I can’t stand it.

I think it may be the most damaging concept to marriages and relationships. Also, it takes away the romance of what a true relationship is.

Let me explain.

The idea of a soulmate is the idea that there’s one person out there with the other half of your soul, and when you find that person, the two of you are complete. Ignoring for a moment the absurdity of the sheer numbers game you’d have to play on a planet of 7 billion people, this implies that, once you find that one special person and your soul is whole again, there could be no conflict in the relationship, that the “spark” will never fade, that huge misunderstandings could never crop up. Because you’re with the person you’re destined to be with. I mean, if it’s destiny, then you can’t help but stay in love. And if you fall out of love, then maybe it’s because the new person is your soulmate.

And where’s the romance in that?

Romance is choosing, not just once but every day, to put another person’s wants and needs ahead of your own.

It’s coming home from a long day of work and still choosing to cook supper for your spouse, or to do the dishes, or to watch the baby, just because you want to lighten the other person’s load.

Romance is choosing to love the same person day in and day out—in choosing that person again each and every time another temptation may present itself.

And every time you choose to love your partner, you make that person “the one” rather than finding him or her ready-made for you. I tell you, I much prefer the idea that Steve loves me because he chooses to, not because he has to or else his soul will be torn in two. Not only did he choose to love me when we started dating seriously, or on our wedding day, but he chooses to love me when I have supper ready for him when he gets home and when I yell at him for leaving the wet towel on the bed; when I dress up nicely just for him and when I’m sick and disgusting; when I’m fit and lean and when I’m 9 months pregnant.

And isn’t that an exciting, romantic thought?

And this was the last meaningful event we’ll share, all together, like this. That beautiful smiling face on the left of this picture? She won’t be there anymore. Not because something tragic jerked her away from us, but because of a personal decision.

She won’t be at Kara’s first birthday party or to show her how to make crafts with pretty much anything you could point to. I won’t be able to call her and brag about all the wonderful things her niece is doing or to ask for guidance when Kara reaches her terrible 2s. She’s no longer my sister.

I don’t mean to make her into a monster. I love her, love her deeply. She fit into all our lives as neatly as a puzzle piece that was made, not just for Jason, but for all of us. She’s been a wonderful, thoughtful sister, a pen pal, a pregnancy cheerleader, a loving aunt. She’s taken care of Jason through the first terrifying bouts of the affects of his diabetes. She helped us all through Dad’s funeral and did an amazing job in setting up Mom’s house after. She’s my sister, and I love her—except she’s not my sister anymore. And if she’s not my sister, what place does she have in my life anymore?

And I’m just realizing, now, what it means to be from a broken family. You see, I was blessed not to have that growing up. And now, through no action of my own, I’m losing a close and beloved family member—not to sickness or disease, but through a conscious decision for her to leave us.

And it hurts.

It just hit me yesterday how much it hurts, probably because I’ve been focusing on my brother and his beautiful baby. But it affects me too. Strongly. Because of her decisions, I have to make the tough decision that she can’t be a significant part of my daughter’s life. I have to wonder and worry what kind of effect this will have on my relationship with my niece and on Kara’s relationship with her cousin. It doesn’t just affect Jason and Beth, or even Jason and Beth and their daughter. It affects us all. Deeply. Badly.

And I hate it.

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?

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?

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.

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 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…

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.

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.

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.