~FEELING BETTER...and a Story From The Past~

Dear Sweet Blogging Friends...

I've taken a tiny little turn for the better and do believe the worst of my FLU is already past.  Thank you sooo much for your kind words, prayers and well wishes to me.  They mean more than you can know!  My Mr. AGPMan is indeed taking awesome care of me and I'm more blessed than I can say to have him in my life.

Now...before I scoot back off to bed (warm pink jammies, thick woolen socks and all) I'd like to share something with you if I may...

Even though I've been feeling truly crummy I've still TRIED to keep up with a few work related things because even when I'm sick I have a business to run (no sick pay for the self-employed I'm afraid!).  Anyway, early this morning while checking my email I discovered a sweet note from 'a stranger' and it stirred my memory about a blog post I did almost two years ago.  Since I'm not clear-headed enough right now to compose something new, I hope you won't mind this little 're-run' from February '09.  I'm hoping those of you who are newer to my blog will enjoy reading a tender story, one I will carry with me always...  I promise I'll be back soon!  Can't wait to show you what we've been up to!

Love to you~

Rebecca

Here is the email below that I received this morning:

Rebecca, Hope this finds you well and lived through the Holidays! I am just letting you know that of all of the emails, messages, etc. that I have received over the years, yours is special! If you are making an attempt to figure out who this is, it's the gentleman in Los Angeles that sent that Yearbook to you and have enjoyed the story that it has given me to share with whom I think could appreciate it. Again, I hope this finds you and yours well and anticipating a better year! Paul

Her name was Laura and from as far back as I can remember she was there.
 

Laura was a petite little thing, truly tiny. For years the two of us battled back and forth hoping to win the coveted title of “shortest girl in the class”. Secretly I believe we both enjoyed the grade school fame brought about by our questionable stature. I think we liked the teasing, too. At the very least we enjoyed being noticed for something certainly not notable.

Her hair was golden yellow and easily framed the delicate features on her lightly freckled, pixie-shaped face. My hair on the other hand was seriously mousy brown and my nose and lips could never be considered, um…well…delicate. My mother did dress me up fancy though, and if anything set the two of us apart it was our clothing. Laura was a confessed “Plain-Jane” and I was a bit “Prissy”. Her dresses were the dime store kind and forgettable. Her socks were dingy white and more often than not her shoes were too big and overly worn. Evidence of an older sister, I suppose. Still, we were friends. And it was during those early years at Bixby Elementary we dared to dream the biggest of dreams while carrying the smallest of reservations.

I remember best fifth grade, for that was the year we played “Barbies” for hours and the one and only time Laura was allowed to spend the night. We giggled until the wee morning hours, stopping only when my father came in to settle us down. FIFTH GRADE! The unforgettable year of Red Rover, Red Rover and the begging for my “best friend” to come over… It was also the year our classmate, Cindy, was bucked from her horse and died. The year we both learned of loss, experienced real sorrow and death. I remember how we cried…we were 10.

The years flew by. Laura and I stayed friends but we were never to be as close as we were during the summer of 1968. Little by little we’d grown apart, opting to follow different paths on our journey through life. There was hurt…there was anger…and there was pride. So much stupid pride! I moved from my home state of California to Colorado during the summer of ’74, two years before our class graduated from Glen A. Wilson High School. Although I received two letters from her before our high school graduation, I was never to see Laura again…
 
Now...fast forward to the summer of 2008…
 
Because I’m hopelessly sentimental, I always prayed I’d find a copy of Wilson's 1976 Prowler Yearbook. Moving away from my homeland had always been difficult for me and even though more than 30 years had passed, I longed to see with my own eyes some of the things I had missed. I searched tirelessly on the Internet for over seven years when one day I saw the very yearbook I’d been hoping to find offered up for sale on eBay. I couldn't click on the Buy-It-Now button fast enough…

I counted down the days until the yearbook arrived. She came wrapped in simple brown paper and had a return address which included my childhood hometown. I carried the book into my office and began to tear away the wrappings, slowly, carefully opening her cover. She was in good condition. She'd been gently loved and cared for. I was actually nervous...even a little afraid some of my past might catch up with me.

I quickly searched through a maze of scribbled names and sentiments, special keepsakes, endless photos and graduation calling cards for a hint at the identity of the yearbook's previous owner. And then, just to the right of a carefully pressed corsage was a name I immediately recognized…Laura Miller.

With a little help from a sweet high school pal, I discovered much about the life of my childhood friend. Laura indeed went on to have a very difficult journey. She endured more than her share of heartache and loss and battled things I can only scarcely comprehend. There were addictions, depression, and the inability to bear children. Finally, in the end there was the ovarian cancer that robbed her of breath in May ’08. She was 49.

I cried for a bit when hearing of the news of her passing…more than a bit if you want to know the truth. Cried because we’d lost touch and grown apart… Cried because Laura’s life was so DARN HARD while mine had been fairly easy. Cried because I never took the time to find her or at least try and help her through some challenging times… Cried because I never cared enough to understand her difficult choices, her history, her heartache… Cried because I’d judged her too harshly…refusing to even acknowledge the beam in my eye while picking at the speck in hers. Mostly I cried because I never took the chance I'd been given to say “I love you” and “I forgive you”.

Today I encourage you to bind the bruised and broken, mend fences, mingle memories, melt pain. Until we make peace with others, we’ll never be at one with our Creator.

I’m preaching to the choir, friend…

Blessings...