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.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Sunday, September 16, 2012
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. :)
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. :)
Friday, September 7, 2012
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.
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.
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.
.JPG) |
| Found this on the bathroom mirror today. |
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.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
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...
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...
Thursday, August 9, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, August 3, 2012
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."
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."
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