My Magnificent Eagle

My

Magnificent Eagle

BONNIE LIL MURPHY &

MARY LYNN ROSE

AuthorHouse™

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© 2015 Bonnie Lil Murphy & Mary Lynn Rose. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic Reference Bible, Copyright © 1983 by The Zondervan Corporation.

Photos by Mary Lynn Rose

Published by AuthorHouse 06/24/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-1187-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-1189-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-1188-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015907436

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

Developing the Eaglet’s Mind

Dad Returns Home

A Time to Remember

My Friend, Ms. Lizzy

Growing Up Fast

Mother Goes to Work

Family Farm Tradition

The Summer of 1952

A Decade of Flight

Bridging the Gap

A New Path Opens

A Texas Vacation

Two Became One

Married Life – The Beginning

A Step of Faith

College Days

Paying Forward Through Blessings

More Blessings

Sunshine and Youth Choir II

Campus Life

The

Children’s Village

Return to Florida

Back to Maine

Establishing New Missions

A Lesson in Humility

Our First Trip to Russia

Peru, South America

Travels, Tests and Trials

A Time to Rest

Whirlwind in Europe

The Sleeping Dragon

Our Last Trip to Russia

Our Journey Continues

About the Author

Dedication

It is with great honor, thankfulness, and humility I dedicate this book to my friend, my colleague, my mentor, Diane Thomas. She has influenced my life during her servant hood to God. She found me at the point of suicide and helped me develop into the witness I am today. She is truly an Angel from Heaven sent to earth to enhance the Kingdom of God.

To God be the Glory for the things He has done!

Bonnie Lil Murphy

Prologue

From the onset of this project, Bonnie and I had a vision. Our hope in sharing the details of her life was not only to provide a therapeutic resolution for healing, but also a platform to encourage and purge. Her story is one many can relate to with twists and turns from an abusive childhood to teen years of frustration and searching. As a young adult she found a warm, comforting hand in the depths of frozen solitude, which lifted her up and carried her to a new existence of purpose and fulfillment. It is to this end she hopes to transport the reader.

I first met Bonnie Lil Murphy close to 40 years ago when I was a member of a local church in northern Florida. I was an insecure adolescent in a rural Southern town, where most of the kids I knew were being raised in Christian homes. What I learned about those homes shocked me. As I grew older I realized we are all imperfect and searching. As mortals we search for everything, even into adulthood. We search for a catalyst to find love, understanding, comfort, success, and a multitude of other abstracts to validate our existence. It is through this journey we develop into the people we are. How we arrive at our destination is up to us. How we make our mark in life is a continuous journey. If you are reading this book you have an unfinished mission in life. What you do to accomplish that mission affects others, whether intentional or not. Every day is a new step in that direction and every step takes you closer to what your story will be.

Before starting this endeavor I traveled around the world. I saw the world from the perspective of a soldier, single woman, wife, divorcee, sinner, winner, and loser. This year, Bonnie found me through the miracle of electronic technology and asked me if I would be interested, as a writer and editor, to accompany her on her journey to accomplish one of her missions. We hope you will find this book to be a tool in your search. Come with us on this trip around the world from the United States to Russia. Meet the challenges Bonnie met and know there is Hope and Refuge. You do have a purpose. My desire is to open a door, not build a wall. Now, relax and enjoy the flight.

Mary Lynn Rose

4/28/14

Developing the Eaglet’s Mind

I can remember many things with quite a bit of detail about my childhood. Often, when I relax by a nearby river, I watch the eagles soar overhead and think how great my Lord is. I know how blessed I am to be able to experience this grace and reflect on my convictions; to be able to hold my family close to my heart and know God made a way for me to experience all of the things I will tell you about in this book. I embrace the life I was given, from the dark depths of depression to the cleansing enlightenment which led me to write this book. I can see myself in the eagle as it spreads its magnificent wings and glides through the skies. As it peers down from the highest tree branches and keeps an ever-protective eye on its young as they wait impatiently for a meal. The eagle (unknowingly) waits for the cycle to begin again, but even the majestic eagle is oblivious to God’s guiding hand. It does not know of the great power the heavens and earth afford it. It only knows of the here and now, the weakness of its young, and the need to survive. My life has been like that of an eaglet, ever striving, ever pursuing life, and struggling to survive. God has given me the wings to fly through a disadvantaged childhood full of abuse and neglect. He was guiding even when I was blind to his ways; too young or immature to see the journey he was leading me on. Today, I thank him for his protective hand and want to share the story of my life in hopes you too will gain strength and confidence; that the Lord will grant you these indelible qualities as well as those of open-mindedness, wisdom, and vigilance.

My life began during a chaotic time in the world. Europe and the United States were exploding at the seams with World War II in 1942 and my father joined the Navy after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. The scenes I remember were not really the glamourized renditions we see on film today, of romantic love lost and handsome heroes who risked their lives for the good of the world. As a child I lived through those years as the whole world did. We were hungry, not only for resources and security for our nation, but hungry for love and a sense of ownership, a sense of belonging. Families clung together and were split apart. Mine was no different. My mother, my brother Preston, and I went to live with my mother’s foster parents while dad was off at war. The northern New England winters were bitterly cold and a reflection of the depressive state the world was in; even our little part of the world. The summer days warmed me with challenging adventures, as summer days often do for the innocent. This was the beginning of a well-worn cycle in my life as a child, a pattern followed by both of my parents from their birth to death.

My mother, Preston, and I lived in a two-room cabin, which was on my foster-grandparents property in Vermont. My mother had been from a predominantly Irish family and as most they were poor. When she was a child she lived with foster parents but this decision had been a necessity for family survival. Our little family lived in that cabin for three years. Mother was pregnant so her foster sister, Aunt Mertus babysat us while some neighbors hosted a baby shower for her. It was beyond my comprehension that mom would shower at another house. I remember peering out of the window, looking up toward the big house. I knew which window of the big house marked the bathroom and as far as I could see there wasn’t a light on in the bathroom. I stood there with my nose pressed to the window, wondering how in the world mother was getting a shower without a light on. It never occurred to me that a shower meant a party with pretty gifts, shiny bows, punch and cake, music and laughter. I had no idea she was pregnant or even what that would have meant.

Life was hard on my mother and later I realized she escaped the hardship by whatever means she could. I remember her having her teeth pulled at the dentist in town. Mother walked to the bus stop in the snow as her red corduroy over coat and scarf flapped in the wind. The day grew more dank and dreary while I waited for her return. At the end of the day, I spotted her trudging up the grey hill with her mouth swollen and bleeding. She had not been accustomed to keeping herself up, for that was only for the more fortunate. Her body had become a host for infection and decay. It wasn’t long after, I learned of the baby, what a battle my mother’s body had been through, and what that cold Vermont chill had done. All I knew at the time was I felt so sorry for her as she took one pensive step after another. Even as a child I wanted to run to her and sweep her into warmth and safety. The baby was still born and a simple funeral proceeded.

My older brother Preston and I shared a cot, sleeping toe to toe, while mother slept in a double bed in the same room. She never did have a complete kitchen, even until the day she died. But God had given my little soul a propensity for being positive and seeing things as I wished them to be. In reality, the kitchen was equipped with a gas cook stove, which had two burners. Cabinets crested a small, fabric skirted sink, and the dining table had two chairs with a high chair alongside. In those days, many homes did not have running water, but instead used a bucket under the sink. The sideboard consisted of a fresh pail of water and a dipping ladle hung beside it. We had to fetch water from the main house. It was here, Preston decided to pretend he was a monkey in the jungle. Mother left us alone one morning for a short time to run errands. Preston climbed onto the stove, up the refrigerator, and hopped down onto the table swinging his arms and shaking his head. He looked like what I pictured a crazed jungle monkey would appear, swinging wildly from branch to branch, chattering in a primitive language only he could understand. He was three and I was two, but I still remember the details of that day, for I believe it was during that particular time I realized there was a distinct difference between us. He suddenly stopped atop the dining room table, bending over straight legged, peering down into my upturned face. Come on and get up here with me, he coaxed. Nobody will know ’cause we’re all alone. I protested and drew back, but he danced and sang as if he was in a circus and even at the age of two, I wanted so badly to be a part of the fun. I let loose with a mischievous smile and slowly climbed onto the sink. As I stood up, I began to lose my grip. I felt the electricity of fear shoot through me and grasped for something, anything. It was the cabinet door my fingers found, slightly ajar from all of the jumping around Preston had done. In a panic, I caught hold of it and it swung open with a clatter from the dishes inside. A box of Ivory Flakes, which perched on the edge of the self, toppled over, spilling flakes of soap, which drifted through the air, settling atop the bucket of clean water.

Preston jumped to the floor yelling, I’m gonna tell mama! I was dangling in the air when mother entered the kitchen. She scooped me up with a rough jerk and hurriedly plopped me on the bed, What were you doing? she screamed with a red face and bulging eyes. Her hair was dark auburn and her complexion was ruddy. I cried from relief, as I lay still shaken on the bed, Following Preston! Mother drew her hand back and I felt the blow that came repeatedly on my backside, No you weren’t! Preston wouldn’t do that! No matter my pleading, mother would not believe me. I came to realize she preferred not to believe me.

Looking back, my first real recollection of life was as a toddler. I remember the day I walked alone for the first time. My dad was in Navy boot camp. Mom, Preston, and I traveled to see Nana and Pop’s home in rural Vermont. Nana and Pop (the O’Neill’s) were mother’s biological parents who lived in their big farmhouse, along with my great grandfather. All of mother’s siblings were there for a gathering before most of my uncles shipped overseas to the war. Uncles Heston and Frazer were in the Army and would be going to Europe while uncles Helms, Chuckie, Delbert, Fergus, Artemous were all in the Navy. Mom’s only sister, Aunt Emma was there too. The women were in the large kitchen preparing a spaghetti supper. The kitchen table had a red and white checkered tablecloth on it. I crawled in and out from under the table, trying to pull myself up to walk, letting the cloth sweep gently over my face. My dark hair bounced with each step I took, but the freedom of walking was so delightful.

Basking in the delicious aromas from Nana’s kitchen, I felt free and happy as a chirping bird! Before dinner, whiskey was poured and everyone was sitting in the living room drinking, talking, and laughing with much enthusiasm and I could feel it. There was never a shortage of spirits in this immigrant Irish home. As everyone moved into the kitchen to eat, I went from one empty whiskey glass to another vigorously tasting the last drops left in the glasses. My mother asked someone to put me in the highchair, but I could not be found until Aunt Emma looked into the living room. She stood in the doorway, with her hands on the hips of her grey suit. She said in a loud voice, There’s the little stinker now, walking around drinking like the rest of us. She laughed along with everyone else as she picked me up and gave me a gentle squeeze. She kissed my cheek as she put me into the highchair. Maybe this was so memorable to me because it was one of the few times as a child I felt carefree, happy, and unaware of the demons which could destroy a child’s innocence.

The innocence was short lived when we went to live in the cabin though. Preston and I were accustomed to finding our own fun, especially since dad was away in the Navy. Mother frequently stepped out for short intervals, leaving us in the cabin to fend for ourselves. We used tin cans to dip dirty dishwater from the pail after mother had finished washing the dishes. Most often, we flicked droplets of water at each other. We played and bickered as most siblings. We even used simple wooden popsicle sticks to dig the dirt out of cracks in the front sidewalk, watching it spray up into the air and all over one another’s faces. We were oblivious to mother’s approach as we cackled like chickens in a hen house. What do you think you’re doing out here? She hissed at us, obviously ill-tempered and lashing out at the first thing she could, I told you to go play in the back yard! She jerked us up by our skinny little arms and pushed us toward the house. Go on now and get in that house. You’ll just have to take a nap, and then we’ll see if you remember what I tell you to do! These were common incidents, whether we deserved it or not. My mother was wrestling with her own demons and frustrations of which my brother and I knew nothing about. All I knew was it seemed a part of making our own fun seemed to always end in a spanking for me. Preston and I even made up games by throwing the other’s toys away, anything to perturb one another and stir some excitement. We even pitched one another’s toys into a hole in the bedroom wall that had appeared after a visit from dad.

The air was tight with tension in our little cabin behind the big house. I was so excited when Grandmother took me, only two years old at the time, for my first trip to town. We walked down the snowy hill to the corner, where the bus picked us up. We caught the orange trolley car with a cream-colored top and I scooted onto the seat, pressed up to the window. Christmas decorations flashed by the trolley and I pressed my nose to the glass, breathing warm air out onto it. Grandpa worked in a factory at the edge of town, where mechanical gears were made for military vehicles. As Grandma and I arrived at the factory, a loud whistle rang through the air announcing lunch time. We hurried to give Grandpa his brown-bag lunch, then headed back to the decorated streets of town.

Grandma stopped to buy me a dish of ice cream at a local soda fountain and I ate every bite as quickly as possible. It seemed like an impossible feat and even as I suffered from the inevitable brain freeze which comes with overly-eager consumption, I didn’t get a drop on me! Once we arrived home, Grandma beamed while she told mother of my first adventure to town. I was anxious for mother to hear I had grown to be such a successful traveler and smiled as Grandma recounted our visit with Grandpa and our trolley ride. Mother quickly snapped, Well, I hope you know I can’t repay any money you spent on her for that ice cream! And why didn’t you take Preston along too? I was only two, but my face burned with embarrassment and shame. I really had loved the trip to town, which glistened in snow and lights, red ribbons and green Christmas trees. Yes, the ice cream was good, but my favorite memory was of the beautiful Christmas trees. Even in my guilty state I coveted my memories of the trip.

Though new adventures were always welcome to me, I seemed to find myself in a disciplinary mode most of the time. When one good thing happened, a bad thing seemed to follow. In my young mind, I thought our family must be the most poor of all the families in this rural area, but of course, we were not. After my first trip to town, I noticed responsibilities as the girl in the family began to mount. One day, my brother and I were helping mom with the dishes. She was washing and we were drying the dishes and putting them away. I pretended we were on a factory line, like Grandpa worked in the factory. Preston would hand me a dish, then teasingly pull it back. We began giggling at the fun of such a game and I tried to increase my speed by grabbing at the dish in his hand before it was even completely dry. We nearly dropped a plate in the ruckus, but if that wasn’t enough, mother swiftly swung around with soapy hands. I saw she was sweating and suds were on her forehead and chin too. Her frizzy hair was a mess with coils of kinky curls popping out randomly around her head. I wanted to laugh, except I saw lightning bolts of anger in her eyes. She pursed her lips, quickly took the plate from Preston’s slick hands, and to my shock immediately brought it up in the air, then down with a crack on top of Preston’s head. I was so mortified I froze in shock. You have absolutely gotten on my last nerve young man! Get to your room! I waited for her vengeance, but wondered if she was finally seeing what an instigator my brother really was. I tried to focus on the soapy bubbles in the sink, afraid my punishment was yet to come. Preston left for his room, running with tears and snot streaming down his face. Mother pivoted, bending over nose to nose with me. She grabbed my face and forced me to look into her eyes, As for you missy, you will finish the dishes by yourself since you seem to think this is so funny! She snapped straight up and marched off, dropping her apron on the table in a heap before exiting the kitchen. She had cut her fingers on the broken plate and hurried to bandage them. I hurried to pick up the white apron which had slid off the table and lay crumpled on the floor. From the age of four, I became the official dishwasher, standing on a blue stool my father had made. Looking back, I wonder if that is the reason I detest washing dishes so much. Thank God for the invention of the automatic dishwasher.

It was the spring