Her house was a hodge podge. Southwestern style wall decorations displayed proudly beside African Tigers. Blue willow dishes, ceramic Disney, Dutch Boy and Dutch Girl, Chinese wall fans, both large and small cactus’, Country themes and art deco. She had a collection of glass cats and a collection of dogs, Chinese baby dolls, and glass irons, Brass, steel, wood, and several random Giraffes. Framed photographs spread over every surface and wall space. Three umbrella holders, two coat racks, several magazine racks. Every space held a thing, every thing had a space and every space held a part of some one. A Key holder I’d brought her in Kindergarten at Santas workshop hung proudly on the wall. Cows, pigs roosters, her house had them all. At first glance, it seemed the house belonged to someone that could not quite make up her mind. Those that knew her, knew that every item had a story and a person behind it. Her life theme was those she loved, and those that loved her. Every birthday new places were found for ceramic soup holders, art for her walls, the random knick knacks that everyone knew Sister Ferrell just loved. Nothing was ever put away or discarded.
“Brother Ward, brought this back from his last trip.”
“Donna brought that for me from Russia”
“Gary made that for me”
“Sister Jane gave that to me for Christmas”
“This was my Mothers”
She could go through every item and introduce you to the person behind it.
She loved well, and was well loved, and her walls stood as an example of how she carried those she loved with her everywhere.
She loved to travel, to see new places, and meet new people. One of my earliest memories is her perched in the seat beside my Grandpa, pointing out scenery that I was too carsick to look at. She always told me the best part of the trip wasn’t always where you ended up, it was the wonderful things you seen on the way. I would halfheartedly nod my head, inside thinking, I would just rather skip that part.
One of Grandma’s favorite scriptures was “Whatsoever ye do, do it heartily as to the
Lord.” She lived heartily, She loved heartily, and she gave of her time, and herself heartily. Everyone that remembers Grandma can recall a memory she made them feel, like they were loved, and valued beyond measure. She was grateful for every person in her life, and never failed to show them. I can’t remember feeling jealous, left out, or unsure of my place in her world. She had this way of loving, and giving, that seemed to multiply never divide.
She was the glue that held us all together, and forever bonded us through our love for her.
Life has taken us in all different directions. The things that once hung on her walls have been divided, and scattered. All thats left of Rebecca Ruth Ferrell is the love that even 15 years after her death lives and grows inside us all.
We were “the best part of her trip” we were the “wonderful things” she seen on the way.Her destination was always heaven, she never lost sight of that goal. As much as I miss her, I know that she carried part of me with her home. I know that her mansion in heaven is just as cluttered as her house on Bunting Lane, a kaleidoscope of memories decorate the walls. I’m almost sure, that if birthday gifts exist in heaven that one of them will be a Giraffe, because every body knows that “Sister Ferrell just loved them.”