Month: February 2019

In anticipation of my upcoming trip, a friend asked me if I was nervous about it. No, not at all. To be perfectly honest, I absolutely LOVE traveling all by myself.  In fact, I find that I am most comfortable when I am absolutely alone in sea of thousands of people, whether it’s in a crowded airport, busy city, or in line for a slide at a water park.  I find myself watching people, wondering what their story is… because EVERYONE has a story.  From the pre-teen with long, straight, blonde hair and a beanie cap traveling with his family, to the young couple juggling their twin toddlers, exasperated, to the straight-laced business traveler, annoyed by the girl next him who is cracking her gum, everyone has a destination, and has left something behind to get there.

I rarely speak to people in airports or planes, certainly not those seated near me. When traveling, I retreat into myself, my favorite place to be…as frightening as it is sometimes.

My mind races with ideas and thoughts about an omniscient God who sees all of it at once, and is intimately interested in EVERY one of them.  I sometimes find it hard to keep track of just the things I need to do, let alone my children, and I only have 3. Yet the God of the universe knows every intimate detail of every one of His children at all times.  Amazing.

Hebrews 4:13

“And there is no creature hidden from His sight, but all things are open and laid bare to the eyes of Him with whom we have to do”

Stay blessed, my friends.

SB

 

 

This morning, I was up at 3 AM to get ready for a 7 AM flight, ultimately to Los Angeles.   The circumstances of the trip aren’t great, and it is with very mixed emotions that I travel.  The company I work for is closing one of its service centers, and I am flying out to bid farewell to the team who has worked tirelessly for years to repair our products and keep our customers happy.  Though they’ve had about six months to adjust to the news, it will still be difficult.

Typically, I am a big fan of change.   I do it often, from hairstyle, to furniture placement, to new and improved ways of doing things, both in my personal and my professional life.  The older I get, however, the more I can relate to people who find change difficult.  There are certain patterns we fall into, certain comforts we’ve become accustomed to, and when our world is rocked, sometimes it’s difficult to pick up the pieces and move on.   Be it the death of a spouse or loved one, the breakup of a marriage, the loss of a job, there are times in our lives and the lives of those around us where unwelcomed change rocks our world.

One thing I learned through the death of my father, although I was too young to realize I was learning a lesson at the time, is that there really is no other choice but to pick up the pieces and move on.  I spent about 10 years of my young life being a victim of my circumstances, not knowing how to recover.  At some point, however, in my late teens / early twenties, I got my sea legs and realized that I could either keep shriveling in insecurity caused by changes in my life, or reinvent myself, having developed strength and character from surviving my loss.  My friends, I know first hand that re-inventing yourself IS possible, so long as you don’t cave to the insecurities you feel initially. Sure, take the time you need to lick your wounds and self-reflect, but don’t stay there too long!  Pick up the broken shards of glass around you, dust yourself off, and find a new focus to give you purpose in the process of healing.

You CAN do it.  I know you can.   Change is inevitable.  Keep fighting and don’t give up.

Roll with the changes, my friend. It will make you a better you.

Be blessed, today, my friends!

Love you all!

SB

Copyright 2019 Journey For Life.  All rights reserved.

When I was three-four years old, I constantly tinkered around the antique upright piano in our home. My grandmother had a friend, Mrs. Stonebraker, who taught piano lessons but she said I was too young for lessons. Because of her friendship with my grandmother, she reluctantly agreed to a trial basis. As it turns out, I had some natural ability, and thus began my musical journey.

I remember lessons at her house, which was not far from my grandparents’ home. She was sweet but stern. One day, I skipped a difficult passage of bass clef and she asked me why I didn’t play it. I told her my dad said I didn’t have to. Both she and my mother quickly decided that i DID, and she helped me learn it.

I studied with her for several years before finding a teacher closer to our home. As a very young child, I don’t think I really knew much about the Stonebraker family, and quickly adapted to my new teacher, with whom I studied for about the next ten years, before studying with Professor Rummo at Duquesne University.

Fast forward thirty some years, to the church I now serve in a town east of Pittsburgh. One of our congregants names is Stonebraker. From the first time I heard it years ago, I wondered if there was a connection, but never asked. Last fall, though, She posted some small furniture on the Facebook market place, which I bought for my daughter’s house at college. When I met her for the purchase, I asked. Turns out her husband is my piano teachers’ son! Not only that, but his sister also attends our church!

During our discussion I learned so much more about her! Ruby was an accomplished musician, composer and pianist with extensive study in New York City and Carnegie Music Hall. She gave her life to Christian music through education and her church. Her husband was a Wesleyan minister who founded the International Student Fellowship with the University of Pittsburgh. His funeral, in 2012, was held at our church, though I did not play for it. Ruby had already passed in 2003.

On Sunday, a woman introduced herself to me as Mrs Stonebraker’s daughter. She said she never quite learned how to play the piano despite her mother’s record, but would like to take lessons, and asked if I teach. I do, indeed. We exchanged information and I’m looking forward to planting a new seed.

I had no idea, when I started piano lessons all those years ago, that the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob was orchestrating music ministries to span generations as they have. I am convinced, more than other, that He cares about every last detail of our lives, and, until we breathe our last, we are to be faithful to the purpose to which He has called us. I am equally convinced in this affirmation that my love of music, and my love of instilling the love of music in others is part of the purpose He has for me. I am confident He will continue to reveal His plan for me as I continue to seek His will.

Be blessed, today, my friends.

SB

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.

More sad news yesterday. A family friend passed away. Garf, as he was known, was quite a character, and hadn’t been in great health for some time now, so it wasn’t a tremendous surprise, but still sad.

There will be no service for Garf, although family and friends may gather to share stories about him, which is probably the best way to memorialize him. I’m sure I’ve only heard some of the stories there are about him, like when he would take his glass eye out and drop it in someone’s beer, just to see their reaction. Garf was a hard man, and didn’t care much for women in general. He had many names for them, most of them not very nice, but he always called me, “kid” (I’ve known him since I was basically a kid… his twin nephews and I played in a band together when I was in high school). I guess it was a term of endearment, I believe, and he hugged me every time he saw me, so for some reason, he liked me.

I have one eerie story about Garf that I will share here, although I don’t think i would share it at a gathering. To be honest it still freaks me out a bit. Shortly after we were married, in the summer of 1995, my husband and I were at our friends’ house (Garfs’ nephews), late at night, having a few beers by the fire pit. The mood was melancholy, and I don’t remember how the conversation started, but somehow, we got to talking about Garf being a fire-fighter, and even the chief of police for one of the departments in the town in which I grew up. I mentioned to him that my brother died in a fire when he was a child, and instantly his mood became very somber. He choked up and he asked me when my brother died, and a few other circumstances about the fire and about where my house was. I’ll never forget the look on his face when, choking back tears, he said, “I was there.”

“Boy, I will tell you what,” he said. “A fire fighter never forgets a death, especially of a little child. Every one of us fighting that fire was torn up over that. Never the same after.”

My brother was just 3 years old in 1968 when he managed to get a hold of a gas can from the garage, and began pouring it into his toy riding car. Mom was running toward him as the fumes ignited. She used her bare hands to try to put the fire out. She was burned over 60% of her body and spent months in the hospital. David died. Mom wasn’t able to attend his funeral because she was in the hospital.

David died before I was born, but my mom shared memories of him with us from the time I can remember. I had a tremendous sense of loss and, although I had never met him, I always wished for an older brother.

I didn’t know what to say to Garf after we had the the realization that he fought the fire which claimed my brother and scarred my mother for life. I never told my mom about the incident. I saw a more tender side of Garf that night; a side that probably most people never saw. I am saddened by his death, and will always be grateful for his service to the local community and to my family. May he Rest In Peace.

Somberly blessed,

SB