The Fourth Bedroom

This month marks two years that we have lived in our current house.

Closing Day 2015

When I found out that I was pregnant with our second child, the 1000-square foot home that we then occupied suddenly began to feel claustrophobic as I imagined another person sleeping (or not sleeping) in it.  First world problems, I know.

We began looking for houses with more space, focusing more on the ones with a fourth bedroom.  Technically, we didn't need it, but my husband and I (okay, mostly him) wanted a guest room so that we could open our home more frequently to others.  We found the perfect place in less than a month.  It had been on the market for less than 12 hours when we bought it, and it had its own private guest bedroom and bathroom.

For weeks before we moved into our new home and for months after, we prayed for ways to tangibly bless others through this gift that we get to call "ours".  We had neighbors and coworkers over for dinner and had showers and parties here.  My parents and other friends passing through town would occasionally sleep in the fourth bedroom.  

And then there was Kayla. 

In October, this 18-year-old came to stay with us.  She had aged out of foster care and was not in a good living situation, so when she asked me if I knew of anyone who was looking for a roommate or had an extra bedroom for rent, I could almost literally hear God whispering to my heart: "Mary Rachel, you do." 

Of course, I needed to address this situation with my husband, but after some prayer, he only asked one question about it.  "Do you trust her with our girls?"  Yes.  

Kayla moved in about a week later.

From the very day that she brought over her few possessions, the devil's attacks began.  Her stuff doesn't match yours.  Your house isn't going to always look perfectly put together anymore (like it ever did with two small children running around).  She has a cat.  MR, you don't like cats; they stink and they shed.  She doesn't have a car.  What an inconvenience!  You work with her; you're never going to have any "alone" time.  All four of us have to use the same bathroom so that she can have her own.  How annoying!  It's already SO LOUD in here, and we're adding another person to the noise level.  Your parenting is constantly going to be on trial before someone else.  She's going to see this circus that is your home and judge you.  You aren't good enough.

On and on the struggle went to hear the voice of truth louder than these other voices feeding lies into my head.  As my lips spoke words to her such as, "Kayla, you aren't a burden to us.  We want to help you," I realized that I was trying to preach them to myself, as well.  "Mary Rachel, she isn't a burden to you.  You want to help her."    

Kayla stayed with us for four months.  She got a car, and her previous living situation improved so that she felt safe in returning to be with her only family.  As quickly as she was here, she was gone. 

In the past few days since Kayla has moved out, I've been trying to process these recent months.  

Guys, it was hard.

I think that it is challenging to invite a non-family member to live in your house, regardless of who it is.  I am a private person, and I love comfort and my own space.  Any invasion of those things by anybody is going to throw me for a loop.  Layered on top of all of that was the fact that Kayla, though sweet and earnest, is a teenager with a dysfunctional upbringing, and I felt completely lost in my own home.   

I never questioned that we were doing what God called us to do.  He has given us far more than we need or deserve, and I believe that he expects us to be generous with our home and our time.  But, it is one thing to have this idea in your head of what generosity looks like and quite another to be so generous that your lifestyle actually has to change.  When generosity and good stewardship begin to make me slightly uncomfortable, I want to run.  And in this case, there was nowhere for me to go.  
   

15,092.

That's the number of days I have left on this earth, assuming that I've been given 70 years.  I recently began "numbering my days" (Psalm 90:12), and admittedly, there have been far too many of the past 120 when I've shuffled into the bathroom that I shared with three other people, marked off another day, and resented my lot in life.  15,092 is a lot of days, and it isn't.  The 120(ish) days that Kayla lived with us definitely wasn't a lot, and, regrettably, I spent many of them feeling sorry for myself and being annoyed with a situation that I chose.  If you've been reading this and thinking that I'm an awesome person because I opened my home to a teenager who didn't have one, you just got a peek into what's really in my heart.  It's gross.

Why did we do it?  

That's a multi-faceted answer, and I might have responded differently depending on the day that you asked me.  

Partly, I wanted our girls to notice us opening our doors and making outsiders feel welcome.  Those little people are watching everything we do, and I was hopeful that they would witness a glimmer of hospitality and aspire to imitate it one day. 

I also longed for Kayla to experience a functional family that loves each other.  I knew that we weren't perfect; however, I thought that we could show her something unique.  Conflicts were inevitable, but I yearned for her to see forgiveness and healthy resolution following them.  

In short, I wanted to change Kayla's life during her time with us.  Perhaps she would be so inspired by our gracious living that she would be a radically different person when she walked out of our front door than when she walked into it.

I don't know if Kayla learned a single thing by living with us (except for how much crying there is up in this place), and I'm not sure that she needed to.  Maybe that wasn't the point.  In my reasons for inviting Kayla into our home, I was hoping to see change in everyone else, but I think that what God was after was change in me.  (Isn't that usually how it goes?)  I'm stubborn, selfish, and ungrateful, but perhaps I'm the tiniest bit less that way than I was when the fourth bedroom became occupied in October.  

This I know for sure: Not one of His seen or unseen plans during the past four months was ever thwarted by my apathy and complaining.  And that's really good news for everyone involved.

"I am God, and there is no other.  I am God, and there is none like me, declaring the end from the beginning and from ancient times things not yet done, saying, 'My counsel shall stand, and I will accomplish all my good pleasure.'"

-Isaiah 46:9-10

Giving Up Gluten

This entry is going to be a little different than my usual "musings on marathons, motherhood, and everything in between" (because I'm not sure that the current topic fits neatly into any of those categories, including "everything in between").  Today, I'm discussing why I switched to a gluten-free diet about two months ago.

In October of last year, I wrote a blog post about my struggles with plantar fasciitis and how that injury sidelined me from my favorite hobby, running, for several weeks.  While I was dealing with plantar fasciitis, I dreaded putting my feet on our hardwood floors in the morning because I knew that the pain in my heel would send excruciating stabs all the way up my leg.  Resting helped to heal my injury, but I began to notice that my dread of our hardwood floors was not solely related to my heel.  Every morning when I woke up, my joints were swollen and achy.  My ring wouldn't fit over my knuckle for days at a time.  I felt like an old woman in an active, 28-year-old's body.

Knowing that these feelings were not normal for me, I got tested for rheumatoid arthritis, which runs in my family.  Negative.

Lupus.  Negative.

Thyroid problems.  Negative.

Scleroderma.  Negative.

All of the lab results, thankfully, showed no major issues.  However, these negative results left one major problem: I was a perfectly healthy woman with severe joint pain and swelling for no explainable reason.

I began to accept that all of this would just be my life for the next however many years God gives me.
Enter my friend, Gretchen Clark.

"Have you ever thought that you might have a gluten sensitivity?  Your symptoms seem kind of similar to those of this other gal I know..."

A gluten intolerance had not once crossed my mind.  But, concluding that this experiment could at least be worth a try, I decided to eliminate gluten from my diet for two weeks, certainly not expecting to discover a solution to the weird health issues I was facing.

Wrong.

Okay, I have to be honest.  The first few days were horrible.  I was having gluten withdrawals!  Headaches plagued me, and I was constantly nauseated.  I had to fight the urge to eat all the bread and all the pasta all the time.  My skin looked worse than a teenager's.

If I am anything, though, I am stubborn, so I stuck with the plan, and then...day 7-ish...

This is a case of wishing that I would have taken before and after photos or kept a log of my symptoms or something because the changes have been so dramatic.  Not only do my joints feel normal again with no more swelling, but some pleasant unexpected changes occurred, as well.

I feel like a fog lifted out of my brain.  {This is impossible to explain really.}  I wake up feeling rested every morning, and I am able to concentrate better throughout the day.  I didn't even know that I was living in a fog until one day when I wasn't anymore.

My skin is the best it has looked in years.  This has been the greatest surprise of my gluten-free diet.  After my daughter was born, I tried almost every kind of topical medication and face washing regimen that existed, all to no avail.  My skin, with no makeup (!) and no camera filters, looked like this last week:

A couple of months ago, I would not have dared to take a picture without makeup because I was too embarrassed about my breakouts.

I hadn't intended to lose weight, but I've lost four pounds in the last eight weeks.  (Mom, I know you're reading this, and I can hear you freaking out from Texas.  I'm not wasting away; it's okay.)  I've weighed the same amount for several years, not including pregnancy (obviously), so this was unexpected.  I feel great and not bloated.  Again, I got used to feeling a certain way and assumed that was normal.

A couple of things I should mention...

1.  This is not a fad diet.  Did you know that no one possesses the enzyme needed to process gluten naturally in the body?  Some people are completely unaffected by this fact, while others with Celiac disease have severe reactions when consuming even the tiniest amount of gluten.  I'm somewhere in between.  You might hear my success story and decide to go gluten-free and not notice any difference at all, because your body is not my body, and this is not a diet where everyone loses weight who follows it correctly.  Or, you may be living in a bloated, achy, fog that you've thought is typical, and giving up gluten will rock your world.

2.  Giving up gluten is a lifestyle change, but it is not impossible.  In fact, it's not even hard.  I love pasta.  And cake.  And bread.  Muffins.  Bagels.  Pie.  2017 is a beautiful year to be alive and gluten-free because there are affordable, tasty options for people like me who are choosing this lifestyle.  I've made gluten-free pasta three times in the last couple of weeks, and my whole family of picky eaters gobbled it up and never even knew they were eating brown rice noodles instead of flour ones.  Also, my neighbor brought me a pan of gluten-free brownies, and guys, I ate that whole pan because they were good.  Pizza is definitely a big loss; that is one food that is not the same.  But, now that I see how much different I feel without gluten in my life, I'll never go back to my old diet.

I know that there is a wealth of research about gluten and how it affects people and blah blah blah, but I also know that it sometimes helps to hear a real person's experience.  So, there's mine for you to take or leave.

Happy eating!

An Essay Contest

I haven't participated in an essay contest in years.  Usually I write because I want to, but today I wrote because I need to.  

We started a college savings fund for both of our girls when they were babies, and today, I'm trying to win a contest to get money added to their accounts.  Somehow, the words did not flow as easily when I did not generate the topic.  (Also, how do you explain life change in 300 words or less?!)  People sometimes ask me if I would want to be a writer for a living, and I'm not sure I could do it.  Much of the joy of blogging, for me, comes from posting whatever is in my brain and not having any restrictions on length or subject matter.  Anyway, here was my best attempt.  It never hurts to try, right?  

"Please explain, in 300 words or less, how the Oklahoma College Savings Plan has made, or will make, a difference in your own life or the life of your beneficiary."

***

"My husband and I met at The University of Oklahoma, and we are now raising our girls less than two miles from its campus.  College is obviously a special place for us, but not solely for the reason that we both obtained degrees from the one in our hometown.

I taught public school in Oklahoma for six years before returning to school myself.  During those six years, I worked at two very contrasting schools.  At one, kids could not afford to keep the electricity on year-round.  At the other, OU head football coach and millionaire, Bob Stoops, had successful twin boys who attended.  The schools were only a few miles apart, but they felt like opposite planets.  The education of these students’ parents was the primary separation.  I witnessed, first-hand, how a cycle of poverty can be perpetuated or broken based on whether or not higher degrees are deemed important and are attainable.  In places where college was an opportunity, it literally changed the lives of generations.

In 2013, we met a 17-year-old girl.  She was bright and motivated, and she was also pregnant.  _____ gave birth to our adopted daughter, Piper.  She finished high school and is now working on furthering her education, but when we met _____, she was forced to choose between college and a child.  She selflessly decided to give us this baby who she had carried for nine months, with the understanding that we would attempt to provide the best life for Piper.  Giving the gift of college to Piper will not only allow our daughter to have a greater future for herself, but it will be the fulfillment of a promise that we made to a brave young girl four years ago, a repayment for our precious gift.

Thank you for your consideration."

***

299 words.  I like living on the edge.

We like each other.

Shortly before Christmas, our community group from church left the kiddos at home and went out for hibachi, drinks, and Christmas lights.  There were 14 of us, all of various ages and in diverse stages of life.

Somewhere in between the onion volcano and the catching-the-egg-in-the-top-of-the-hat trick (how do those guys do that?), our chef asked what we were celebrating.

"Nothing in particular," said Gretchen.  "We're just friends."

"Really?  So how do all of you people know each other?" asked the chef.

"Church," someone replied.

"Oh."  {I could almost literally see the wheels turning in this guy's head.}  "So you're not celebrating anything, and you actually like being around each other?"

"Correct."

"Hmm.  You don't hear that very often."

I'd have to agree.  Sometimes I'm even shocked that an accumulation of such different individuals could not only get along, but want to spend time together.

Let's be honest: Church people can be cheesy, annoying, judgmental Bible-beaters.  With a few random exceptions, this was the perception I had of Christians for the majority of my life, until my husband and I reluctantly joined a small group at our old church and were pleasantly surprised to find something that contradicted all of our prejudices.

People were kind to us.  We brought a big, turbulent mess to a group that had been flowing smoothly, and we were welcomed with open arms.  Every week for a whole semester, someone from our group babysat so that we could have regular date nights.  People threw wedding and baby showers for each other.  Friends dropped off coffee or lunch to other group members' workplaces, just because.

More than just caring for each other, though, perhaps the most stunning thing about that group was that people were normal.  Yes, we all loved Jesus and tried to challenge each other toward being more like Him, but people had regular, secular jobs.  We read good books, watched good movies, and had parties that were fun and not lame.  Some families sent their children to public school, some to private school, and some homeschooled...and nobody cared what anybody else did or tried to change anyone's mind about it.  It was genuine and organic, and it was true community in, I think, one of the most unlikely places.

Andrew and I left that group about a year ago, not because we wanted to, but because we felt that it was important (and far more convenient) to do life in Norman, where we live.  Doubting that we would ever find community in church people again, we drug our feet somewhat in joining another small group at our new church.

But, we did find community in church people again, so that's twice now that my expectations have been completely defied.

We found friendship in this rag-tag group of folks who consist of a realtor, a teacher, students, a school counselor, an interior designer, a campus pastor, stay-at-home moms, university employees, and artists.  The youngest person in our group is four months, and the oldest is in her sixties.  We eat hibachi, watch each other's kids, have football watch parties, set up meal calendars for group members who are sick or busy, bring our chaos, and we invite other people to be part of this crazy thing we've got going...because we can...because, by the grace of this God who is seemingly all we have in common at times, we actually like each other.

You can also find this post here. 

A Fairy Tale Ending

My three-year-old daughter is all girl these days: baby dolls, nail polish, sparkles, pink everything, ballerinas, and fairy tales.

Fairy tales.  Sometimes I'd rather stick toothpicks under my fingernails.

Often, Piper asks me to read "Goldilocks" or "The Gingerbread Man", but her favorite fairy tales are the ones with princesses, the ones that make me cringe the most.

I remember going to see Beauty and the Beast at the mall.  It was my first movie to view in theaters, and it has a certain appeal to me as an adult today: A person falls in love with another human being who is, in many respects, completely undesirable.  I still enjoy witnessing stories in which rough characters soften under the pursuing and undeserved affections of someone else.

The stories Piper loves though, are the ones with the beautiful girls named Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Rapunzel.  At her age, I'm sure I adored those, too, but now, they become increasingly more absurd with each nighttime reading.

"He saw her and immediately fell in love."

"The shoe fit, and they got married the next day and lived happily ever after."

"The princess woke up.  The spell was broken by true love's first kiss."

What?!

Kids and adults eat this stuff up, but have you ever really thought about the message of these tales?  Admittedly, I hadn't until recently.

Boys like the prettiest girls.  

It is entirely possible, and common, to fall in love with someone without ever having talked to her.  (I suppose that one is debatable, but I am personally skeptical of the idea of love at first sight.)

Marry the right person, and you live happily ever after.

People seem to want fairy tale endings.  They do seem easier.  Who doesn't desire a beautiful spouse and a "happily ever after" with no cares in the world?

As 2016 wraps up and I think about the end of another year, I'm realizing that I don't want a fairy tale ending.  I don't want it for myself or for my girls.  I want real life.

Real life is messy.  It's raw and not glamorous and gosh, just hard sometimes.  But there it is, in the very expression: It is real.  My desire is not to float through existence with my head in the clouds, happy but lacking true joy.  Because joy comes from having fully experienced deep sadness, loss, and waiting...and then waking up to a new day and realizing that you've tread through the greatest valleys and survived.

Fairy tales provide some sort of superficial, feel-good, momentary happiness, but they don't offer an abiding sense of contentment, which is what I ultimately crave for my little family.

That said, I'll probably read a fairy tale to Piper tonight, as I have for the past four months in a row...and throw up a little bit in my mouth as I do.  Tonight, she's three, and some battles just aren't worth fighting.

Happy New Year, friends.  May you experience real life, with all of its ups and downs, and find an ending that is better than a fairy tale in 2017.

Santa doesn't stop here.

I have very few memories of kindergarten or any years prior, but I will never forget ruining Christmas for my five-year-old friend, Lindsay Mann.

"But Santa isn't real," I told her in a matter-of-fact voice.  "It's your parents.  They get the gifts for you and say they're from Santa.  How do you think he knows what you want?"

Lindsay didn't believe me...until after Christmas that year.

"Mary Rachel, you were right," she admitted.  "I found my new bike in the garage before we had Christmas.  Then, when I opened it on Christmas, my parents said that it was from Santa!  Can you believe that?!"

Of course I could.

Looking back on that experience now, I feel badly that I shattered Christmas 1993 for Lindsay and her parents.  I'm sure that no parents want their kids discovering the truth about Santa from their daughter's friend, the Kindergarten Grinch.  And I definitely don't want my girls to be the ones who do the same for someone else.

That said, Santa doesn't stop at our house.

{Before I go any further, I should mention that whatever you do in your house for Christmas is your decision.  I don't know what's best for your family; I'm simply writing about what we feel is best for ours.  Christmas is a touchy subject, and I am certainly in no position to judge or to make claims about the way that everyone should or shouldn't celebrate it.}

Our three-year-old, Piper, has already heard mixed reviews about Santa at school.  We tell her that he's sort of like a superhero, comparing him to Batman or The Hulk, both of which can do some impressive things but only exist in movies or on the pages of books.  We also tell her that many of her friends believe other things about Santa, and that's okay.

When people ask my husband why we choose not to do Santa with our kids, he says, "Well, I kind of want credit for those gifts that we get her!"  I love that guy.

I've never had any particular attachment to Santa.  However, I knew that whoever I married would most likely have celebrated Christmas very differently than the way I did growing up (read: We did not celebrate it at all), and we would probably need to meet somewhere in the middle about what to do with the big guy in the red suit.

Weirdly, the thing that sealed the deal for us and shut Santa out of the Fenrick house was Piper's adoption.

Adoption can be so confusing, but we have always desired to be open with Piper about all of it.  We want her to feel that she can come to us with questions about her adoption, and that she can trust us to give her true answers about it.

My fear with Santa (and the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny) is that if we tell her for years that he exists and then Piper later finds out that he does not, how will she believe us about much else?  Little people can be very intelligent, but their logic is often faulty.  What if we continually told Piper that she was wanted and loved by her birth mother and by us (which is true), but the world tells her something different?  What about God?  Will she believe that he is real because we have repeatedly claimed that he is?  Will we have proved ourselves to be trustworthy?  Will she believe our voices about the others that she hears?

People seem shocked when I tell them that we do not "do Santa" with our children.

"Well do you even do Christmas?"

"What?!  I can't imagine Christmas without Santa."

"That's like taking the magic of Christmas away from your child!"

Maybe I am a mean mom by depriving my girls of the Santa experience.  I am totally willing to acknowledge that this is a possibility.  I may look back when they're grown and realize that we did all of this wrong.  Lord knows it won't be the only thing we messed up when they were little.

But to me, what's magical about Christmas is not Santa.  It is Jesus. 

It is magical that the God of all of the universe would come to our messy earth through the womb of a virgin...for me.  That seems like a completely crazy thing to believe, but really not too much crazier than a guy living at the North Pole and traveling around the world in one night to give all the things to all the kids.  I know that some people successfully pull off Santa and Christ in their own homes, but I guess I am too simple-minded for that.

Back to depriving my kids, can I tell you something?

Piper loves the story of Jesus.  That kid wakes up asking when we get to do the "elephant (advent) calendar" and, "Is it Christmas yet?  When do we get to put baby Jesus on the elephant calendar?"  If you ask her, I don't think she would say that she is missing out on anything.

Truthfully, I have often woken up thinking about the advent calendar lately, too.  I hear Piper's little voice reciting the Christmas story better than I can, and my cold heart melts a little more.

"Jesus is the greatest treasure of all.  This is the story of how he came to us..."

School In This Season

When I was six years old, my dad graduated from college.  He was 41.

I clearly remember his graduation ceremony, partly because my little brother was complaining of a stomachache the entire time, partly because the ceremony itself was dreadfully long and boring for a first grader, and partly because I thought my dad was just so cool to be walking across the stage in a black hat and "dress".  

For years, I never knew that graduating as a 41-year-old was not exactly "normal".  I always just knew that Daddy worked tirelessly for our family.  He was, and is still, the only one of his four siblings to graduate from college, just as my granddad was one of a select few in his generation to do the same.

I went to college because my granddad started a college fund for both my brother and me when we were infants, and this savings account grew until I was 18 so that my parents paid relatively little to help me attend the University of Oklahoma.  I never took out student loans.  I realize that, in today's world, that is nothing short of a miracle. 

I also went to college because of the legacy that my granddad left even after his passing and the example that my dad gave me as he completed his degree.  I honestly didn't realize that there were other options after high school, and I'm not sure that I would have considered them anyway.  

College as an 18-year-old certainly required some effort on my part, but much of my time at OU was spent playing ultimate frisbee until 2:00 a.m. and doing lunch dates in the Union.  I graduated with an excellent GPA and did not kill myself trying to do so.  My social life was rich.

Today, I'm back in school ten years after graduation, and I am just now comprehending the many sacrifices that my dad made for our family when I was little.  He worked full-time, went to school in the evenings, and still found time to be with Tim and me.  I remember him being gone at night, but he was never absent from our lives. 

Several years ago, I started working on my master's degree at OU.  The longer I was in school, the less I felt the calling to become a reading specialist.  My original motive to pursue a higher degree was based out of a love for learning and a desire to recreate my undergrad experience.  Selfishly, I wanted to boost my ego and knew that a master's degree would make me look better on paper.  In the end, those were not good enough reasons to continue.

This time around is different than when I was fresh out of high school, and it is also different than when I was working on a higher level degree.  

This time, school is for my family.

It has not been my favorite to come home from lab at 10:00 p.m. and still have studying to do, and there are so many days when it feels impossible to hold a part-time job and make everyone stop screaming and fold the laundry and do all the things.  (I truly have no idea how single parents do it.)  College isn't exactly fun this time around.  It's also expensive, and I frequently find myself questioning if all of this is worth it.  But, I keep coming back to the same answer that it is, or at least it will be.

It will be worth it when I can help my girls pay for their own college and their weddings.  It will be worth it to have a job which allows my people to get my best instead of getting my leftovers because I gave everyone else's people my best all day.  It will be worth it when I can say, "Yes, I will read you that book for the 47th time today because I can because it's a Tuesday and I only work three days a week."

Right now, all of those "worth its" seem forever away.  They are at least seven more semesters away, to be exact.  They are coming, though, and that thought has pushed me through many a night when I would rather be home with my family than listening to another lecture about electrons and other topics which have virtually no relevance in my everyday life.    

I finished this first semester back in college with As, but my perfectionist self surprisingly would have been okay if I hadn't.  I don't need to be perfect to do well or to get accepted into the dental hygiene program (I hope!).  Sometimes, everyone's best interest is found in closing the textbook and running around in the backyard with the little people, who aren't going to be little for much longer.

As somewhat of a related sidenote, God has continued to show me grace when I've most needed it throughout this semester.  I randomly had the sweetest lab partner who became a good friend as the weeks passed.  She works, is married, has two little girls the same ages as mine, and tries to balance it all, too.  We struggled through tests together, ruined labs together, and laughed a whole lot.  This is Amanda, and she made chemistry not only bearable, but kind of fun sometimes.