I Come From a Broken Home. 

My parents are Bruce and Katie. Bruce is my mothers 4^th husband. They met when my mother was a bartender and they hired my father as a bouncer/doorman for New Years Eve. I was conceived 6 weeks later. 

My father, lacking every possible moral at the time, was financially careless, even illicit. He was unfaithful, a traveling salesman with women in each of the cities he frequented. Some of my first memories are of my mother discussing my father’s indiscretions to my older half sister. “STD” “Bankruptcy” “Felony” “embezzlement” were just some of the words that stuck out. Why she never left, I’ll just never understand. She was a leaver. My father disappeared for many months on “business trips” that later I’d learn were sometimes stints in jail or prison, although sometimes they were actually business trips.

My siblings were often at their dads, though both my brothers’ dads were dangerous, and frequently incarcerated. All of them were half siblings, as I am my fathers one and only child.

My parents upbringings were riddled with abuse. And mine followed suit. Though I was never physically abused, I was abused in complicated psychological ways, including early exposure to sexualized behaviors, as well as eating disorders. This is far too intense to go into much detail, but the important part is that my parents became this way honestly, as a result of their upbringings, and though it doesn’t excuse their behaviors towards me, it certainly explains a few things.

I am a result of my parents’ choices. I struggled with a laundry list of eating disorders, body dysmorphia, and self harm that began early in life (first memories around 5). I often wondered if God could hear me. 

My mother, disturbed by such an intolerant world, found an inclusive Lutheran church that we attended here and there for many years. I had an unwavering belief in a God, but hardly a personal God, and I had no idea how to access him, or if he was accessible.

My mother taught us of an ALL GOOD GOD. But nothing about rules, holiness, righteousness, faith, grace… nothing. It was like we were permitted lawlessness because God loved us so much.

You can see this in her parenting style. She made few rules, enforced few rules, prohibited anyone from even gentle correction, stating that “kids will be kids,” but at the root was likely a strong dislike for how disciplining kids feels and that she was of “advanced maternal age,” and just didn’t have the energy any more even if she wanted to, but let me just assure you, she DIDN’T want to. The only exception to this were rules around diet and food, which were dangeroursly different. 

She loved me unconditionally, and she would love me all the way to my grave, rather than do anything to stop dangerous behavior. If he was around, my father wouldn’t stop any behavior because he was likely doing all the same terrible behaviors him self.

By high school, my dad knew I was stealing his cigarettes, having sex, ditching school… among other dangerous activities…  but what could he say, really? 

My parents were hands off.  God knew I needed guidance, and that I'd not get it from the people who made this mess. I latched onto my mother’s housekeeper, Tracy, who noticed that I was a chatty kid with a lot of questions, she was the first of many women who took me under their wing, to guide me. God was with me all the days of my life, and he was writing my story. 

When my dad needed to move for some undisclosed reasons, we moved into a condo. I must've been about 6. My mom went to work outside the home. Previously she did in home daycare. I watched her manage dozens of kids, on outings, school pick ups, LARGE meal prep, patience, acceptence and love for her daycare kids, but it wasn’t enough money. My dad was going on an “extended business trip,” and I was pretty responsible for a 6 year old and options were limited.  One brother worked overnights, and if I needed him I could wake him, so my mother let me be a latchkey kid at 6. 

Our back patio shared a fence with a family. I'd sit out on the patio and listen to her play with her kids. She was homeschooling, and I admired her and longed for friendship. I eventually started talking to her through the fence. She had 3 kids, eventually she’d have her fourth, Jessica. The newest baby I'd ever seen. She took me under her wing, recognizing that I was just a little barefoot kid, who was good with her babies and she loved me. Pilar was a Christian, I thought I was since I’d been to church quite a lot. But it was in this season that she taught me about Jesus. 

She and her husband took me to church, and I remember hearing someone praying in tongues and saying “WOW THAT GUY IS PRAYING IN SPANISH!” She was tickled by it. She loved me like her own child. We lost contact around age 12, but before we did, I was taught how to pray, how to be grateful, how to be dedicated, and I think I probably experienced Jesus for the first time during this window of time. (We reconnected later and God let me be a wonderful part of that 4^th babies own adoption story. )

Around this time, my late elementary school years, and in the same neighborhood I met a woman named Sheri, she had 2 kids, and her baby Heather was the cutest little girl. I asked if I could take her for walks. While walking her baby, I met Andrea, and her baby Katie. These women (Sheri and Andrea) knowing that I was a latchkey kid, had me over daily. They called me a “mothers helper” and surely I would help as much as a kid could. I played with the babies, read them books, in return, they provided ample snacks and supervision. There were more… Mina and her baby Ryan, April and her baby Christopher ... I was like a stray cat. Going from house to house looking for a kid to play with and a mom to talk to. I was friendly. It was a good thing I was. God was with me all the days of my life, and he was writing my story. 

 

I learned something extremely valuable from these women. Lessons I would never learn from my mother.

Sheri taught me about silliness. She also gave me my first official paid job, doing afterschool child care at the preschool she worked at Corona Christian Center.

Andrea taught me about asking for help, and a love of musical theater. She took me to plays, and always dropped everything if I needed a ride.

Mina gave me a love for adventure, outings, and she eventually taught me to drive.

April taught me to love animals, and how to pack light for trips.

Tracy taught me about cleanliness, and acceptence, hard work and frugality.

 

In High school, as my promiscuity came out, I was taken under the wing of another Godly woman named Tracy, as well as my best friends mom, another Andrea. Andrea wasn’t saved, but thankfully she wasn’t also disturbed when I needed help with birth control, and my own Feminine health, including resolving my STD’s from unprotected sex. Tracy, and her husband were going through the process of being foster parents, and asked me to get fingerprinted and do a class so that I would be allowed to babysit regularly. I met my first foster kid there at that home. Nathaniel was a bulby headed baby, and his 2 year old brother Joshuah. We didn’t know it then, but Joshuah had a form of high functioning autism, and this was my first time falling in love with a special needs kid. God was with me all the days of my life, and he was writing my story. 

 

I’d get pregnant out of wed lock, married, pregnant, abort, divorce, marry, divorce, all before I’d meet and marry my Joe, he would get saved through a direct revelation from a God he was ADAMANT did not exist, and I’d rededicate my life to the God that Pilar introduced me to, 2 decades before.  Staying has been and likely will always be hard for me, I am a natural leaver. I got it from my mother. 

 

God was with me all the days of my life, and he was writing my story. 

 

7 years into our marriage, my husband said we should do foster care. No thanks Joe, I come from a broken home. The only good examples I had to be a parent, were not my parents. Pilar. Sheri, Mina, April, and a couple of Andreas and Tracys. 

 

They all loved me and provided for me like I was their own child. Maybe, on second thought, I was more prepared than the average mother. Women who only had one mom to learn from didn’t have anything on me. On us. 

Currently, Joe and I have fostered over 30 kids. The things I thought disqualified me as a foster mother, actually qualified me. And as a tiny kiss from heaven, Our very first foster child was a boy with Autism.

 

My foster kids have had eating disorders, they cut themselves, they’ve been sexually promiscuous, they’ve smoked weed, they've been angry, unruly, and deeply hurtful… you name it, they’ve done it. BUT SO HAVE I. They all come from broken homes. We all come from broken homes. I saw all this coming. 

 

But there were some things I didn't see coming 

What I didn’t see coming was that I was uniquely tuned to what it is like to have a mom who loves their child, but is unsafe, dealing with their own childhood trauma, trying their best but harming their kids. I am able to, because of my own mother’s failures, love other mothers, in the midst of their failure. I am able to never judge them, and believe that they are valuable. 

What I didn't see coming was the fact that I'd had so many mother figures, that I don't feel any competition to be the ONLY mother in any of my kids lives. There is plenty of room for 2 moms here, I've had a dozen! 

What I didn’t see coming was that when I was 6 years old, God was using other women to MODEL for me what loving other women’s children as my own looks like.

He taught me how to prepare food for large groups, manage many moving parts, he taught me how to lovingly make a connection with a child I just met. These women… including my own mother, showing me, teaching me, ministering to me, teaching me how to minister…

I hear the voices of these women in the words that I say. I feel the love of these women penetrating my heart, and the hearts of each stray cat child who comes into our homes. I feel a sense of connection with the kids, because I was once just like them, and a sense of connection with these women, because I am now just like them. 

I feel the forgiveness, and grace I’ve extended to my own mother, extending to the mothers of the children. The salvation of Christ is for all, ESPECIALLY the lost.

 

 

My story does nothing if it doesn’t point to a God who is waiting for us to give him permission to use our our trauma, to change the world. He took all of it and used it to do good. Our story, for HIS glory. 

HE can do that for you too. He didn’t cause any of your hurt, but he is just waiting for the invitation to make good on his promise, beauty from ashes. God knows your story, he is writing it, and providing for you. 

 

Now things look different. I’m NEVER alone and looking for friends these days, but some things just never go away. God continues to bring Godly, IMPORTANT women into my life. I could go on for hours, but trust me when I say that my adult life continues to unfold and the second half of this story when it’s written will include women named Teri, and Annette, and Julie… and likely many more.

 

If we ever move, or new neighbors move in, I always throw balls over the fences to the neighbors yards, just to see which ones come back. I see who God placed on the other side of a fence and if that is another majestic move by the great orchestrator. Who was with me all the days of my life, and is writing my story.  

 

 

Photos below to put a face to the names.

Tracy the foster mom and Joshuah *all grown up

                

         Sheri and baby heather all grown up 

                                                      

 Mina and baby Ryan as I met them.

                                                        

Pilar, me, and my mother a few years ago

 

Holding baby Jessica a few hours after birth

 Jessica (in the graduation cap) as an adult with her bio son Jonas, and his adoptive mom jes. 

  April, still working with animals

                                                          

Andrea and her “baby” Katie

                                                          

The second Andrea, who helped me deal with my women’s health, who after caring for me went on to become an official foster and adoptive mother too. 

My mother's house keeper Tracy

Me (back left) with Tracy’s daughters with the easter bunny. I was so involved with these other families, I even was included in family moments like this. 

Its not what I expected it to feel like.

I had expected a lot of feelings. Draw from the first time? Maybe.

But just so you have it in writing, I was dead wrong.

If you ask me how I feel, the answer is "strong"

I won a scholarship from Red Robin with this short essay.

Closer Than I've Ever Been Before
By Rebecca Turner Miles

 I promised my dad I'd go to college.  He tried college once, but it just wasn't for him.  He was a talker, not much of a listener.  He was successful as a salesman and never really regretted dropping out of college after a semester and a half until the economy crashed in the mid-nineties.  When I graduated from High School in 1999 in Southern California, my dad gave me $100 as a gift under the condition I would try to go to college.  He cried when he said he couldn't pay for it.  I didn't know it then, but that $100 was probably all the money he had. 

 I worked all summer to pay for that first semester at Riverside Community College and in the 12 years since that first semester I've changed majors twice, lived in three states, had three children and found more start-overs and do-overs a woman could hope to find.  In 2003, on my third attempt at college, I returned as a single mom.  The Governor of California, Gray Davis, attempted to raise community college tuition from $12 to $27 a credit.  We decided to protest and marched up to the capital with picket signs and chanting.  More than 1000 students stood on the steps of the capital building.  My then 6 month old son Caleb and I made the cover of the Press Enterprise Newspaper- he in his stroller with a sign taped to the top that read, “Don't make my mommy choose between diapers and books.”

 Now, as I can't stop the runaway train that barrels toward “30,” (I celebrate my 30th birthday in November) I am at the point where I can look back and reflect both positively and negatively at the journey.

Yes- I am 30 and still a server- a sales person just like my dad. 
Yes- I have 3 beautiful kids who will hear the same apology I heard, I won't be able to pay for their college education either.
Yes- I am 30 still not quite holding the Bachelors degree I promised my dad 12 years ago.
Yes- I could be a practicing physician in this amount of time. 

 But- I am closer than I've ever been before.  I am determined this time to finish the task I have been working toward for so long. Three semesters until I can gift wrap up that diploma and send it to my dad. 

 This is for him. This is for the three kids who will value a college education because they saw their mother do homework, and stress finals week, and came with me to class on the occasions there wasn't a babysitter available. The kids who will make signs and hold them high at my graduation. I imagine them reading something like “That's my mom!” or “My mommy's going to be an executive!” Different of course from the one taped to the top of Caleb's stroller so long ago.  I imagine my dad sitting next to them. And that image, that moment is for me, the fruits of my hard my work, both for Red Robin and my household coming together, crossing a finish line. Accomplishing something for my past, empowering something for my present and establishing something for my future.  

Post abortion pamphlet. Permission to use as needed.

Multi Housing ministry... a grand thing indeed!

The first time I heard about Multi-Housing Ministry through Bear Valley Church, I thought, “What a good idea! I'd like to be involved with that someday."  I turned my information into the offering plate that day, checking the box "I'd like more information on getting involved with Multi-Housing Ministry."  The idea is that in poverty ridden areas, where people need the most hope, church need not wait for them to come, rather take the church to the people.  Problems with transportation, and the social stigmas of not having "church clothes" or even a Bible to bring with them, keep many people who would otherwise love to fellowship, at a distance.  I called Luanne Turner, the woman in charge of the ministry and introduced myself over the phone.  She said "Oh, Rebecca Miles, you are on my list of people to call. There just isn't enough of me to go around!" I met her at the church office just 10 minutes later to pick up pamphlets and information on the ministry to use in this paper, and before I left I'd stuffed 100 envelopes with invitations to receive free thanksgiving meals.  I didn't show up with the intention to start my project then, but Luanne had other plans.  I was an able bodied person, and my toddler son playing with her stacks of canned foods was no bother to her; she was grateful for the help. 

                      I showed up at 9:30 just as Luanne asked me to at the Green Gables Condominiums.  This, come to find out, was a euphemism.  I was looking for building 7, and it appeared to me that the buildings went numerically to 6, skipped 7 and 8 all together and picked right back up at 9 to what seemed to be infinity.  Building after building on this beautiful Sunday morning looked exactly the same.  I pulled up to a man standing on the sidewalk. "Excuse me, can you tell me where building 7 is?" He attempted to copy what I said, but his strong Spanish accent let me know I needed to change it up a bit.  Thankfully after years of restaurant service, my Spanish is adequate in most situations.  He told me I was on the wrong side of the complex.  I realized he was waiting for a ride, and I was made acutely aware of how embarrassing it is to pull up in a newer car, in nicer clothes, and stand out this severely.  I suddenly wanted to be at the safe place of the pews and the church clothes where I looked just like everyone else. 

                        I found building 7, a clearly out of place old white woman in fancy shoes pointed me in the right direction.  I walked in the apartment to find 4 teenagers and a man in his 30's vacuuming, sweeping, dusting, and arranging frantically.  I informed them I was there to help, and they took me back to a "bedroom" that had two long tables and shelves of art supplies.  No bed, no dressers, no clothes in the closet.  I was confused, but I just kept at my task: clean the paint off the tables from the last art project.  The apartment itself was clean, but hardly livable conditions. The drywall was coming off in chunks; the windows were easily from the 50's, I imagine when these condos were the cream of the crop.  No doubt about it, this place is covered in lead based paint.  It was decorated with adorable "God loves you" posters and faith based art work, whoever lived here was faithful. The kitchen had a long banquet sized table that took up the entire length of the kitchen.  Some pumpkin bread and pineapple was out, coffee and water to drink, and some of the most impressive 1970's decor a person could ever want or need!  I asked a woman who was doing kitchen work, "who lives here?"

            "No one." she says, "This is the church's apartment, and we just got another one in building 11.  We use that one for the teenagers, grades 6 to 12!"  The kids who were frantically cleaning the place came to tell me they were heading to the other apartment to finish up over there.  I came along, hoping to maybe learn someone's name along the way.  These kids were part of a small group that does activities together: bowling, toilet-papering, typical high school stuff.  But every fourth weekend, they pack up a bag with clothes and toothbrushes and head out, going on service weekends.  Building houses, helping small churches with repairs, and of course stopping in with Luanne and one of her many Multi-Housing Ministry locations.  I talked with these clearly better off kids, asking them why they gave up a whole weekend for this. Their response was quick- it's fun.  On this side, the master bedroom walls were lined with shelves.  The shelves were carefully organized by size, from newborn clothes to woman sized dresses, highchairs, car seats, even diapers and formula.  This was their storage area for the donations to meet the needs of the community here at Green Gables Condominiums.  I dusted the back rooms and headed to the kitchen where I feel the most comfortable.  Another woman pieced together a lunch for the teenagers: leftover turkey, lettuce, onions, jalapeños, a loaf of wheat bread and peanuts.  I chopped carrots and celery, and put out ranch and peanut butter secretly hoping the teens would eat every last bite of the vegetables, but consciously knowing there was no chance. 

               Time diminished quickly and before I knew it, 11:00 was rolling around.  Luanne arrived, and I felt glad to have a familiar face.  She sent me and the man in charge of the service teens to help in building 7 with the children.  Last week, the woman who leads the kids grades 5 and under had 17 kids, and no helper.  This week 5 kids came.  She said this was pretty standard, "the more help you have the less you need it."  She had hoped that "the 5 R's" would come: Rudy, Raina, Ralphie, Ronnie, and aRrianna.  They had planned to move and gotten a house big enough for all 6 of them in Aurora. They rented a U-Haul and loaded up the truck, but at the last minute the house in Aurora fell through.  Green Gables Condominiums wouldn't let them have their apartment back, so they'd been staying in the U-Haul truck for 5 days. Any minute Luanne and her team expected the police to show up and tow them away.  We all prayed they'd just come inside.  They didn't.    

            Just a few minutes after 11, the teens were safely in building 11, the adults and kids were with us, the music began.  A lone guy and an acoustic guitar is secretly my second favorite sound in the world, second only to newborn cry.  He sang old familiar songs: amazing grace, our God is an awesome God.  I didn't even notice how different this was than last Sunday was for me.  No lights, no synthesizer, no drums, no harmonies, but real honest worship is awesome no matter how it is presented.  We took the kids after worship to the room with the tables I cleaned earlier.  The kids sat down, Jacob sat at the second table by himself.  He was white and the only one of the visitors other than one woman in the adult room I had noticed during worship.  She was clearly mentally handicapped but worshiped nonetheless.  I wondered if they were related somehow.  The other 4 kids were a pair of sisters, and a brother and sister team.  Alonzo, the little boy was 4 and hardly spoke English.  His older sister did most of his talking for him, and boy did she have a thing or two to say. 

                      The sister-sister team treated Alonzo as if he were their own little brother and they drank juice and ate pumpkin bread, and with full mouths attempted to answer the teacher's question: "What are you thankful for?"  

            Jacob said "sleep" without looking up from the toy he was playing with. I tried to get him to join us. He declined.  The sister's all looked at each other as if they wanted to say something, finally Alicia spoke up, "I am thankful for my mom coming home." I should have bit my tongue but without a real thought about it, I asked "Why? Where was she?" honestly expecting to hear "the hospital."  She said, "Jail," again without making eye-contact.  I felt bad for asking, but worse for these kids.  Come to find out their dad had come to take care of them while the mother was in jail.  I didn't find out why she was there, but I was relieved to find out that Dad didn't leave as soon as mom got home.  Alicia seemed a little excited at the prospect that her Dad and Mom could live in the same house again.

            The rest of the time flew by quickly.  The mentally handicapped woman came in and said "Jacob, let’s go."

            "Mooooooom! We just started our craft! Please just 5 more minutes," he said.

            "No Jacob, I told you we have a place to be at noon!" she demanded.

            He broke into silent tears, stood to his feet and marched out.  She followed behind him, begging him to cheer up, and the most wasted words she'd speak that day.  The child who couldn't even sit near us didn't want to leave, nor did he want us to see the tears that fell.  He didn't get his way either time this Sunday.

            The day finished with the children finishing their craft- candles rolled in glitter.  They prayed, I explained that "Horned thing" is called a cornucopia, and it represents having more than enough, what we celebrate at Thanksgiving.  They were the only people in the room unaware that they did not know what a cornucopia was because they had never had excess.  I was left in my sore-thumb-of-a-van to jot notes of this experience, words wouldn't come but tears did easily.  Sociology will put names, phases, approaches and theories to the experience that Sunday morning at Green Gables Condominiums, but they won't do it justice. Hard to imagine these children coming up out of these circumstances, the section 8 housing, the welfare and the "situation" they are in, to prevail to much better of a situation.  Forgive my bluntness, it would take a miracle!  My white privilege had scued my view of poverty. My perspective of poverty has changed and I am forever grateful. 

For all I've been through...

Studying David and his flee from Saul, I am found in awe of a man that would and could spare the life of this king, who just a page or 2 back had priests and the entire city (Nob) they live in killed.  Slaughtered. 

David chose mercy for Saul because he knew that God would repay Saul for the masacre at Nob.  I think about those people who take justice into their own hands,

... The father or mother who avenges her murdered child
... The fervent activist who kills abortion doctors
... The assasins who take out leaders, or attempt to, because of their political party
... The husband who sends his wife's rapist to his maker
... The woman who assalts the other woman in her marriage

The list could go on.  And all of these acts could be "justified" by someone else.  There are plenty of people who would say the victims of these crimes DESERVED what they got, and many people might even feel joy at these injustices- these victims were first victimizers. 

David saw through all that.  Inspired by the Holy Spirit, David gave mercy to Saul, when he could have killed him and been hailed victorious! Society would have backed him! They would say "Saul got what he deserved."  I was actually a little disappointed in David when he DIDN'T kill Saul! It would have been one of those "YES!" moments in literature, where the protagonist defeats the antagonist! God convicted David, saying- NO, or at least, Not yet. 

The victory for David over Saul is coming in scripture (I have stopped and taken a break in the story to write about it).  As is our victory over those who seek after us to cause us pain.  Stay firm soldier! Stand knowing that even though you could easily take them out- and trust me, those temptations are coming, Satan is a crafty fellow- Listen to what the Spirit tells you.  Know that God has your back, and is out for your victory! And if our God is for us, then who could ever stop us? and if our God is with us, then what could stand against us? A Saul? Never!

A million cars out there turning into prayers...

Sitting in traffic, I see a thousand cars. 
I wonder about the people behind those wheels.

Are you hurting? Are you celebrating?
Are you passing through life, going through the motions?

Have you felt anything today?

Your car reminds me of someone I know, who drives a car that looks like yours.
Is that you in there? No.  Someone else; another nameless face come and gone.
The story of my life.

I will pray for you.  I will pray for God to reveal himself to you. 
To breathe this crazy love into your chest.
I will also pray for the people I know who's car looks a lot like yours. 

Traffic into spiritual warfare being waged against the forces unseen around you,
And someone else you probably don't even know.

Powerful God can can use traffic, loving God can use a wretch like me.
Faithful God will answer my prayers, whether you know I am praying for you or not.

Amen.