Oct 15, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
In the Beginning
Nothing, expanded.
Blueprinted. Released.
Designed and planned for.
In the Beginning
Foundations laid.
Strength. Support.
Far-reaching.
Sun and moon and stars all over.
First
Fresh and new.
Structure.
Water and wood and
Green and blue
Views into the unknown.
Doors to the future
Expanding foundation.
Stairs and guards and patios and cellars
For climbing and protecting
And sharing and hiding.
Second
Learning, growing.
Planting roots, planting beauty.
Adding color, adding room.
Keeping up, trimming back
Filling out, fixing up
Settling in.
Third
Decorating.
Creating, remembering.
Mistakes, majesties.
Fourth
Repairs and hard work
and patchwork quilts
Reaching more
Moving out
Bigger horizons
Wearing down, getting old.
Coming back
Bringing more.
Fifth
Starting over.
History embraced,
Treasures unburied.
Attics and cellars and yards
And shelter
And food
And family.
Welcome.
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 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.
Sep 14, 2011
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
In honor of Disney’s re-release of it’s 32nd animated film “The Lion King” this Friday, I found this writing I did in February, 2009. Enjoy!
*** *** ***
“Rise and shine, and give God the glory, glory…” (Old children’s song)
I looked up “Glory” in Vine’s Concise Dictionary. This is just a sampling of the offering: Glory, Beauty, Ornament, Distinction, Adornment, a Crown of Glory (rank), Improper Pride, High Status, Speaking Honor to Someone… Wait. Go back. Improper Pride? That seems so out of sync with the others.
What exactly does that mean? “Improper” denotes something that is inappropriate, inaccurate, doesn’t belong in the setting, doesn’t apply to the situation at hand. “Pride”, on the other hand, signifies a high opinion of oneself, the feeling of being the best, splendor. It also means a group of lions.
Is it possible to get a word picture from this? Now, I’ve seen “The Lion King” far too many times. Scar was definitely improper! Simba was a young, misguided cub led astray; but we all know in the end he claimed his rightful place to carry on the leadership of his father. Could this be us?
I was once a Simba, convinced that my actions had taken me away from the love and comfort of my Family. I had let Improper Pride control my thoughts and actions, and chose instead to run from my mistakes. In the end, I had to choose to let them seek me out, to bring me back, just as Nala did for Simba. I would not go willingly, and there were some “friends” by my side who did not want to let me go. My Nala fought to bring me to the Truth. My Rafiki hit me on the head, just as in the movie, to knock some sense into me. And then I realized. I could go back. I must go back. It was my calling. My duty. My show of respect for my creator.
I called satan (Scar) out, confronting the lies he told to me and about me. It took work, a lot of work, but my Family was restored.
To this day, my heart aches with “what if’s”. What if I had forgiven them earlier? We would have more good years together. What if I had listened to God earlier? I would have learned so much quicker. What if I had forgiven myself? There’s the torture. And the blessing. Because I did forgive myself. For all things. For the hurts I caused myself. For the hurts I caused my family and friends. For the hurts I caused to those who are now reading this in love (thank you for your forgiveness!). For the hurts I caused to my Lord. And then I had to forgive myself for feeling guilty about waiting to forgive. It is a breath of fresh air when true forgiveness comes to us. The weight of anger, sin, and manipulation, is taken away. The world is new, vibrant, beautiful. It is Glorious. And just as the sun rises each morning, I must seek forgiveness each day. For each day holds new-ness. A new view. A new attitude.
Is the glass half empty or half full? Neither. Because “my cup overflows” (Psalm 23:5). Even in the presence of our enemies, God prepares a feast for you and me. He is always with us, no matter where we go, what we do, who we are. He will always place around us those who He will use to keep us close to Him, and when we stray, to bring us back to Him.
Simba was never really alone, even when he thought he was. Look for your Nala. Look for your Rafiki. Give them the blessing of being there for you. Allow them the privilege of being with you on this journey of life. And try not to go your own way. There’s safety in numbers.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;
In all your ways acknowledge him,
and he will make your paths straight.”
(Proverbs 3:5-6).
Yes, I’m a Disney fan. It goes to show that God can use anything to get His message across.
Aug 4, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
August 4th is always worth remembering. At least in my family. It’s not a holiday. No anniversary or birthday. It’s much more somber. It’s the day my Dad died.
And this time, it’s been thirty years. It just happened; it happened a lifetime ago.
I was young, then; in age and in mind. I was 13 with no mind to chase boys but less desire to play with dolls. I was in that stage. I sat at the kitchen table looking through the brand new JCPenney’s winter catalog. The one that every kid waited for. The pretty girls in sweaters on the cover. The hundred pages of toys in the back. The catalog was delivered in that afternoon’s mail, and it was always a treat when Mom said we could open its pages. She knew it meant wishlists and yearnings for things we could not afford, and days of begging for early allowances. But she was good about it all; taking it in stride of being a parent, and let me look.
It was hot. Hot the way August is always hot in the midwest: sticky and stifling. The air conditioner lent itself to a damp cooling inside.
Dad had come home from work early that afternoon. I was the only one around. It was a pleasant surprise, he wasn’t due back in town until that evening. Dad was the manager for a tri-state sales route. His team looked to him for leadership. He was good at what he did. I think it was in his blood.
He drove up, and I was thrilled. Just me. Just him. Some quality time. Unfortunately, at 13 years of age, a girl’s idea of quality time with her dad doesn’t typically mean house cleaning or mowing the lawn. But that’s what Dad had in mind. He wanted to do for my mom, what she always did. He wanted to take care of house and home.
I wish I would have known… I wouldn’t have complained. I would have helped, I would have been happier. I would have… done anything.
It was a few hours later when my brother walked home from his “business” of selling sodas to thirsty golfers two blocks away. It was his best day so far that summer. He was excited that Dad was already there to share in his accomplishment.
Mom’s coffeepot had a plug-in timer (before pots themselves were manufactured with them built in). The timer was defective, not always working. Sometimes the coffee would brew too early, or worse, not at all. So Dad had brought a replacement. “Shh,” he smiled, hiding the packaging after he installed the new one. “Don’t tell Mom. It’s a surprise.”
Mom came home shortly after and got busy making dinner. Corned beef and cabbage boiled on the stovetop in her old green pots and pans ~ the same green pots and pans that were mimicked in my kitchen playset. The aroma was Irish. Every so often, she’d ask me to put something on the table, or move something from it. As long as I could keep dreaming with the catalog, I was content to earn my pages.
Dad was in the Front Room. That’s what we called it back then. The living room. The TV room. The sitting room. All rolled into one. The Front Room. He was sitting in his black BarcaLounger, and it stuck to his arms and legs with a sticky ripping sound every time he moved for his ice water.
My brother was in the room with him; they were catching up, watching TV, being guys.
I heard my Dad call for Mom. She went to him, and I heard the panic in her voice. He wasn’t responding. I tried to look at the catalog, but it was confusing. The pictures blurred, but I didn’t want to look away. I didn’t want to be pulled from my dreaming into reality.
The neighbor-husband came. Did my brother get him, or did he just hear our screams? There was talk about phone calls, and people on the way, and more yelling.
This isn’t real. I stood between the Front Room and the kitchen; between before and after. I saw my dad laid on the floor, I saw the neighbor breathing into him. And I walked away. I went to my room and knelt and prayed.
This is my fault. I wasn’t happy to see him earlier. But, God, I’ve learned my lesson. And if you let him stay, I promise to love my dad more. I promise to do the chores without complaining. I promise…
But God had his own plans. Dad had a massive coronary. And at 6:04 that evening, I wrote in my vinyl-covered kid diary, “Dad just died.”
And my life was split between “Before” and “After”.
Before Dad died, we swam in the pool together. He took my brothers camping, but not me because I was a girl. I baked play-doh pies for him. We played Atari together.
After Dad died, we moved to California. I grew up. I had a daughter of my own. I take her to Disneyland. She paints. We play Wii together.
And I write. I remember, and I write.
I remember fireflies caught in spider webs along the highway. I remember backyard camp-outs and Sparklers on the Fourth of July. I remember the garden and big tomatoes. I remember teaching him how to read to us like Mom does, “with the voices”. I remember long drives to Grandma’s house, and beer-batter smelt, and a yard overwhelmed by dandelions which he always claimed was a weed but we didn’t believe him. I remember the story of the Bear Rug, that I still have. I remember the Rockford Files. I remember whiffle balls and crooked swingsets and building cardboard forts. I remember going into hysterics that night when Mom went to plug in the coffee pot timer; and I revealed Dad’s last act of love for her.
I remember you, Dad. I remember you like yesterday. I still miss you that much. And I know you’re proud. I love you back.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
