Karen's stories have appeared in *Newsweek*, *The Christian Science Monitor*, and *Pack and Paddle Magazine* and she's the author of *Are You Taking Me Home Now?: Adventures with Dad*, *The Second Hundred Years: Further Adventures with Dad*, *The Brush of Angel Wings*, *The Madcap Christian Scientist* series, *A Poem Sits on my Windowsill*, *Finding the Rainbows: Lessons from Dad and Mom*, and co-author of *The Humoristian Chronicles: A Most Unusual Fellowship*. Her photos are featured in the spring 2014 edition of the *Bellingham Review*, and the "Photos from the Field" page of the April/May 2017, December/January 2018-2019, April/May 2019, and June/July 2020 issues of of *Mother Earth News*. Her photos can be found here: https://www.flickr.com/photos/60803140@N06/
Her books can be found here: http://www.amazon.com/Karen-Molenaar-Terrell/e/B0044P90RQ/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1312060042&sr=8-
He was waiting outside the store when I came out with my groceries and I said hi. He smiled and said hi back. Give and take. Who taught him to smile? Who taught me?
I started to wheel my cart to my car mentally scrolling through my shopping list to see if I had anything to share with him. Tangerines! I rolled my cart back towards him. You want an orange? Sure! Can you catch it? Yeah! And he smiled at the idea of a game of catch. I tossed. He caught. Who taught me how to throw? Who taught him how to catch? My dad? His dad? And now our dads are connected in our give and take.
As Scott drove west, a train engine went west in reverse. Our car passed the train as the engineer sat facing me and I smiled across the tracks at him and he smiled and waved back to me. I caught his wave and returned it. Who taught him how to wave? Who taught me? All the cosmos connected in a giant give and take. -Karen Molenaar Terrell
I believe that every citizen – regardless of race, ethnicity, social and economic status, religion, non-religion, gender, or sexual orientation – should have the exact same rights as every other citizen – including the right for consenting adults to marry whom they love.
On Wednesday my husband and I will celebrate our 37th wedding anniversary. Every year about this time I find myself thinking back to that happy day and the days leading up to it.
You know those shows you see on television where the bride spends HUGE amounts of time, thought, and bucks choosing the just right ring, dress, caterer, flowers, music, photographer, and reception venue for her “big day” – those shows where every minute detail of the wedding production is analyzed, critiqued, and judged for its merits on visual perfection? Where the ceremony is somber and refined and the highlight of the whole shebang is the dress the bride wears?
Yeah. That wasn’t us.
My engagement ring was a little garnet ring I picked out from a small jewelry shop in Pike Place Market in Seattle, and the man who sold it to us was cheerfully, flamboyantly, hilariously gay – he had us cracking up the minute we walked into his shop. My wedding dress was the first dress I tried on from the sales rack at our local Bon Marche. Cost me $120. Our minister was a hoot – we’d met with him for a required counseling session, and when he told us that anything he had to say to us would be pretty much useless at this point – because it’s really only AFTER the wedding that the bride and groom realize what they’ve gotten themselves into (we later learned that he’d just recently been divorced), we immediately recognized the man had a sense of humor, and he was, for sure, the minister we wanted officiating our nuptials.
The wedding was a joyful, light-hearted affair in a small Methodist church in Gig Harbor – I remember the minister asking us if we really wanted to hold the service in his church – it was very small – could maybe hold 100 people – and very old (it’s since been torn down and a larger church built in a different location) – but, for our purposes, that little church was perfect – I liked the cozy smallness of it and the stained glass windows – and from the church’s steps we could look out across the water and see Mount Rainier rising above the hills in the distance. The wedding itself was simple, joyful, and natural. We weren’t too concerned with “perfection” – we just wanted our guests to feel comfortable and loved. The reception was held in my parents’ backyard – with the sound of laughter, and the smell of daffodils and plum blossoms, filling the air. And we played volleyball in the pasture – the groom’s team won, but it was a close game.
The minister came to the reception, and fit right in with our hooligan families and friends. Before he left he told us that sometimes he’s really worried about the future of the newlyweds he marries – they often seem more concerned about the wedding than the actual marriage – but, after watching us yukking it up with our families and friends, he felt good about being a part of our ceremony. He knew we were going to be alright. We knew how to laugh.
When I think about that day, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to deny other people the right to a wedding, and to a life-long commitment in marriage with the partner they love. I can’t understand why any heterosexual couple would feel their own marriage is threatened by giving everyone else the same rights that they have. I feel a real yearning for other folks who love one another, and are brave enough to make a commitment to each other, to be allowed to have what my husband and I were allowed to have. -Karen Molenaar Terrell
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“Happiness is spiritual, born of Truth and Love. It is unselfish; therefore it cannot exist alone, but requires all mankind to share it.” – from the chapter titled ‘Marriage’ in Science and Health with Key to the Scripturesby Mary Baker Eddy
On January 19, 2020, my 101 year-old father (Dee Molenaar, a well-known mountaineer) died. Two days later, the first case of COVID-19 was reported in the United States – in a town 40 minutes to the south of my home. Ahmaud Arbery was murdered the next month, and George Floyd was killed a few months later. We watched as our friends went insane with QAnon conspiracies; our president ordered peaceful protesters tear gassed so he could hold a Bible in front of a church; and white supremacists marched in our streets waving Nazi banners and Confederate battle flags. Then – because 2020 wasn’t done with us, yet – murder hornets were found in the United States – this time in a place 40 minutes to the north of my home. And on January 6th our country was turned upside down and our democracy almost shaken out of its bag.
In an effort to process Dad’s passing, and the year that followed, I began combing through news stories, Facebook posts, and my own blog. I found moments that made me laugh out loud, and others that were gut-wrenching for me. I found moments that had me shaking my head – wondering what the hell had happened to my country – and other moments that inspired me and made me proud to be an American. At some point during this process, I realized I was creating a book.The book, Scrapbook of a Year and a Day: January 19, 2020 to January 20, 2021, consists of news stories, personal anecdotes, essays, poems, and observations of what we all lived through in 2020.
A Year and a Day
On the nineteenth of January my father died And so began the roller coaster ride that was 2020 and 20 days – a year we struggled to find our way.
At first there were empty streets and quiet weeks of smogless skies and distant peaks I found peace in the stillness – peace in the calm That time alone was a much-needed balm.
But after – a montage of images flashes now through my mind – much of it dark, some of it kind – exploding up, crashing down, fire and rage all around Our nation boils and seethes and a Black man gasps, “I can’t breathe”
Veterans protect fathers with leaf blowers who protect the mothers who protect our Black sons and daughters from tasers and guns. Ahmaud, Breonna, and George – say their names Black Lives Matter – our nation sits in shame as bigots and bullies scramble to shift the blame – and settle on “Karen” (which is really lame).
And a just woman with a doily collar and a selfish man who keeps up the holler and lie of “Stop the steal” and refuses to let the nation heal – our neighbors reel and keel in their zeal – fed rumors and news that are not real.
Dye runs down a lawyer’s face a narcissist screams, “Show your strength!” NAZI and Civil War flags fly in our streets D.C. police pummeled and beat. Racism and bullying and bigotry and hate, caskets of COVID victims, rioters climb gates Long lines for vaccinations, as people wait.
In the end the heroes win – as heroes always do – they step up and vote and stop the coup – they wear masks to protect each other – me and you – they stand up for Breonna and Ahmoud and George – and in the fiery fire a stronger land is forged. -Karen Molenaar Terrell
At a time when we desperately need to come together and support the good in each other – at a time when we need to do away with stereotypes and stop dehumanizing each other – it was very disappointing to see the headline in the paper today. It felt like a punch in the gut. It’s time for people of privilege to stop using “Karens” as their scapegoat – as a way to show that they are allies to the disenfranchised and that they aren’t bigots. In actuality, people who use “Karen” as a pejorative are revealing their bigotry – their sexism and ageism – by using the name in this way.
Using “Karen” as a label for a racist isn’t funny or clever. It’s mean. Those named “Karen” feel pain; they cry and mourn and grieve and deal with mental health issues just like everyone else. And this kind of bullying hurts – I have at least one friend named “Karen” who has contemplated suicide in the last year. Using “Karen” in this way does not add anything good or kind to this world. And this world is in desperate need of kindness. Karen Molenaar Terrell
I want to take a break, I said. Can I step out of life for a moment, or maybe stay in bed? Can things go on without me? Can you just pretend I’m not here? For life is a messy business and I’m tired and I’m weary I’ve made too many mistakes to count today And I’d like to not make anymore, not any.
And the still small voice reached into my thought – gentle, peaceable benediction – “All the good you seek and all that you’ve sought you can claim right now – and that’s no fiction – for Love is yours to express, to feel, and to be – you are wealthy beyond description. Nothing else matters, there’s no other power no warring opinions, no need to cower You are loved and you’re loving and that’s all there is to it Love’s loving child, and there’s nothing else but loving, simply nothing.” – Karen Molenaar Terrell, A Poem Lives on My Windowsill
I’m feeling sad tonight. Discouraged and sad. And it’s okay to feel that way. It’s okay to feel bad. Sometimes I just have to sit in it, you know? Just let myself feel what I feel and learn what I need to learn, and grow. There’s no battle I need to win here, nothing to overcome, no other place I need to go, but right where I am. -Karen Molenaar Terrell
When the second amendment was added to the Constitution, rapid fire weapons did not exist. (The guns available then were muzzle-loaders.) The first rapid fire, mechanical-loading gun – the Gatling – didn’t appear until 1862. It was created for the Civil War – to kill large numbers of people in a short amount of time. That is the purpose of rapid fire rifles. So, tell me again why YOU need one? -Karen Molenaar Terrell
Below is a photo of my favorite gun in my gun collection. Circa 1977. Quickly tossed to me by a guy named Brad (or maybe Phil?) so I could defend myself during an epic squirt gun battle at Washington State University. It didn’t hold much ammo, but it was quick and light and the water could actually go pretty far. It was a state-of-the-art weapon for that time and highly dependable – it did what I needed it to do for me – it got a lot of people wet.
Self-censoring myself, stowing word-sabers – sarcasm and snappy satire – in the scabbard, and becoming the saint of scrubbed and sanitized sacchariney sweetness so as not to seem sensitive, insecure, vulnerable so as to seem safe, secure, strong, unsusceptible, so as to seem above the spikes and spurs because we all know the scapegoat should never sound off – her job is to be stoic and suffer in silence for your sins when the song stops and there’s no seat for her – she’s the one still standing for all the other people of privilege to paste the sign on and establish that THEY are not racists, maskless, vaccineless stooges (strangely, establishing their biases in their efforts to seem bias-less) but – suffering succotash – it stings! -Karen Molenaar Terrell
Adventures of the Madcap Christian Scientist 