~THOUGHTS ON A SUNDAY MORNING...Recapturing Moments of Innocence~

 Last summer a new family moved into our neighborhood.  The original owners, who were probably the age my Mr. AGP Man and I are today, moved away about 15 years ago and have since passed on.  We called him The Bernina Man because he owned the sewing store in our town.  Their boys were grown and our relationship with them was friendly and cordial with lots of hand-waves and chatting at the mailbox!  The next set of owners were quiet people even though they were very kind.  Ms. D sadly passed away two years ago from cancer and her husband sold the house to the family that now calls it home.

One day while working up in my studio I heard an odd banging sound outside.  Because lots of renovations were being made to the house and grounds (some major ones in fact!) I dismissed it at first.  But...it kept on and on and so out of curiosity I peaked out from one of the room's two shuttered windows to see what was going on.  There was this thud, thud, thud noise and then sometimes a softer sound, like the scrambling of feet followed often by the sound of metal and then another thud.
(I knew it wasn't a power-tool or yard equipment because I know those sounds so well!!!)

It was then I saw three young boys bouncing and dribbling a nearly flat basketball.  Their scurrying around, followed by the familiar sound of a SWOOSH, made me smile big!  Children had finally re-entered our neighborhood after a very, very long absence.  My children have been out of high school for almost 15 years now and it's been about that long since we heard the wonderful sounds of childhood play.

I didn't know until I heard those young boys laughing how much I missed the sounds of innocence.  I began to long for the cuddles from my two babes...forever grown and settled into their adult lives.  Never to return again to the safety of their small twin beds, scattered puzzles, Legos and blanketed baby dolls.

In childhood, where we dwell in the world of carefree play, joy is found in a simple ride around a merry-go-round, the thrill of a push upon the seat of a rickety old swing or even in the bouncing of an under-inflated basketball.

Childhood.

It's magical...
Especially when we find we've grown beyond it.

 As I continue to heal from my injuries I've made it my mission to recapture some of the innocence I think I lost last year.  

I refuse to become bitter or angry over days lost or stolen health.

And so~I'm spending some time this week journeying back into the sweetness of my childhood.  I know it will be there I rediscover more about who I am
and also the person God desires me to become in the future.

"Lord of hopefulness, Lord of all joy,
Whose trust, ever childlike, no cares could destroy.
Be there at our waking, and give us, we pray,
Your bliss in our hearts, Lord, at the break of day."
(J. Struther)

Love to you...

Rebecca

~A MEMOIR'~

If you've followed my blog for very long or read my profile on my sidebar then you know I'm the daughter of a preacher-man.  For as long as I can remember my father was a student of the Word and because of his ministry I was exposed to many amazing things during my childhood.  As a young girl I didn't fully understand the impact some of those early life-lessons would have upon my life, or years later just how they would affect me as I grew into adulthood.

Sunday was always a busy day at our home.  We were up early and rarely missed church.  We had to be on our death-bed or at the very least laden with a high fever to get out of going.  I tried faking being sick a few times,  but I was always busted.  After morning services ended as a family we returned home for lunch. Rarely was dining out an option as my father's meager income couldn't afford the luxury of a restaurant meal.  By early afternoon my brother Bill and I, along with our father, piled back into our ratty-trap car (I know this because ALL the cars we ever owned were junkers!) and drove about ten miles to a convalescent home to minister to the aged and afflicted.  We did this three Sundays out of four each month until we were in our early teens...

I suppose it's important to tell you here that although I willingly went with my father to these services sometimes most times I didn't want to go.  Although my dad never forced me to go with him,  I just could never actually bring myself to tell him I wanted to stay home.  Instead of singing to a bunch of old people, who were either out of their minds or sleeping, I just want to run and play outside with my friends.

 On most of our trips to the nursing home my brother would pass out hymnals and I would almost always sing and play my guitar.  It was in these simple, unsophisticated meetings I learned what it meant to have a compassionate heart for the sick and infirmed.  It would take another three decades before I would come to appreciate the experience and today I hold the memory of our convalescent services as one of my best.  I'm so glad I didn't stay home.

When the nursing home service concluded Bill and I knew our father would treat us both to something special.  It was never much...a small ice-cream float at the local A&W or a bottle of pop from Market Basket.  Sometimes he'd buy us a tiny box of candy, but usually it was a sweet, fizzy concoction of our own choosing.  Together we would open the cooler's lid and pull out whatever soda fit our fancy on that day.  Bill never picked the same thing twice and my dad, if he could afford three bottles, always drank Dr. Pepper...

But for me, being the kind of thinker I am, I had the picking out of my soda down to an art.  My logic was simple.  I would simply pick the biggest bottle of pop for the least amount of money...  And without a doubt it was always BUBBLE-UP.   Most soda pop bottles back then were 12oz or 16oz...but not Bubble-Up!  It held a whopping 18oz (which was alotta pop back then!) and I promise you I savored ever tiny drop.

I rarely (if ever) drink soda anymore...  But while on our mini vacation over Thanksgiving I visited a small store out west and sitting right in front of me was a four pack of Bubble-Up.  My heart skipped a beat and I instantly was transported back to the age of ten.  It was as if the last 40 years had never passed for I could feel myself standing along side my father and brother with my trusty icy cold, lemon-lime drink in hand.

What I understand today is that those bottles of pop often took my father's last few coins.

He gave us all he had and we didn't even realize it.

As I type this my only brother and his wife are driving from Southern Cali to Oklahoma (20 plus hour trip) to be here to watch my beloved, my Mr. AGPMan, receive his college diploma.  As a family we will celebrate with joy!

 While here we will also travel down to the nursing home where our father still resides for a long overdue visit.  I'll take my guitar and my brother will take his and together we will sing and play for a special aged and infirmed man, just like we did as children...

And just in case we get thirsty I'll have three bottles of soda in my satchel...

An Orange Crush for Bill.

Dr. Pepper for my Daddy.

And Bubble-Up for me.

Blessings as the memories help carry you through...

Love to you~

~SWEET REST FOR ANDREA~

~PEACE FOR ANDREA~

Dear Friends...

I uploaded my Makeover Post of today before receiving the news my sweet childhood friend, Andrea, had passed into the loving arms of her Lord early this morning.  I'm rejoicing my longtime friend has found peace and rest with Jesus and that her earthly body is free from the pain she had been suffering with for a long, long time.

Thank you for your prayers and for your thoughts and concerns for someone you didn't even know.  Andie was very young...too young to pass from this earth.  But...God's grace is enough and in my heart I know He will not allow what we, His children, cannot bear.

Please say a prayer (or two, or three...) for Andrea's children, her tiny grandbabies and her hubby of over 30 years.  I know within my own heart their lives have changed forever...

May the Mercy, Grace, Peace and Love of our Lord be with them today and always.

(I love you, Andie the Nut...xoxoBecky)

I love you all~

~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...

THOUGHTS ON A SUNDAY MORNING

Another year has nearly come and gone and before long I will begin my third year of blogging.  It hardly seems possible as it feels almost like yesterday that I began sharing with you the very things I love most about life...

My faith

My family

and 

a deep, yet simple, belief that God has a purpose 

and a plan for our lives...

When I was a bitty girl Sundays were jammed-packed full of activity.  Being the daughter of a preacher-man you can probably understand that we were always on the go.  My father seemed to always be speaking, preaching or teaching somewhere and for us 'Elliott Kids'  Sunday(at least for me!) never felt like a day of rest.  More like a day of work if you want to know the truth.  I'd much rather have been outside playing jump-rope, riding my two-wheeler bike or coloring in the latest, greatest coloring-book known to man children than listening for the gazillionth time how Moses built the Ark and how Noah was given The Ten Commandments!

(I jest!!!!  I KNOW, I KNOW it's the other way around!) :)

Still...our Sunday Worship Gatherings ultimately served a greater purpose for somewhere between my parent's tough scoldings  loving instructions and their promises of a bootay whoopin'  just punishment if I didn't start mindin'

(that usually started out with

"Becky Sue! Stop coloring and put on your Sunday socks?!"

or the

"You've were given a full week to memorize your Bible verse not a week to color every page in your color-book!?"

to the

"Take that coloring book BACK inside the house!"

or the

"Rebecca Suzanne!  If I have to tell you ONE MORE TIME to put that colorbook down you're gonna get....!")

   
I learned about a big God who lived in heaven and how, if I wanted Him to, He could shrink down small enough to live inside my heart...

Pretty awesome thought.

Big enough.

Small enough.

~~*~~

Below are the lyrics to the first song playing today on my Playlist.  

Simply put...He's everything to me!

"Everything To Me"

I grew up in Sunday school
I memorized the Golden rule
And how Jesus came to set the sinner free
I know the story inside out
I can tell you all about
The path that led Him up to Calvary
But ask me why He loves me
And I don't know what to say
But I'll never be the same
Because he changed my life when He became...

Everything to me
He's more than a story
more than words on a page of history
He's the air that I breath
The water I thirst for
And the ground beneath my feet
He's everything, everything to me

We're living in uncertain times
And more and more I find that I'm aware
Of just how fragile life can be
I want to tell the world I found
A love that turned my life around
They need to know that they can taste and see
Now everyday I'm praying
Just to give my heart away
I want live for Jesus
So that someone else might see that He is...

Everything to me
He's more than a story
more than words on a page of history
He's the air that I breath
The water I thirst for
And the ground beneath my feet
He's everything
And looking back over my life at the end
I'll go to meet you saying you've been...

You're everything to me
You're more than a story
More than words on a page of history
You're everything to me
You're more than a story
More than words on a page of history
You're the air that I breath
The water I thirst for
And the ground beneath my feet
You're everything to me
Lord, you're everything to me

Blessings today as you give thanks for...

 well...

EVERYTHING

Love to you...

HOME SWEET HOME

Sometimes it's as if I've been gone only for an hour or two...

It's been 36 years this month that my parents and their four children loaded a lifetime of belongings inside a large moving van and backed it out of the driveway of the only real home any of us ever knew.  As we crammed into our aging family car we headed east towards Pike's Peak Mountain and as we drove away I knew only one thing to be true...I desperately didn't want to go.

My heart was never quite whole after I left Sigman Street and if the truth be told I never really considered any other house I ever lived in as a child my home.  And, although I am never to know how my life would have been different, I somehow know I would have ended up in the very same place I am today.  I may have taken another road to get here...traveled a different path...walked down a different street, but I believe I would be living the life I am now living just the same.

I pulled up the picture at the top from the Internet and it shows what our California home looks like today.  It's a shadow of it's former self for long gone are the crank-out windows and the soft brown facade that set the home apart from those around it.  The Fruitless Mulberry Tree planted when I was seven has been uprooted and the original landscaping has been changed as well.  In it's place an extended concrete driveway has been poured and it now sits on top of the very earth where the photo of the three of us kids was taken back in 1963/64...

This morning as I went outside to water my garden flowers I couldn't help but wonder about the house standing so proud and tall in front of me.  Who might be driving by my La Chaumière de Briarwood questioning the changes made to what might very well be their childhood home?

When I was still a very young girl my family visited the plot of Texas land where my Father lived as a boy.  The house hand long ago been torn down and I remember watching as tears formed in his eyes as he talked about Conroe and how he deeply he loved it.  At the time I did not understand his passion for the earth beneath his feet or why the demise of 'Crystal Creek' caused his booming voice to crack and tremble...

Not long ago I was chatting with my grown son about possibly one day selling the house he lived in as a child and the Oklahoma home we still live in today.  Once we have grown older it's hard for us to imagine being able to climb her aging stairs...

"Oh Mom!" he began

"I want to live in my old house again someday!  Please promise me you won't ever sell it without giving me a chance to buy it.  I hope one day I'll again call it home..."

 Today I'm happy to know that as everything about life and the land seems to change about me daily, thankfully the love of home continues to live on and on...

UPON RETURNING

May Smith White

Is this the lane where lilacs used to bloom~

Or have I missed the road that once I knew?

As here above the fence, no longer loom

The wind-blown lilacs I had longed to view.

For years I somehow knew I would come back~

Although a silent voice had said to me:

Old scenes will be subdued, in someway lack

The beauty known upon each hill and lea!

But yet, I know I will return again

To claim a dream before it fades and dies;

To see a greening hillside washed in rain

And soon, the clearness of the cobalt skies.

I will return again I know~I know~

To walk remembered paths of long ago.

Blessings for a lovely day!

Love to you~

~A LITTLE REFLECTION and a Tender Lesson on Kindness~

~Hacienda Heights, CA~

1964 - Linda-Bill-Becky

I've always loved this little photograph of me and two of my three siblings back in 1964 (Jenny wasn't born until 1967).  I remember the day so well!  It was a bright, sunny California morning and our father had coaxed the three of us outside in order to snap a picture of us on the new fence he was building for our mother.  Still unpainted at the time(it was eventually white), the sad little fence ended up being a total nightmare of a project (my dad was no carpenter!) and before long was taken down.  In the background you can see his prized 1958 Oldsmobile...  Gosh,he sure did love that car.

But~that's not what this little story is about.

I was about six years old when my older sister Linda and my brother Bill and I posed for the camera. I was in 2nd grade at Bixby Elementary School and truly the goofiest looking kid on the planet.  I was.  I had the mousiest of stringy brown hair and my teeth, which all fell out at the same time, proved to be my undoing well into my high school years.  Because I started kindergarten at the tender age of four I always seemed to be playing "catch-up" with the other kids.  I was smaller than everyone in my class and much to my parent's chagrin I never seemed to be able to keep my big mouth shut.  I was always getting into trouble for yacking it up which didn't make me too popular with my teachers OR my classmates.  When you get busted for talking too much you usually drag somebody else down with you.  I was teased mercilessly for acting like a baby, looking like a baby, crying like a baby, being too short, too loud, too, well... TOO something.

A couple of weeks ago my Miss K spent the weekend at my house and as usual some interesting dialog was exchanged between the two of us.  As I was combing her hair for her very last Monday as a 1st grader we began to chat about how fast she was growing and how absolutely beautiful I thought she was.  Call me partial, biased even, but I do think she is a very pretty little girl.

After a few seconds of her telling me how SHE wanted HER hair fixed her voice began to trail off...

"I don't think I'm beautiful, Nana!

"Some of the kids in my class don't like me!"

Realizing she was feeling the effects of some classmate teasing (bullying?), I asked her to explain her feelings and pressed her a bit for a little more information. 

And so she continued...

"Well(very, very long pause here)...... I don't think they like....like....like my body or something!  Or maybe it's my face.  Maybe it's my face they don't like!"

I struggled for a second to know how to respond to my only grandchild.  I felt sick inside.  She is, after all, only seven years old and by nature very thin, even a bit waif looking.

My first thought was how little kids can sometimes be so mean...

My second thought was to tell her to beat them all up(trying to be honest here!)...

  After a couple of deep breaths I found I was instantly taken back to the time the photograph at the top was taken.  Straight back to the days when I felt 'less than' and 'not good enough', 'ugly' even.  And how it seemed, at least to me, I would forever be the butt-end of every silly, stupid and mean joke ever told.

~Last Friday at Uncle Mikey's Birthday Party~

Miss K and her Nana

I shared the story of my Miss K with my big sister, Linda, yesterday and she reminded me of something I had long forgotten about...something from our childhood.  Our father, despite the fact he was a crummy fence maker, was good at building a strong foundation of kindness within the hearts of his children.  To his credit all four of us kids eventually gained a heap of self-confidence and learned to ignore tolerate the kids that spewed nastiness from behind their bully-pulpits.  Not all children are so fortunate.

I pray my Miss K will be one of the lucky strong ones who stands firm and emerges from her childhood with her sweet, gentle spirit in tact. 

Wouldn't that be lovely?

Blessings as you teach both by word and example, the things that come forth from our mouths really do matter.

Love to you~

~WHAT WAS LOST NOW IS FOUND~

SCHOOL GIRLS

Hacienda Heights, CA

August 1964

L-R

Linda (Big Sis), Kathy (Cousin), Cindy (cousin), & Me

After a very busy weekend enjoying the Re-Opening of my website (more about this tomorrow!), I spent some time yesterday working in my garage!  Now...going through boxes of JUNK (not good junk, just JUNK!) is not something I wanted to do on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon!  Still...the thought of waiting to do the much needed clean-up until the Summer when temps climb over 95 degrees outside made me sick.  Besides, I have some furniture in need of a makeover (remember the U-Haul filled with neat stuff I hauled back from Tennessee???) and I needed to make room to paint.

~SEEMS LIKE YESTERDAY~

46 Years Ago

Anyway...while I was moving around more boxes than I can say I came across one of those stackable clear bins and it LOOKED to be the MISSING BOX I'd been frantically searching to find for a long time.  My heart skipped a beat because I feared the box had been tossed out by mistake.  The thought of that possibility made me very nervous because it held many irreplaceable mementos...and some of them belonged to my mother.

~WHAT WAS LOST NOW IS FOUND~

When I lifted the lid to the bin I was shocked at what I found.  Inside (and right where I'd left them) were all the things I'd been searching for.  Most notably, the neatly folded dress and bonnet I wore in the photo above.  My mother made it for me when I was 5 and my sister, Linda's, too.  Along side of it was the newspaper clipping from 1964.

~I LOVED THIS SWEET FABRIC~

I've shared with you before that my very talented Mom and her sister, my Auntie P, were ALWAYS doing things to get their girls in the Newspaper.  They were both heavily involved in PTA at the time and the two of them concocted the idea to dress their daughters up as old fashioned school girls to promote BACK TO SCHOOL and joining PTA!  The four of us made the front page of the SUNDAY (this was a big deal even then) San Gabriel Valley Tribune! :)

I'm beginning to understand more and more as the years go by just where my creative spirit came from.

(Thank you Momma...you continue to inspire me!  I'll return your things to you this week!)

Blessings to you as you begin another week of passionate living in our great-big beautiful world! 

~CHRISTMAS PAST...Tied Up With Heartstrings~

~OUR DUTCH CHRISTMAS 1964~
Hacienda Heights, California
Me, My Sissy Linda, Cousins Cindy & Kathy

(Us Girls in December 2008)
Linda (My Sister), Cindy & Kathy (Cousins), Me

Today was a melancholy Sunday. If you haven't figured it out by now I'm hopelessly sentimental and I can truly get lost inside my own head if I"m not careful. Christmas does that to me. All the Fa-La-La-La-Lahhhhh's and trips down memory lane can really set my heart to wondering.

In 1964 "The Highlander", a local newspaper from my hometown of Hacienda Heights, California, came out to our modest (and tiny!) home on Sigman Street and photographed my sister, two cousins and I for a write up about celebrating our Dutch Heritage. I've shared with you before that my mother and her sister, my Auntie P, were always doing SOMETHING that got their daughters noticed.

I have NO IDEA what happened to my hair in this picture. The bangs are real. The braids are FAKE! :)

I spent the later part of the evening digging myself through a stack of old photos searching for the FEW pictures taken at Christmas when I was a child. My parents didn't take many photographs so you can imagine the ones we do have collectively mean the world to my family. My sister and I have pictures with our cousins but we have very, very few taken with our youngest sister and brother...like maybe two! It is the one thing I would change about my childhood if I could... I'd have more pictures.

How this clipping has survived is beyond me. It was damaged in a terrible house flood in 1977 and yet remains in one piece...

I blame the fact that I'm now a picture-taking-fool on the simple truth that my parents never owned a decent camera until I was grown and gone...

~CHRISTMAS AT GRANDMA'S 1962~
Hacienda Heights, California
Kathy (cousin), Me, Linda (sister), Cindy (cousin)

I may be wrong, I'd have to ask my sister, Linda, but I honestly believe this is the ONLY picture taken of me as little child at Christmastime. It was snapped in 1963 at my Grandmother's home when they lived on either Kennard or Flamstead Street. I was in Kindergarten and was 5 years old. All us little girls got Butterball Doll Babies that year and my sissy and cousin got gorgeous Bride Dolls... I remember wanting to know where mine was but I was told I was too young to have one. :(

(JUST A NOTE: MY BIG SISTER JUST WROTE AND TOLD ME I DID HAVE A BRIDE DOLL! SHE SAID THEY HUNG OVER OUR BEDS FOR A LONG TIME WHEN WE WERE CHILDREN. I DO DO DO REMEMBER THAT NOW! (ISN'T IT GREAT TO HAVE A BIG SISSY WHO REMEMBERS THINGS FOR YOU????XOXOXO THANK YOU, LIN!) WHAT I DIDN'T HAVE (AND DESPERATELY WANTED) WAS A CHATTY CATHY DOLL! MY AUNTIE P KNEW THIS AND GAVE ME ONE ABOUT 4 YEARS AGO! ALL THIS IS FURTHER EVIDENCE MY MIND IS SLIPPIN'!

~My Mother & Auntie~
Around 1963 or 1964

The picture above is of my mother and her younger sister, my Auntie P. They were heavily involved in PTA and worked hard to promote our local elementary school. This was a Polaroid picture and the original was so dark you could barely make out who was in it. I've learned enough about Photoshop to make me dangerous...at least I was able to lighten the heavily damaged picture enough to see just what it was. My mom or my grandfather painted the poster for the PTA DRIVE that year... My Gramps was always painting those sweet Santa's for the door of our classrooms. My mother did get really good at knocking off his work though so I can't be sure just who painted this one...

Seeing my beautiful Mother in this photo (she was about 29) lends me to believe time goes even faster than I think it does. She turned 75 this year...

Thanks for stopping in today. Like many of you I've been busy enjoying the season while breathing in all things Christmas and Christ-centered. Hoping and trusting your days have been as lovely as mine.

Blessings and love...Rebecca

~TAPS UPON MY SHOULDER and Everyday Miracles~

DOYLE - 1969

I have a little story to share with you today. It isn't too terribly long and it's fairly uncomplicated. It is a story I must tell for it affirms there are moments in life when we must stop and catch our breath allowing us to glimpse God's very presence in our lives. He promises to direct our every step if we will allow Him to do so...

I met my friend Mary H. by selling my wares on eBay. By her account we've known each other for about four years and we've forged a sweet, long-distance friendship. I've never had the privilege of meeting Mary face to face, but we've spoken on the phone several times and often exchange emails. She is fun-loving and very talented and I've been blessed by her presence in my life. She has easily become a lifelong friend and I thank God for her generous, giving heart.

I, of course, live in Oklahoma, and Mary lives in my native State of California. Of the thousands of cities in this very large State she lives only about 50 miles from where I grew up. This gives us many wonderful things to talk about, lighthearted moments sprinkled with laughter and joy. We've shared a passion for parenting, the excitement of becoming grandparents and our love for all things old (especially laces). And sadly, we have the common bond of how living with a parent with a mind-robbing disease can affect ones very life.

So, it wasn't surprising to me when Mare called me up a few weeks ago and we began another long, satisfying chat. She had read my POST about my 5th Grade Teacher, Mrs. Ferguson and felt compelled to call me. Something in that story had jumped out at her and she just had to share with me something she was sure I would want to know.

In that Summertime Post (June 28, 2009) I mentioned a classmate by the name of Doyle Griffith. I had a wild crush on this cute, well-behaved boy and I continually faced the wrath of my teacher for trying to engage him in conversation. Doyle and I sat next to each other for the entire school year and despite the fact I'm certain I drove him plum crazy with my chattering voice, he never failed to help me with my assignments or offer up an encouraging word. If my memory serves me correctly he moved away from our hometown the summer before 6th grade and I was to never see him again.

Such is life, I suppose. People come in and then move out of our physical presence all the time. I've learned to accept it. Still~over the years I longed to know of my sweet childhood friend and just what had become of him. As an adult, God constantly brought Doyle to my mind and I thought it more than strangely odd that I would remember a ten year old boy with such great detail. I mean...I was only ten years old myself, and had yet to do any REAL living...

And then came Mary.

DOYLE - ABOUT 2005

When the phone rang I immediately recognized the soft voice of my California friend on the other end of the line. Always upbeat and kind, the conversation began with...

"I have something to tell you, Rebecca...something I know you'll want to know. It has something to do with your 'Mrs. Ferguson' Post..."

After a long pause she continued...

"I knew your childhood friend, Doyle'...he's been in my home many times."

After reeling myself in from the shock of Mary's statement, she began to tell me the story of a happily married husband and father who had attended her church and had lived in her hometown. Not wanting to disappoint me with incorrect information, Mary did some asking around and found out that indeed Doyle and his family had once made the tiny town of Hacienda Heights their home.

Now...with millions of people living in California, what are the chances of someone I met on eBay knowing someone I had gone to school with in 5th grade? More so, what are the chances of me even mentioning a boy I hadn't seen in at least 40 years by name?

Mary went on to share with me that Doyle had been diagnosed with cancer and after being in remission for some time had succumbed to the dreadful disease a couple of years before. I felt sick. My heart was heavy and I was truly sad. Another young life gone far too soon and I was moved by the knowledge that another one of my childhood friends had passed on...

It's important that I tell you here that I don't believe in coincidence. That said, what, if any, were the lessons to be learned from my present life intersecting with the one that I had left so many years before? Why had Doyle never strayed far from my thoughts and why was it that he was always being brought back to the forefront of my mind? Why was Mary involved? Was there a deeper meaning here? If so, what was it?

Maybe it's just that these days I expect only miracles on a huge, grandiose scale and miss the more personal, everyday kind....

Maybe what just seems to be a coincidence is nothing less than God tapping me on the shoulder, whispering, or even at times shouting: "I'm here! I'm with you! You are right on track with your life! You are right where I want you to be, Rebecca! Keep pressing on!"

I believe it is.

Blessings to you as you listen for the voice of God in your life...Rebecca
PS: Thank you Doyle, for everything. And, thank you, Mare.

~THE PRICELESS TEACHING OF MRS. MARTHA FERGUSON and 5th Grade Life Lessons~

Mrs. Martha Ferguson
Miss Rebecca Elliott

In December of 1968 I turned the magical age of ten and found myself firmly planted in the 5th grade. On a daily basis I was under the watchful eye of an attractive black woman who earlier that summer had been chosen to be my teacher. She was tall, sported dark wavy hair and even on the sunniest of days could be seen in a lightweight wool coat and patent leather shoes. She was an awesome story teller, loved savoring butterscotch candy, and before the passing of another year of innocence she would successfully point my feet in the right direction.

Mrs. Martha Ferguson was a stern lady. Even so, I could tell she liked me. She did not, however, take kindly to the simple fact that I was a talker and on more than one occasion would disrupt her class with my mindless prattle. Plainly stated, I would rather wile away my classroom hours day-dreaming about this and that (or whisper pleasantries with my closest friend, Laura) than complete the assignments placed before me. Mrs. Ferguson rarely smiled, but…nor did she frown. She was just…well, agreeable. And even though I was scolded on a daily basis for SOMETHING that always started with the opening of my mouth, she was never TOO terribly hard on me. That is, except for the time she very firmly demanded I immediately stop doing two things…

DOYLE GRIFFITH
The Cutest Boy In 5th Grade

1. Flirting with Doyle Griffith, the cute boy who sat next to me (and the one, if not for my chattering voice, would never have even known I was alive)…

and...

2. Twirling my hair ribbon around my fingers (instead of leaving it tied up in my hair)...

Life during fifth grade brought with it lots of discoveries. It was the year I first recall being taught that teasing other children was a dreadful thing to do and the year I promised myself I would never do it. But, that was only after hearing someone call one of the McMurray twins “Dead Fish” and then watching silently as their words resulted in a visit to the Principle’s Office for a bumm whoopin'. I’d been bullied enough over my own imperfections and wanted no part of the cruelty and could certainly live without the sure-to-be-had paddlin'...

MY BIXBY YEARBOOK 1968-1969

I fully understood during fifth grade that I wasn’t one of the “it girls”. It was also the year I realized that money was powerful and that some of my classmates had a lot of it and some… well, like me, did not. During the months of fifth grade I came to believe my gaped teeth made me ugly (notice the closed-mouth smile) and my mousy brown hair would certainly have looked a little more desirable had it been blond.

It was during that fifth year at Bixby I was to learn that no matter how hard I tried I was never going to beat Sally Jewel at Tether-Ball (she was a bruiser of a girl so I figured it was OK) and the year I discovered I was truly terrible at mathematics. It was the year I learned I “kinda” loved English, was dreadful at Geography, fairly good in Spelling and the year my heart embraced anything and everything that had to do ART. Be it drawing, painting, gluing, glittering, papier-mâché or pottery, I was in for the long haul.

And thanks to the film about…um…well…you know…I learned (frighteningly so) I wouldn’t always be a LITTLE girl….

It was also the year I learned that teachers can cry.

I cannot say just why I stayed inside during my recess on that early spring afternoon, my memory isn’t that good. What I do remember is witnessing the teacher I had grown to love and admire as she sat quietly behind her desk dabbing away the tears that rolled down her cheeks. I couldn’t resist the urge to focus my eyes upon her as truthfully I’d never seen a teacher really cry. She was deeply troubled by what I clearly understood as being something “grown-up” and I knew better than to disturb her. The seconds ticked by as I tried to complete my assignments…I didn’t dare look up again for I feared she would find me staring at her and that would be uncomfortable for both of us. Several minutes passed before I felt her presence standing next to my tiny chair.

“Becky” she said, quietly kneeling down beside me.
“Listen to me!”

She gently pushed my hair from my face and then began...

“I need to tell you something that is just for you! You are a very smart girl! Don’t let anyone else ever tell you your not good enough, smart enough, pretty enough or talented enough! Work hard! That’s the key! If you do, you WILL make it! Remember, it matters not if you are Red, Yellow, BLACK or White…”

With that, she stood up and walked back to her desk.

MY 5TH GRADE TEACHER
Mrs. Martha Ferguson

We were never to speak about her tears or her instruction, and I never again saw Mrs. Ferguson cry. My final memory is of her standing tall in her dark colored jacket as I snapped her picture for my photo album. It would be the last day I was to ever sit inside a classroom at Bixby Elementary School. It would be the very last time I would ever see the face of the woman who would forever remain my favorite teacher and the one who helped change the course of so much of my life.

Years would fly by before I would recall again the pocket-sized memory I had so neatly tucked away. I was never to know the reason for Mrs. Ferguson’s sadness or the source of her tears. I suspect it had something to do with some sort of racial discord, but I can’t be sure. What I understood then and know to be true even today is that through her own sadness and sufferings she didn’t hesitate to offer up the needed encouragement and acceptance to a small girl wandering aimlessly in a garden that rarely bloomed.

“Bless you, Mrs. Ferguson, beautiful Teacher! I wish I could find you…”

“Death and life are in the power of the tongue: and they that love it shall eat the fruit thereof.” Proverbs 18:21

“Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the heavens. Ephesians 4:29

Blessings to you as you encourage those around you and teach those who are willing to listen…Rebecca