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 13, 2011
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Another Writer’s Digest Community short-short story from last year.
Time to Say Goodbye . . . A New Beginning.
She closed the door, closed her eyes. She heard only the clicking of the lock falling into place as the only thought was her repetitive mantra, “Never again…”; racing, disorganized, scrambling any other sense of composure she may have had earlier.
Keeping her eyes as closed as possible, she stumbled down the hall toward the Living Room, and laughed a cynical laugh as the traces of death still surrounded her. Photos of an old love, letters from once-known strangers. Boxes and piles of chaos, the remnants of a past life.
She reached for her wine and after two thoughtful sips and a primal scream, tossed the remainder out onto the debris, leaving a poetic stain of red, dripping as though her lifeblood itself was pouring out of her.
She turned to the balcony door and stood just inside, her long shadow tracing awkwardly over the mess. The City roared beneath her, away from her; giving a false animation and electronic life to everything outside. There was no distinct sound she could clarify. Just… noise.
She returned then to the interior, listening only to the pounding inside her as it grew louder, stronger. Chilled by a life of unfeeling, she reached for the matches over the fireplace and watched as she struck them, one by one, over and over. Finally, one took flame and she gazed at its beauty, ever-changing yet always present, and knew what she had to do.
She watched in eternal slow motion as the small flame fell to the floor, opening a roar of wonders as it grew and ate and devoured all she had left. And she stood there. Watching with great intent until it pushed her back to the window, back to indistinction. There would be nothing left to save, even if she’d wanted to.
The heat pressed against her, and she relished its warmth. It had been too long since she felt… warm. She stood as her body purged itself of impurities. And longed to save herself.
In a flash, overtaken by bright, hot, licking tongues of flames, she opened the window into a collision of fire and air as both roared for her affections. Scrambling over the edge, she closed her eyes once again and allowed herself to slip into a familiar sense of the unknown. She knew only she could always start again.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
Aug 23, 2011
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
I just finished three days on Faith, Hope, and Love.
My journal seems disjointed to me, and although I tried to bring them together, I almost feel the need to apologize for my lack of clarity.
But isn’t that what faith, hope, and love are? In the midst of chaos, disappointment, all the stressors of life, isn’t it a quantity of Faith, Hope, and Love that keeps us ticking?
No matter what life throws my way, no matter who comes and goes, and what capacity they serve while we’re together, Faith, Hope, and Love always stay.
Dont’ be shy. We’re in this world together. Let’s love it, ourselves, and each other.
***** ***** *****
“Because We Are Friends”
[March 6, 2009, re-edit August 22, 2011]
If you wanted coffee, I’d already know how you take it.
If I had an ice cream sundae, I’d let you eat the cherry.
If you wanted to whisper, I’d silence the world.
If I needed to shout, you’d be my bullhorn.
If you wanted the beach, I’d build you a sand castle.
If we enjoyed a trail, you’d be the falling leaves.
If you watched tv with me, I’d let you control the remote.
If you sang on Broadway, I’d be your marquee.
If you needed a babysitter, I’d find one so we can both go out.
If I wanted to stay in, I’d let you come over before I cleaned.
If you won a prize, I’d be your pedestal.
If I failed at anything, you’d pull me back up.
If you had a great day, I’d hold your hand high.
If I had a bad day, you’d hug me tight.
If you were a book, I’d read the complete series.
If I were binary, you’d be my numbers.
If you were a pen, I’d refill your ink.
If I were a page, I’d let you write in my margins.
If you needed anything, I’d find a way.
If I won the lottery, I’d let you share my winnings.
If you had a tragedy, I’d be your comic relief.
If I were hyperventilating, you’d be my sedative.
If you needed a friend in the middle of the night, I’d stay until next week.
If I missed you like no tomorrow, I’d still let you go.
Because we are friends.
And I trust you that much.
And love you even more.
:-)
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
