Oct 3, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
I’m not terribly concerned with being “Politically Correct”. If something is wrong, it’s wrong.
People are entitled to their opinions, and there are more than one way to skin a cat (although, [a], why would you want to, and [b], whoever thought up that phrase?! I mean… seriously!!!!).
My way of making a bed or boiling an egg or handwriting a letter are different from yours. That doesn’t make it wrong. And I respect your ability to fold sheets and heat water. In fact, I may even learn a thing or two by paying attention.
I don’t force my lifestyle on anyone. But I also don’t let people tread on me, or get away with excuses. One of my top pet peeves (again with the animal reference! I see how this is going…!) is people who whine and don’t do anything. Another is people who say one thing and consistently do another.
I’m guilty of both actions. I know I am. But as a habit, I try not to be. As a habit, I try hard to set a good example for my family, be there for my friends, and keep my word. There are times when I’m flakey, irresponsible, negligent, and even rude and spiteful. I pray those times are few and far between.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately, but I found myself keeping quiet when it comes to my faith. Maybe I feel like I’m not a public speaker so I don’t have to scream it. Or I’m not a Pastor so I don’t have to preach it, and honestly, who would I preach it to? Maybe I’m afraid of being viewed as being a hypocrite. I’m afraid that if I share too much faith, the world won’t want me. And I do so want the world to want me, to treasure my words in any manner: poetry, blog, stories, screenwriting… heck, I’d be happy writing greeting cards the rest of my life as long as I could get paid enough to support my family and retire nicely, all due to my writing.
All of those are excuses. Reasons to run me into a silent wall, to feel inadequate. To stifle not only the creativity in me, but the Creator working through me. So here it is. At the risk of alienating people and losing “friends” and possibly ruining future options for worldly success…
I believe in God. I pray every day. I try to read my Bible, but I have never read the entire book and I am not good at memorizing most of it. I am a failure, but He is my success. I have made mistakes, I have done wrong, I have hurt people and been hurt through the consequences of my own actions. That doesn’t matter.
Because I also believe in Jesus Christ. I believe He once walked on earth in physical form. I believe He was born of Mary and Joseph. I believe He went into Heaven, and is preparing to unite Heaven and Earth when God’s time is right.
I believe His timing stinks by my clock but is spot on by His. I believe I am forgiven, and therefore am able to forgive others and must forgive myself, or else I pretend He is a liar and I am smarter. Neither of those options are true, or healthy.
I believe in this life I will continue to sin, continue to fail, continue to hurt and be hurt. I believe most of this will be unintentional because I believe in saying/doing/living in God’s love and showing that love to others.
I don’t believe in political correctness when it disagrees with the Goodness in the world. I believe Christ died to save everyone, but I believe not everyone will accept that, and that makes me sad.
I believe it’s my job, my calling, my purpose, to write about God. In anyway I can. To share Him and His grace and mercy and love and unconditional forgiveness and everlasting presence with anyone who will read my words and understand they come from Him through me, and not from me alone. I believe this can be done boldly and directly, but also subtly and indirectly.
I believe I won’t be fully happy if writing means not being faithful to Him. I believe that by being faithful to Him, He will open doors for my writing. I believe I need to not stifle glorifying Him, but I also believe that doesn’t mean I can’t write crime dramas because mine will have a redeeming quality. Not all endings are happy. Not all characters are main. Not all emotions are healthy.
But my God is.
And this is my Apology for keeping Him in a box this long.
It’s time to let Him out, let Him work, and let Him love in ways I can’t. It’s time to live the life I keep thinking about; and step out in faith instead of hiding back in fear. No more shadows of intimidation.
This is me. Loving, and being loved by, God.
He’s pretty awesome, isn’t He?
*** *** *** *** ***
“God is Offensive” [written March 4, 2009]
To those who don’t want to follow His lead, His commands,
and go their own way, in their own way.
To those who choose to not show love but be selfish and take it instead,
breaking hearts and hurting people in many different ways.
To those who don’t give to others but make others work for them
without any form of recognition or encouragement.
To those who live for today, without caring for their future
and give no thought to the future of their life, their family, their world.
To those who do as they please,
instead of doing what pleases Him.
God is offensive.
Except to me.
He is the wonderful fragrance of Eternal Life, and I drink Him in, endlessly.
He is the beauty in my picture, and I paint as He guides the brush.
He is the Word already spoken, unspoken. The Only Word that matters.
He is the everything that gives meaning to my nothingness.
And I love Him.
Sep 29, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Since October is nearly upon us with its crisp cool weather and fun holiday gatherings about to start, I thought I’d share my own cider recipe. It’s been a hit at family gatherings for years, and stores nicely in the fridge for up to a week … if it lasts that long!
I love the versatility of this great party drink. You can serve it hot or cold, by itself or mixed with a citrus soda or even light champagne. Even cider-haters like this beverage, right, Matt? ;)
INGREDIENTS:
1 orange, zested, sliced
1 gallon apple cider (non-sparkling)
6 cinnamon sticks, broken.
Zest the orange, set aside. Slice orange, cut slices into halves.
In slow cooker, combine cider, orange zest, cinnamon sticks, and orange slices.
Heat on low for two hours, stirring occasionally.
Serve according to taste.
Sep 24, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Those of you who really know me, know I’m all about literature and Victorian era stories like Little Women and times when houses were more than homes, they were entities of their own, with their own personalities and characteristics.
When I moved into my house, I christened it Bedford Manor for a variety of reasons, but mostly because Bedford Falls was the epitome of family life in Frank Capra’s “It’s a Wonderful Life”; that magical place where ordinary life is the best life there is.
My house was everything I prayed for: fenced, landscaped (sans grass), garage, indoor laundry room, quiet neighborhood, close to friends and family. It’s (almost) just like the house I grew up in; the floorplan is the same with two exceptions: 1. It’s reversed so my garage is on the right, my mom’s garage is on the left; and 2. I have a door from the garage directly into my dining/kitchen area.
I love that door. I can pull up into my garage, close it, and still have access to my house. It makes me feel safe in the dark. It keeps me dry in the rain. I love that door. I love the tiny six inch step down I have to take to get from house to car each day. I love stepping onto the concrete in my bare feet when I’m looking for something special in the overstock food cabinet. I just love that door.
I love my front yard. I haven’t enjoyed my backyard too much since it’s still full of ant hills and overgrown trees. The wind piles leafy debris on the porch. But soon I’ll have all that managed, and the back patio will be my screened-in retreat.
This summer belonged to the front yard. I potted herbs and ivy. Planned out a Spanish Patio area to enjoy a morning Bistro. Trimmed the trees. And trimmed the trees. And trimmed the trees.
Mulberries grow ridiculously fast. And they don’t really change color with the desert seasons like some other trees do. Some leaves turn yellow, but mostly they just dry up and in one good wind, drop. I have three big trees in my front yard. had. Had three big trees in my front yard.
Yesterday, my landscaper came and chopped the biggest one down. I thought I might be sad. Certainly at first I felt a twinge of guilt: I had prayed for trees and landscaping. And here it is, two years later to the date I found Bedford Manor, and I’m responsible for killing some of it’s beauty.
But even though the tree was big and full and powerful and beautiful… that wasn’t enough to keep it. Because it was also overgrown, high maintenance, and almost dangerous. I’ve trimmed it three times myself this summer, and it still continued to grow over the driveway. I likened it at times to driving through Disneyland’s Jungle Cruise with the long green branches beckoning my car into its cavelike vines. It blocked too much view, it cast too much shade and not enough sun.
Now with the tree gone, I can see the road better. The sun reaches my front alcove a little more, which gives me hope that my potted garden will fare just a little better. My living room certainly is much brighter. I’ll enjoy my alcove more and sweep it less.
I’m a creature of habit. Those who know me intimately, know I’m opposed to change. I don’t “go with the flow” (although I’m better at it now than I used to be). So to cut down the biggest tree on my property, it was a very serious mental undertaking.
And I couldn’t be happier.
It just goes to show, even the happiest, longest lasting roots can change and make way for something even better, healthier, more fulfilling. The tree is no longer there. But now I can wave good morning to my neighbors instead of hiding. The shade is no longer there. But now I can get some original Vitamin D more often than I used to. There are other trees for the birds to nest in, other shrubs to add greenery to my yard. And now, there’s an open canvas for me to plot and plant other growth.
Cutting down my biggest tree, I am finding, is giving way to some pretty big ideas. Ideas I wouldn’t have if I’d just kept things the way they were and resisted change.
So, you see? Change isn’t always bad. It isn’t always good, either. Change is just change. But it’s always there. It’s what you do with it that matters.
Sep 22, 2011
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
This is a great recipe that takes only three ingredients. How’s that for a budget! It’s perfect for autumn. Goes great by itself or served with a salad.
INGREDIENTS:
2 cans condensed Cream of Mushroom soup (undiluted)
6 boneless pork chops
1 large can (30 oz.) sauerkraut
In slow cooker, spread 1/2 can soup. Then layer 1/3 of saurkraut, two porkchops, 1/2 can of soup. Repeat layers three times. Add salt, pepper to taste.
Cook on low for 8 hours.
*You can add more layers if serving more than 4 – 6.
*You can drain and/or rinse the saurkraut, depending on how full or subtle your taste is.
Sep 16, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
My mom and I and Dot are all pretty close. Three generations of women living in close proximity (don’t forget the five female felines!). Mom lives alone, just down the street, but we’re at each other’s house often enough. We talk every day, often. Our houses even have the same floor plan, but reversed. (That explains why we zig when we think we should zag.)
It’s pretty hilarious when I call my mom and we both have the same topics in our heads. We both want to make mac-n-cheese on Saturday. We both watch the same news, listen to the same music (Charlie Rich, Jimmy Dean, and Sinatra… now that’s music!). We both order the same QVC kitchen product, at the same time. We both have the same ideas about home decor, although her theme is Country Spring and mine is Coffee House Autumn colors. Even some of our furniture is the same (she likes white, I prefer dark mocha colors). Not all of this is planned. We just like the same things. We just have the same views on life. We are distinctly different, and wonderfully in sync.
Now, I’m not saying we’re identical. She won’t go to Disneyland with us. I don’t read the papers like her. She doesn’t rock out to the Backstreet Boys and I’m not too successful at gardening. We don’t spend every single moment together. She kicks me and Dot out of her house when she’s tired, and I send her packing when it’s time to watch “Friends” with my daughter. We do separate and have our own lives. We just share them with each other. A lot.
My mom’s turned into my best friend. I wouldn’t be who I am without my Mom. She instilled my love of words. I can’t remember her not reading to us as children, or giving books as toys.
I remember once when I was about seven, she came home from the store and gave my brothers toys. Things they could play with, interact with. And I got a Golden Book, something about a puppy. I was so upset. You can’t play with a book. You can’t make it climb things like a stuffed animal. You can’t build with it like Legos. And so I cried.
Until Mom came over and opened the cover, and asked me to read the first page. Aloud. Without realizing it, I had been swept into a world of saving the puppy, or the puppy saving something else, I forget. What I do remember is the feeling of freedom. While my brothers were confined to the physical attributes of their toys, I had the whole world in my hand. I had an adorably soft little critter who looked at me with his tiny eyes. I had the power to help him on his page-turning journey. I had imagination. I went to sleep that night holding my book. I dreamt of the puppy and our adventures together. The next day, I took out my stuffed animals and reenacted the story.
Indeed, my Mom gave me much more than words on paper that day. She gave me life.
There is no greater thrill I have then my mom’s daily phone calls after she’s read my blog or whatever other writings I’ve sent her way, and to hear her say, “You did good today.” It’s those little backpats that make it worthwhile. Because while I write because I can’t not write; and I write because I was born to write; it’s not her approval I’m after. It’s because I love her and the way she raised me that I write, and try to write well. I’m proud of my mom. I love my mom.
And this is my way of returning the world to her. This is my way of saying, “Yes, I can be the person you raised me to be.” This is my way of letting her know she did good, too.
Thanks, Mom. I heart you.
