Oct 092009

My friend, Chimmy, is a contemporary poet. She chooses and molds words like a sculptor with clay. She tastes words and adds or omits them, then stirs them up like a master chef. She flings words around violently sometimes and sets them down gently other times, like a dancer uses her arms to translate music. And the reason Chimmy’s brilliant is that she hears the music of life clearly, so she’s able to tell the truth of it, sharply and sweetly. I always think of artists as translators…they observe and experience life first, and then use their medium to try to explain their conclusions. And sometimes we meet an artist, or a dancer, or a writer whose conclusions about life match our own, and our heart beats faster, like a traveler in a foreign land gratefully recognizing her native tongue. Chimmy’s poetry makes my heart race.

Chimmy sent me several of her poems last week. I was honored. I sat at the computer and consumed them slowly, repeatedly, like they were chocolate. The power and depth of her voice overcame me like a wave. And then I got to one poem that I wasn’t sure I loved at all. I read the first two lines and started to feel twitchy, a little paranoid actually. I looked over my shoulder because I had the sensation of being watched. I kept reading the poem faster, frantically, even. I felt like I was reading a secret about myself that I’d never told anyone before, that I didn’t even maybe know myself. It was very, very strange. I considered the possibility that I really needed to start getting more sleep. So I went to bed.

Then, in the morning, I sent Chimmy this message:


i shouldn’t be surprised by your talent, but i am. you are magical.

your words are like a salve but also sort of scary and dangerous too.

i love all the poems, but “where powerful forces scatter”really affected me. i felt that one deep in my bones. i was kind of panicking and tingly as i read it. I felt like I was reading a secret about myself that noone was supposed to know.

don’t ever take me off your list. send me everything, please.

you are gifted.

love, glennon

And Chimmy wrote the following response:

I’m really psyched that you liked the RANT, especially ‘powerful forces’ because it, of all my ramblings was fueled in large part by the community you’ve brought together on your blog. In the only way I know to express it, it is sort of my “Me Too” or where thoughts of my “Me Too” took me. Your blog reaffirmed that connectedness I feel when I “feel” someone else’s words too. Our stories are all different threads of one tapestry generation after generation. So it goes for me anyhow.

And so, of course, when I read this, I cried. I know, I know, I overuse tears almost as much as I overuse italics. But I couldn’t help it, I was moved. Because apparently the poem that I felt was my soul secret, was my soul secret, told to me by a woman to whom I haven’t spoken, other than through writing, for 15 years. She read Momastery and she knew me through it and she knew herself through it, and then she offered me a one of a kind portrait of the two of us standing side by side. And all of you were in the portrait, too.

I just don’t know, friends. There is something to this offering of yourself and being open to the offerings of other women that is so healing.

So I sent this response to my Chimmy, my friend, my contemporary poet:


It’s 6:24 am and I’ve been up for two hours trying to put together this morning’s post. I’m tired…and more than tired, I’m weary. I sometimes feel a little drained by this writing thing, this constant pouring out of myself. And by sometimes I mean always and by a little I mean a lot.

But then I started working on the post about you, and about your “Me Too” and about “where powerful forces scatter” and i just wanted you to know that if it’s okay, i am going to print your poem and keep it next to my computer to spur me on. the poem is just that powerful and inspiring and haunting to me. you are SO gifted chimmy. i don’t know what else to say but thank you.

you have a lovely, lovely day.



Friends, here is the poem that is now taped to the wall next to my computer, so I can see myself and Chimmy, before I write to you each morning.

iii.where powerful forces scatter

you’ve spread your body

across this blaze before

laid upon this stone

laid down in this field

with ghost women

whirling high above

their incantations

whispered over your bones

you’ve already been broken

already healed

your wounds a treasured part

of your body’s story

somethingchased you here

pushed you into this

motionless serene moment

this peculiar pause

a body in motion

won’t collapse

a body at rest

the awkward way

bones gather in stillness

and all else fades to silence

and dark

is breakable

but you’ve nowhere else

to long for

nowhere to go

you collapse back

down into your soul

look at yourself in these words

floating between

breaking and breathing

the echoes of ghost women

in your voice

their haunting sorrow

their enduring joy

their unending stories

and sounds when you speak

Thank you, Chimmy, for the offering.

If you’re new to Momastery and you’re wondering how a few posts about milk and water and pans inspired such intensity, check out THIS or THAT, if you have the time.

Also, if you’d like, check out the foundation that Chimmy and her daddy started at www.walkingwithafricans.org .

Ya’ll have a beautiful weekend. I’ll miss you terribly.

Nov 162009

I got this thing in the mail this week, from my good friend, Kiran, over at Masala Chica.

Ever since she married Craig’s best friend John, Kiran has dedicated herself to helping my little family function more efficiently and appropriately. She is forever bringing us meals and clothes and toys and other expressions of loving concern.

Last night, Kiran dropped off some pasta sauce that John’s Italian mother made. While we were eating Chase said, “This is so good. It tastes DIFFERENT.” And Craig said “That’s because Italian people make their own sauce.” And Chase said “From what?” And Craig said “From scratch.” And Chase said “What’s scratch?” And Craig said “It’s like…ingredients. Ingredients are…things some people have in their kitchens. And they put them all together. And they stir them. And the things…they turn into other things.” Chase was quiet for a minute and then said, “So…it’s like magic? I don’t understand.” And Craig said “I know. We don’t either.” At which point I interrupted with a reminder that I had a Swiney headache and so maybe we could discuss something less confusing and stressful, like perhaps our family’s ideas for achieving peace in the Middle East.

A few months ago Kiran’s family was over at our house for dinner. I was trying not to cry because Craig had just announced that sweet jesus, the grill was broken and Kiran said “G, why don’t you use the Advantium?” and I said “Why don’t I use the Advatiwho?” And she walked me over to my microwave and showed me these special buttons and black trays which I had always thought were just really, really dirty white trays but apparently not. In my own defense, we had just recently acquired the microwave five years prior. Kiran patiently explained that my microwave was not just a microwave, it was actually an oven, too. And that I could use the special buttons and black trays to cook things. I found the whole conversation baffling, since that’s what I thought I was doing all along in my microwave… cooking things. I wondered what I had been doing to our food for the past five years if not cooking it. I also wondered why Kiran was so determined to complicate the only thing in the kitchen that made any sense. But she seemed so excited to enlighten me that I pretended to be pleased and to understand, and I even showed Craig the fancy buttons right in front of her to prove my enthusiasm.

When it seemed appropriate to move on from the topic of my magical microwave, I asked Kiran if any of my other appliances had superpowers. I was thinking that maybe my refrigerator could mop or my dishwasher came with some sort of discipline plan I could use on Tish. Kiran threw her head back and laughed in the same way people always laugh when they think I’m joking. This laugh is my cue to stop asking questions. A few years ago, in the car on the way home from a particularly embarrassing dinner party…Craig suggested that when someone I’m talking to laughs like that, it’s important that I start laughing too and pretend that I was joking all along. So I did.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

We, of course, have never spoken of or used our fancy buttons or black trays since Kiran left our house that day. There are really only two buttons I need on my microwave, actually in my entire kitchen, and they are Time Cook and Popcorn. Also, I do enjoy using the light switches. I am basically an expert at those. But I appreciate Kiran’s effort. She never gives up on me. And I also appreciate her gift. It took a few days to figure out what the gift was, but all the thinking was worth it because look how pretty it is.

Thank you, Kiran.

Kiran goes back to work today after being home on maternity leave for months. I think it’s probably a pretty tough day for her. If you get a chance, head on over to Masala Chica and leave her some love. We mommies, writers, readers, women… need to stick together.

Dec 012009

Our first guest post this week is from Adrianne, a fiery and soothing redhead who owns a large portion of my heart. Adrianne and I both love Jesus, our families, and each other- and neither of us sees much reason to change out of pajamas, ever. These four commonalities have proven to be enough to forge and sustain one of the most rewarding friendships I’ve ever enjoyed.

Adrianne wrote some kind things about me in this post, which was sort of against the rules. My instinct is to explain or joke them away. But instead, I am going to try to be a bit graceful and grateful this morning and just say thank you, friend. I love you, too.

Thanks and Praise

I met Glennon in the summer of 2005. My husband and I moved from DC to the burbs when I got pregnant with our first child. I didn’t have any friends in Northern Virginia, and I was desperate to make connections with other women. So I joined a group called Mothers First and before too long, I was a co-leader. A few days before one of our regular Tuesday morning meetings, I received an email from a woman named Glennon, telling me that she had recently moved to the area and was going to be at the next meeting with her toddler son. We were a friendly group of gals, always happy to have new moms interested in our group. I welcomed her and assured her that I would be there to greet her at the next meeting.

Our regular meeting place was the local library. I walked in holding hands with my daughter and checked in at the desk to make sure our room was reserved. I quickly glanced over at the sitting area and noticed a woman sitting in one of the chairs. A little boy was standing next to her. I vividly remember thinking, Oh, please don’t let that be her. In the one glance I had taken of Glennon, I decided that I could definitely, absolutely not be friends with her. She was impossibly pretty. She was also petite and curvy, which isn’t fair at all. Women should be one or the other, right? She looked like every popular girl in junior high who had ever been mean to me. Please don’t let that be her.

It was her.

Since then, I have grown to adore her. The more I learn about her, the more I like her. And I cannot tell you how much fun it has been to see so many of you grow to like her, too.

When I read Momastery and all of your lovely comments every day, I feel especially lucky to know Glennon in real life. So many of you only know her through her beautiful writing and her photographs. I suspect that many of you feel close to her, and believe me when I say that I know those cyber-relationships can be very real and meaningful. After all, I am a woman who met and pursued my husband on the internet. Our relationship began with emails and online chatting, and I loved him before I ever saw him. So I understand the power and intimacy of written correspondence. With that said, I also have to tell you that being in the same room with Glennon is really something. All the light and love that pour out of her writing also pour out of her eyes. Her face doesn’t only light up when she smiles. Her face is lit all the time. Her love of The Lord illuminates her. Yes, she really is as lovely as she seems. I’m telling you this because if I were you, this is something I would wonder about. I wondered the same thing about my husband back when I was first wooing him online. So for the record, the answer is yes. Glennon is the real McCoy. All of her kindness and humor transfer over into real life. I know. I can hardly believe it, either.

I am sure that Glennon is cringing as she reads this. She’s horrified that I am using my stint as a Momastery guest writer to tell all of you how wonderful I think she is. In the Melton household, bragging is a felony offense. Just ask Chase.

Now that I have taken my chance to assure you that Glennon is the real deal, it’s time for me to move on and say what I need to say.

The problem is, deciding what I need to say has been surprisingly difficult for me. You should know that it is only on very rare occasions that I find myself at a loss for words. Under normal circumstances, my problem would be narrowing down the list of hot topics that need my attention. I’m extremely opinionated, and I usually have a lot to say. I’m the same way when I pray. I have a lot tell God, and I often ramble at Him. But when I sat down to pray about what to write in this blog post, I tried hard to be still, not say much, and just listen.

I am sorry to report that I was unsuccessful. I was not able to turn off the dialogue running in the back of my mind while I prayed. Usually, that dialogue is a running ticker of my household to-do list. But this time, it was thoughts of thanks and praise that wouldn’t leave my head. While hoping for some divine writing intervention and trying to be still, my thoughts kept wandering back to this community. I am incredibly grateful for this cozy little piece of cyber real estate, and I can’t stop marveling at the revolution that recently started here. Eventually, I gave up trying to be still and pray like a grown-up. It occurred to me that maybe God wants me to just roll with what’s in my heart.

Here it goes.

Thank you, God, for putting Glennon in my life. I sometimes joke that I won the friendship lottery that day I met Glennon in the library. But I know that our meeting was no accident. God knew what I needed, and he gave it to me. He put her in my path because He knew she would share her stories with me, and He knew I needed to hear them. I needed to hear stories about suffering and bondage that end with hope and freedom. And I needed to hear them from one of the pretty girls for whom everything had always looked so easy.

Thank you, God, for making my friend Glennon your faithful servant. Because every time she draws nearer to her Savior, she brings me along for the ride.

Thank you, God, for Monkees. In a world where groups of female friends are often seen as troops of superficial girls scurrying off to gossip or talk about fashion, recipes, and dieting, you are a reminder that we are far deeper than our respective stereotypes. (I realize most of you learned this lesson the first time you saw The Breakfast Club, but these things take me a little longer.) Thank you, God, for helping us lift each other up and love each other and pray for each other rather than compete or judge. Thank you for giving so many Monkees the courage to share their joys and sorrows on this blog because every time I read it, I feel more hopeful than I did the day before. Thank you for leading me to a group of women who are trying hard to treat other people the way they want to be treated.

Thank you, God, for our Momastery. I think of this blog as a campfire by the sea. Glennon started the fire and invited the rest of us to join her. Because the fire has such a lovely glow and keeps out the cold, many of us were drawn to it and our numbers grew fast. Now some of us are adding fuel to the fire and most of us are crowding around it for warmth while our circle grows bigger and bigger. This fire of ours is just now starting to crackle and hiss and throw sparks high into the sky, and very soon we will stop having to crowd around it for warmth because our magnificent bonfire will give off so much heat that we’ll have room to dance, skip, jump for joy, and sing Hosanna to the highest if we are so inclined. The thing about our Momastery that I am most thankful for, Lord, is that it’s also a place where I am safe to just sit quietly by the sea, enjoy the warmth, and watch the others dance and feed the fire.

Thank you, God, for making my heart grateful today.

Thank you, Monkees, for allowing me to be part of the Revolution. Let’s keep it going, shall we?

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