I haven't been writing as ardently as I used to.

Usually when I'm in a relationship I write way less than when I'm single. This is because I have someone to talk to about all the issues I generally write about. So the onus to write goes away, because the pressure is relieved.

But this relationship has been different on every level. Not only do I have someone to talk about, but I'm inspired to write more and I love it.

But for the last few days I've barely written anything I could post on my blog. There are several reasons for this.

First, because one of my friends started a blog for young adults and asked me to write a few articles for it. I'm one of a group of writers posting there. He asked me to write about coming home from Africa, and I did... except it's turning out to be a lot longer than I intended, and so much of my writing energy is going there.

Secondly, I've been fantastically busy with other projects, like writing my own Evolution/ Creation curriculum and trying to function without a home classroom while mine is flooded from the recent storms.

Third, and maybe most importantly, is the fact that my K.i.S.A. reads this blog. Not that it makes me nervous for him to read my writing, but since we're in a relationship, much of my writing is naturally going to be about him. And since this blog consists mostly of the questions I'm facing in life, I feel guilty writing about the questions I have in relation to him, lest he think I would let the whole world know my thoughts without talking to him first. And once I do talk to him, we resolve issues so quickly that there's nothing left to write about.

So I've been editing myself, keeping from writing the things I'm thinking about because I want to respect him by making sure I communicate properly rather than complain to other people, which is what I have tended to do in the past. But what this means for my blog is that you get the surface issues. The non-relationship issues.

Which you might like. You might prefer reading my "intellectual" thoughts and questions, rather than long treatises on feelings.

But perhaps the saddest reason for my lack of writing is that I tend to go through times of depression, and I struggle with insecurity and low self-esteem.

I don't believe my opinion is valuable.

I don't believe that I have the right to question.

I don't think that I should burden anyone-- not friends, not boyfriends, not total strangers-- with my questions, my value issues, my fears.

But that darkness in my soul grows, expands, takes over. I weep into my hands in the shower. I stare at my Bible, sitting on the table unopened. I cry out to God for relief, and it comes.

It comes eventually.

It comes, and I soldier on.

Women in Heaven

Today as the students were in their morning assembly, the Higher Math teacher handed me a book, more to show me than to lend me. It has a plain blue cover with the title "Female Piety" and is subtitled with the words "A Young Woman's Friend and Guide". It's written by a man named John Angell James and was first published in 1860.

As I took the book from her hands, more to laugh at it than to read it, I was sure I knew what was written therein. More instruction from men for women to be submissive, loving, demure, gentle and desire nothing more than to please their husbands. I, living in a post-feminist age, was sure to be offended by this literature.

However, as I opened the pages and turned to the chapter entitled "Life Away From Home" I realized that this book had more to offer me than trite platitudes about "The Quiet Spirit of a Godly Woman", which I often feel too much at odds with. The book is unassuming and honest, though old-fashioned. None of it is wrong, though, and it's not written in a way that makes me feel preached at or scolded.

I flipped through the chapters and found myself in one called "Woman's Mission" which, of course, tells me how my entire lot and purpose in life is to be a companion to Man.

One sentence set me thinking, though.

See, I've been taking a Sunday School class at my new church which focuses on the role of women in the local church. And a major tenet of the class so far has been zooming in on the meaning of the phrase "helper" in reference to women.

According to the Bible, Woman was created to be a Helper to Man. We've discussed this in depth and have generally come to the conclusion that Woman is on Earth and is made in God's image in order to be a Companion. A Support. An Assistant.

But as I glanced through "Female Piety", I came a sentence that caught my eye. It says, "If woman's mission in Paradise was to be man's companion and joy, such must be the case still."

I realized that there's a question I've never considered before, and one I've never even heard mentioned in the church at large. The question is this: what will be the role of women in Heaven?

It seemed so easy before-- in Heaven we will be eternally worshipping God.

But here's the thing: IF the following things are true:
1) Women are created in the image of God and for His glory,
2) Woman is created to be companion to Man
3) A woman's life is most glorifying to God when she fulfills her Creation Design of being Helper to man,

... then wouldn't the most God-glorifying activity a woman could perform in Heaven be Helping men?

All sorts of questions arise from this. How can women be Helpers in Heaven? Will women be cooking and serving the Marriage Supper of the Lamb? After said Feast, will women be washing Heavenly dishes? When we have our new glorified bodies, will women be cleaning up?

It sounds silly, but if a Woman's function is to Help Man, and that's the function for which she was created, the function which glorifies God, then shouldn't her function in Heaven be just that?

And is it Men in general that Women are to Help? Because the Bible tells us that in Heaven there is no marriages so it obviously follows that a woman in Heaven won't be a Help-Mate to her specific husband.

So, there it is. What will be the duty and function of women in Heaven?

What Women... Like?

The whole thing started because of camping.

No, really.

See, my K.i.S.A. loves camping. And hiking. And generally being out in nature. And don't get me wrong, I love it too. A good camping trip in the desert is often exactly what I need after a long stretch of city noise and work issues. I enjoy a decent hike, and I love trees, rivers... all that natural stuff.

But when my K.i.S.A. and I talk about camping, I realized we are often talking about very different things. I like running water and bathrooms and mini cooking stoves attached to bottles of propane. He likes "roughing it" with the bare necessities, not washing for days on end, and sleeping in the dirt. Or something.

We had a discussion the other day about camping, and I explained to him that camping is a very different experience for men and women on a foundational level.

Because when men go camping, they feel like they're getting "back" to the way things should be. Rough. Wild. Dirty. Uncivilized.

When women go camping, they are getting away from civilization to remind themselves why they like it so much. Women like being clean, organized, and eating hot food occasionally (not made mostly of Spam, if possible). If I go one full day without a shower, I am grossing myself out by the end of the day and the first thing I do in the morning is wash and groom.

Frankly, women put a lot of effort into their appearance. And we take a lot of maintenance. Even we "low-maintenance" girls put some serious time into making ourselves presentable every day.

So when a woman goes camping out in "nature", she's giving all that up for a time. Things she feels need to happen, things that are "natural" to her, she's sacrificing for the sake, usually, of some man who needs to get back in touch with his wild side.

But after a couple of days of this, a woman tires of sand in her sleeping bag and sore feet and hard ground and that lovely pheromonal aroma of body odor. She wants to be clean. She wants a hot meal and a warm bed.

All of this is true, without even mentioning the physiological issues incumbent in camping. Using the bathroom, for instance... a very different set of problems for women, who can't just go pee on the nearest tree. Not without sacrificing their dignity, anyway.
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So we had this conversation and then moved on to talking about other things...

But later that night as we wound down the day, the question came up, "What do women like?" I found the first thing out of my mouth was "Wild men."

And then the conversation moved on to how men like women who are pure, coy, mousy, and sexually inexperienced, all for the sake of protecting their own reproductive chances in society.

When I said "wild men," I did not mean men who have been behaving wildly, who have been promiscuous, or who are more sexually experienced than the women they pursue.

I meant men who enjoy being in the wild. Men who are tough, who can take care of themselves (and of their women too). Men who could go kill and prepare a deer for dinner if necessary. Men who are capable. Scruffy. Scoundrels.

The conversation moved on again, but later I realized that there's an important caveat which I neglected to mention. It's this: women like men who can be that wild-natured Grizzly Adams, but who are not always that way.

Women like men who groom themselves. Who put some effort into looking presentable. Men who, for lack of a better phrase, act civilized. Men who pretend to be urbane and sophisticated.

We understand your need to escape back into the wild occasionally. We realize that sometimes you feel the need to kill something (which is why professional sports are so great for society, but that's another whole post). But we also like you to be kind. Tender. Gentle. Clean.

I know that you are really "Wild at Heart". But please understand also, that I'm not.

Resolved...

A few years back, I almost went to a conference. It was called "Resolved" and was hosted by John MacArthur's church. My mom wanted to send me, but it didn't work out and I didn't go.

The whole thing was based on Jonathan Edwards' "Resolutions" that he wrote when he was a young adult. The point was to make a series of commitments, 70 in total, that would keep his mind on his duty before God. This is how they begin:

Being sensible that I am unable to do anything without God's help, I do humbly entreat him by his grace to enable me to keep these Resolutions, so far as they are agreeable to his will, for Christ's sake.

1. Resolved, that I will do whatsoever I think to be most to God's glory, and my own good, profit and pleasure, in the whole of my duration, without any consideration of the time, whether now, or never so many myriad's of ages hence. Resolved to do whatever I think to be my duty and most for the good and advantage of mankind in general. Resolved to do this, whatever difficulties I meet with, how many and how great soever.

2. Resolved, to be continually endeavoring to find out some new invention and contrivance to promote the aforementioned things.

3. Resolved, if ever I shall fall and grow dull, so as to neglect to keep any part of these Resolutions, to repent of all I can remember, when I come to myself again.

4. Resolved, never to do any manner of thing, whether in soul or body, less or more, but what tends to the glory of God; nor be, nor suffer it, if I can avoid it.

5. Resolved, never to lose one moment of time; but improve it the most profitable way I possibly can.

The List goes on

14. Resolved, never to do anything out of revenge.

23. Resolved, frequently to take some deliberate action, which seems most unlikely to be done, for the glory of God, and trace it back to the original intention, designs and ends of it; and if I find it not to be for God's glory, to repute it as a breach of the 4th Resolution.

26. Resolved, to cast away such things, as I find do abate my assurance.

34. Resolved, in narration's never to speak anything but the pure and simple verity.

37. Resolved, to inquire every night, as I am going to bed, wherein I have been negligent, what sin I have committed, and wherein I have denied myself: also at the end of every week, month and year.

50. Resolved, I will act so as I think I shall judge would have been best, and most prudent, when I come into the future world.

58. Resolved, not only to refrain from an air of dislike, fretfulness, and anger in conversation, but to exhibit an air of love, cheerfulness and benignity.

69. Resolved, always to do that, which I shall wish I had done when I see others do it.

70. Let there be something of benevolence, in all that I speak.

Edwards was tougher on himself in 1723 than we are today when we resolve to exercise more, lose weight, or eat healthier (the top 3 resolutions every year). He set up a system for his actions and a way to keep himself accountable.

I can't imagine how often I would fail if I tried to make such a list for myself and keep it. My New Year's Resolutions are rather simple:

1. Learn to drive a stick shift.

2. Organize one girls' night every month.

3. Become conversationally fluent in Spanish.

I can actually accomplish these things this year, and I am dedicated to doing it. I also am resolving, less formally, to read my Bible regularly, lose a few pounds, and be more positive in what I say.

But when we make these resolutions, I often feel like it's a bit of a joke. "Ha ha, what promises to myself am I not going to keep this year?" And I feel sad, because we almost expect to fail.

Edwards, I think, also expected to fail. This is why he set up his system of accountability within the resolutions.

But that's the nature of the beast, really. We don't keep our promises. We do fail, every step of the way. We fail each other, we fail ourselves, and we fail God. But God never fails us, never gives up on His resolution to love us unconditionally, never has to chide Himself for forgetting.

"If we are faithless, he remains faithful--for he cannot deny himself." 2 Tim 2:13

I went to bed too early.

As I'm typing this, the clock on my laptop is telling me that it's 3:56 a.m. I was tired and sore last night, so I went to bed somewhere around 7 p.m. I read for a while, and then fell asleep, as usual.

Only to awaken to the sound of total silence and look at my cell phone: 3:15.

I lay in the warmth of my bed, tossing a bit, turning, favoring my aching right leg, and gazing forlornly at the empty pillow beside me.

In a move which I have never regretted, a few months ago I decided I was going to invest in a full size bed. I wasn't ready for a queen yet, I knew, but full was a good step in that direction.

See, I had always slept in a twin bed. But then, in one of the three homes I had in Kenya, I ended up in a room with a queen. It was great. I loved it. And from then on, I knew I was ready for a bigger bed when I got home.

It was actually for a rather strange reason that I decided to go for a larger size. I mean, it's not like the left side of my bed is ever used. In fact, I have to rotate pillows regularly so that they get equal wear.

But I came to the conclusion a while back that as long as I slept in a twin bed, I was almost admitting to myself that I would always be alone. I wasn't even allowing for the possibility of someone sharing that space.

When I came back from Kenya, I felt like a grown-up. And I felt like I had to prove it to myself. So, I scoped out Freecycle until a full bed came up and I snagged it. It sat in my dad's garage until I moved into my current apartment, where I set it up and loved it. I wouldn't always be alone. Now, my abstinence was about choice, not necessity. And somehow, that meant more to me.

But now, as I gaze over at the empty pillow, as I imagine a warm body in that space and a ring on my finger, I long for that companionship.

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I'm learning as I get older (psh, really! I'm barely pushing 25!) that women tend to be more detail-oriented than men. This is why women will find a single clue, a shred of paper, a phone number jotted on a napkin, and will draw all sorts of conclusions. They'll overreact, call their friends, cry over the phone, and confront their husband as soon as he walks in the door.

But it's also why women plan the weddings, book the hotels, pay the bills, and organize the meals. Women are generally detail people.

So as I lie here trying desperately to get back to sleep, I find myself making detailed plans.

It started with a conversation had earlier today, about wanting to camp at Yosemite. My K.i.S.A. said, "I would love to go to Yosemite with my wife." I recoiled at the idea, thinking about a week without a shower, and smelly bodies and greasy hair and eating spam out of a can. It doesn't sound appealing to me.

But as I lay here in the early morning, a clear thought came into my head:

A Lodge.

Now, that's not so bad. Or, better yet...

A Cabin.

Ooh, that's starting to sound nice indeed.

Now, wait a minute, my brain said. My dad's boss has a cabin in the Lagunas. I bet we could borrow that. For how long? A week? That would be perfect!

And before I knew it, I was imagining myself driving up to this cabin in the mountains-- a cabin I've never seen-- and preparing it for my honeymoon. Turning down the sheets. Rose petals on the floor (Why is it always roses, I wonder as I sprinkle them across the headboard). Stocking the refrigerator with cheese, wine, crackers, strawberries, chocolate, and a few frozen meals to be put in the oven for an hour, 325º F. Candles here and there. Open the windows to air out the space. Check the chimney for clogs. Shake out the area rugs.

I'm making a grocery list in my head.

No, I'm not planning a wedding.

No, I'm not even engaged.

I'm being silly, I realize. There's no reason for me to be thinking about this right now, but the thoughts won't go away. The more I try to fight it, the more pervasively it fills my head, forcing me to nail down details. Details.

Never mind that the big picture isn't even in progress yet. I have every detail planned to perfection, and it's 3 in the morning. I've learned my lesson.

I'm never going to bed this early again.

This is what I hope to tell my children about love and dating:

When you're putting a puzzle together, each piece is made to fit into a specific location. To be partnered with another piece. Together, they make part of a whole picture.

You place pieces where they belong, and you pick them up and look for the place where they fit.

You hold one in your hand and try to find its match.

You can, right away, tell where this piece does not belong. If it has green foliage on it, it's not going to belong in the section where there's only blue sky. Or a brick wall. It's going to belong with the other foliage.

Sometimes it looks like it belongs somewhere, so you place the piece down, but when you see them side-by-side, you immediately realize that they are not cut out for each other.

Sometimes, a piece almost fits with another. You lay it down and it seems to slide into place well enough. But the more you look, the more you notice nuances that indicate what you already know to be true-- this is not the right match.

So you have to take the pieces apart. If they're matched closely enough to almost fit, you have to forcefully pull them apart. You might even damage one or both of the pieces in the process of pulling them apart.

But when it happens that you find the true match of the piece in your hand, it's blatantly obvious. "Of course," you think. "That's exactly where it goes. Why didn't I see it before?"

That perfect match piece was sitting there the whole time, quietly waiting for you to discover that you held its partner in your hand. The pieces fit together with such poetic perfection that it seems as if they've always been together.

And the picture as a whole is that much closer to being finished.

They Lived.

The film "Ever After" ends with the following line: "And while it's true that Cinderella and her prince did live happily ever after, the point, gentlemen, is that they lived."

Fairy tales don't chronicle real people. They may be based on some vestige of truth, but the stories are fake. Movies try a little harder sometimes to make love believable. They try to create characters that we recognize... people we can identify with. And then they use a series of lifelike situations to bring these people together and make them fall in love, fight it, get into a quarrel, and then realize that they can't live without each other.

Real life rarely happens that way.

But when it does, it's difficult to comprehend.

When love grabs you by the hair and drags you along for a ride, you don't always understand why.

When it hits you like a shotgun to the face (as my friend Jamin so eloquently puts it), you are left reeling.

A few months ago, I knew that I was falling in love. At the time, it felt odd and I attributed it to infatuation. A few weeks ago, I realized that I was, indeed, in love. Not just infatuated. Not just freshly enamored. Actually in love as never before.

But I didn't say anything, didn't do anything about it.

Until last Friday night. It was Christmas, and my K.i.S.A. was telling me how wonderful I was. At this point, I had been waiting to tell him that I loved him. Waiting for him to say it first, or for some sort of sign from heaven. But he kept saying these things about me, as if I were some sort of saint. I felt bad. I felt unjustified. So I had to clear the air. "I don't do these things for just anyone," I said, after several false starts. "I do them because I'm in love with you."

I think it scared him and he didn't really know what to say. I knew at the time that he wasn't ready to tell me that he loved me, nor did I expect him to. I just wanted him to know.

We said goodbye that night and didn't mention it again. I wasn't hurt, you should know. I knew that I had said what was on my heart and I was happy with my choice. I wasn't trying to manipulate him or push him into saying something he wasn't ready to say. I was just speaking the truth.

Tonight, I knew that he loved me. I knew it before he said it. Before the words escaped his lips, I knew. As we said goodbye, his face took on a pallor which worried me. I made him sit down. He looked sick, and confused, and scared, and dizzy. He said he'd never felt this way before.

I looked into his eyes and knew.

And then the words passed his lips, breaking on their way out. "I love you."

For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. Indeed, I had dreamed of that moment so many times that I couldn't believe it when it really happened. In fact the first word out of my mouth was "Really?" because I couldn't fathom it being true.

And then I started to cry.

Why did I start to cry? Why did tears and laughter mix in my throat and create a clinging, gasping breath? Why did I feel like the world was ending in that one moment?

With those three words, I felt free. Free to love and be loved.

These moments need to be chronicled for 2 main reasons: First, that someday I will have a son or daughter who asks me what it felt like to be freshly in love. I will have something to point them to... the remnants of a time when I felt what they feel then.

And second, because the day will come when I myself will forget how it was. The day will come when I will be angry, or tired, or frustrated, and I will wonder how I ever fell in love.

And then this will be here, to remind me. This will exist to tell me not to give up. To jog my memory and reawaken that first love.

So then these words, written early in the morning immediately after the event, are the most potent. These words are the truth, as raw as it comes.

We live.