Who we are today is a direct result of our past experiences, the good, the bad, and the ugly, all rolled up into this beautiful thing we call life. Some experiences bubble to the top, standing out as recognizable life markers, while others quietly filed away, resurfacing maybe never. It is these forgotten files, recently reopened, that have created some personal reflection.
All humans have value, bringing unique ideas, giftings, and perspectives with them. The question remains, is my value held by me, by others, or some combination thereof? This perspective was solidified when my paternal grandfather passed away in 1999. My sister, brother, and I traveled to Florida with my father and stepmother to clean out and prepare my grandparents’ home to sell.
Emptying my grandparents’ home of its treasures was heart-wrenching for so many reasons. My grandfather and father built that home with their bare hands. My grandmother was wheelchair-bound, resulting from contracting polio as a teenager. That home was built out of the pure love my grandfather held for her, with every convenience he could imagine she needed. Each room had keepsakes, stories of family, and the comfort of familiarity for me, the daughter of a military man with no real roots.
Over twenty years later, I still recall the anguish I felt choosing what items to keep, what to donate, and what to throw away. The task had to be done, yet it hurt to decide which parts of my grandparents’ lives would be discarded. How could I do such a thing to these people who cherished me, and whom in return, I adored??
Understanding that we all arrive on the planet with a finite set of days, it is irresponsible of me not to think that my children or grandchildren might face the same dilemma one day. I have a plastic tote labeled RJC (Rebecca J Crumpton) to RJM (Rebecca J Miller), which houses all the earthly things that once held value for me.
This weekend I tried, I honestly did, to empty the bin, but I just could not bring myself to sort through all the things I once treasured. I suppose I’m not ready to let go of all the stuff that formed me. That bin holds my Girl Scout sash, full of all the badges that I worked so very hard to earn. I know those badges will likely mean nothing to my children and grandchildren, but I am not ready to banish them for all eternity.
That bin holds all the 4-H trophies I earned for public speaking, baking, and sewing but honestly, who really cares? The world will not cease to turn on its axis if my childhood accomplishments find their way to the dump, but currently, my tender heart cannot bear the thought that none of these accomplishments really matter.
Does anyone really care that I have a foot-shaped cut-out full of buttons that meant something to me in the ’80s? I doubt it. I pulled it out of my box, though, and will be hanging it in my work office. No one will likely notice or ask about all those buttons, but they matter to me.
Oh, Norman Fairman. God only knows where you are today, but that bin holds love letters you wrote to me in the fourth grade. Steve Simmons, my sixth-grade true love, your notes also made the cut. Silly rantings from childish hearts, all of them, and yet, they make me who I am today.
There are boxes filled with elementary school photos, report cards, and papers. All of them bring back memories of people, places, and chunks of history important to me. There are hundreds of newspaper clippings, mostly about football games, homecoming queens, and male cheerleaders when they first became a thing, from my years as a Bonds Wilson Cobra and Ellison Eagle.
I vividly recall these clippings decorating the walls of my teenage abode. Those events were essential to teenage Becky. Many years later, all the names; David Meggett, Eric Sessions, Brent Carter, Roger Dangerfield, Jerry Bark, David Bell, James Campbell, Brad Buckley, Betty Jo Bartlett, Linda Campbell, and Charles Allen mean something to me.
Does letting go of these things mean that I cease to matter? I don’t think so. Letting go is hard, yet at the heart of me, whether anyone realizes it or not, are all these trinkets. My children will never know the preadolescent or teenage me, and yet all the events and emotions were vitally important to that Becky and the mother I became.
All this history shaped the woman I am and the woman who I hope people look up to. To each person who played a role in my journey, thank you, I won’t forget you, ever. Even in the fourth grade, the girl who told me I had messy hair, you are responsible for all the bottles of conditioner, hair serum, and my frizz-free days; I am confident the world thanks you.
Letting go of the physical, tangible reminders of what shaped me is hard; nonetheless, this Warrior Princess is a result of all those things and will forevermore be, AMEN!
Until Next Time,
Becky J Miller
“Warrior Princess”