On Angels and Demons

As I’ve mentioned before, there are aspects of my faith that I don’t understand, and I understand that I’ll never understand them, and for the most part I’m okay with that. But sometimes those aspects resurface and I need to re-wrestle them. One of those often-resurfacing facets is the concept of angels, demons, and Satan.

For the moment, I will freely admit my ignorance and … well, idiocy. I’ve done no research on the subject, unless you count reading Paradise Lost. And I know there’s not a whole lot on the subject in the Bible. But here’s my contemporary understanding of what happened:

God creates angels—because if He is the Alpha and Omega, where else would they have come from? They all chant their celestial praises and do angel-y things until Satan gets uppity, grabs some minions, and tries to oust God, who casts them all into a metaphysical pit of torment which, again, God must have created, to suffer for all eternity for their sin.

Then God creates people. They all sing their earthly praises and walk with God until they get uppity, disobey God, and try to take His place—not as literally, but they still wanted to be the supreme rulers of their lives. And God casts them out into a fallen world to live and suffer and prosper and what have you for a mortal span of years, then He sends His Son to ransom them from joining Satan and his minions in their eternal torment.

When I first raised this question, it didn’t bother me. I figured, hey, the angels had God right there with them and they still rebelled? Obviously there would be no point in trying to ransom them. Then I re-read Genesis and, apparently, the first humans walked with God also. So, really, what’s the difference between people and angels and demons? Obviously the angels had to have free will or some of them wouldn’t have been able to rebel. And if they were so fundamentally flawed as to be irredeemable, then why make them suffer forever? Why not just unmake them? Not only would that have been more merciful—it’d also have kept them from doing things like possessing people, getting cast out into pigs, and running some poor farmer’s livelihood off a cliff.

Someday when I have more time, I’ll do some more research, but in the meantime, what are your thoughts?

The Nature of Faith

Everybody has faith in something. In our culture there are two general extremes: the Christian who believes in an omnipotent omniscient God who loves each person individually, and the empiricist who believes in what his senses can tell him. And in each case, a person has to be able to accept what his worldview can’t tell him.

An empiricist, for example, has to believe that although energy is neither created nor destroyed, there had to be something to cause the vaunted Big Bang. He has to accept that he can never understand how, on the quantum level, matter is both matter and energy and that somehow our observations change it. He also has to accept that some things, some substances, can alter our perceptions and he has to believe that his normal everyday experiences are true and unaltered. Among other things.

And there are countless things that I, as a Christian, can’t understand. For example, I can’t understand how a God who loves His creation would construct the world in such a way that there are earthquakes and tsunamis. I can’t understand why things like tapeworms and viruses exist, or why God spent so much time humoring someone like Gideon but doesn’t show Himself more clearly to people like Steve. Among other things. But at the end of the day, I’m more comfortable accepting those uncertainties and believing that my experiences of God are real.

In the end, that’s what faith is—choosing what you’re comfortable not knowing and allowing what you do know to fall in line with the rest.

So, what are you okay with not understanding?

Social Eater

I’m no anthropologist, but at a glance it seems as though food is an important part of pretty much every culture. In ours, it’s easy to see. Wooing a girl? What’s the first step? Take her out to dinner. Inviting friends over? What’s generally the central activity? A good meal. Or at least a snack buffet in which everyone contributes something. And now, as I’m raising a baby, I can see how that trend begins.

When we start out in life, eating has to be a social activity. A baby cannot feed itself—other people simply must be involved. And the baby learns that feeding time is also an expression of the parents’ love. Baby is cuddled close and talked to while he or she eats. Whether Mom or Dad does the feeding, it’s a time to bond as well as eat. Then we transition from breast and/or bottle to table foods. Even then, the baby cannot do the simple task of transferring food from plate to mouth and another person has to be involved in the process. Once we finally get that skill down, it’ll be years before we can actually prepare our own food. And the person doing the preparing puts a lot of work into each and every meal. The cook wants to sit with you and enjoy the fruits of his or her labor and relishes watching you do the same, and providing food continues to be an expression of love as well as simple nourishment.

And there you have my thoughts as I’m confined to a rocking chair for hours a day feeding my little one.

Christmas Tradition

This is my nativity:

As you’ve probably noticed, something important is missing. This is not an oversight, or blasphemy, or a statement about my spiritual life.

This is tradition.

You see, Baby Jesus is not in the manger because, well, it’s not Christmas yet. And if it’s not his birthday yet, how could he be in the manger? It was a tradition in my home to set up the Jesus-less nativity and then, on Christmas, Mom and Dad would bring Jesus out of hiding and my brother and I would sing “Happy Birthday” to Jesus and place Him in the manger.

Then it was time for gift-opening and then aebleskiver.

What Christmas traditions did you have and still cherish?

You Know You’re an Adult When…

I’m a college graduate. I had my lovely little 8-5 office job (no, really, it was lovely—I actually enjoyed it immensely). I got married, got pregnant, had a kid. Worked from home, worked outside of home. And throughout all this, I’ve still mostly managed to feel like a perpetual teenager. Well, maybe more a perpetual college kid. Most of the time, even now, I still don’t feel “grown up.” But sometimes I have those moments that make me realize, Hey, I’m actually an adult. When did that happen?

You might think that moment first came when I asked for kitchen gadgets. For gifts. Like, birthday and Christmas presents. That’s right, I do that. Hey, a stereotypical “man” gift is tools for the garage; why can’t a girl gift be tools for the kitchen? But no. Cooking is still a new adventurous undertaking, so asking for presents in that area doesn’t make me feel old.

You might think that moment came when I got pregnant or, if not then, when I had the baby. Wrong again! Maybe it’s just the subconscious realization that young un-grown-up girls do the same thing depressingly often, but I don’t think making a baby makes you a grown up. Taking good care of it, maybe, but not just having one.

That moment of finally realizing I’m a bona fide adult came when Steve took Kara out of the house and my first thought was, Yipee! I have the house to myself! I can do laundry and sweep and mop and do dishes and vacuum and …

Well, you get the idea. And now Steve is gone with Kara once more. The dishwasher is running, as is the washing machine. Time to go wipe off counters and sweep floors and fold laundry and…

Oh, the holidays

I freely recognize that it’s been forever since I’ve made a post. Pretty much everything exciting in my life involves Kara’s new accomplishments: eating cereal, trying to walk, sleeping through the night. And it’s all wonderfully exciting to experience for a parent, but probably not so much as a blog reader.

But now, the holidays are here!

Everybody loves the holidays. We had as much vacation as we could stand this Thanksgiving, and yet it was wonderful to be in a house filled to the seams with family (and, of course, food). My house is decorated. Granted, it’s decorated with a two-foot tabletop tree, which is on top of the entertainment center. But still, it looks like Christmas. And smells like it when I burn the evergreen candle my Grandma got me. The holidays have always been unequivocally happy, even with the terrible long drive to see my Ohio family. I never could understand what could possibly make the holidays so bittersweet for so many people.

But now, enter 2011:

• my first Christmas without Dad (aka Santa Claus)
• my first Christmas with my baby girl
• my first Christmas with close family drama of the sort that shouldn’t exist outside of soap operas
• my first Christmas with a new niece and a new brother

Now, it’s a terribly conflicted time of year. But it’s still a time of looking back to celebrate my Savior’s birth and a joyous time of anticipating His return. It’s still a time of vacation, free time,  family, and family games like Yahtzee, Dominoes, and Scrabble. It’s a time when people wish each other  happiness, peace, and joy—and mean it. It’s remembering that heaven opened up and gave us its best so that we could have those things.

So it’s a conflicted Christmas, but I’ll embrace the good, acknowledge the bad, and pray for the grace to accept both in a manner that honors my dad and educates Kara. And I wish you all, well and truly, a merry Christmas.

Home

Homesickness is a strange thing. I remember having it several times. I can barely remember being very young and spending the night at Grandma and Grandpa’s. Suddenly, for no discernible reason, I wanted my mommy and daddy right then. They couldn’t come get me fast enough. I wasn’t homesick for the place I called home, but for my parents, and that’s how it usually went.

I remember getting ready for school some days. I’m talking middle school now. It was so hard to leave. There wasn’t anything wrong; there was just the occasional day that I had the overwhelming desire to stay home with Mom. It’s not like I never saw her; she was a stay-at-home mom for my childhood and when she took a job in my pre-teens she worked at night so she could still be home when I was. To make light of it, I would say I wanted to stay home and bake cookies with her. She’d laugh, give me a kiss and a hug, and I would steel myself and leave to catch the bus.

I even remember one night when my next-door neighbor was sleeping over. We were playing and having a good time when suddenly her mom’s car pulled into their driveway. My friend tried to fight it for a few minutes; she clearly felt so bad about wanting to go home, but nothing could cure the homesickness once it welled. She begged my forgiveness and ran home.

Now that I’m a mother, the homesickness has changed. I still get homesick for Mom, but there’s little I can do about it while we live hundreds of miles apart. But sometimes I find it hard to fall asleep because I feel like I should have both Steve and Kara with me. Sometimes I have to go look in on my baby sleeping peacefully in her crib, happy where she should be, before I can fall asleep.

I guess it makes some sense. She spent 9 months quite literally connected to me, and several weeks after she was born she was almost always attached to me. Now that she can entertain herself more and doesn’t have to nap on me (that’s right, she even naps in her crib now), she doesn’t spend nearly as much time in my arms.

Which is more wonderful than words can say, of course. But some nights it leaves me with that strange homesickness.

 

What Do I Do…?

I have two main vices that upset the harmony of my household.

1. I leave hair ties all over the place. I use various devices in an attempt to keep my hair from getting spit-up all over it and to keep it out of Kara’s grasp. Eventually, however, having it tied back becomes so uncomfortable that I take it down, usually when Kara is sleeping. So whatever device was keeping my hair tied back ends up in my seat or on the floor next to my seat. And somehow I just don’t see these things when I head to the bathroom, which is where the hair ties are supposed to live.
2. I leave my shoes all over the house. This one’s getting a little more under control since we now have a coat closet with a basket where my shoes live, so I can usually take them off on my way into the house. But sometimes I forget, and then my shoes end up in front of the couch, under my desk, beside Steve’s computer… Pretty much anywhere is up for grabs.

I’m certain I have more vices, but these are my husband’s pet peeves. You’d think after three years of marriage, I’d be better, but no. (Which isn’t too surprising, really, since it took my former roommate and best friend five years to break me of the habit of leaving every cupboard door open after unloading the dishwasher.) I’ll be very vigilant about it for a few months, then I’ll slack off, then Steve will gently remind me, again, when he starts cleaning that these things kinda sorta really drive him crazy. Then… he’ll ask it. The loaded-gun question.

Do I do anything that particularly irritates you?

The problem with this question is that the things that irritate me only irritate me if I’m already irritated.

Let me explain. If I’m having a good, normal day and Kara’s napping and I’m cleaning, if I see something that irritates me, I simply take care of it. There’s a wet towel on the bed? Oh, silly husband. I pick it up and hang it on the towel rack where it belongs. Same for dirty dishes on his desk, lights left on in vacated rooms, and so on. However, if Kara’s fussy and just spit up two gallons of bile on my t-shirt and I have to lay her on the bed while I grab a new shirt and there’s no room because there’s a damp towel on the bed, I’m very irritated that there’s yet another thing I have to clean up. Is it really that hard to hang up your own friggin’ towel? I want to scream. That’s always how I think it in my head. Is it really so hard to….

Every now and then, I have to stop and think to myself, Is it really so hard to put hair ties back in their drawer in the bathroom or to put shoes in their proper bin? Hmm.

Ode to Superman and Santa Claus

The world lost a great man on August 27, eleven days after he turned 60.

The world probably doesn’t know it, but I do. My family does. And he even left a void at work—he worked in such a way that it seems that anyone who had any contact with him respected and liked him.

He was Superman—complete with tattoo, earring, wardrobe, and ring. His desk was full of Superman memorabilia, eclipsed perhaps only by pictures of the family he loved so much. In his small way, by influencing the world around him always for good, he fought for “truth, justice, and the American way.”

I can take great comfort in the knowledge that I grew up fully aware of how super of a Daddy I had. I have no regrets of wasted time; I loved my dad to the fullest and he knew it, just as I know how completely he loved me.

He was taken from us so suddenly that I still find it difficult to comprehend that there won’t be a giant Santa Claus walking around Nashville this Christmas, his pockets stuffed with small toys he can hand out to those children who recognize him as the real deal and come up uninvited (but not unwelcome) to tell him what they want for Christmas.

Impossible to believe he’ll never see Kara smile, or crawl, or walk, or go to school or get married or have children of her own.

Inconceivable to think he won’t be there to greet me with a hug and kiss the next time we visit Nashville.

But as I sit here drinking my coffee—a morning ritual that has always reminded me of Dad, who was an avid coffee drinker himself—I can take some small comfort in the fact that I myself am a living legacy of him. From the trivial things (such as drinking coffee and having a Zelda tattoo and watching bad superhero movies), to the foundational (such as faith and family values), I am my father’s daughter. I am where I am, happily married to a selfless man who is now in turn a wonderful father, because of the example he lived to show me how a husband should treat his wife.

So This Is “Liberation”

PREFACE: This is in no way an attack against my awesome, amazing, supportive husband who bears my hostile episodes with patience, forbearance, and gifts of chocolate. So take this as a rant against the world at large.

People talk about birth control as being a wonderful step in women’s liberation. In one sense, I get it. Yay, we can finally be as in control of our reproductive system as can a man who can slap a rubber glove over his reproductive organ. But why would any man want to do something as inconvenient as using a condom, which interferes with his pleasure, when the woman can just take a pill every day? So it’s generally assumed that because a woman can take birth control, she should have full responsibility of preventing conception.

Never mind that said pill can affect quite literally anything in a negative way, from eyesight to emotional stability to weight gain. Never mind that, in order for the male half of the equation to gain complete satisfaction however many times a week he has the opportunity, the female half has to take a pill every day that makes her miserable all day every day. And even if she happens to find a method that works without making her miserable, she still has to go through a 3-6 month adjustment period during which… she’ll be miserable.

So now, instead of being enslaved to the man’s decision on whether or not he wants to use contraception, we’re enslaved to the Pill and its myriad unpleasant effects.

Well, I feel empowered. How about you?