Jan 1, 2015 |
A few months ago, I knew what I needed my word for 2015 to be.
The more I thought about it, the more I came to realize how perfect it is for my world.
HOPE is the thing with feathers . . .
I created this graphic from a photo of the peacock Dot painted for me. She finished it over a month ago but I asked her to give it to me for Christmas. The peacock is my symbol for 2015. It’s the colors of Mardi Gras. It’s the King of birds. It’s full of dignity, power, and of course, hope.
Next week’s Five Things Friday post will be full of more hope.
Today, I’m waking up and starting with a deep, cleansing breath.
Hope is an intangible that makes things tangible. It’s the elusive thing that makes all other things possible.
Even in my worst moments, I am okay, because I fundamentally have hope in the very core of my being, telling me that things will get better. When life crashes down, when the world crumbles and shakes into oblivion, Hope is one of the three things that remains.
Hope is what keeps us going, whether we feel like it or not.
Dot’s Peacock
For 2015, I hope to be a better writer. I hope to pay off more debt. I hope to attend writers conferences.
And I hope to be a better version of myself for the world around me.
What’s your word for 2015?
And Frankly, My Dear . . . that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
FIVE THINGS FRIDAY: Peacocks
Dare to be an Awesome Orange!
Following Fabian
2014: BETTER.
Five Years and a PartyFaith, HOPE, and Love: Part II
May 18, 2014 |
A few days ago someone mentioned to me how someone else had hurt her. “Can you believe she says she’s a Christian?!” She said the word like it was sewage.
I immediately asked if she thinks being a Christian means being perfect? Let me tell you, right here, right now: It. Does. Not.
Standing up for Christianity is a complicated matter. I have seen how churches alienate people. I understand the hurt when a Christian points fingers or falls short of that goal line. I’ve been there, I’ve done that. I’ve been both on the receiving and the giving end of this dynamic.
I recently had a very heart-to-heart with someone who doesn’t see God the way I do. Someone who isn’t sure that God can be that personal. Someone who is okay getting through life without a personal relationship with God. Someone who has been alienated by others claiming to be Godly.
So, do I alienate this person, just because their belief doesn’t match up with mine?
I don’t have the words to express how hurtful it is to see people judge Christians based solely on the fact that we say, “I love God.” Are there Christians out there who aren’t perfect? Always.
So here’s my soapbox. I’m just gonna type this out and hope it makes sense to everyone who reads it. Ready?
My Christianity isn’t about saying I’m better. It isn’t about me being perfect, because I’m not. Because I never will be. I fall short every.stinking.day and I’m not ashamed to admit that. I don’t wallow in self-pity, I don’t proclaim my failings from the highest hilltop just to manipulate others into telling me I’m not that bad. Nor do I tell others they’re not that good.
We are all people. We are designed to love and care for one another, and to bring each other closer to goodness. Let’s be real for a minute. Which feels better: being selfish or selfless? Of course it’s nice to have attention drawn to ourselves. I’m crazy about getting the “Thinking of you” texts or the “How are you?” phone calls. But there’s something so fulfilling about truly helping someone else out.
I’m not talking about those people my Pam-Mom refers to as “virtue suckers”. Those are the ones who are always asking for help when what they really only want is attention. The ones who complain without trying to make things better.
I’m talking about really helping people who want it. I don’t want my people to feel obligated to sit by me at church or call me at night. I want them there because they want to be there. I want my people to let me feed them, hug them, help them. I want them to see God in everything I say and do. And when I fail, because I have, I do, I will, fail . . . I want them to forgive me and not judge me.
I could never tell someone their life stinks because they don’t have God. Heck, my life stinks sometimes and I do have God! Who am I to judge what’s in a person’s heart?
There are people who God will warn me to stay away from. But those are few and far between. Christ ate with sinners, prostitutes and tax collectors. If I’m to be Christ-like, who am I to say I’m not the sinner?
And it really hurts me when people assume that just because I’m Christian, I’m supposed to be without faults. It burdens me to hear someone call out a Christian just because he or she lost their temper or had a bad day.
It bothers me when my Christian friends try to proselytize my people, without knowing my people. I don’t live in a bubble. I know others are as imperfect as I am. I’m okay with that because I believe we’re all called to love one another, not judge each other. It’s a two-way street. If I stop talking to BB because he believes in Buddha, what kind of Christian does that make me? If I say I’m not perfect but I expect you to be, what kind of friend does that make me? If I see someone in pain and say “You brought this on yourself!” instead of “How can I help?”, what kind of human does that make me? Not a good one.
I’m currently in a relationship with a guy who isn’t sure where he stands with God. And I’m okay with that. Why? Because he (My Complicated) is open to me praying for and about us. About our relationship, about him, about any- and everything I feel led to pray about. Do I wish he could come to church with me each week? Absolutely. Am I going to stop seeing him because he can’t? Not yet. Do I feel a bit oxymoronic for falling for a guy like him? Not at all. Because he’s a really great guy. And because God is calling him. He just doesn’t know it yet.
We have one commitment between us. Don’t Leave. Period. It’s that simple. If we disagree, we can take time out to calm down and think. We can hang up the phone and breathe. We can walk away. But we have to come back. We can’t leave. Not until it’s worked out.
That doesn’t mean everything is always perfect. I don’t know what kind of happy ending this will have. But I know he’ll fight for me.
And I do know that God says the same thing.
Don’t Leave. Period.
So no matter how imperfect I am, no matter how difficult my friends, family, and My Complicated can be, I’m not leaving God.
He’s never left me. He fights for me every day.
Being Christian isn’t about being perfect. It’s about not being alone. Ever.
It’s about those dark quiet nights when no one’s holding my hand. It’s about going to the grocery store by myself. It’s about celebrating with dinner for one (two if Dot is home). It’s about doing all these things alone, but not being alone.
Being Christian is about sharing my life with God, and knowing that He’s doing what He can to share His with me. He’s asking me to just not leave Him.
Does being Christian make me perfect? No. But I strive to attain the best imperfection I can for Him. Does it mean judging others? Not without pointing fingers right back at me. Does it mean abandoning those who I treasure, adore, love? Never.
Will I get in your face and tell you, you need God? Always. Why? Because I know God. And He wants to know you. Because God is supernatural and able to manage my life in ways that I can’t. Because God loves us all even when we don’t love ourselves. Because I can’t see inside you. I can only know the parts of you that you share with me. And I don’t know what conversations you’re having with God. It’s mean and cruel of me to assume that anyone doesn’t know God. I can tell you what I feel in my heart when we talk. But I can’t tell you if you’re in His arms or not. No. That’s not true. I can tell you, every single one of us is in His arms. I just can’t tell who’s fighting Him and who’s enjoying His comfort. And I will never make that judgment call.
As I’m writing this, I know deep inside that someone is reading it with that first glimmer of faith and hope. Whoever you are, please know that I am praying for you. Please know that I want to dance with you on streets of gold. And until we get there, while we are still here, I love you with an imperfect love. You may be a stranger to me. That’s okay. Reach out to someone who can be there for you. Pray. Pray with a friend, a family member, or even a stranger.
Don’t be afraid of the label of Christianity. Don’t think you can’t measure up. Don’t worry about being judged. Don’t think wherever you are in life that you can’t reach out. Don’t worry about others. Just give it your all.
And just know that God has made this promise to you.
Don’t Leave. Period.
He never promised peace and fulfillment. Rather, He warned us that just the opposite would happen. That people will hate Christians for no reason other than being Christian. It is not easy. But it’s definitely better.
Years ago God gave me a choice to keep a friend, or turn that friend over to God. As painful as it was to walk away, I opened my hands and released this person to God. God told me the process would be long and painful. And it was. To have to say no to my friend. To have to walk away and let God step up. But the result is beautiful. My friend is now married with children. Living a very successful life, and a very Godly life.
It’s so possible to be completely fulfilled with God. It really is. Your dreams are rarely His dreams, but as you draw closer to Him, he will change your heart so that your desires are for Him and His will.
I promise it’s worth it. And I promise He will never leave you or forsake you.
Whoever you are, I’m praying for you. So hang in there.
Don’t Leave. Period.
And Frankly, My Dear . . . that’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
It’s Complicated, Part One: My Relationship
The First Step
P.U.S.H.
Dear God, Did You Forget About Me?!
May 17, 2014 |
Last week on my personal Facebook profile, I changed my relationship from “single” to “it’s complicated”.
It’s Complicated.
No photos. No names. I’m not one to spill intimate details. I like to protect the privacy of the people who choose to expose themselves to a writer’s life ~ this writer’s life.The family I’m born into and gave birth to don’t have much say on the matter. But the ones who have a choice . . . those are the ones I admire. The ones who are strong enough to stick around when the word goes to print. The ones who don’t unfriend me on Facebook because they see the struggle between who I am and who I want to be, and the dichotomy between my very personal and sometimes public life.
Last week, my two worlds collided in a very unexpected manner. An old friend came to town. We went out. And then he said it. It. Those three little words that every woman loves to hear from the man she wants to want her in return.
Complicated? I’ll say so. There are many dynamics [read: hurdles] we would have to conquer to make a relationship work. Those are the private moments. But we’re talking. We’re sharing. We’re growing closer. That’s the public life.
He’s not perfect. [He had the nerve to ask “Why Toronto?” when discussing travel destinations.] He doesn’t drink coffee as much as I do. [That’s okay, I’ll have his share.] But he likes cats. He encourages my writing. And he’s taller than me. [Yes, mother, when I’m 5’8″, a man who can tower over me is a nice thing!]
I’m not perfect. I cry too much. I told him I hated him for holding my hand. I told him I was going to write every flaw and fight for dramatic content, of course. I drink his coffee and eat his chocolate. I order before he looks at the menu. But he likes me anyway.
It’s too soon to know if I’m blessed with this man or if we’ll end up hurting each other. I do know we’ve been friends for such a ridiculously long time it would be impossible to leave him completely. Right now, our complicated promise is only this:
Don’t Leave. Period.
The rest we’ll either figure out or we won’t. We’re not in a rush to make it work or find out it won’t. For This Girl, who thrives on stability and steadiness, this uncertainty is new. I’m used to being alone, solitary, not asking for help with decision making or planning someone else’s social schedule. This is familiarly new to me.
Is he a good catch? I think so. I’ve always thought so. Except for those in-between times when we’ve danced around each other’s lives with someone else. Except for those in-between years when we forgot we liked each other. After all this time, we are in the same place at the same time. And it’s complicated. Because it’s not.
It’s a little terrifying. A lot satisfying. And pretty much the reason I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week.
I want to make sure I’m not using him for his attentions. Let’s face it–who doesn’t love some nice “You look good” and “Have a chocolate” stuff. He deserves more than me just wanting his attentions. He deserves me wanting him completely, as he says, “warts and all”.
And so I’m praying. I’m praying for clarity and direction and all the things a person prays about in a relationship. I’m praying to be able to keep God first not just in this, but in every relationship. I desire God to be above all else in my household. I crave a man who is so in love with the Lord that he forgets I’m in the room.
It’s so complicated. I don’t want a guy to replace God as my Head of Household.
And in the quiet of the late night, when the rest of the world is gone and asleep and I’m left alone after hanging up the phone and My Complicated is far away, I hear God saying, “I’m still here.”
That folks, is what we in the writing world call “the hook” or “the cliffhanger”. Come back tomorrow for the rest of the story.
And Frankly, My Dear . . . That’s all she wrote!
You may also enjoy reading:
Apologetic
I’m Afraid of My Own Succcess
Feb 9, 2014 |
I’m single. Does that make February a hard month for me? Not at all. Being single doesn’t mean I’m lonely. I have a full time job that I absolutely love. I have family that lives nearby and an adult daughter who lives at home while navigating through her own busy albeit single life. We have our individual and collective social lives.
Don’t feel sorry for me, for us.
We’re not that lonely.
We play games together. I write. She bowls. We cook, clean, run errands together. We spend time apart. She bowls. I do coffee. We’re very busy.
So we’re not that lonely.
Mind you, I often think it would be nice to have someone taller and stronger around to handle things like cutting down the trees that are still standing or bagging up the endless piles of leaves they leave. Someone to pay the dinner bill once in a while. Someone to replace the light bulb. Carry the grocery bags. Someone to share life with. But I don’t go to bed alone and cry about it. I just don’t.
A few weeks ago, I found myself in a local store. Not finding what I needed, a worker offered to search storage for me. Sure enough, he returned with the goods. We chatted a bit. It was nice. He was nice.
A few days later and I returned to the store. We struck up another conversation. He was very easy to speak with. Attractive. And that second most important factor: age appropriate.
The conversation went well, but I had a nudging feeling. Something not quite right. I called him on it. He’d said he was divorced but his finger was shaped as if a ring had just been removed. Then he said he was living with someone.
I asked him why. I was curious why someone would be in a relationship and think it’s okay to ask someone else out. He said he’s with her “because it’s comfortable”. Because it’s a place to go home to. But that he really liked me.
I’m sorry. But I’m not that lonely.
I was a little discouraged, and yet encouraged. I can be just friends with him. I was upfront with him. I’m a Christian, I’m a single mom, and I don’t play games. The only thing he would get from me is conversation in the store. Not even a phone number? No, sir.
I have to admit, those first few non-dates were exciting. I liked the attention he gave me. The compliments. The conversation. In short periods of time we discussed faith, family, jobs and relationships. At first I thought he was on the verge of leaving her, and I thought I could wait. We talked of going out: Where would he take me? What would I wear?
It was new. It was nice.
And then I came home and looked at myself in the mirror.
~Molly Jo~
I am nobody’s Other Woman. I never have been, and I never will be.
And so to him, and to anyone else who wants to know me enough to date me, here it is:
You don’t get me.
In this household, I live by example. I show my daughter what’s acceptable and what’s not. I live out my ministry in my world by trying to be the person I want to be for others. And I don’t want anyone to think it’s okay to cheat. To cut corners. To not care about the ones you’re supposed to care about. Yes, it’s hard. Yes, sometimes, I do get bouts of loneliness. But these rewards are worth more than a fleeting dinner or a stolen kiss.
So you don’t get me.
In this household, we do deep. We do real. We do honest. And we do love.
Not the way you want it – not the fast, replacement, lonely-filler kind of love that you think you have to offer. Not the selfish its-all-about-my-needs-and-I’m-tired kind of love that you’re demonstrating.
We do love-your-neighbor love. We do get-in-the-trash-if-that’s-where-the-treasure-is love. We do the hard crying when words fail. We do the laughing so hard people think we’re crazy. We do the public hugs and the private conversations and the dinner at the table and the leave-me-alone times.
We do it all.
And you know nothing of that.
Because you’ve never asked. Because you saw a single woman and called her “beautiful” and expected me to open up to you.
You so don’t get me.
I’m so much more than a conversation in a store or a cross around my neck. I am complicated and sweet and smart and confident. I live for God and I live for other people. I love coffee and Italy and Disneyland and cats and everything there possibly is to love about life. And I love people who can’t love themselves. I share stories and I hold things in. I am oxymoronic every day. I am strong and secure and scared and shy all at once.
But I know who I am. I love me the way I am. I love sharing my life with people. I want to feed the world and save the homeless and cure cancer and shout everything from the highest mountain and be still under the stars.
I want much out of life. But I don’t want you. I don’t know you.
Except you’re willing to compromise. You’re willing to rush into something you have no business rushing into, and people will get hurt in your wake.
I will not be one of them. Nor will I be the cause for one of them.
So you don’t get me.
Because I’m not that lonely.
And all I can say now is, I hope someday, you’re not that lonely either.
I may be rough, but I’m still a diamond!
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
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Who I Am
Nail Polish: If You’re a Guy, You Just Don’t Get It
“As Long As You Love Me”
Jan 2, 2014 |
This post is hard to write. It’s also one of the bigger reasons I didn’t write in December.
Catford Manor is minus one member of our FurFamily.
“We Call Her Demon Cat.” (Dot magically caught Fluffy in a yawn for this pose years ago.)
Our beloved ten-year-old Fluffy fell ill and succumbed to old age on December 19th. For two weeks prior, we nursed her, took her to the Vet, pushed medications into her, and loved her more than I even thought possible.
In retrospect, the signs were there for months. A subtle change in her behavior and affections, we at first thought were the result of loneliness due to Dot’s intense schedule away from home. College, a new job, and a new boyfriend all took her attentions.
Fluffy began leaving large tufts of fur in her wake. She no longer slept on the soft furniture but rather opted to stretch atop the flat, cold surfaces of our bookcase. When the height became too much for her to conquer, she learned to hide in the lower kitchen cabinets.
Realizing more than loneliness was affecting her, we took her to the Vet who, after many tests, could diagnose her with nothing more than anemia. At Dr. Laura’s office, Fluffy was nearly her old self: inquisitive, loving, explorative. She even caused the staff to laugh as she walked out of her carrier and climbed over their countertops looking for mischief.
Fluffy’s Bright Eyes.
Short of an MRI that we couldn’t afford, at the time we had no way of knowing Fluffy had most likely developed a feline aneurism or metastasis that was subtly growing and causing complications. After her passing, Dr. Laura explained to me the last three days were very symptomatic, and there would have been nothing we could do even if we had known.
But we didn’t know. We thought it was anemia.
So it was a great surprise to us when the medications didn’t help. When, for several days, she pulled away from us to go rather into the dark corners of the house.
Fluffy’s Final Photo. Although she’s a bit worn out, she was very loving and purring with the attention and trying to play with her toy.
Her final night she began to wobble. She was losing motor control and her meows were a bit weak. I opened the cabinet before bedtime and caught her in an odd noisy combination that was more than a meow and not quite a hiss. She allowed me to pick her up and carry her to my bed. She could no longer walk away, although she tried to pull herself across the soft covers.
I woke Dot up and had her come into the room. “Sleep in here with us,” I suggested. “She’s leaving us soon.” We stayed in the room together, and even the other cats could sense it. Each took a turn acknowledging Fluffy’s presence, offering their nuzzle or touch. Fluffy tried to give Little the cold shoulder and hiss, but the effort was greater than the thought and so she merely turned her head away.
I lay awake most of the night. With every breath, I loved her. I told her so. I held her. I cried for her. I tried to feed her but she’d stopped eating or drinking hours ago, and her medications foamed back up out of her mouth. She couldn’t take water even with a dropper.
Her weight had dramatically decreased over those last two weeks, and her spine was nearly evident. Still, in what we both knew were her last hours, she allowed me to cuddle her, allowed Dot to pet her.
She purred loudly at each touch and every word. It was a great comfort to know we were a comfort to her. The more we spoke to her, the louder she purred. The more we stroked her gently, the stronger her tail flicked.
It was in the darkness of morning when she gave a strange noise that woke both Dot and I from our troubled sleep. Her breathing was shallow and labored, and she could no longer crawl. She purred lightly. Her bladder had let go and the bed was soaked. She could do nothing but try to breathe. She couldn’t close her eyes, but she was no longer seeing us.
I called my mom and asked her to come over.
And then I made the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make.
We took her to Dr. Laura. And I signed the paper. And we watched as Dr. Laura helped her transition to the Rainbow Bridge.
It was horrible. Painful. And easily the best decision I could have made. In just seconds, Fluffy’s purring ceased. As did her pain. Her labored breathing. Her suffering.
And we cried.
And I still cry.
Because I didn’t realize I loved my daughter’s cat so much. And didn’t realize how four cats on one bed could leave a void so huge when the fifth one is permanently missing.
I still find little Fluffy tufts around the house. I smell her on the teddy bear I gave her that last week. I remember her.
I remember her as a kitten walking around the coffee table only to be surprised by Lizzie Cat. Fluffy jumped up so high and puffed out so thick, she looked just like a cartoon Halloween cat!
She loved to lick Dot’s face, especially when Dot was upset and crying, Fluffy comforted her by licking away her tears.
As a younger cat, Fluffy would often interrupt Dot’s sleep. Dot would be so tired in the mornings and blame it on the cat. “If you ignore her,” I’d say, “She’ll leave you alone.” And then, one night years ago, Dot opted to sleep on the living room floor. While I was still awake I saw what she so often tried to explain to me. She would cover her head completely with her blanket or pillow, yet still Fluffy would find a way underneath. She would nibble her nose, lick her face, tangle with her hair. Ceaselessly.
Once, Dot crawled onto her bed to snuggle with her, and I heard a giggle that turned into a squeal. “Help!” she begged in laughter. So I didn’t take her seriously. It was ten minutes before I came to her rescue. Fluffy had gripped Dot’s ponytail and entwined her claws throughout her hair. “Just sit up,” I suggested. “Leave the cat alone.” Dot demonstrated why she couldn’t: as she lifted her head, the cat came with the hair. Oh, how I apologized profusely for the last fifteen minutes of disbelief!
Fluffy loved Dot. She was a mushpot. She allowed Dot to dress her up as a doll.
“The Things I Put Up With…”
A Girl and Her Cat
She cried for Dot when she was gone too long. She loved me, too, but in the second-best way that only a one-owner-cat can have.
Until the last month. When she spread her affections evenly between us. She even enjoyed my company in the presence of Lizzie Cat, who was, at most times, her enemy.
Fluffy didn’t like being in a carrier. Dot took her to Fifth Grade Show and Tell once, and her carrier was made of cardboard. I was a Classroom volunteer that day, so at recess time we put Fluffy in the box and went out. Upon our return, we found the carrier, half destroyed. And we couldn’t find Fluffy. The class had an extra five-minute recess as Dot and I scoured the room. Fluffy was finally located behind the filing cabinet. The school made a new rule about what kinds of pets were allowed for Show and Tell after that. We nicknamed it “Fluffy’s Law”.
She is no longer struggling, no longer lonely or in pain.
But I am overwhelmed with loneliness. With sadness. With emptiness. And guilt.
Because it was my signature that set her free.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
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I Couldn’t Sleep Last Night
Catford Manor in Pictures
Catford Manor Photo of the Week
Meet Zoey
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