good" people do.  I wanted to be cool and good, so I "wanted" to adopt.  I wanted to check something off of my list of things that Christians do to earn their way into the heart of God.  And I wanted our children to be trophies that people observed and said, "Those are the most selfless, patient, perfect parents out there."

-I wanted to be a "rescuer" as an adoptive parent, not a mom.

-Let's have our "own" kids first, then we can adopt.  As an afterthought.

-If we start the adoption process, we will get pregnant on our own.  That's what everyone says.

-Our children need to look like us.

-I'm sure I would love our adopted child, but probably never as much as if we had had biological children.

-I only want a baby.  Not an older child, and definitely not one with any sort of disabilities.

-I don't think I'll ever be okay with never being pregnant.

-Adoption is for couples who are failures.  They can't get pregnant on their own, so they are forced to choose the next best option.  

I know many couples think about these things, and not every one of the items on the list above is necessarily wrong.  But they were all wrong for me.

***

The change started on our trip to Peru in March, when the little faces at the Hogar de Esperanza ("Home of Hope") orphanage became real to me and I pictured some of them in our family one day.  What had once been a distant idea became a very present possibility.  Suddenly, it didn't matter to me that those kids looked nothing like us.  It didn't matter that they were not babies, or that some of them had disabilities.  What mattered is that a family is a family, regardless of where the individual members come from, and that love is more powerful than all types of skepticism and uncertainty.

Even after Peru, I wasn't sure that adoption was a real option for us.  It can be expensive, and we aren't made of money.  I was ready to adopt a child who didn't look like us, but I still really wanted a baby.  I knew I would love any child who became a part of our family, but I couldn't shake the fact that I would still feel like a failure if we never were able to have biological children.   

I don't know what changed or how.  After the adoption meeting last week, I was, for the first time, excited about adopting.  I really want it to happen, and I don't care if the baby (or five-year-old) is black, white, brown, or purple.  I don't care if it has Down Syndrome.  I don't care about any of that stuff that used to be such a big deal.  That child would be ours, and we would never know anything different. I no longer think of myself as a failure, or even a "rescuer," when I think of being an adoptive parent.  I think I would be most richly blessed and humbled.

All of that said, the struggle with infertility is still a long, hard road some days.  As much as I now truly want to adopt, I would also love to give birth to a child.  For anyone reading this who is dealing with infertility, you know as well as I do that there is nothing anyone can say to make the hurt go away even a little bit.  I'm not attempting to do that.  But just the fact that I am posting this, quite honestly, is a huge reason for hope- hope that even the hardest of hearts can come around.  There is hope that love wins.  On days when I battle to believe in God's goodness and existence, I think of how far he has brought me, especially in this matter.  Because I sure didn't bring about the change in myself.

Adoption isn't for everyone, but I'm becoming more and more convinced that it is for us.  That, my friends, is crazy.

Change of Heart

It's been a crazy week.

School starts again tomorrow.  Enough said.  I'm excited about seeing my students because I love my job, but there has certainly been a wealth of tasks to accomplish before their little faces appear in my classroom at 7:45 in the morning. 

Really, though, the two craziest things of the past week have nothing to do with work and are events that hardly occupied my thoughts before we went to them.  These seemingly insignificant events had been written on our calendar for weeks, but I had no idea of the impact that they would make on me.

One.

When my alarm went off on Sunday morning, everything in me did not want to go to the New Member's Class for the church we have been attending for the past few months.  I didn't want to go because it was early and I had been up too late the night before, but mostly I didn't want to go because I haven't been thrilled about the idea of becoming a new member.  I'd rather sit on the back row forever.  Some weeks, I'd rather not show up to church at all.

Anyway, I ended up going, probably because Andrew doesn't give me much of a choice in matters such as these (for my own good, I'm sure).  I made my nametag, grabbed a cup of coffee and a bagel, and went to sit on our pastor's back porch with the other 25 people who showed up.  I feel sure that cynicism was written all over my face.  Even though our pastor has been a good friend of ours for years, I didn't want to commit to being part of his church, nor did I want to be around any of these other people who appeared to me to "have it together."  So I sat with my arms crossed and my mind disengaged as Doug talked and people went around the circle to introduce themselves.

Then something interesting happened.  People started talking, and the ice in my heart melted a little as I realized that everyone has a story.  No one's story looks exactly like mine, but everyone struggles.  More than I know.  People in the circle that morning have lost loved ones, experienced divorces and infidelity, been burned by churches, been abused, and more.  No one has it together.  Something beautiful happens when people are honest about that and admit their need for a savior.

Prior to this meeting, I was worried about getting involved in the church.  I'm still worried, to be honest.  I feel like I don't have much, if anything, to offer.  I have been in such a dry place for so long that I don't know how I can possibly serve.  The thing I realized on Sunday, though, is that service doesn't necessarily have to fit in this one particular box like I have always envisioned.  It doesn't have to mean leading a Bible study, "discipling" someone, or teaching a Sunday School class.  I couldn't handle any of those things right now (and you wouldn't want me to try!).  What I can do is love people by having them in my home, even when we have very little in common.  I can show my students and their families the love of God when I go to work every day.  I can listen to my friend while we have coffee.  When I think of doing those things, I don't feel overwhelmed.  And I think God is much more pleased when I do them joyfully than when I do the overtly "Christian" things (like teaching Sunday School) begrudgingly.

"Love God, love people, love the city."  That's the City Pres vision.  As we started talking about what that means in our New Member's Class, I was reminded of how simple the gospel actually is.  We complicate it so much sometimes, don't we?  Loving God doesn't necessarily mean being Republican, homeschooling, being Reformed, or whatever else you care to list.  Loving people means being kind to those with whom you disagree.  Loving the city means being invested in your community, wherever you are.  I feel like I can at least attempt those things.  I don't have to love perfectly.  There is room to make mistakes, and lots of them, because of the grace that covers me every time. That is the gospel stripped down, and that is something I believe in. 

Matt Chandler, pastor of The Village Church in Texas, tells a great story about when his little girl first started walking.  At first, she only took three steps before landing on her bottom.  But as all parents do, Matt and his wife immediately screamed for joy, grabbed the video camera, and called all of their family and friends to tell the good news.  They never said, "Oh wow, I can't believe she only took three steps," or, "What?!  She didn't walk all the way across the living room?!"  They were overjoyed.  This, I think, is how God looks at us.  Sometimes just putting one foot in front of the other and taking baby steps is a mountainous feat.  I can fall down, and it's okay.

Sunday was big for me.  I'm still scared and worried about joining a church.  But my frozen heart is dissolving, and if you know me at all, that has been a huge work in progress.

Two.

I promise I will blog about this, but I don't have enough time to put my thoughts together right now.  Until next time, then...          

Would you still love me if...?

My father-in-law sent out an email to the whole family yesterday, asking if we would be interested in participating in a blood drive this weekend.  A few jokes were made about Andrew's tendency to pass out when even looking at blood, and then I responded, "I'm not allowed to donate blood or plasma again after I was told that I have HIV."

My father-in-law said, "MR, I've never seen that side of your sense of humor before!"  Well, that's because it's not a joke.

***

As an unemployed, broke college student looking for an easy way to make cash, I thought that donating plasma would be just the thing to put a little change in my pockets.  So, off I headed to the plasma donation center.  Everything went down without a hitch, and I left thinking that perhaps I could just become a regular plasma donor in lieu of finding a "real" job.  The girl at the front desk did remind me that the center would call me after they had done some testing to make sure I was a worthy candidate for donating, but at that point, I was already deciding what to do with the extra 80 bucks per week. 

I took my exams and then went home for my first Christmas break as a college student.  About halfway through the month-long break, I received a phone call from none other than the plasma center.

Receptionist: "Hi, is this Mary?"
Me: "Yes, this is she."
Receptionist: "I am calling about your results from the tests we did at the plasma center."
Me: "Yes ma'am..."
Receptionist: "It appears that you have an abnormality in your results."
Me:  "Which is..."
Receptionist:  "I'm sorry, I cannot disclose that information to you over the phone.  You'll have to make an appointment to come in and talk with one of the nurses."

Mind you, I still had about two weeks left of Christmas break, and I would not be coming back to Norman from Flower Mound before then.  I told my mom what the receptionist had said, and we concluded that I was probably anemic.  I still worried somewhat about my test results, but mostly I just enjoyed the rest of my holiday and didn't give much thought to the impending doom.


School started up again, and I made my appointment to speak with the nurse at the plasma center.  She made sure I was firmly planted in a chair in a private room before jumping right in with Question #1.

Nurse:  "I'm going to need you to tell me everything about your sexual history.  How many partners have you had?"
Me:  "..."
Nurse: "Uh, ma'am...?"
Me: "Zero?"  

I know that woman didn't know me from Adam, but I could tell that she thought I was telling a bold-faced lie.  I think she even proceeded to tell me that "now was not the time to hide information" and asked me the same question about five different ways.  She also asked me a slew of other questions before she told me, in a most exasperated tone,

"The reason I'm asking you all of these questions is because your tests came back positive for HIV."

Then it was basically, "Contact your doctor, good luck, and have a nice day."

Have a nice day?!  It was not a nice day.  I couldn't get out of that place fast enough.  I ran to my car and sobbed, not even knowing how what she had just told me was plausible.  I thought through all of the possible, and even the impossible, scenarios in my head.  Could I have gotten HIV from just kissing someone?  Did a doctor once use a dirty needle on me?  I was responsible for the personal care for a lot of boys and men at camp.  Did I get some bodily fluid into a cut one time?  Did I ever forget to wear gloves when changing someone?  There were no other explanations.

I made an appointment to see a family practice doctor in Norman, and I waited for what seemed like ages to even get in because I was a new patient.  Then I waited for more test results.  Every hour of waiting was agony.

As it turns out, I do not have HIV.  Whew.  I don't think the doctor believed me about being a virgin any more than the nurse at the plasma center had, but he did explain that about one in every 10,000+ tests for HIV will come back with a false positive.  I was the one in 10,000.  I would not be allowed to donate blood or plasma again, but by then, an extra $80 per week was so not worth it to me.  I breathed a big sigh of relief and moved on with my life as normal.  Now, almost six years later, I can think about the story without being absolutely horrified.      

***

I haven't told the amazing part of that story, although it is pretty amazing that I don't have HIV.  When all of this took place, I had just started dating Andrew.  I mean, we had known each other for about five months and had been dating for a whopping two, maybe.  After sitting down with the nurse that day, I debated whether or not I should tell Andrew that I might have HIV.  For some reason, I decided that I should.  I remember sitting in his bedroom and just sobbing for about two hours before I could even get the words out.  When I finally did say something, it was probably similar to this:

"IthinkIhaveHIV, IhavenoideahowbutIdon'tblameyouifyoudon'twanttobewithmeanymore."

Silence.  For a long time.  I thought for sure that he was thinking of the kindest way to break up with me.

I don't remember exactly what he eventually said, but he wrapped his arms around me, told me that it was going to be okay, and that he still wanted me.  I knew he knew that staying with me would mean that everything about our future would change if I did have HIV.  And it didn't matter.

At that point, we hadn't said that we loved each other.  But when I look back on it now, I think that moment was the first time I realized that, romantically or not, this guy loved me an awful lot, and that I would be so blessed to get to spend forever with him.  I often think about if the situation would have been reversed.  It would be easy for me to say that I would have been equally as gracious, but I'm not sure I would have.  I don't really understand unconditional love.  Often, I would much rather do what is easy than do what is right.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm incredibly insecure, especially when it comes to my looks.  So lots of times at our house, Andrew gets to hear me ask silly questions like these: "Will you love me as much if I gain 10 pounds?  Will you still love me when I'm not skinny anymore?  Will you love me if I am 300 pounds if/when I'm pregnant?  Do you still love me even though I don't look like that (airbrushed) supermodel on the front of the magazine?  Are you sure you would rather be with me than ___ because I'm not as beautiful as her?"  I need to hear the words of reassurance come out of his mouth, even though I know that the answer is always, "a thousand times, yes."  I think that this is how God must love his people.  And even though my questions to Andrew probably seem a little ridiculous, isn't everyone asking similar questions?  "Would you still love me if..."  And doesn't everyone want to hear, "a thousand times, yes"?    

Our society makes people think that they are only valuable if they look a certain way or do certain things.  There are almost always strings attached to people's acceptance of you.  Has anyone ever looked in your eyes and said, "You're loveable just because I love you?" or "I love you for no other reason, except that you're    (insert your name here.)   "?  I hope that someone has, and I hope that you believed it.  
 

The Past Week

I haven't blogged in awhile, and there is so much I could say about this week.  The Olympics have been awesome, for sure.  I haven't had access to a TV in a week, so I'm a bit behind on all of it, but I did just sit down and watch gymnastics On Demand for about four hours (ridiculous, I know).  Gosh, I love the Olympics.  It's the one good thing that the whole world gets into, and I find myself alternating between tears, chills, and jumping out of my seat every time I watch.

The Chick-Fil-A debacle has been such a huge deal that I feel like I should devote an entire blog to it, but I'll just comment briefly.  Chick-Fil-A was my first job, and it was a great one.  My bosses were good to me, and over the span of several years working there, I never grew tired of their food or disgusted by the way it was prepared.  As far as what has happened over the last couple of weeks, I find it shocking that people are just beside themselves about Chick-Fil-A's stance on the whole issue.  People, what did you really think the company that is closed on Sunday for religious purposes would have to say?  I'll let Rick Warren speak for me since he does a better job than I could anyway: "Our culture has accepted two huge lies: the first is that if you disagree with someone's lifestyle of thinking you must fear or hate them.  The second is to love someone means you agree with everything they believe or do.  Both are nonsense.  You don't have to compromise convictions to be compassionate."

By the way, if we are going to boycott or support businesses based on their stances on certain issues, we are doing a horrible job of maintaining consistency.  If we are going to follow through with the "support only the companies that have the exact same idealogy as you" principle, non-Christians need to start buying their scrapbook paper from somewhere besides Hobby Lobby because HL plays hymns in the store.  Christians need to delete their Facebooks because Mark Zuckerburg is an atheist.  See?  None of it really makes sense.  Here's the thing: I love me a good spicy chicken sandwich with Polynesian sauce, so I'm going to continue going to Chick-Fil-A.

Alright, I'm done with my rant.  Now on to the most important part of this week for me. 

People often ask me what made me want to become a special education teacher.  It's a good question, because unlike my best friend who has a twin sister with Down Syndrome, I don't have any close connection to anyone with a significant disability.  I volunteered in the special education classroom in high school and loved it, but what really changed my heart forever was Camp Summit.

This week, I got to go back and volunteer at camp for the Young Developmentally Delayed session (ages 6-12).  I was in a cabin full of nine and ten-year-old little boys with varying disabilities, mostly autism.  Now just close your eyes and imagine with me for a moment.  First put any eight little boys together 24/7 for a week.  That, in itself, has potential for craziness.  Then multiply that times six cabins, throw some little girls into three cabins, and assume that every camper has some sort of disability.  Yeah.  It was a wild week.  And a wonderful one.

What I love most about camp is that every kid gets to be himself, and no one gets to make fun.  I wish they would get chances like this everywhere.  People are loved for exactly who they are, not for what they are not, and not for what they do or don't have to offer.  There is something beautiful and valuable about every camper.  I have learned so much from the campers about how to look at life.  I make things way too complicated, and their world seems so simple.  I spend so much time worrying, and they just live in the moment.  I am often wrapped up in my own world, and they'll run up to a stranger just to give a hug.   

I also love the people who work at Camp Summit.  Because of camp, I've been able to meet some really neat people from all walks of life.  Let's face it, camp can be a true challenge at times.  But having people to love and encourage you on the days when it would be so easy to walk out changes everything.  Andrew and I were dating during my last summer at camp (he was living in Oklahoma and I only got 24 hours off on the weekends).  I would always try to explain to him what was going on over the phone, and as much as he would try to listen and understand, he couldn't fully know the joy or feel the frustration like my camp friends could.  There is something about being a team and sharing the same experiences that draws people together like nothing else can. 

The last time I worked at camp was in 2007, but it will always be a special place to me, and I'll always have memories that just bring a smile to my face.  This past week was unbelievably challenging, but as is the case with many other things in life, the hardest things are often the best ones. 

I chose special ed because of Camp Summit.  Not because I'm more patient, tenderhearted, or kind than anyone else (oh, if only you knew!).  I chose it because I think everyone deserves a chance to be loved, and I saw that in action at camp.  And finally, I chose it because of the starfish story, which goes something like this:

A runner was on the beach when he spotted a man in the distance.  As he got closer to the man, he took note of what the man was doing.  He was picking up starfish, one by one, and throwing them back into the water because he knew that they would die if they stayed on the sand for too long.

The runner finally approached the man and said, "I've noticed what you're doing and I don't mean to be rude, but this beach is miles long and there are hundreds of starfish!  How can you possibly make a difference?"

The man picked up another starfish and threw it back in the ocean.  Then he smiled at the runner and said simply, "It made a difference for that one."

The public education system is imperfect, the world underestimates people's abilities, and there is honestly so little time to help everyone in all of the ways that they need.  But I hope, by God's grace, that I can make a difference "for that one."

   

Names

After my last post, I decided to go with a little more light-hearted topic today.  (Yes, I did take down my last post, by the way.  Not because I'm ashamed of anything I said.  I stand by every word, and I'd love to tell you my story in person sometime if you want to hear it.  You just never know who your audience is on the Internet, and people can use anything you say against you.)  So here's hoping that you'll get a little chuckle when you read this.

Only Southerners really understand double names. 

If only I had a dollar for every time someone has made one of the following comments, I would never have to work another day in my life.

"So, is there a hyphen between the Mary and the Rachel?  Or is it just a space?"

"Is Rachel your middle name?"

"Is it 'Mary Rachel Something Fenrick'?  Sorta like two middle names?"

"Is 'Mary Rachel' your whole first name?"

All of those questions, in my opinion, are pretty fair.  In fact, I'd rather you ask them than assume that my name does have a hyphen when it does not.  Or give me a new middle name because, bless my heart, my parents forgot to give me one.

The questions below are my favorites.  I can't even get mad at people when they innocently ask these questions because they have become so amusing to me.

"Are you Catholic?"  (I'm not.)

"Why did your parents decide to go with both names?"  (I don't know.  Maybe you should ask them.)

"Do people ever just call you one or the other?"

And my personal favorite...

"Can I just call you one or the other?" 

Um, no.  You can't.  If your name is Andrew, I don't call you And.  If your name is Cody, I don't call you Cod.  And if your name is Shawna, I don't call you Shawn.  My name is Mary Rachel.  You can't just call me Mary.

I used to resent having a double name.  Especially in kindergarten, when everybody in else in the class was writing "Zach" or "Amy" on their papers and I was writing the excruciatingly long ten letters of Mary Rachel.  Even in high school, I considered dropping the Mary and just going with Rachel because no one could ever get my name right, it seemed.  Now, I appreciate my name.  It's unique, and it makes me who I am.  I can deal with people's questions about my name because the questions are comical.  Sometimes I make a game of guessing which ones people are going to ask when they first meet me.  I think some day, I'll even give my daughter a double name.  She'll probably hate me for awhile because of it, but I'm okay with that.      

Inspired

For the past three summers now, I have had the opportunity to work at an amazing camp called Youth Leadership Forum for high school juniors and seniors with disabilities.  I had no idea what to expect the first summer.  I definitely expected sleep deprivation and lots of teambuilding activities (accurate, by the way).  I probably expected to hand out all kinds of advice regarding my vast amount of leadership skills (wrong).  I didn't expect a week long of highly processed and/or fried foods or the kink in my workout routine.  Mostly, I didn't expect to be inspired.  After all, I'm the one with all of my ducks in a row, right?


Meet M.  (Well, apparently my computer doesn't want you to meet her today, as it is not letting me upload any pictures.)  M has Cerebral Palsy.  She gets around quite well using a walker, but nonetheless, she wakes up every morning with a body that does not obey her mind.  M is extremely intelligent, funny, kind, and motivated, but many people automatically write her off as being none of those things because she has a visible disability.  Although M is well-spoken, people in public arenas often address whoever is with M with their questions and comments instead of addressing M herself because they assume that she is unable to talk.  It would be easy for M to complain about the way people treat her, to use her disability as an excuse, or to become angry and bitter that she wakes up with a disability every morning that 98% of the world will never understand.  Instead, she chooses gratitude.  She chooses to overlook people's stereotypes.  She chooses to persevere despite all odds.   


M wasn't the only inspiring camper this week.  B is blind but is going to OSU for engineering.  A has a Traumatic Brain Injury but is one of the funniest people I have ever met.  J has autism and can sing like nobody's business.  C has epilepsy but works, volunteers, and takes college classes.  And the list goes on.  Gosh, even one of the counselors has cancer.  When I looked around the room at camp, I didn't see disabilities or sickness.  I saw hope.

Being at camp this week reminded me of several things.
1.  I complain an awful lot (about stupid things).
2.  I  make lots of lame excuses.  
3.  I am blessed beyond measure. 

Tomorrow, I challenge you to wake up and count your blessings.  I can guarantee you that someone else is, and chances are good that it's someone who has far less to be thankful for than you do. 
      

Valued

I am well aware that Mother's Day has come and gone, but after a conversation with a friend yesterday and with Father's Day just around the corner, it seemed timely for me to post this now. 

Mother's Day and Father's Day are obviously important.  My mom and dad did so much for me growing up, and they still continue to influence my life in powerful ways.  I don't take the time nearly often enough to show them my appreciation, so I'm glad that there is a day set aside to remind me to show them a little extra love.  Mother's Day and Father's Day have typically been happy times in celebrating two wonderful people who certainly don't have it all together but have worked very hard to pour into their children.  Generally, these days still are happy.  But for the first time this year, Mother's Day came with a pang of sadness for me.

Most you of probably don't know what I'm about to say.  (Yikes.  Here we go.)  Andrew and I have been trying to have a baby for about a year and a half now.  (Here I have to apologize because I know that that amount of time is probably the blink of an eye for some of you reading this blog.  I don't mean to be insensitive.)  Some days are easier than others.  There are times when I feel at peace about the whole thing, times when I just shove it under the rug and try to forget, times when I am heartbroken, and times when I am raging mad.  Well-meaning people often say things like, "God's timing is always perfect" or "When you just trust God and are at peace with your situation, that is when He will give you a baby."  While the former statement is accurate, it often comes across as flippant or trite to someone who is really struggling with understanding the "why's" of life.  The latter statement, I believe, is just not even true.  I think there are plenty of people who may be completely at peace and still aren't able to have children.  God doesn't operate on a rewards system in which only the best, most put-together people have babies and everyone else does not.  Also, it hurts to be told that you can only learn certain things by having children.  Example: "I now know what it means to be selfless because I have kids (and you will have no idea what it means to be selfless until you have kids, too)."  Everyone seems to be learning the same basic lessons in life: patience, trust, forgiveness, selflessness, etc.  The means of learning those lessons are different for everyone because everyone's story is unique. 

I'm not asking you to feel sorry for us.  What I do desire is sensitivity.  Let's be honest.  Most days, I struggle to be thankful for the cards that have been dealt to us.  But if there is anything that makes me the tiniest bit content with our circumstances, it is that I now am more aware of the hurts that some people face.  I am the last person to be casting stones at anyone here because I know that if I would have gotten pregnant as soon as we started trying, I would have been one of the well-meaning people who spat out cliche statements but didn't truly understand.  (The key in that sentence is well-meaning, because I don't think anyone we have talked to has ever intended to be hurtful in their comments.)  Now, like never before, I am attuned to people who have had miscarriages, whose parents have passed away, and who have tried to conceive for years longer than we have.  I don't listen perfectly, and I don't care nearly as much as I should, but I am thankful at least that my awareness of people who hurt has been heightened.

Here I must stop and say a huge "thank-you" to Doug and Bobby at City Presbyterian Church for doing something that I have never seen or heard of being done before.  Of course, no church does everything perfectly, but I was particularly impressed by this.  When Doug stood up to greet everyone on the Sunday evening of Mother's Day, he started off with the typical "Happy Mother's Day, we're so thankful for the wonderful mothers here..." speech and I almost immediately thought, "Great, here we go," and shut down.  But then he kept going and said something like, "As thankful as we are for the moms here, we know that Mother's Day is painful for a lot of women who want to be mothers and cannot.  It is painful for those who have lost their mothers.  It is painful for women who have miscarried.  So let's keep that in mind and be gracious."  Then he asked all of the women in the church to stand up, and he looked out at all of us and said, "You are valuable.  The church needs you.  We're thankful for your unique gifts and talents.  We're glad you're a woman."

I teared up.  Our society has placed such a heirarchy on people and The Church has, too, hasn't it?  (I'm capitalizing "The Church" because I don't think it's one particular church that does this; Christ's church around the world is at fault.)  Married people with children are the most valuable, married people without children are somewhat valuable, and single people are the least valuable.  Of course, no one would ever put it in those words, but isn't that how we operate?  Marriage is seen as the highest "badge of honor," and people earn more gold stars on their badges by having more children.  We act like there is something wrong with people who are not married by a certain age, or couples who have been married for a certain length of time and don't have children.  "When are you going to get married/start having kids," we ask, assuming that that is the next and only logical step for a twenty-something to take.  Not everyone was intended to get married, and not everyone was intended to have children.  What about those people?  Are their gifts not equally as important and useful as the gifts of those who do have children?  Being a mom or a dad is absolutely a significant role in The Church and outside of it.  The world needs loving moms and dads.  But doesn't the world also need enthusiastic single people?  Doesn't it need sweet married couples?  I think so.

Whether you're single or married, whether you have fifteen children or you have none, whether you're black, white, brown, or purple, you are inherently valuable because you are a man or a woman.  Those words don't come from me.  They come from the One who created us.  Even before there were children on the earth, "God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good."