tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33234495570280279412024-03-04T22:13:13.011-08:00Jumping Write InThis blog reads like a compilation of stories ~
An index can be found on the sidebar.Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-33855439732328493072023-06-05T10:37:00.005-07:002023-06-05T10:37:57.622-07:00Pentecost - The Birthday of the Christian Church.<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I originally wrote this on Pentecost in 2022 - </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Happy Pentecost! and Happy Birthday to the Christian Church!</span></span></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Today in the liturgical year, we celebrate the time after Jesus has ascended to heaven and when the Holy Spirit came down, not quiet and gentle as a dove, but as loud as a violent wind and the apostles were filled with the Holy Spirit and what appeared to be a tongue of fire came to rest on them.</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I think passages like this is why so many people have a hard time describing the Holy Spirit. Sometimes, the only way to <a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="-1"></a>talk about spiritual things are in metaphors. </span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">May you be filled with the Holy Spirit this day and always. <span class="x3nfvp2 x1j61x8r x1fcty0u xdj266r xhhsvwb xat24cr xgzva0m xxymvpz xlup9mm x1kky2od" style="display: inline-flex; height: 16px; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle; width: 16px;"><img alt="♥" height="16" referrerpolicy="origin-when-cross-origin" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/t33/1.5/16/2665.png" style="border: 0px;" width="16" /></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px;"><span class="x3nfvp2 x1j61x8r x1fcty0u xdj266r xhhsvwb xat24cr xgzva0m xxymvpz xlup9mm x1kky2od" style="display: inline-flex; font-family: inherit; height: 16px; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle; width: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkSuW_hp7rkrd3CbTZzuA73PnWy85-bl0umZxu4x94oI9vqkV6NmwtDtW1fOBIsW-franRfibwXjzPmVNDgwvx4ZBQzkjewr8kUTwwqn75ubAOGvLbJTEssjWVpYjSGDDDIZshdVAB3pWTCJbONGbb1Fhb7lB_y4uO9Cv1cDVNx7XGllNsORCbHQHy/s650/285538604_10221227247737214_4388753926201469083_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="533" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkSuW_hp7rkrd3CbTZzuA73PnWy85-bl0umZxu4x94oI9vqkV6NmwtDtW1fOBIsW-franRfibwXjzPmVNDgwvx4ZBQzkjewr8kUTwwqn75ubAOGvLbJTEssjWVpYjSGDDDIZshdVAB3pWTCJbONGbb1Fhb7lB_y4uO9Cv1cDVNx7XGllNsORCbHQHy/w328-h400/285538604_10221227247737214_4388753926201469083_n.jpg" width="328" /></a></div><br /><span class="x3nfvp2 x1j61x8r x1fcty0u xdj266r xhhsvwb xat24cr xgzva0m xxymvpz xlup9mm x1kky2od" style="display: inline-flex; font-family: inherit; height: 16px; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle; width: 16px;"><br /></span></div></div>Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-25109771765456783182023-02-15T17:48:00.015-08:002023-02-15T19:01:16.832-08:00The Power of an Affirming Community ~ on October 19, 2017<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is a blog post that I wrote for a church I attended a few years ago -</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">A few weeks ago, I was having a bad dream. I’m not sure if I was talking in my sleep or what, but my husband, Steve, somehow knew and rolled over and put his arm around me and said the most powerful words I’ve ever heard, “It’s okay; I’ve got you.”</span></p><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At the TENS Conference (The Episcopal Network for Stewardship - more about TENS </span><a href="http://www.tens.org/about-tens/our-mission-and-ministry/" style="background: transparent; color: #729c0b; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">here</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">) that Peter+, Shaunna, Ginny, & I attended in May, we were reminded that the only way that people feel comfortable offering their gifts, be it time, talent, or treasure, is if they feel safe and secure. </span></div><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;" /><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At St. Mary’s, I’ve experienced just that. Very often at St. Mary's, we get visitors who are among the most marginalized in [my] County. A couple of Sundays ago, a girls’ home brought their girls to worship with us. A few months ago, I experienced a moment with a mentally ill man sitting on the back steps of the church who told me, as he patted the wall, that this is his church. LGBT individuals feel secure at St. Mary’s because they are reassured that God loves them just as they are, which isn’t a message they get often in [this] County. And for myself, I found refuge when I left my childhood religion and was deeply hurting.</span></div><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;" /><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Peter+ teaches us stewardship of our resources - time, talent, and treasure & to not squander what we have, yet the most valuable lessons that I have learned while attending St. Mary’s is watching the clergy and the congregation when they discover a need someone has. They all come together to help, in effect saying, “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”</span></div><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;" /><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">~ Melody </span></div>Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-24193935009485655832023-02-15T17:44:00.003-08:002023-02-15T19:01:33.301-08:00A Sermon on Stewardship given on October 14, 2018<p> I'm going to do something a little different with this post. I wrote a couple of sermons when attended an Episcopal Church a few years ago. The following is the sermon that I presented on October 14, 2018 - <br /><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">I’d like for you all to look up at the ceiling. See how it looks like the inside of the hull of a boat? Just to remind you, the hull is the water-tight part of the boat that sits in the water. You can look back down now. :) <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">The area of the church where you and I are right now is called the nave. The word Nave derives from the Latin word “navis”, meaning “ship.” It is thought that the design of the main body of the church is called a nave because a ship is a symbol of the church. Now, there are other parts to the church - as a reminder, the entrance is called the narthex, then there’s the nave, then the chancel, where the choir sits, and then the sanctuary is where the high altar is located. Today, though, I want to focus on the nave. <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">There is a quote from a tv show I’ve been watching lately called “The Newsroom.” Makensie has been given a huge promotion and she is really nervous that the role is too big for her and that her new boss is too difficult to work with. Will, her co-worker and also her husband, who is a storyteller and uses metaphors for everything tells her, “There's a hole in the side of your boat. That hole is never going to be fixed, it's never going away, and you can't get a new boat. What you have to do is bail water out faster than it's coming in.” <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">I think that is a perfect way to think about stewardship. <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Regarding the money: the bills come in. Opportunities come up. Maintenance needs to be taken care of. Tragedies happen. In other words, the hole in our ship will never be fixed. All we have to do is do the best that we can to provide for those needs. After all, this is OUR boat. <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Regarding the responsibilities to be performed. Same thing. This is OUR boat. What jobs do we need filled at St Mary’s Church that individually we know how to do or are willing to learn, and that we also enjoy? <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">How much time do we have to offer St Mary’s and its people? Don’t underestimate or overtax yourself, but find that sweet spot that gives you the tension that you need to grow. That is what Peter+ advised in one of his last sermons before he retired. <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">We are all in this ship together. We need captains to navigate & steer - Steven & Jim are filling in right now with help from the Bishop’s Committee to do just that; we need people to swab the deck, and to feed the crew, to look after the children, to watch over the finances, and to find a new captain. There is room and need for all of us to do our part. <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">In the Gospel reading today, we hear again the story of the rich young man. He WANTS to follow Jesus and has been doing a terrific job up to this point. He asks Jesus, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus tells him, “You know the commandments: ‘You shall not murder; You shall not commit adultery; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness; You shall not defraud; Honor your father and mother.’” He said to Jesus, “Teacher, I have kept all these since my youth.” Jesus, looking at him, <span class="x-el x-el-span c2-25 c2-26 c2-3 c2-41 c2-t c2-31 c2-42" color="inherit" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: 700; letter-spacing: inherit; line-height: inherit; text-transform: inherit;">loved him and said</span>, “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” “When he heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions.” <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">I thought it was interesting that the Gospel reading said that Jesus "looked at him and loved him." Jesus wasn't trying to trick him, or make things too difficult for him by setting the bar too high. He looked at him and loved him, and then told him to sell all he had and come follow him. <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Now, when we think of this young man, many of us assume he went away grieving and we leave it there. But life isn’t like that - we all have these “Aha!” moments where we are given a choice to decide what to do with that new information. <br /> </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Perhaps the young man decided to do what Jesus said. Perhaps he went on to do great things, even if the scriptures didn’t document them. Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps the request to sell everything and give it away was too difficult. But this isn’t just the rich young man’s story; it is also ours. What will we do now that we also know what Jesus requires? Perhaps we don’t have to sell everything and give it to the poor, but we have been asked to give a tithing. <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">I am not going to get into the fine details of talking about what a tithe means for each of us. We know that it means one tenth. People will debate whether that means 1/10 of gross or net income. Before or after large debts paid? What about if you’re burdened down with medical bills? I am not qualified to say what a tithe means for anyone but myself. It is a matter that is between God and me. Likewise it is between God and you. <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">At the TENS training that I went to (and TENS stands for The Episcopal Network for Stewardship), we discussed how sometimes people don’t give because what they can offer feels to them to be too insignificant. I hope that if that describes us, we remember how Jesus talked about the widow when she gave her mite, which was all that she could give. Luke 21: 1-4 And (Jesus) looked up and saw the rich putting their gifts into the treasury, and He saw also a certain poor widow putting in two mites. So He said, “Truly I say to you that this poor widow has put in more than all; for all these out of their abundance have put in offerings for God, but she out of her poverty put in all the livelihood that she had.” <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Never be discouraged or embarrassed if you only have a mite to give. After all, $1.50 will buy a roll of toilet paper, and we all know that we go through a lot of toilet paper during the week here at ST Mary’s as we host support groups, CMOP projects, and a Catechism class every week. Never underestimate what even a dollar will do. <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">What about service? What do you long to do or at least like to do? What is stopping you from doing it? When I think about this portion of stewardship, I think about Moses who had a reason why he shouldn’t do just about anything that God presented for him to do. Or Jonah, who ran from God and only gave up his running because an entire shipful of people would have been dumped out of the boat during the storm if he hadn’t - so he got out of the boat and was immediately swallowed by a whale; God let him sit there a while and think about it. I also think about Ester who did what she could for her people even while she was afraid. Or Joseph who was sold into Egypt as a slave and went on to be given a high position of trust. What will your story be? <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">When I think about my own stewardship of talents and my vocation, I often feel imposter syndrome and have to remind myself about the speech that has been attributed to Nelson Mandela, but according to <a class="x-el x-el-a c2-25 c2-26 c2-45 c2-k c2-l c2-46 c2-n c2-47 c2-3 c2-29 c2-2a c2-r c2-2b" href="http://snopes.com/" rel="noreferrer" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: inherit; color: #67788a; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: unset; font-weight: inherit; letter-spacing: inherit; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-transform: inherit;" target="_top">snopes.com</a> was really written by Marianne Williamson in her book, Return to Love. In any case, this is the quote: <br /> </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.’ We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we subconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we’re liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">What do you have to offer to St Mary’s Church? Are you great at hospitality? Do you like working with children? Do you like to beautify areas? Do you like to read or speak in public? Do you like to shovel snow? Do you like to garden? Those are just a few of the needs that St Mary’s Church has. Search your soul and find what you love to do; there is certainly a place here for you to serve! <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Frederick Buechner said that “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet.” <br /><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5e5e5e; font-family: Quicksand, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Last spring I encouraged us all to “Find Your Happy” and I told you about a book by that same name that Ginny, Shaunna and I purchased in the gift shop of the airport on our way home from TENS - This autumn, I am doing the same: Find Your Happy. Amen. </span></p>Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-88399091151916778102021-08-15T11:55:00.001-07:002021-08-15T11:55:27.477-07:00My 51 year old self's thought about death<p> A person on a facebook group asked for help & suggestions for her 7 year old child who has just become afraid of death. This was my response:</p><p>I remember when I became aware of death. I was 9 or 10. It would be worst at night when I was alone in my room in the dark. I'd wonder if that's what death was like - being alone and in the darkness. It really freaked me out.</p><p>I honestly do not remember what helped.</p><p>Now, when I get fearful of death I remind myself that as a baby I was born into a world where I knew no one, yet I was safe and cared for. I just have to have faith that whatever happens after death, I'll be safe and cared for again.</p><p>It helps that I believe in God, too, and believe that God is everywhere and will guide me always.</p>Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-69605827109207874832020-08-05T12:51:00.005-07:002020-08-05T13:03:17.548-07:00Train of thought - Bill I have had lots of guilt bordering on shame about having Bill move out when he was stage 4 liver failure after Steve's addiction came to light, but today I had a train of thought that really helped.<div><br /></div><div>I was in the bathroom, looking for bobby pins when I came across a gallon size ziplock baggie with a beautiful makeup brush set and makeup mirror.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have a sucky memory, so I don't remember where the brush set and mirror came from, but it looked like something Bill would have given me as a Christmas present.</div><div><br /></div><div>This morning, these are the thoughts that I had - </div><div><br /></div><div>Bill didn't give many people gifts, but he gave them to me ... probably because he lived with me.</div><div><br /></div><div>He had told me that if Steve and I wouldn't have taken him in, he thinks he would have been on the street. I often told him that wouldn't have happened, but since then, I'm not sure that he was wrong.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I had "kicked him out" after Steve's prescription opiod addiction had come to light and Bill had a very generous attitude. </div><div>I did not feel comfortable having Bill, who had chronic back issues and pain medicine to control his pain, in the same house with Steve who had an addiction to that very medicine.</div><div>So, I told Bill he'd have to leave after living with us for 9 years previous.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bill was often sick because of his liver failure, so I contacted the subsidized apartments for those with disabilities, picked up the application and after Bill filled out the info, I returned it to the apartment supervisor - even going to another building to find her to give it to her since she wasn't in her office. I contacted her often to make sure the info was in and to see where he was on the list, and when he'd secured an apartment, Steve, the kids, and I moved Bill into his apartment and set things up for him: his bed, computer desk, and tv. He said he could unpack his own boxes.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next train-car-of-thought validated me that I hadn't "kicked him out" to land in the street, like he thought would happen if we hadn't taken him in, but I set a boundary to make me feel more secure in my home, life that gave Steve a chance to rehabilitate without constant temptation in just the next room, and to keep my marriage intact if it could stay that way. </div><div><br /></div><div>I kept in contact with Bill and with his nurse and helped as I could. It wasn't a perfect scenario, but I couldn't see a better one at the time. </div><div><br /></div><div>I feel better after looking at it through this lens than the emotional lens that kept me feeling like I'd let Bill down.</div>Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-40090041699318063042020-06-22T14:56:00.002-07:002020-06-22T15:05:58.558-07:00Going somewhere with my mom and someone else to pick something up from somewhere.There is a memory that I often "feel." There isn't enough details to really go with the feeling, so it is odd that it seems to be a favorite at all.<br />
<br />
It happened in the fall when I went with my mom to pick up an order from someone who lived somewhere by us when we lived in Wyoming.<br />
They lived down this one road and lived in this one house.<br />
I remember sitting in the backseat of my mom's blue car, which means that one of my mom's friends must have ridden along in the passenger seat up front.<br />
<br />
When my mom's friends were around, I didn't talk much. I loved being around people talking and not expecting me to talk back. Sometimes I zoned them out, sometimes I listened, but I never had to pay attention, because they never asked my opinion on what they were talking about. Sheer bliss.<br />
<br />
What I remember about the ride was that it was dusk-just-before-dark, and the left-over light in the dark blue sky silhouetted the leafless trees. I believe it was autumn, somewhere around Halloween.<br />
Just sitting in the backseat, staring out the window, alone with my thoughts, but in physical company. It was my perfect place of my childhood.Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-57839618667882854762020-05-16T18:53:00.001-07:002020-05-16T18:53:02.158-07:00Church SoftballMy mom loved to play softball.<br />
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When I was in young women's and played softball with the church, my mom used to come to not only my games but my practices.<br />
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There were times when the girls would be there and the coach wasn't and my mom would make us practice fielding the ball. She would set us up in the outfield, go to the batter's box and shout at each girl telling them that the next ball was coming to them. Then she'd toss the ball in the air and hit it exactly where she said she was going to.<br />
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I wish I would have realized how important those moments were at the time.Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-71501019176784157652020-02-16T12:59:00.003-08:002020-02-16T12:59:44.549-08:00ImpsI love unfinished houses.<br />
I love houses that aren't perfect.<br />
<br />
When Steve and I were looking at houses years ago when we were first married, we looked at two houses.<br />
They were about the same size and on about the same amount of land. They were both in good neighborhoods.<br />
One was perfectly finished. In fact, it was an over-achiever as far as houses went and even had built in desks in the kids' bedrooms.<br />
The second had a big family living in it. Rooms were shared. The basement had a huge storage area for canned fruit and buckets of wheat. The basement was unfinished.<br />
While loving the perfect house, I hated it. It had no room for change. It was finished.<br />
<br />
The house we are in right now was supposed to be a pit-stop as we found our perfect house. It is over 100 years old. It is constantly in some state of disrepair, as old houses are. And I love it. And I hate it. I beat myself up that I haven't finished this or painted that, and yet, whenever I see another house, it's mine I want.<br />
It is charming. It has windows on all sides - and probably had great views at one point in its life. Now, all windows point to neighbors and roads, but though they are single-paned, they let in an enormous amount of sunshine (and drafts.)<br />
<br />
My favorite house was another house that needed work. It was my house when I was growing up. It had a great yard for playing, tall trees for shade, and a grassy slope to roll down.<br />
The basement was unfinished and was a storage area of outdated toys (god's honest truth: there was a pachinko game down there. Coolest thing ever.) from my siblings - since I had brothers and my dad was in the military, there were GI Joes and toy machine guns. I LOVED playing down there.<br />
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My mom always worried about my being down there. She worried about black widow spiders (I never saw one down there, but who knows?) and she worried about it being too chilly for me. She told my grandma, her mother, about her worry. My grandma asked to talk to me on the phone, and she told me that imps lived in the basement. "What are imps?" I asked her. "Imps are demons. They belong to the devil. They are bad. Don't play in the basement where they are." Though I don't remember exactly what she said, that conversation was similar enough; that was what I heard.<br />
<br />
My maternal grandma lied to my cousins and me all the time, and I knew she lied. So I understood that she wanted me to be afraid. As an adult, I wonder what the hell she was thinking, telling my child self that. And it makes so much sense that I will not lie to my children or grandchildren. Ever. I will tell them the true things to be worried about, if I fear for their safety, but making a child scared so that they are obedient is nothing but sheer evil.<br />
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<br />Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-65802387842517255292020-02-16T12:43:00.002-08:002020-02-16T12:43:58.221-08:00Inner ChildI've been told by a shaman I'm working with that I need to do work on my inner child. It feels weird, odd, discombobulating, and uncomfortable. It isn't a person I can sit with face to face to have a conversation and it feels a little woo-woo to my reason-loving-self.<br />
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However, I know that I get triggered by situations and I don't know why.<br />
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A few years ago, a therapist taught me that when I start feeling anxious that I need to go back through memories to see when I felt that before. It typically takes me back to childhood or adolescence. <br />
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So while it feels odd and discombobulating, I can see that it is valuable to address the problem at its origin.<br />
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So, onward and upward.<br />
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♥ MelodyMelodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-819006724790678882018-12-31T17:44:00.000-08:002018-12-31T17:44:55.297-08:00Fact or Fiction: Does it matter??In kindergarten, every so often we had show and tell. One day, I took a little, couple inch tall, pirate guy (it was before the days of action figures & none of his joints moved, so I don't think he could actually be called an action figure, so let's stick to "little pirate guy"). He was made all out of plastic; even his hair was just sculptured plastic. His clothes were pirate clothes and he had an eye patch.
I don't remember what I said about him for the "tell" part of show and tell, but eventually, he got passed around by my "Indian Style"-leg-crossed- on-the-rug sitting classmates.
One little boy who vexed me until I moved states in 3rd grade (who I later realized must have had a crush on me for how much he teased me, yet gave me a huge compliment that only a little boy could give - it involved a yard stick and telling me that mine was that long. Ahem. I think I figured out what he meant only a couple of years ago....anyway, back to the story) So, he got ahold of the doll, looked at the front, looked at the back, turned it upside down, then right side up and then gave his head a little squeeze... I had a conniption. I don't remember the teacher getting after me for raising my voice, but I'm pretty sure I yelled at him. I took back my pirate doll guy and gave him a look over (the pirate guy, not my classmate). That's when I saw it: that kid had squeezed the doll so hard he had bruised his head!! I gave him a mean look and among other things I said, I told him that he'd hurt the little pirate guy; BRUISED him!
The kid, who had a greater grip on reality than I did but couldn't convince me of that, said that the little pirate guy couldn't get a bruise because he wasn't real.
Oh my heck! If the little pirate guy's ears weren't so little, I would've clapped my hands over them so that he couldn't hear what my classmate, the monster, had said! Of course he could bruise! And don't you dare hurt his feelings and tell him he's not real!!
I don't think I ever let that kid touch my show and tell again. Ever. So there! :P
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Then there was the time I plucked out eyelashes for my not-really-Barbie, Barbie doll.
She had REAL eyelashes!! The only trouble was that they would get loose, like mine did sometimes, so I would pluck it out so that it wouldn't poke her in the eye and hurt her. The result was a bald section of eyelid.
My sister told me to quit picking them out or she wouldn't have any eyelashes left.
I reassured her that they'd grow back.
Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-17529991498315057602018-12-31T17:42:00.001-08:002018-12-31T17:42:18.417-08:00Choosing a communityI've been thinking about "community" a lot since reading <i>Tuesdays with Morrie</i>. There is a line in the book that says, "The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning." (from _Tuesday's With Morrie_ pp. 43)<br />
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Mitch, the author of the book and Morrie's student, remarked that Morrie had "created" a community for himself. That was the springboard for a lot of different thoughts.<br />
<br />
When I first read the quote, I was just thinking about the community that I became a part of when I moved to this house. My church. My town. My neighborhood. <br />
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It seems, though, that the community that Mitch was talking about was an active choice for Morrie: people that he intentionally surrounded himself with, not people that came with his place of living.<br />
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I have begun thinking about what community I have *chosen* for myself.<br />
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I am active in my church, however, in my church we are told which location to attend rather than seeking out a "church family", so in a way, this community is forced on me. I can choose to be active in this church group, or I can choose another.<br />
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Today is 12/31/18. What I wrote above is from 2/5/11<br />
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Much has changed. I have intentionally chosen a community now, and am doing just what Morrie spoke of.<br />
I feel welcomed. I feel accepted. I feel valued. What a difference *choosing* makes.Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-75382131733579310542018-12-31T17:38:00.000-08:002018-12-31T17:38:36.533-08:00Sing to the Lord a new songI posted in my other blog today about one of my favorite hymns. It is in The Episcopal Church's hymnal, <i>The Hymnal 1982, </i>hymn #412.<br />
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<blockquote>
Earth and all stars, loud rushing planets sing to the Lord a new song! O victory, loud shouting army sing to the Lord a new song! He has done marvelous things. I, too, will praise him with a new song!<br />
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Hail, wind, and rain, loud blowing snowstorms, sing to the Lord a new song! Flowers and trees, loud rustling dry leaves, sing to the Lord a new song!<br />
Trumpet and pipes, loud clashing cymbals, sing to the Lord a new song! Harp, lute, and lyre, loud humming cellos, sing to the Lord a new song!<br />
Engines and steel, loud pounding hammers, sing to the Lord a new song! Limestone and beams, loud building workers, sing to the Lord a new song!<br />
Classrooms and labs loud boiling test tubes sing to the Lord a new song! Athlete and band, loud cheering people, sing to the Lord a new song!<br />
Knowledge and truth, loud sounding wisdom, sing to the Lord a new song! Daughter and son, loud praying members, sing to the Lord a new song!<br />
He has done marvelous things. I, too, will praise him with a new song!<br />
<br /></blockquote>
Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-20403501165658411662018-12-31T17:37:00.000-08:002018-12-31T17:37:08.169-08:00Shadows and a music boxI remember the first time I ever really played with my shadow. I must have been about four or five; I was so impressed at how far my shadow spread over the lawn and how my little chihuahua dog looked like a deer. I danced around, watching my shadow move. It felt like magic!<br />
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Once, when I was about four years old, my conscience was being pricked that I had broken one of the little angels on a wind up music box that my mom was planning on giving to my cousin. I decided to remedy it, and I told my mom that I had something to tell her... Debbie (my sister) had broken off the angel off of the music box. I somehow felt better by telling her, and I didn't feel guilty at all that I had blamed it on my sister.<br />
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<br />Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-85058148999512778792018-12-31T17:36:00.000-08:002018-12-31T17:36:06.687-08:00Tell me about yourself.I'm just starting to realize that I'm kind of a weird person. I can see my family members shaking their heads in wonder, thinking, "She just NOW realized it?"
There is a quote by Madeleine L'Engle in <i>A Circle of Quiet</i> that reads: <br />
<blockquote>
Jung disagreed with Freud that the decisive period in our lives is the first years. Instead, Jung felt that the decisive period is that in which my husband and I are now, the period of our middle years, when we have passed through childhood with its dependency on our parents; when we've weathered the storms of adolescence and the first probings into the ultimate questions; when we've gone through early adulthood with its problems of career and marriage and bringing up our babies; and for the first time in our lives find ourselves alone before the crucial problem of who, after all these years, we are. All the protective covering of the first three stages is gone, and we are suddenly alone with ourselves and have to look directly at the great and unique problem of the meaning of our own particular existence in this particular universe.
</blockquote>
In the past few years, I've mulled over life experiences, and after raising 3 children to adulthood, and the last 3 too teenagerhood, I realize that I'm quite unique.<br />
I'll share the first time I can recall showing signs of being eccentric:<br />
I was about 11 years old and had been playing outside by myself - I was raised as an only child after my sister left home when I was 8 - and I got bored. I walked inside and asked my mom to come outside and visit with me. While she was gathering things up to bring outside with her, I raced and got two lawn chairs and faced them toward each other. I sat down and she sat in the other chair and looked at me, and I said, "So, tell me about yourself."<br />
I try to picture my own children in this situation, but with no luck. They simply never cared to talk to me that way.
What kind of an 11 year old asks that question of her mother? None that I know of.Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-34179797990496213442018-12-31T17:33:00.001-08:002018-12-31T17:33:50.282-08:00RIP KennyRIP Kenny - he died a few years ago, but I only found out about it today. I met him when Steve & I ran our IFA in Santaquin. He insisted that feeding chickens the cheapest dog food gave them the best protein for the money - and he his hens laid many eggs to prove it. He took a few roosters off my hands when my neighbor's complained (and he even stood up to the police in my defense when my chickens really ticked off my neighbors once. He later talked to them (the police) about it and told them that he'd heard that they'd been "harrassin' that God fearin' woman across town" and told them to stop it - I wasn't sure how to feel about that, but it warmed my heart, and he offered me one of his Bourbon Red Turkeys for free as a trade - I never got the turkey; I think he might have died before he could get one to me. He had a good heart and was a good person. He was also a character, and you know how I like them. Anyone can be a cookie cutout, but it takes a special person to be who they are and let the chips fall where they may. I will miss you, Kenny.
Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-22098201657121675182018-12-31T17:32:00.000-08:002018-12-31T17:32:04.551-08:00The dogs of our KY houseWhen we negotiated the details about the purchase of our farm in Kentucky, one of the things that was talked about was the existing animals. We were excited to get the chickens, the ducks, and the turkey, and I didn't care one way or the other about the cats, but the old goat and the three dogs made me a mite nervous.
On moving day, after the previous owners were gone, we arrived at the farm with the UHaul packed with all of our possessions and our car packed with our kids. The dogs came running out to greet us. Yikes!
Madame, the Border Collie wagged her tail and barked. Sheila, the German Shepherd, Border Collie, and who-the-heck knows what else has her ears up and tail down and was barking; I was a little nervous. Baloo, Sheila's pup, but now full-grown, with his one blue eye and one brown eye stood with his hackles up, tail down, and a low, steady, teeth-showing growl; I was ready to deed the house to him and go back to Tennessee where I'd come from.
Steve got out of the UHaul and walked up to the door. The dogs were pacing back and forth between the door where Steve was and the driveway where everyone else was. As soon as I crossed the bridge going from the driveway to the walk up to the house, Baloo stayed close to me and glared and growled. Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-10158307274055508082018-12-31T14:33:00.001-08:002018-12-31T14:33:20.661-08:00Deus noster refugium / God is our refuge and strength - Psalm 46<blockquote>
<strong style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;">Psalm 46</strong><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;">Deus noster refugium</span></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<sup style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif;">1 </sup><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;"> God is our refuge and strength, *</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;">a very present help in trouble. </span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;" /><sup style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif;">2 </sup><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;"> Therefore we will not fear, though the earth be moved, *</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;">and though the mountains be toppled into the depths of the sea; </span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;" /><sup style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif;">3 </sup><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;"> Though its waters rage and foam, *</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;">and though the mountains tremble at its tumult. </span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;" /><sup style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif;">4 </sup><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;"> The LORD of hosts is with us; *</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;">the God of Jacob is our stronghold.</span></blockquote>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;"><b>Deus noster refugium = </b></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;"><b>God is our refuge and strength</b></span><br />
<b>Do I believe it?</b><br />
I'm not sure. I suppose so. God is there when bad things happen, though rarely does He/She stop them from happening. I have felt, though, that because I listened to inspiration in my head and heart, the outcome was better.<br />
<b>Have I ever felt that way?</b><br />
When S. became aware of his addiction, and I was forced to pay attention as well, I was led to al anon and from al anon to SMC. Though I thought that I couldn't even mourn my faith crisis, I was led to a safe landing spot with a Priest who listened and helped me on my journey more than he or I even realized.<br />
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When Ammon was born, S.'s meeting was cancelled and he was home with me to drive me to the hospital.<br />
<b>Do I feel that way now? </b><br />
I feel that God is with me when things happen. I feel like He/She is with me now, and that when I get to a point when something goes wrong, He/She will be with me there as well.<br />
God is mindful of me and has inspired me what to do when I've needed to know.<br />
<br />
Many years ago, when I went to pick up my kids from school and had Bentley and Michael in the van with me, my mind thought back on earlier that day when I chose the van to drive for the day over the car.<br />
I had gotten off of the freeway and was following the road around the big curve and my mind was thinking on "How does God know to warn us and protect us when something bad happens? Is it predestination? When the Big Bang happened, did everything in life happen at that precise moment and we are just living in a very slowed-down process of that very moment?"<br />
And then, as I came to a complete stop in the middle of the highway at the intersection that had no turn lane, the car behind me slowed down to stop, and the car behind her slammed into us both. And at that moment, I was thankful I'd chosen the van to drive that day. And yet I was no closer to knowing how God knew...<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15.52px;"> </span>.</blockquote>
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Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-80680362332654924002017-12-30T15:22:00.004-08:002017-12-30T15:22:55.082-08:00One of my biggest regrets...<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0.75em 0px 0px; position: relative;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , "trebuchet" , "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Years ago, Steve & I owned and ran a feed store in the downtown of our small town. We met lots of people, and one of those people was Dale B.</span></h3>
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0.75em 0px 0px; position: relative;">
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Dale had gone to school with Steve and was a few years older. He had a thing for bantam chickens, and often came in and placed orders with me for specialty birds. He also often bought things on credit and would come in the store and do work to pay them off, since his disability payments only went so far.</span></h3>
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<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">One day, Dale came into the store and told me that he'd been thinking about it, and he wanted me to teach him to read.</span></h3>
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<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">I was so busy, what with the store and the kids and our mini farm, so I had to tell him that it honored me that he'd want me to do that, but that there was no way I could.</span></h3>
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<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Dale died a few years ago, and one of my biggest regrets is that I didn't teach him to read. I don't know how I would or could have found time, but I know that I get so much enjoyment from reading, I wish that he could have had that joy too.</span></h3>
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<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">♥ Melody</span></h3>
Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-11240157079569475012017-08-11T12:29:00.000-07:002017-08-11T12:30:45.417-07:00"Tell me about yourself"It's a memory I've been thinking about for the past few years, as I've tried to figure out who I really am. <BR><BR>
I was about 11 or 12 years old. I asked my mom one day to come outside and visit with me. While she gathered up her cigarettes, lighter, and water glass, I ran outside and got two lawn chairs. I opened them up and sat them across from each other. She came outside, and I said, "So tell me about yourself."<BR><BR>
She did. We had several more conversations of the same throughout the years, so I don't remember what she told me that day.<br><BR>
I've often thought about those words throughout the years, and this story is more about me that her - I just keep thinking, "What kind of kid asks that question?" The only one I know of is me.Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-64201287850440746852015-10-29T15:02:00.001-07:002015-10-30T15:42:01.305-07:00FeminismI just read Glennon's blog post, "Why I'm Prejudiced & So are You".
<blockquote>Since I’ve started speaking about this, one thing that I’ve had to resist is shutting down and shutting up in response to this refrain: BUT I’M NOT RACIST. I AM NOT PREJUDICED. I WAS RAISED BETTER THAN THAT. I need you to please try to hear me on this.<BR><BR>
We are raised by our families, but we are also raised by our culture.<BR><BR>
I am a feminist. At my heart, I am a fierce, bold advocate for women. But I was raised in a sexist culture. I was raised in a world that tried to convince me through media, through certain religious organizations, through inadequate history books and through the beauty industry – that female bodies are worth less than male bodies- and that certain types of female bodies (thin, tall young) are worth more than other types of female bodies.<BR><BR>
The daily deluge of images of women’s bodies for sale and the onslaught of emaciated women’s bodies held up as the pinnacle of female achievement and the pervasive message that women exist to please men was the air I breathed decade after decade. I was a radiation canary living in a mine and the toxins were misogyny. I got sick from it. Not because I’m a bad, sexist person but because I was just breathing sexist air.</blockquote>
Me too! I am a feminist. I thank God often that He sent women into my life that worked their farms, fixed their tractors, raised horses, developed their photography, and were good home managers to boot. <BR><BR>
In my life, I garden, I raise chickens, I build fencing for my animals, I mow the lawn, I unclog drains, I check levels on my vehicle, I prune trees, I take the limbs and branches to the dump, plus I help with grandchildren and care for my own children. I can cook from scratch, clean, do laundry, scrub floors, and get stains out of clothes. And none of those things require me to be a female or male. The only thing that requires me to be a female that I have done is gestate and lactate.<BR><BR>
And yet...<BR><BR>
When Jessica was learning to be a woman from me during a crash course lesson when she was 21 (remember, Jessica was Jared just last spring), I realized how many rules I have for how women are supposed to behave.<BR><BR>
I plucked Jessica's eyebrows and taught her how I do my make-up. When she was putting on her mascara, she said, "Good enough." <BR><BR>
And I said, "There is no 'good enough' when you are a woman. You have to get it right.'"<BR><BR>
<iframe width="420" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/xPAat-T1uhE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><BR><BR>
Wow! How powerful are those words? There is no good enough. You have to get it right. <BR><BR>
Who'd have thought that me, a woman who has taught my daughters to not be afraid to get their hands dirty, to kill their own spiders, to check their own oil has probably also taught them that society expects them to "get it right". I had no idea that I had that in me...<BR><BR>
Yes indeed, it has come from our culture. From the time I was 14 until I was 18, at least once a year the activity of learning how to put on makeup was part of my life in my young women's group at church. Why, a leader in that church was just videotaped as he made this statement at a young single adult fireside (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CnpDlNtP81g">watch here</a>). <BR><BR>
There is more to a woman than being beautiful and charming. I have been called both of those things, but I am with Cristina from "Grey's Anatomy" as she says, "Oh screw beautiful. I'm brilliant. If you want to appease me, compliment my brain."<BR><BR>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmidA2Bp-izxORqbge5nq3doCjKtyp_qCdxKyl0xd1-uty4u4NW0jUzyYF6navv5hBFmj2BiIW2nEw1Omc6rJ_PBdhbKgi1VzNESFv_hHxnA5TxztG6AT3MvLw5Azg9cQxXXZYHTdGK80/s1600/oh-screw-beautiful.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmidA2Bp-izxORqbge5nq3doCjKtyp_qCdxKyl0xd1-uty4u4NW0jUzyYF6navv5hBFmj2BiIW2nEw1Omc6rJ_PBdhbKgi1VzNESFv_hHxnA5TxztG6AT3MvLw5Azg9cQxXXZYHTdGK80/s320/oh-screw-beautiful.jpg" /></a><BR><BR>
When Jared was talking about transitioning to a woman years ago, I asked why he would cut off the part of his body that allowed him to be ordained to the priesthood, allowed him to make more money, and allowed him to be taken more serious. How screwed up is that?! I am, as Glennon says, "I was a radiation canary living in a mine and the toxins were misogyny."<BR><BR>
(As a side note: in The Episcopal Church I can keep my genitalia and be still be ordained to the priesthood if I'd like to be. Jessica -as a trans woman- can too. I love that!)<BR><BR>
As I have read comments that people say about inequality of the genders, I keep reading that because we aren't sold into sex trafficking, because we can vote, because men say that they value us, we are equal. <BR><BR>
I saw this SNL ("Saturday Night Live") video that talks about this very issue. Take a look (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SqL9onVybW0">here</a>).<BR><BR>
Yes, we've come a long way, but we have a long way to go. <BR>
♥ MelodyMelodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-13513043426765520362015-08-16T20:52:00.000-07:002015-08-16T20:54:05.586-07:00Hail Mary::Sunday, August 16Today was the first time I've heard the Hail Mary prayer, and my heart was deeply touched. <Br><BR>
Tim Yanni, who is a postulant assigned to St. Mary's, gave the sermon today. Today is the Sunday closest to the Feast of St. Mary, and since we are her namesake church, we honored her by having our services revolve around that holy day. <Br><BR>
During the sermon, he said that Bishop Hayashi encourages the postulants to tell some more personal beliefs of theirs to their peers and to their congregations. He told us that he used to be Roman Catholic. Growing up, he said many Marian Prayers, or prayers aimed toward Mary, the mother of Jesus. He said that he has found that these beliefs are embedded in him - they are his true beliefs at his core - he encouraged us, the congregation, to examine our own deeply held beliefs. He said that we wouldn't have an answer at the end of our lives, but that it will take a lifetime of reviewing to find them all. <Br><BR>
He explained that the reason people pray to Mary is for intercession, since she is the mother of God. He said that we ask her to pray for us the same way that we would ask a family member to pray for us. <Br><BR>
At the end of his sermon, he said that he will continue with his prayers to St. Mary because they are important to him, though he wouldn't ever insist that anyone else believe the same way or practice the same way as he does. (at that point, Matt jabbed me (gently) in the ribs with his elbow. ;) )The final piece was asking all who would like to and knew the prayer, to help him pray the Hail Mary prayer. After the congregation had finished, I was so choked up that I couldn't say the Nicene Creed for a space of time.
This is the prayer:
<blockquote>
Hail Mary, full of grace.
Our Lord is with you.
Blessed are you among women,
and blessed is the fruit of your womb,
Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death.
Amen.
</blockquote>
Amen. <Br>
♥ Melody Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-70066970878387564402015-08-13T11:10:00.000-07:002015-08-13T11:13:48.083-07:00Photojournalism through the eyes of Jimmy from "The Secret Keeper", by Kate Morton<blockquote>"Then there were the photographs he’d taken in London since the Blitz started. Jimmy eyed a series of portraits on the far wall. He stood and went to have a closer look. The East End family pulling the remains of their possessions on the back of a handcart; the woman in her apron hanging laundry on a kitchen clothes line with the fourth wall of her kitchen missing, the private space suddenly made public; the mother reading bedtime stories to her six children in the Andersen shelter; the stuffed panda with half his leg blown off; the woman sitting on a chair with a blanket around her shoulders and a blaze behind her where her house used to stand; the old man searching for his dog in the rubble.
<BR><BR>
They haunted him. He sometimes felt he was stealing a piece of their souls, snatching a private moment for himself when he made his shot; but Jimmy didn’t take the transaction lightly, they were joined, he and his subjects. They watched him from his walls and he felt a debt to them, not only in having borne witness to a fixed instant in their human experience, but also to the ongoing responsibility of keeping their stories alive. Jimmy would often hear the grim announcements on the BBC: ‘Three firemen, five policemen, and one hundred and fifty- three civilians are known to have lost their lives’ (such clean, measured words to describe the horror he’d inhabited the night before), and he’d see the same few lines printed in the newspaper, but then that would be it. There was no time for any more these days, no point in leaving flowers or writing epitaphs, because it would all take place again the following night, and the one after that. The war left no space for individual grief and memorial, the sort he’d seen in his father’s funeral home as a boy, but Jimmy liked to think his photographs went some way to keeping a record. That one day, when it was all ended, the images might survive and people of the future would say, ‘That’s how it was.’"</blockquote>
I read this and it resonated with me somewhere deep down inside of me. I, too, have felt that photojournalism steals a piece of people's souls. I have thought that they need to be alone with their sadness and trauma... then again, I have photographed two funerals and a still-born baby's blessing and photos with the family. Many times, people like to remember, even though at the time they think they don't.<BR><BR>
As I read the lines following that, "Jimmy liked to think his photographs went some way to keeping a record. That one day, when it was all ended, the images might survive and people of the future would say, ‘That’s how it was.’" I realized that too sounded very correct and exactly what I believe.<BR><BR>
The other day, as we were hiking The Grotto, I took some pictures of the landscape. It felt different than it used to. It felt wrong. I realized that I prefer to include people in my pictures, though I don't know when that happened.<BR><BR>
So as I was thinking about what Jimmy had said, and thought about how I felt on The Grotto trail, I realized that maybe, just maybe, I'd like to study to be a photojournalist...<BR>
♥ MelodyMelodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-72409111961244979822015-01-21T16:32:00.000-08:002015-01-21T16:46:06.581-08:00The story of the rusty skates<blockquote>Melody: Oh man, Debbie, these look familiar! I can't ever see a pair w/o thinking about needing stitches:<BR>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNgruebNEWCxpG1NMpevvEWxx792lhyphenhyphenTRwCDGVrZQX7o0EBpfG3lMhuzKz12UZqjK8Cj8FhbTOMD62_gB_l6jRYmJc26CAxQOq-wUW_397tC69_TTVXGaa0gmvLwj19KO3SHfAoLunCC0/s1600/metalrollerskates.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNgruebNEWCxpG1NMpevvEWxx792lhyphenhyphenTRwCDGVrZQX7o0EBpfG3lMhuzKz12UZqjK8Cj8FhbTOMD62_gB_l6jRYmJc26CAxQOq-wUW_397tC69_TTVXGaa0gmvLwj19KO3SHfAoLunCC0/s320/metalrollerskates.jpg" /></a>
<BR>
Debbie: Me either...but they were fun!!
<BR><BR>
(Bill's daughter) Jennifer: We had those also!
<BR><BR>
Melody: So, Debbie and I have a story with those, Jenn. Deb found some in our shed. She was 16 and I was 7 (or was she 15 and I was 6?). Butch had recently moved out, and mom was cleaning his room. Debbie strapped them on. The wheels were kind of rusty and didn't spin as well as they should have, so she told me to push her, so I did.
<BR>
I pushed her from the edge of the carport toward the house, she'd catch herself on the screen door (that had storm windows still in it) and then I'd push her to the edge of the carport and back again. On the last push from the edge of the carport toward the house, her foot caught on the door mat and she slammed into the glass on the screen door. She put her arm up to protect her face (she has a wishbone shaped scar on her forearm from it) and broke through the window. Lots of blood and lots of stitches for that (plus a couple on her chin - was there stitches on your nose too, Deb? or just a cut? I felt sooooo guilty for years, and I still feel badly about it. So she says they were fun; I think they are evil.
<BR><BR>
Debbie: Just a cut with a steri-strip on the nose. I don't know why you ever felt guilty, I was the one who asked you to push me. It was one of those freak accidents. I would do it again in a heartbeat...just maybe not might a storm door.
<BR><BR>
Melody: I felt guilty b/c I was little and I did something to hurt you. Mom and dad raced around helping you, and even after mom and you had left for the hospital, dad didn't talk to me. I thought he was mad at me. Even though I can see now that he was probably worried and didn't want to talk about it, or he was in the middle of something else, basically his silence had nothing to do with me, but since it was all filtered through a little kids brain, and even though I've grown up, since I felt the feelings that I did as a little girl, b/c they are the ones I remember.
<BR>
Crazy I know. I still think those skates are evil though.
<BR><BR>
Debbie: I can understand that thinking. It really freaked dad out. I don't know if you remember but he was the first one to get to me. I remember him yelling Ida and I could tell he was terrified. I know I would be too though if my child's head was through and resting on glass. I'm sorry that you felt like it was your fault. How about if we find a pair and I can push you in them, then you can see how much fun they are? . We could take turns and have a good laugh!!
<BR><BR>
Melody: Oh hell no!! LOL
But I did go to (the skating rink) as a teen and w/ my kids. I can't have anyone touch me while I'm skating or I fall! LOL
<BR><BR>
Debbie: I love to roller skate! I haven't done it for a few years but I loved doing it!
<BR><BR>
Melody: I haven't gone for a while either. The last time we went was when Michael was still little enough to push around in an umbrella stroller.
<BR><BR></blockquote>
I was going to type up the whole scenerio in more of a story form, but I thought the back and forth dialog from facebook was perfect :)<br>
♥ MelodyMelodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-34234614710692456432014-09-25T11:05:00.002-07:002014-09-25T11:15:34.431-07:00Mini-Mid-Life CrisisI wrote this years ago, back in 2008. I wasn't ready for anyone else to read it back then. I'm ready now, so here it is:
<blockquote>Our lives are like patchwork quilts, and each square has vital significance.
No matter what each individual piece looks like,
make the overall pattern of your quilt be true to its creator. ~ m.o.</blockquote>
I went through a mid-life crisis last year, or maybe I should say a mini-mid-life crisis because I didn’t leave my husband and children in a candy apple red Jeep for a life on the beach in Southern California with a cute blonde-haired golden retriever. Instead, I stayed here in Utah with all of my children, my brother, my husband, three dogs, six cats, several rabbits, chickens, and guinea pigs.<P>
Throughout the year I reflected on nearly every memory I have; I guess you could say my life passed before my eyes. Instead of dying at the end of that experience, though, I have resurrected many aspects of myself that I hadn’t thought about in years, and hopefully I will live a more vibrant life because of it.<P>
One thing I’ve noticed about myself and many other women is that they change after they’re married. It makes me wonder if perhaps there is a spell in those wedding vows that makes a woman forget who she is. From then on out she is so-and-so’s wife and after children she adds the title of so-and-so’s mother, often forgetting that once-upon-a-time she was called by her given name. There is nothing wrong with being those people’s wife and mother, but buried down deep there is very often a long forgotten and neglected woman.<P>
When I got divorced nearly fifteen years ago from my first husband I discovered this phenomenon. It took me nearly a year to reunite Melody (first married name) with Melody (maiden name). Melody (maiden name) had given way to Paul’s wife or Josh, Amber, and Jared’s mom. I had forgotten who I was. I was lost for many months, feeling like I was a broken woman. Since that experience I have tried to never lose touch with Melody, all the Melody’s I am, ever again.<P>
It seems that whenever anything “bad” happens to us during our lives we want to resort to things that are comfortable and familiar. So for me, during this mini-mid-life-crisis I just wanted to go home, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out where “home” was. I haven’t really felt at home since I was a little child. Home seems to be a place where you feel most at peace with the sights, smells, and sounds. It’s a place where people know you and care about you. It doesn’t seem to just be a house to me, though, as much as it seems to be a community. The last place I have felt mostly at home at was Kentucky. The pace is slower. The people seem sincere. The grass really is greener. But my mother is aging, and so are my children; they want to stay put right here with their friends. This seems to be their idea of home. So here is where I’ve stayed.<P>
In all my thinking of where I’d like to make home be, I have found that I am a double-minded country girl. I’d like to say I don’t have a need for the big city, but that is where my difficulty comes in. I love the theatre. I love Universities. I love REALLY BIG libraries that don’t seem to have a tight budget. I love the diversity: the music, the food, the culture. Way out in the middle of nowhere is wonderful, but so is the big city. I think my ideal would be to live on a 120 acre farm in the middle of nowhere with a big city half an hour away and to be able to afford the theatre and a good restaurant even when we work from home. A place where our children have ample opportunity to work, play, and learn close by home, while isolating them just a bit so that they learn to make family members be their best friends. A place where I can homeschool, bake bread, milk a cow or goat, garden, tend the rabbits and chickens, and get a doctorate all at the same time.<P>
I have a theory concerning why some places feel like home while others don’t. It’s actually a theory I came up with in the middle of my mini-mid-life crisis’ process: people imprint just like geese do. The place where we live when we are little, the kind of life we lived, the kind of house we lived in, the kind of food we ate, that is our personal version of “normal”. I am testing my theory by revisiting my past residences while contemplating changes that goes back to what I know. The only catch in the practical application of my theory is that my husband didn’t grow up in the same area as I did. He loves the big sky where you can “enjoy watching storms roll in from sixty miles away.” I love being tucked under lots of trees; I feel a bit naked and uncomfortable underneath that great big sky. Living in Kentucky was my Eden, and while Steve enjoyed it too, he longed for the big sky. Now here we are in Utah with the big sky, and I am looking for my green grass on this side of the fence line.<P>
This past year wasn’t a bad one, necessarily, but it did wake me up a quite a bit. Last year I turned 37: half-way to 74! Never again will my face be without wrinkles or my hair without grey unless it’s a gift from Botox or Clairol. It was a hard awakening. At 18, even though many people told me how much I looked like my mother I never believed them, so it was very disconcerting when I turned an age old enough to remember how my mother looked at the age where I am now and I start to see some similarities. Holy cow! Whoda thunk it could happen? Not that she was bad looking, she was just a few pounds heavier than perhaps she should have been, her hair had some silver strands, and the crows feet in the corner of her eyes had begun, just like I have now.<P>
All in all I’m glad for the reflection. Looking at life in the rear-view mirror often helps us to see where we’ve come from and gives us direction to where we want to end up.<BR>
<b><i>♥ Melody</i></b>Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3323449557028027941.post-69897308852073583322014-07-19T11:31:00.000-07:002014-07-19T11:38:46.300-07:00Creativity and Art::July 19I've always wanted to create. <br><BR>
One such time was in my early 20's when the husband of my youth and I drove up to a canyon high above the world. You could only get to this particular spot by driving a one lane road, with mountain on one side and cliff on the other, for over a mile. Scary as hell, but so worth it! At least back then; I don't think I'm ballsy enough to do it now!!<br><BR>
Anyway, the road spit us out in this beautiful mountain meadow, with the most vibrant wildflowers and lush-isly delicious greens: bushes, trees, grasses. Absolute heaven! We only went there a handful of times, but each time pulled on my heartstrings so much that I wished to bring up a canvas and oil paints and paint the scene. The only trouble is I don't paint that well, and what confidence I had in the hope of creation was doused by the logical fact that I didn't have the supplies or training. Gorgeous, though. Absolutely stunning!<br><BR>
So many times in the past few years I feel like there is a novel way down inside of me that is waiting to get out. Needing to be written. Needing to be heard and understood. I've started many stories, but none of them have satiated the feeling that there is something more. Something better. But it is being stuffed down by fierce hands of doubt (on my part) and an acute feeling of amnesia - feeling like I should instinctively know who I am and know my story, but somehow the knowledge is behind a translucent curtain, just out of my reach.<br><BR>
Such it is, and such it will be, if the current writers are telling the truth about their own mind-blocking writer's block. <br><BR>
For now, I write here, on facebook, on <a href="http://merriemelody.blogspot.com/" target="new">merrie melody dot blogspot dot com</a>, and I photograph. And I even get paid for my photography occasionally and also occasionally my work is liked well enough to win a ribbon.<br><BR>
Creation has always been within me, and even when I had a teacher in 4th grade that didn't like me, I bloomed and thrived under his tutelage. He taught us how to watercolor paint a sunrise and sunset with silhouetted objects in the forefront painted black on top of the vibrantly painted background. Another time, he rounded up "junk" boards, and bottle caps, popsicle sticks and other odds and ends of metal and wood and plastic, gave us a bunch of nails and with our hammer we brought from home set out to create junk art. It was one of my favorite experiences!!<br><BR>
In 5th grade I won an art contest, that I didn't enter, at a dentist office. We drove by bus to the office and all of the art that had been submitted by teachers were displayed in the rooms, and mine had a ribbon hanging on it. My teacher never celebrated my success, but my classmates noticed. On the way home, on the bus, I was chatty, because that's how I get when I feel exuberantly happy. When we got back to the school, I had to stay inside during recess because talking on the bus was forbidden, and I needed to be punished. Ah well, I was a celebrity :)<br><BR>
In 6th or 7th grade, again my painting was submitted without my knowledge and it won honorable mention. I have that picture of an old house somewhere around here. <br><BR>
Art is me and I am it. I wouldn't know who I was without my creations, my creativity, and the drive that there is something in here, inside me, just waiting to get out.<br><BR>
And so it goes.<BR>
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<tr><td><font size=+2>♥</font></td><td><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi93QmWUBLjE9tgvwh9jA_zkSrHtXnQtQOSvlmZKSTxXeZ17dessNA-2iBGxPJIGp9D2UCqqDB2B370_2RWOy0HyVYLnnEkjlYvzcFrsK-mUWPIRlP9pegdCIN1FxhlmCRQJnzFKC49LP-2/s320/sig2.gif" /></td></tr>
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Melodyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01335907113967987846noreply@blogger.com0