Reponse to My Husband is NOT My Soul Mate and then some dating/college advice...

I suggest you read the linked blog post before reading mine...it will make more sense.
http://theartinlife.wordpress.com/2013/07/22/my-husband-is-not-my-soul-mate/

This is exactly how I feel. 11 days before my own 1st wedding anniversary, I know that God did NOT orchestrate events so that my husband and I would get married. He loves us as individuals and blessed our union, but becoming husband and wife was our choice, not a cosmically divined event. Like the author of this article, I like it better that way because I know that the way I choose to live with and love my husband is my responsibility. If and when there are arguments and fights and stress and bitterness and hurt and healing, all of those things are our responsibility and we cannot blame God for whatever hardships we face.

"The One" is a myth that, at worst, leads to disappointment; rationalization of pre-marital entanglement of the emotional and physical kind; disillusioned, desparate, depressed Christian singles who don't understand why God has not given them a spouse yet; and poorly matched couples who stay together and get married because "God told them to," leading to a more-difficult-than-average marriage and the high Christian divorce rate (just perhaps! I have no research to support my guess). At best, a person who waits for "the one" does gets married eventually and happily and doesn't regret anything about their life, or they stay happily single, serving God and others. It seems to me, though, that most people imagine raising their own family...and kissing dating good-bye when you're 18 isn't ideal for finding a spouse and having children at the time of optimal fertility.

One thing that really got to me as I was thinking about and mulling over whether or not I want to raise my own children to "kiss dating good-bye," was a challenge to do the math. For example, let's say a couple (assume they were born in the same year) has a child when they are 34. When the child graduates high school at 18, his parents will be 52. Add four years (at least) for college graduation. Now, as that young man is graduating from college, his parents are 56. Now, the parents believe that before their kids can get married, they must have a strong career. They threaten to withdraw emotional support if their son marries his girlfriend, whom he has been dating for three years and they've been talking about getting married since their junior year in college. Being Christians, they know that they cannot have a sexual relationship until they get married, and they are in love and want to be married, but their parents (her parents also refuse to support a wedding before she has a career) won't allow it...even though they're grown adults. They sin sexually and endure shame and the girlfriend begins to be depressed and now the young man doesn't know what to do. When they finally receive the go-ahead to get married, they are 30 years old and carry so much emotional baggage that it takes a few years of counseling for them to forgive themselves, each other, and their parents. Refreshed and ready to go, they start trying to have a family, but discover that the wife has enormous difficulty conceiving. They weren't told that 90% of a woman's egg supply is gone by the time she reaches the age of 30, not to mention the fact that she was on birth control for the past 9 years before they got married. When they finally, joyously, have their first child, they are 36 and the husband's parents are 70 years old.

70 years old! Now imagine that the very first couple had married and started having kids when they finished college at the age of 22. Their first child would have graduated high school when his parents were 40. And if that first child had been bold enough to marry because he knew he loved his girlfriend and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her and she felt the same way, they may not have had so much difficulty having their first child at the age of 24. The new grandparents are not 70 years old, but 46 years old! (Add 4 years for college and 2 years of newlywed/getting settled.) Imagine the difference the grandparents will be able to make in their kids' and grandkids' lives. They have 24 more years to play and romp and impart wisdom than the new grandparents who are 70 years old.

I was blessed with grandparents and even great-grandparents because (not entirely on purpose), the math of my family ended up more like the second example than the first one. Please don't misquote me - children are blessing no matter how old their parents are. Period, hands down, no discussion required. And marriage is a beautiful thing no matter how old the bride and groom are.

But why WAIT? If a couple are in love and want to be married and are of maturity (rather than of age...some 40-year-olds aren't mature enough to get married, and some 18-year-olds are)...why put it off? And more importantly, why put yourself in danger of sinning against the God of heaven? I know some people will say, "You shouldn't just get married so you can have sex! It should be deeper than that!" No offense, but if you think that your relationship can be deeper than sex, you haven't had it before. (And if you aren't married - that's GOOD!) No one in their right minds gets married "just to have sex." It takes a LOT of work to put together the kind of wedding that most brides want, and ain't no one gonna go through that who isn't expecting to be married for their whole life. Therefore, any couple who wants to get married is considering things besides their sexual relationship. Especially Christian couples, to whom I am speaking. What I am saying is that if a couple is attracted to each other and loves each other and wants to have a family together, they will want to have sex with each other. WHY (if you are of maturity) place yourself and your boy/girlfriend in the compromising situation of wanting and dreaming and LONGING to be married for 3, 4, 5 years before you actually tie the knot? I understand apprehension about juggling marriage and school, I've had to deal, and I still am dealing, with it myself. But studies show that married college students do better than their single counterparts. I've seen it be true in my own life - my gpa was higher the last two semesters since I got married. In this way, it's similiar to a common prejudice against student athletes, who are the students with the busiest schedules and, often, some of the highest grades. And even after college is often considered "too young" to get married. Maybe people don't realize just how cheaply you can live and just how much money you can earn when you're willing to do whatever it takes to support a family.

I realize that I digress...quite a bit. This is just something I feel strongly about because of my life experience. Others will feel strongly about disagreeing with me and that's okay with me. I really don't need everyone to think I'm right. I'm sure my perspective is very skewed, especially on an emotional topic like this. I don't mean to criticize people whose lives have played out differently than mine.

I just want to tell the people who picture their lives as a cartoon, imagining their protagonist partner dropping in on them like Aladdin and Jasmine or something silly like that. If you don't want to be single, make it apparent on the outside, how you look. Girls, put on makeup and take time to choose a cute and modest wardrobe (vs t-shirt and athletic shorts every day). Guys, shower and put on deoderant. Comb your hair. Don't just be attractive (adjective - describes you), be ATTRACTIBLE (adverb - describes what you do). Make friends - as many friends as your personality can handle - and be yourself with them. Relax and be honest about who you are because you are special and no one else can offer exactly what you have to offer. Don't pretend to be someone you're not to attract someone you like - remember, you're dating to get married, and you don't want to be someone else forever - you want to be YOU! I never thought I'd marry someone who likes to play video games like I do. It is a geeky thing I never grew out of - I enjoy playing MarioKart or turning on my Game Boy Color or plugging in the N64 for some Zelda every once in a while. I was embarrassed about that when I first starting meeting people at college, but I discovered that when I was honest and open, people tended to like me more! And the best part was, I liked myself more. When I was honest about not liking scary movies and admitted that I like to cuddle with stuffed animals, I became more confident in myself. My friends happened to accept me even with this silly quirks...if others don't, I don't care! There are others and you DON'T have to be friends with everyone. It is okay to have acquaintences with whom you share a few memories, but didn't gel well with you, so you moved on. A perfect example is a girl I knew and saw often my freshman year of college. And though we had two classes together and saw each other everyday, we didn't become close friends because our personalities are polar opposites. She made other friends, and when the year ended we went our separate ways.

Let go of the perfection delusion. There is no reason to stress yourself out trying to be exactly the way you think everyone else wants/expects you to be. Relax a little and be yourself. If you find your self-worth in what you do and accomplish or who your friends are, you will be disappointed. Christians seek their self-worth in Jesus because His love is perfect and never ever changes or lets you down. If you aren't a Christian, you can still make good life choices and be a confident person with attractability.

And remember, God loves you and He wants the best for you. But he also gave you a brain, a discerning spirit, and wise counsel so you can make your own choices, and so that they can be good choices. Consider carefully when you look for a spouse, but be careful of extreme scrutiny. Give second chances, but don't be emotionally insecure enough to allow someone to walk on you. And finally, take everything you hear with a grain of salt, including what I just wrote.

God bless you all!

Embryonic Stem Cell Research and Designer Babies: Where Do We Draw the Line?

            Have you ever wished you looked different? Maybe you want a different eye color or your teeth are really crooked. Maybe when you were a kid you were teased about your freckles or when you fell off the tire swing your broken leg didn’t heal quite right. Perhaps you were born with a “disability” or “deformity” and always feel awkward about meeting new people. Maybe, like me, you learned to talk around a stammering older brother and though he grew out of it, you never have. Maybe there’s a quirk about you that you wish you could change. And maybe, just maybe, you’ve thought about your own children and wondered if they’ll have to deal with the same kind of stuff.

            Advances in genetic research have begun to open doors for couples who want to screen the embryos (fertilized eggs) they produce. Pre-implantation genetic diagnosis (or PGD), a technique developed to look for genetic diseases in embryos, can also be used to determine the sex of the embryo. As science continues to advance, people are looking forward to a time when hopeful parents can select more than their child’s sex—they could select the physical traits of the child.

            This is not yet a possibility, and there are serious ethical implications of the availability of such a procedure. Some on the “for” side of this issue argue that human life does not begin until the implantation of the embryo in the uterus. Others on the same side argue for the “14-day mark,” which is related to the early development of the embryo. Because monozygotic twinning can occur until the 15^th day of the pregnancy, the embryo is not yet a human fetus.

This argument makes me pause. It makes sense to me. When I consider identical twins I know, it is clear to me that they are two different people. If their lives began at conception, wouldn’t they be two halves of one whole? Or which twin is the “copy” of the person before the splitting? No, identical twins are genetic clones, not halves of one whole. They are distinct people—each twin possesses all the faculties of any other human being.

The argument that centers on implantation for the beginning of life makes less sense to me because the embryo itself does not have new properties, just a new location. In the 14-day mark argument, the embryo matures until it can no longer split and form an entirely new human being because the cells are differentiated past that point.

To make the ethical hubbub a little clearer, I need to emphasize that this is not like ordering a Sonic burger. This is not selecting children from a menu of sex and physical traits. This is producing several embryos in a lab using the couples’ eggs and sperm and then sending out the ones that do not meet the criteria. For now, technology can only screen for genetic diseases and sex. The leftover embryos—which could survive if allowed to be born, but are the wrong sex or genetically damaged—are usually sent to labs for embryonic stem cell research. Once they arrive there, they are destroyed in the process of removing their stem cells.

In a new development, though, a recent press release from the Advanced Cell Technology Company claims that their researchers have found a way to harvest embryonic stem cells without destroying the embryo itself. Instead, they use what they call “single blast technology,” where they take one stem cell and use it to produce more stem cells. This is similar to the PGD procedure that I briefly mentioned earlier. In PGD, the DNA in that one cell is analyzed for genetic diseases, which is possible because geneticists know where to look on the chromosomes for the mutated gene.

            This new and less destructive possibility makes me stop and think again. If embryonic stem cell research is ethically objectionable because the embryos are destroyed in the process of harvesting the stem cells, then is it okay if the embryos would not be harmed? But still, what would happen to all the leftover embryos from in vitro clinics? Would scientists freeze them for later use? That would probably not be a viable option because there are already hundreds of thousands of embryos worldwide—where would we keep them all? Then again, they probably wouldn’t take up very much space, so maybe a bank of catalogued embryos would be a good human resource (literally). Then all we would need would be artificial wombs and the human race would be set. I mean, if aliens invade the planet, I know I would want a fallback, just in case.

            If the ethical concern of using human embryos for spare parts is avoided by the Advanced Cell Technology Company’s technology, then all that remains between me and a designer baby are twenty years of scientific advances and my own personal beliefs. Since I have no control over the pace of science, I can only consider my own reaction. The first question I ask is, “Is it ethical?” Well, if there is no destruction of the extra embryos then I would answer with I don’t believe it’s unethical. The next question I ask, though, is this: “Is it responsible?” Just because science can do something, does that mean it should? If this technology is advanced and can become available to the general public at an affordable price, should it be made available? Should scientists and doctors give the choice to those with the means of creating the child they dream of having?

It appeals to me, but no. I prefer to let God be in charge of the life-making while I focus on the homemaking. I am thankful for advances in medicine, but I do not feel that attempting to pick and choose the traits of my offspring is a responsible use of technology.

Besides, my husband is so good-looking, I’m bound to have beautiful babies.

From the Author:

Thank you for reading! For more information on PGD and the Advanced Cell Technology Company, check out the following links.

http://www.empowereddoctor.com/embryo-stem-cells-without-embryo-destruction-now-possible

http://www.cbsnews.com/2100-500164_162-611618.html

"Grief"

This the updated and improved story previously known as "Thirteen Ways." It has endured multiple revisions, peer reviews, and hours of tinkering. I hope it has improved. Enjoy!

Grief

By Ariel Custer

            Janice stirs brown sugar into her husband’s oatmeal. She reaches for the small, sealed, shaker of ground peanuts. She bought it for this purpose, remembering his fatal allergy, but cannot bring herself to mix it in. Phantom memories of their happiness in the earlier days halt her hand. She puts the container in her jacket pocket instead.

            Janice sits in the passenger seat as they drive silently to the hospital, he in his doctor’s coat and she in her nurse’s scrubs. She glances at his coffee. She pops the lid of the peanut container in her jacket pocket. It would be easy to drop a few pieces in at the stop sign up ahead. They stop. He looks right. He looks left. The timing couldn’t be more perfect. But she can’t. He is especially careful around cars now – always responsible and attentive. They go.

            They arrive at the hospital and walk through the parking lot toward the doors. They are silent, with three feet of space between them. Enough space for their baby girl. Janice’s blood pressure rises; she can feel her heart pound as she clenches her fists. She feels as though she could strangle him with her bare hands. She steals a glance at him and cannot help but notice the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes and mouth that were not there only four years ago. Those four agonizing years have aged him as much as fifteen years would age any other man. She relaxes her hands with concentrated effort.

            Janice has a bad morning. She checks on her assigned patients and has to correct three nurses-in-training. Some doctor almost kills a patient by prescribing a medication to which he’s allergic. She checks the doctor’s name, but it is not her husband. No, he is much too skilled to make that kind of mistake. Still, his skill wasn’t enough to save their precious Annabelle. She pockets some potassium chloride. She will put it in his leftover spaghetti when they eat lunch.

The ritual of the lunch break began the day they met, nearly 20 years ago. Even after the accident, they continued the ritual. But now they never talk, never make eye contact. They only eat their food in silence, barely acknowledging each other’s presence. Every moment his eyes are not on his food presents an opportunity for the sinister placement of the peanuts. But the accident wasn’t his fault, not really, and Janice can’t forget that fact, no matter how hard she tries. He walks away, unharmed.

            A car accident victim comes in with a broken collarbone and shattered humerus. Janice assists her husband all through emergency surgery. He asks for a scalpel. For a moment she holds it in her tightly closed fist, thinking about plunging it into his heart. She could make his heart bleed like her heart bleeds every day. But the way he said it, with an infinitely tired sigh, and the sheer exhaustion in his face makes her pause. The angry red haze is blinked away from her eyes and pushed from her mind. She hands the scalpel over.

            Another patient. She needs air, needs an escape. All this inner battling has left her breathless and shaky. She switches with another nurse. Before having a quick break, she checks on one of her husband’s patients. He happens to be in the room when she gets there. Janice wants to kick herself, but she decides to check the patient’s vitals anyway. The elderly woman with failing kidneys pats her on the arm – what a good doctor he is; she must love working with him. It is the first time she has seen his eyes all week. His eyes are duller than she remembers. He averts his gaze and quietly leaves the room.

            She must return the potassium chloride before anyone notices. She walks in the room just as the nurse taking inventory asks her if she’s seen it. Janice checks her pockets. Here it is; I thought I would need it. The younger nurse looks suspicious but says nothing. She is blonde with blue eyes; a beautiful girl with a beautiful smile. Like Annabelle. She reaches into her jacket pocket, feeling the peanut container. This time, she thinks. This time I will do it, no matter what he says or does. No matter what I remember.

            She stares at him from across the hallway. She sees the stooped shoulders, the dull gray eyes. She notices the wrinkles again, the white flecks in his hair. She winces at the evidence of the sorrow that has plagued him since that awful day when he backed over their toddler. She can still imagine the frantic crawl beneath the vehicle, his cries, the blood all over his shirt. All she sees is a grieving father, but all she can feel is a motherly ache.

It is five o’clock. Her shift is over. She waits in the lobby. He walks in, looks at her, and they walk out the doors. No words. She does not return his gaze. She cannot. She will follow through this time. No matter what she sees or remembers.

            The silence is heavy in the car as they drive home. Why is it so hard to kill her child’s killer? Why does she not dump the peanuts in his coffee? Why can’t she finally finish him? She mulls over the mystery in her mind, trying to make sense of her conflict of interests. On the one hand, Annabelle deserves justice. On the other, to take that justice would mean destroying the only link Janice still has with Annabelle – her father. The predicament weighs heavier and heavier on her mind and makes Janice feel nauseated.

            When they get home he reheats leftovers and even asks Janice if she wants some, but she isn’t hungry. She goes to her room and changes into her workout clothes. She spends some time in their basement gym. She runs two miles and benches 100 pounds. She can hear him upstairs, watching the news. For a minute she considers going up there, seething and raging, indulging every last animal reaction any mother would have toward the killer of her offspring. She could bash him in the head with a dumbbell. She could drop a bar on his neck. She could pour peanuts all over his head, just in case. His screams would be therapy. But that thought reminds her again of the wailing, mourning, weeping screams that burst from him when he realized Annabelle might be gone. She remembers the way he gripped the bloody body closer to his chest, willing breath into her, shouting for his little girl to come back. Janice remembers the way he yelled for her, telling her to call 911. But it was too late. She runs another mile.

            She finishes her workout and showers. He can hear her in the basement. He knows that she hates him. He hates himself. He wants to talk with her, but her icy stare locks his jaw every time he tries. He could go down there. He stands up from the couch, but his knees and resolve weaken, and he sinks back down. Again. If only he could bring himself to do it. For her sake and even Annabelle’s sake. He has it all set up in the spare bedroom. The rope, the rig, the chair – he would just have to jump. He sighs and closes his eyes, but cannot keep them closed for long. His daughter’s face greets him from the back of his eyelids. Not the bloody face, nor the peaceful face he remembers lying in the casket, but her smiling face; the one that greeted him every day when he came home from work. The images are accompanied by sounds – her ringing laughter, her squeals of delight when they played, her soft and steady breathing when she fell asleep watching sports with him. Those memories keep him going, keep him believing. They keep him from indulging the coward inside him that wants to use the rope. And every day he hopes that one day they give him the strength to reach out to his wife.

             They haven’t shared a room since the accident. When she left, she hoped he would follow her and tell her that they would get through it together. But he didn’t. She moved to the basement, and he stayed upstairs. Now, Janice sits on her bed, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. She could go up there. Ask that they talk. Scream and yell all of the things she thinks about him, and then cry in his shoulder all of the tears that claw her throat and fuel her agony. She stands up, but her knees and resolve weaken. Again. She stretches out on the bed, the tears leaking from her eyes, her head buried in her pillow. She remembers moments in their lives: their first date, his proposal, the wedding, Annabelle’s arrival and her four wonderful years of life with them. The years that were so unlike this living death. She doesn’t want it to be like this forever.

            Janice sits up suddenly, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. She doesn’t want it to be like this forever! She begins to pace across the room. What does she want, then? Divorce? Would that bring peace? She doesn’t really interact with her husband anyway. Their unusual arrangement allowed them privacy while they grieved their loss, but now it is just the way they live. She stops pacing when it occurs to her that neither she nor he separated their joint bank accounts. Is that proof of some subconscious desire to remain together? Even in the hellish throes of her grief and pain and utter misery, Janice never wanted to leave him. He is what connects her to Annabelle. No, divorce would only leave her deeper in the black muck of grief.

            Okay, so not divorce and not…whatever this is. Janice’s knees tremble when she realizes the only option left. She has to go up there. She has to talk with him. For Annabelle.

            He hears the stairs creak. He slowly rises from the couch and turns to face the figure rising up from the basement. When she finally steps from the last step to the ground floor, she raises her gaze from the carpet to his face.

            “Charles. I’m ready to talk.”

            

Thirteen Ways

Thirteen Ways

            Janice stirs brown sugar into her husband’s oatmeal. She reaches for the cinnamon sugar, remembering his fatal allergy, but cannot bring herself to sprinkle it on. She puts it in her pocket. One.

            Janice sits in the passenger seat as they drive silently to the hospital, he in his doctor’s clothes and she in her nurse’s uniform. She glances at his coffee. She fingers the cinnamon sugar in her jacket pocket. It would be easy to sprinkle it in at the next red light. They stop. They go. Two.

            They arrive at the hospital and walk through the parking lot toward the doors. They are silent, with three feet of space between. Enough space for a little girl. Janice’s blood pressure rises; she can feel her heart pound harder as she clenches her fists. Another man walks by them, headed to his car. She relaxes her hands, with concentrated effort. The hate simmers. The cold handgun she is packing underneath her blouse seems heavier and heavier. No, there is a witness. Three.

            Janice’s morning is uneventful and husbandless. She checks on her assigned patients. She makes small talk with the other nurses. She pockets some potassium chloride. At lunch she plans to put it in his leftover spaghetti. Lunch comes and goes. They do not say one word to one another. He walks away. Four.

            A car accident victim comes in with a broken collarbone and shattered pelvis. Janice assists him all through emergency surgery. He asks for a scalpel. For a moment she holds it in her tightly closed fist, planning to plunge it in his heart. Then she hands it over. Five.

            Another patient. She needs air, needs an escape. She switches with another nurse.  He is reassigned. Curse her bad luck! The elderly woman with failing kidneys pats her on the arm – what a good doctor he is; she must love working with him. It is the first time she has seen his eyes all week. If looks could kill. Six.

            She must return the potassium chloride before anyone notices. She walks in the room just as the nurse taking inventory asks her if she’s seen it. Janice checks her pockets. Here it is; I thought I would need it. The younger nurse looks suspicious but says nothing. She is blonde and blue-eyed, like Janice’s dead daughter. She reaches in her jacket pocket, feeling the cinnamon sugar container. I will do it. Seven.

            She stares at him from across the corridor. She cannot see the stooped shoulders, the dull gray eyes. She cannot see the wrinkles, the gray hair. She most certainly cannot see the sorrow that has plagued him since that awful day when he backed over her. She does not remember the frantic crawl beneath the vehicle, his cries, the blood all over his best shirt. All she sees is murder. He has never told her he is sorry. She cannot see that he says it every day. She can’t see the suicidal regret. If she could, she would count it. Eight.

            It is five o’clock. Her shift is over. She waits in the lobby. He walks in, looks at her, and they walk out the doors. No words. She does not return his gaze. She cannot. She will do it this time. She has the murder weapon in her pocket. The cinnamon. Nine.

            The silence is heavy, the tension thick. Why is it so hard to kill her child’s killer? Why does she not sprinkle it in his coffee? Why can’t she shoot him? She wants to. Ten.

            He reheats leftovers. Janice isn’t hungry. She goes to her room and changes into her running clothes. She goes to their gym in the basement and runs two miles. She benches 150 pounds. She can hear him upstairs, watching the news. It would be so easy to make it look like an accident. She could bash him in the head with a dumbbell. She could drop a bar on his neck. Then she would pour cinnamon all over his head, just in case. She runs another mile. Eleven.

            Janice finishes her workout and showers. He can hear her downstairs. He knows that she hates him. He hates himself. He wants to talk, but her icy stare locks his jaw every time. He could go down there. He stands up from the couch, but his knees and resolve weaken, and he sinks back down. Again. If only he could bring himself to do it. For her sake. He has it all planned. The rope, the rig, the chair – he would just have to jump. He sighs. Twelve.

             They haven’t shared a room since the accident. She moved downstairs, and he didn’t chase her. Janice knows that at first it was a cry for loyalty, but when he let her go, she figured he wanted it this way. She could go up there. Ask that they talk. Tell him that she hates him. Wait for him to apologize. Then she could finally have what she wants even more than she wants revenge – him. She falls asleep in her lonely bed. Tomorrow is another day. Thirteen.

Marriage Poem!

Ok, I am very excited about this poem. The form is a sestina. The poem has six stanzas: the first five stanzas have six lines and the last stanza has three lines. There are six seed words - one of these words (in my case, a form of the word or play on the word) ends each of the six lines; in the final stanza there are two seed words in each line. The seed words may seem to be randomly distributed, but there is a method to how they are arranged in each stanza. However, it is difficult to explain without being able to show you, and attempting to do so in this format would require more time than I have. My six seed words are perfect, time, sun, remember, if, and love. They take different forms like "son," "perfection," "loves," and "imperfections." In one way this poetry form can be quite difficult. But in another way, once you have a good seed word combination, the poem kinda writes itself. I had a great time writing and revising this poem and I have a product now that I thoroughly enjoy. I will probably keep tinkering, but for now this is the final draft. I hope you enjoy this poem entitled "Simple Instructions for a Perfect Marriage."

There is nothing to having a perfect

marriage. Live your life one day at a time.

Wash the dishes and the clothes. Greet the sun

with a smile. Do what you can. Remember

how you felt on your beautiful wedding day. And if

you can make the time – for you must – to make love

be sure to make the love

that lasts. No one expects perfection.

Be the best other half you can be. If

you run out of time,

you can never get it back. So remember

to say a kind word or none at all. The sun

rises each morning and the sun

sets every night. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Be loving.

Put the other first. Above all, remember

to pray together. No one can be perfect,

but maybe with His help you can get close. Time

flees like a bandit. Do not let it be stolen. If

you do these things, and if

you are these things, the Son

will help you through each day. Time

may fly, but enjoy it! Laugh at his silly joke! Love

each other’s quirks; his little imperfections

that only you know about. Remember

that your sweet husband remembers

that he loves you, even if

you are somewhat less than perfect.

Give him what he needs. Shine like the sun

only for him. Tell him you need, appreciate and love

him. He works so hard for your little family. Time

flies and he knows it – that is why when he gives his time

to play and snuggle and talk, remember

that he keeps trying, even when it’s hard to show you that he loves

you. And then – oh, what joy! – when you whisper into his ear: “If

two are so very happy, imagine the arrival of our son!

For soon we will be three, our own little family. Nothing could be more perfect.”

Love is the hardest thing to be. If

only we had more time to become more perfect

lovers. Reader! Remember what I said about the sun.

~Ariel Custer

Leap of Faith

This story is taken from a paper about my honeymoon...It is the most dramatic scene you've ever not quite witnessed on a water slide so...brace yourself for...THE LEAP OF FAITH!

The water slide that I remember most is called Leap of Faith. It is a glass tube that goes through a small tank. Oh, did I mention that the tank has sharks in it!? Anyway, it goes through that tank and shoots you out the other side into a shark-free landing place. I was so excited to do that slide – I was hopping from foot to foot all the way up the stairs as we waited in line. I had no idea the terror that awaited me. Finally, we were at the front of the line and I got up to the slide. Robbie had just gone. I sat in the launch pad and looked down, down, down, the tube. It was easily a 90° drop. My blood pressure spiked. For two awful seconds, I just sat there staring down the tube, suddenly regretting my decision to go down this slide. I looked behind me. There were little kids in the line. I knew I had to go or risk intense embarrassment. The Atlantis resort is big, but not big enough to hide from everyone who would see me walk down the stairs instead of riding the slide. I took a deep breath and pushed myself toward my doom.

I gained speed at an unholy rate – I am certain I was going faster than the average city speed limit. Water sprayed me in the face, and for a terrifying moment, I thought I felt my body actually come off of the slide. Then I hit the flat bottom part of the slide and in an instant every single sensation in my body was waterlogged. I tried to open my eyes to see the sharks. Big mistake! The water shot into my eyes and felt like a thousand needles stabbing me in the cornea. I was wearing contacts, and I’m still shocked as to how they stayed in my eyes. Then I shot out of the tube and into the landing pool. I was moving so fast I hit the bottom before I came up sputtering, my hair hanging in my face and my swimsuit completely awry. Robbie was waiting for me in the landing pool and helped me to the stairs. He asked me if I wanted to do it again. No way, I told him. Once is enough for me!

Creative Writing Work

Hello! I'm in a Creative Writing class this year. It's challenging - harder than I thought it would be. But I am enjoying it and I have written some pretty neat stuff. At least, I think it's neat. So. I'm going to be posting some of my assignments for you to read! This is partly inspired by my husband, whose blog is here: cuestrianconnection.wordpress.com. I recommend his Fiction link, where he is beginning a story called Knightly. I hope you enjoy it!

Alrighty! I will be posting my first Creative Writing Class post soon.

Make it a great day everyone!