BROKENNESS BRINGS RESTORATION

MY NIECE, BRIDGETTE

In the midst of the brokenness brought about by the recent passing of my mother, God has truly been faithful in one amazing, miraculous way.

He's restored her family.

I won't go into the back story because right now all that needs to be shared is that forgiveness has been sought and given, and most importantly...

Love has won.

Reconciliation was the cry of my mother's heart and she's witnessed restoration among her children from the best vantage point possible...

HEAVEN.

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SWEET BRIDGY...PRECIOUS IN HIS SIGHT

If you've lost a parent, then you know going though their home is probably the most difficult of all the things a child must do, save for maybe planning a funeral and burying them.  My mother had only meager fare.  As many of you may remember, my father was a clergyman and they lived on a very modest income.  When my dad died almost four years ago he left her with financial debt and almost nothing to live on, but his paltry social security.  She had no house, no savings, no investments and no retirement.  That said, she did have a few minor treasures and handmade heirlooms and all of her children longed to call them their own.

 MAY GOD RAISE HER UP!

My siblings and I breathed in deep at what was before us when we walked into her tiny home.  While going through our mother's humble possessions we opted to leave the task of dividing up precious cedar chest keepsakes for last.  As we opened up the lid to the tattered trunk, the one that was years older than I am, we all knelt silently around it for each of us knew it held what meant the most to her...the best of all she had.  We didn't really know what we would find...what she had kept...all she had held closest to her heart.

 OUR FATHER'S LETTERS

Inside we found love letters from my father...written when in the Navy and she was pregnant with my oldest sister.  They had yet to be married a year.  He would miss her birth as he was out to sea...  She bore their first child alone.  

I can only imagine.

There were small quilts and outfits she'd made for each of her babies, our baby shoes, our favorite toys, her baby book and her mother's baby book.

 50 YEAR+ CROCHETED BABY GOODS

Our original expertly crocheted baby bibs, bottle covers were there (very discolored and worn) along with old greeting cards, report cards, photos and so much more. 

 RECENTLY CROCHETED GOODS FOR

ADRIENNE (daughter)

We also found our uniforms for Girl Scouts, Brownies and my brother's Boy Scout uniform in the bottom of the chest...everything was there...the belts, ties, sashes, socks, caps, berets, badges, pins, etc.  Everything.

MY BROWNIE UNIFORM AND SOCKS

My beautiful mother wasn't a hoarder...but she was a saver.  She saved the best of all she had and the very things she knew her children would want...

God Bless her.

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My precious, niece, Bridgy, is ten and is in Girl Scouts today.  I sent my uniform home with my younger, sister, Jen, in hopes it would fit her and incredibly it does.  One more year and it would have probably been too small.  I can't begin to tell you the overwhelming JOY I carry in my heart seeing this beautiful, beautiful little girl wearing a part of me.  Yesterday she wore this very vintage uniform while selling GS Cookies for her local troop.  I don't know about you, but if I saw a young Scout today in a vintage uniform I would certainly buy MORE cookies than I had planned to buy!  She looked so precious! She is an amazing little girl and I'm thrilled to be a part of her life.  I'm praying for God to raise her up to become the woman one day He wants her to be!

FAITH AND I

I don't have a picture of me in my GS uniform, but, I do have one of my big sister and I taken in our uniforms back when she was a Girl Scout and I was a Brownie.  Amazingly, my Momma still had it after all these years...

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I guess if I've learned one thing since my Mother's death it might be this...

Praying matters.

My Mother was a prayer warrior and she never stopped praying for those she loved, especially for her babies.  She prayed for years that her children would come together and stop squabbling over things that were not eternal.  We've always loved each other...I suppose the scars from life just run deep sometimes.

My brother-in-love, Rob, said it best~ 

"When that cedar chest was opened something spiritual happened!"

I believe he was right.  It was like the spirit of God was set free and His mighty hand passed over all four of us kids in a profound way.

JENNIFER, WILLIAM, ME, FAITH

I know today, without a shadow of a doubt, my beautiful Momma is at rest...

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Thank you, Mom.  Even in death you have never stopped interceding to the Father for your children.  Thank you for saving back so much of our childhood for us and for allowing us to take a look back into your private life as a young wife and mother.  I want you to know your prayers mattered.

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I hope if any of you reading this today, who might need to seek peace or restoration within friends or family, you will do it.  It takes courage and it is sometimes difficult.  But, with God's help, you can do it.

It's worth it.  I promise you, it is.

Love to you this beautiful Sunday...

Rebecca

~~OKLAHOMA CITY MEMORIAL ~~ WE ARE STILL HEALING

I had planned on making a different Post today...something lighthearted and fun. But to be honest with you...I just couldn't. Not today.

I live just outside of Oklahoma City and although I am not a native of my state it long ago became a place I love to call "home". We moved here when my daughter was only 6 months old and her big brother just a little over three. Seemed like a wonderful place to raise a family and indeed that proved to be true.

I first came to Oklahoma to attend college in 1976. It is here I met my hubbs of over 30 years. It is in this state I've lovingly watched my children grow up, attend school, go to college, fall in love and then marry. It is the birth-state of my only grandchild and the only state in which I've ever owned property. My father and mother live here and so does my youngest sister and her family... And, unless God directs us elsewhere, it will be in Oklahoma that I will grow old and live out the remainder of my life.

On April 19th, 1995 Oklahoma City was put on the map in a different way. Crazy lunatics decided to slaughter 168 innocent men, women and children when they bombed the Alfred P. Murrah Building, forever changing the lives of hundreds of people and those they love. It was a dark day in my State's history and a day I remember well.

DESTROYED MURRAH BUILDING

I was running late getting my second grader to school the morning the blast went off. I only heard a faint, muffled sound in the distance as I live 15 miles from downtown OKCity. Thinking nothing of it, I said my good-byes to my baby girl and drove home. Seconds after walking in the door my phone began to ring with my hubbs on the other end. He was in a panic...he was working downtown in a building not far from the bomb site and wanted to relay to me only two things...SOMETHING caused a HUGE explosion in a building a few blocks from him and that he was safe. He watched as windows were blown out all around him and the sky grew dusty and dark... I flipped on my TV and to my horror I watched as a part of our City looked like a war zone.

The events of that day are seared in my memory forever. The media coverage was non-stop. The rescue of the few survivors had us riveted to our television sets. The day brought complete devastation and changed my beloved State in more ways than one...

Today marks the 14th anniversary of the Bombing. More than 300 people gathered this morning at the Oklahoma City Memorial where the Murrah Building once stood. It is ground that many consider to be sacred...it is indeed a sad place, but it's a very beautiful place as well! The blast hurt and scared many of our people, but it failed at destroying our collective faith...

If you ever get a chance to visit Oklahoma City I encourage you to take time to view the Memorial Site. It includes chairs symbolizing the victims. The chairs are on a grassy field overlooking a reflecting pool flanked by bronze gates, one marked 9:01 and the other marked 9:03 a.m., framing the exact 9:02 a.m. time of the explosion.

EMPTY CHAIRS REPRESENT THE LOST

MEMORIAL SITE...OUR FLAG

I visit the site and I visit often. It is a great reminder of what can happen when people allow hate to overtake their hearts... It's an ever greater example of what happens when people choose to love...

Simply put, it's the LOVE that heals.

Blessings to you as you remember that despite evidence of evil, good always wins...Rebecca

REMEMBERING LAURA

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…Rebecca

He's Ever Interceding

My Sister Linda & I (with the guitar)

1975 - Colorado Springs
(Thanks Cat for the photo)

I believe I must have been about four years old when first paired with my sister Linda to sing duets. She was two years older than I and I distinctly remember the two of us standing side by side, just to the right of our mother as she sat and played our Gulbransen piano. Two peas in a pod we were. We’d learn the songs set before us and often be expected to sing one the following Sunday. Such was the life of two PK’s (Preacher’s Kids) and trust me when I tell you this was the norm. I even recall on a few occasions singing with our mother. But that was back when we were very, very young and long before her ears were silenced.

And so began my passion for singing. A desire birthed within me when just a little girl and one that has grown during many days of living life on this planet. Uncovering the “sound of song” is in me…it just is! And, not unlike my love for both painting and sewing, it has successfully knitted itself into the very fabric of my heart.

One of my greatest joys comes from singing with my hubbs. But, knowing I’d be going it alone on this one given Sunday prompted me to look particularly hard for something fresh and moving. I attend a loving church filled with precious people. But, we live in a hurting world and if you take the time to look you will see much suffering. I asked God to lead me to the right song…the song He wanted me to sing.

Sunday arrived right on schedule and I felt fairly confident I’d chosen wisely a song designed to minister and encourage. It wasn’t a new song, but one I deeply connected with and loved. I easily skipped through a quick run-through before morning worship service began and thirty minutes later, with microphone in hand, I heard the familiar melody of taped music start, and I began to sing...

*“Someone to go the extra mile
Just like a mother caring for her child…
A Friend who’ll stick through thick and thin
No matter what you’ve done or where you’ve been
Just like a great big family
A stronger older brother he will be
So quick and ready to defend
The younger, weaker to the end

And He’s ever interceding
To the Father for His children
And He’s ever interceding
To the Father for His own
Through Him you can reach the Father
So bring Him all your heavy burdens
He’s ever interceding
So come boldly though the throne”

As the music continued to play I was thankful for the extra long pause between the chorus and the beginning of the second verse. I was losing my composure, being moved myself by the melody and the message behind the words I was singing. What I had prayed would minister to others, instead began to minister back to me…

“Just like sheep we’ve gone astray
Struggling ‘neath a debt we could not pay
Not ever hoping to renew
The love and fellowship that we once knew
But He began to intercede
Crying ‘Father-please forgive” I plead
And as the nails pierced in His hands
God once again reached down to man

And He’s ever interceding…….”

I want you to all know that my life is not perfect. Even though it may appear like it is sometimes, it certainly isn’t! It’s so easy to post pictures of my smiling self and write about everything being pink and rosy! It’s soothing for me to write about exciting decorative finds rescued from flea market bins and attic clutter, lasting friendships, business success, a happy marriage and loving children…

But there’s another side. A side that knows deep heartache and real failure! A side that’s endured financial ruin and devastating illness…a side that longs for the restoration of broken, shattered relationships…a side that lives with the separation of family and the death of close friends…a side that is far too lonely and too often afraid...

It’s been a comfort to me this very day to know that I cannot fall so far from God that His loving arms can’t reach me. It is reassuring to know there isn't a hurt I can’t trust Him to heal or a brokeness I can't trust Him to mend. I’m blessed in the knowledge that I’m incapable of earning His devotion and whether in the height of success or the pit of failure, He loves me just the same. I pray you will always know this kind of peace…

“He’s ever interceding to the Father for His children…”

Blessings…Rebecca

*”He’s Ever Interceding” by Carolyn Gilman