by Clare Revell
Dear Connie,
Yes, I’ve moved again. The fourth church in as many years. Dallas is huge. Everything here is a little larger than life. Oil is a big thing and yes they do wear Stetsons like in the TV show of the same name. Though I’ve yet to meet someone quite as egotistical.
Dad’s company is growing in New York. I see him two or three times a year. I go there for Thanksgiving and he comes to wherever I am living in the summer and at Christmas.
Anyway. This new church is a yearlong contract. I’ve been given a preaching programme and I’m down for Sunday morning. The topic was meant to be the feeding of the five thousand as we’re going through the book of Matthew. But try as I might I couldn’t write that sermon. Instead God laid another passage on me and I’m preaching that instead. Might be my first and last sermon here since I didn’t follow directions. We’ll see.
Love Oliver.
PS. Not Shem.
Southampton. 5th September 1982.
Dear Oliver,
How did the sermon go? Do you still have a job? I’m guessing so as you haven’t told me otherwise.
Speaking of jobs, Ezra is now flying out of Heathrow, so we’ll be moving to Reading. He says it’s an easy drive from there—straight down the M4—but far enough away to be cheaper than living in London. We’ll see. He and I are going to look at houses this weekend.
Hope it’s quieter than here. Our road has become a rat run for lorries. They cut through the estate to the main road. I have kittens every time I hear a lorry rumble past and won’t let the kids out of the garden unsupervised. The latch on the gate is loose and really needs fixing. I’ve done it temporarily with a piece of rope. Ezra promised again he’d put a new one on at the weekend.
Mum in law wants me. Better go. Will post this on the way.
Love Connie.
Southampton. 30th October 1982.
Dear Oliver,
I’ve been trying to write this letter for weeks. The thing is I don’t know how to say the words.
That last day I wrote. 5th September. There was this lorry. I heard the brakes. The squeal is forever etched in my mind. I glanced up. I saw it hit Titus, almost in slow motion.
The gate was open. Or the kids opened it. I don’t know. Esther (mum-in-law) called me into the shop to serve. I only took my eyes off the twins for a few moments. And that’s all it took.
Really hope you can read this through the smudges. All I do now is cry—even two months on.
They wouldn’t let me see Titus. He never woke up. Maybe it’s best that way. I can remember him as he was—red shirt and shorts. Running and playing ball with Paul and Dorcas. Zipporah was sleeping in the pushchair behind the counter in the shop.
Paul hasn’t been the same since Titus died. He hardly speaks. Dorcas says it’s because he’s only a half now, not a whole.
Ezra blames me. I blame me. It should have been me that died. Not Titus. Not my sweet, sweet boy. A parent shouldn’t outlive their child.
Love Connie.
Dallas. 15th November 1982.
Dear Connie… Dearest Connie,
Words can’t express the sorrow I feel for you and the family now. But especially you.
For all the eloquent words I find when I preach, I’ve lost them all now, just when I need them the most.
All I can say is that no matter how bad things are at this moment, no matter how sad you feel, God loves you. He knows better than anyone the grief at losing a beloved son.
God is holding Titus in the palm of His hand. He’s holding all of you as well.
I wish I could be there for you.
Love Oliver.
Southampton. 1st December 1982.
Dear Oliver,
Six months. The lorry driver pled guilty and got six measly months! He murdered my son and he’ll be back at home with his kids quicker than you can count to ten!
British Justice is a joke!
Love Connie.
Dallas. 5th December 1982.
[Christmas card.]
Dear Connie,
It seems so wrong to say Happy Christmas, because I know it won’t be. Thinking of you.
Love Oliver.
Southampton. 10th December 1982.
[Christmas card.]
Dear Oliver,
Paul drew you a picture. I’ve enclosed it. It’s a hug, because you sent him a card just for him after Titus died. He sleeps with it and says it’s his special hug from Unca Oliver.
Happy Christmas.
Love Connie.
Reading. 10th January 1983.
[Postcard of Reading town centre.]
Dear Oliver,
Here’s the new address.
Love Connie.
Dallas. 5th July 1983.
[Birthday card.]
Dear Connie,
Happy Birthday.
Love Oliver.
PS. If I thought Vegas did the Fourth big, that’s nothing compared to Dallas!
PPS. How are you doing? How’s Paul?
Reading. 17th July 1983.
[Birthday card.]
Dear Oliver,
Happy birthday.
Love Connie.
PS. I’m getting by. Paul is okay, I think. He still sleeps with your card and both teddy bears.
Dallas. 6th December 1983.
[Christmas card.]
Dear Connie,
Happy Christmas.
Love Oliver.
PS. Things are moving here. I might be changing jobs. Nothing written in stone yet, just have to wait and see.
Reading. 12th December 1983.
[Christmas card.]
Dear Oliver,
Happy Christmas.
Love Connie.
PS. Another picture from Paul for you. It’s us at the bonfire party we went to. The big star in the sky is Titus watching over us.
Reading. 27th January 1984.
Dear Oliver,
Long-time no letter. Though I did manage birthday and Christmas cards, I’m not counting those.
Nor am I counting the scribbled PS’s on the bottom of them with a tiny scrap of news. I also apologise for not sending guesses as to what the S in your name is. I haven’t forgotten. So will include a guess with this letter.
Sorry. It’s been a really bad couple of years. We’ve been here a year now. It’s a new development, a couple of miles or so outside town. There’s a nice local school that Dorcas and Paul attend, with Zipporah’s place already booked—you have to do that early if you want them there. An easy commute to work for Ezra.
Paul is doing better. He’s drawing a lot, seems to be coping that way as Titus is in all his pictures somewhere or other.
New Year’s resolution is to write to you more.
Love Connie.
PS. Selleck.
New York. 29th February 1984.
Dear Connie,
Happy leap year day!
I got your letter just as I was leaving Dallas and moving. And yes, definitely need more letters. I’m currently working at a mission in NYC. I really believe God is calling me to evangelism. I just want to glorify Him in all that I do. To be His hands and feet in the harvest fields and let His words pour out of me as I preach. To become the lesser as He becomes the greater.
Dad is remarrying next week. Her name is Hayden and she’s younger than him. Make that much younger than him—she’s the same age as you. But she makes him happy, and that’s what matters.
Love Oliver.
PS. Not Selleck.
Reading. 8th April 1984.
[Postcard of Windsor Castle.]
Dear Oliver,
Nope didn’t go to Windsor at all. I got the card in the local post office would you believe.
And the only reason I’m posting is because of the date! 8/4/84!!
Love Connie.
New York. 7th July 1984.
[Birthday card.]
Dear Connie,
Happy Birthday.
Love Oliver.
PS. This
thing of yours of getting the dates wrong is catching. I almost put 1894 then!
Reading. 9th July 1984.
[Birthday card.]
Dear Oliver,
Enjoy the last birthday you’ll ever have…in your twenties!
Love Connie.
New York. 4th August 1984.
[Postcard of the Statue of Liberty.]
Dear Connie,
No. This is 8/4/84.
Love Oliver.
PS. That last birthday thing – I suppose you think it’s funny. Well…it is!
New York. 13th December 1984.
[Christmas card.]
Dear Connie,
Happy Christmas.
Love Oliver.
Reading. 14th December 1984.
[Christmas card.]
Dear Oliver,
Happy Christmas.
Love Connie.
Chapter Four
New York. 7th February 1985.
Dear Connie,
Well, it’s finally happened. Just when I gave up all hope. At the age of 30, well 29¾ I’m a big brother.
You weren’t seriously expecting me to say I’ve fallen in love were you? Hah!
Hayden had the baby yesterday. They called her Victoria. It’s already been shortened to Vicky. It’s weird. Dad is old enough to be a grandfather, and here he is starting over with a second family.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t dislike Hayden, and she’s made every effort not to replace Mum. She’s not making me called her ‘mom’ for a start. Only I’d say Mum but that’s the Brit in me still. It’s just strange.
Anyway, Vicky is cute as far as baby sisters go. She has Dad’s nose, poor thing, and masses of jet black hair.
I’m still working in the mission here. Really enjoying it. I love the preaching, but also the pastoring side. Being able to get out alongside people, help them, show them God’s love in practical ways.
Did you and Ezra find a church in Reading? I can recommend a couple if you want.
Love Oliver.
Reading. 25th April 1985.
Dear Oliver,
Church?
Ummm. Honestly I haven’t been for years. Not since Titus was murdered. (Yes I know it was an accident but that’s not the way I see it.) God and I parted ways that day. I get angry every time I think of that lorry driver with his kids and I don’t have all of mine. I can’t forgive him. Or God. Ezra takes the kids to a church in town when he’s not flying weekends, but I don’t go. Ever. If Ezra is working then they don’t go.
They don’t ask why I don’t go. Guess they assume church is a Daddy thing and the park and so on is a Mummy thing.
And just for the record, baby sisters are a pain. Least yours won’t want to borrow your clothes and shoes. And you won’t be living with her. Mind you. I haven’t seen Sandy since she moved to Scotland. We never made it that first Christmas and haven’t been since. I write a few times a year, and she writes back.
It’s a long way to go to Scotland. Yes we’d fly, but I don’t like to leave the house much now. She’s fallen in love with the chilly land and doesn’t intend to ever move back south of the border to England.
They live in a little town called Lockerbie. The kind of place where everyone knows everybody and what they’re doing. The kind of small town I’d hate, but Sandy loves it.
I can’t believe Dorcas will be ten this year. She’d already planning her party in May—a fairy one. Along with a fairy castle cake. Which I have to make. Should be interesting.
Love Connie.
PS. Sloan.
New York. 25th May 1985.
Dear Connie,
I’m going to join Billy Graham on a series of missions he’s doing—see how it’s done on such a large scale. It’s an incredible honour to be asked to do this.
He really is an amazing preacher and such a gentle, honest, down to earth guy, yet totally spiritual and Godly. The kind of preacher I aspire to be one day. I’ll be away three months, but send anything here and I’ll get it on my return.
Love Oliver.
PS. No. Not Sloan/Slone/Sloane.
Reading. 25th June 1985.
[Photo-postcard of a fairy castle cake stuck to a cake board.]
Dear Oliver,
I made a fairy castle. Ice-cream cones for turrets. Oodles of pink butter icing and sweets for the windows and castellation’s. I used wafers for the door, chocolate sticks for the drawbridge bits and blue icing for the moat. Dorcas loved it. I’m a hero apparently. What do you think?
Love Connie.
PS. Snowdon.
New York. 10th July 1985.
[Birthday card.]
Dear Connie,
Happy birthday!
Love Oliver.
PS. The cake is fantastic. I want one.
Reading. 10th July 1985.
[Birthday card.]
Dear Oliver,
Happy 30th birthday! That’s like so old.
Love Connie.
PS. Sergei.
Paris. 15th August 1985.
[Postcard of the Eiffel Tower.]
Dear Oliver,
Ezra arranged a week long break for the two of us. The children are with Ezra’s parents in Southampton. It’s a little extravagant, but if we can put things right between us it’s for the best. Things haven’t been the same since Titus died. We barely speak. And as for anything else? Forget it.
I think this could be our last chance. That if we can’t salvage what is left… I can’t even bring myself to say the word.
Love Connie.
PS. Shogun.
PPS. Hope the birthday card arrived okay. If not, that guess was Sergei.
New York. 27th October 1985.
Dear Connie,
Remind me never to buy whatever baby naming book you did. No. Not Snowdon or Shogun or Sergei.
Working with Mr Graham was the most incredible experience. I learned so much. God really moves through him and his preaching. Hundreds came forward every night to receive forgiveness and salvation and it was a privilege to lead them to Christ through prayer.
Connie, you said back in April that you and God had parted ways. I’m sorry you feel that way. He still loves you. I’m praying for you every day. If there is more I can do please ask.
Love Oliver.
New York 1st December 1985.
[Christmas card.]
Dear Connie,
A letter in with your card. Things are changing here really fast.
Did I tell you I met someone? She’s around your age, flame red hair, emerald eyes, her laugh is infectious and she has the sweetest nature. Her name is Patricia. We’ve been going out a while now. Think she could be the one.
Love Oliver.
Reading. 15th December 1985.
[Christmas card.]
Dear Oliver,
You have a girlfriend? And I’m only just hearing about it now? How long have you been going out? How serious is it?
Love Connie.
New York. 1st January 1986.
[Postcard of empire state building.]
Dear Connie,
We’ve been going out since September. Yes it’s serious. But you know when the right one comes along. And Patricia is it.
Love Oliver.
Reading. 9th July 1986.
[Birthday card.]
Dear Oliver,
Happy birthday.
Love Connie.
PS. Wouldn’t know about the right one. Not sure I found him.
New York. 15th July 1986.
[Birthday card.]
Dear Connie,
Happy birthday.
Love Oliver.
PS. You must have done. You’ve been married fifteen years.
Reading. 12th December 1986.
[Christmas card.]
Dear Oliver,
Happy Christmas.
Love Connie.
PS. 15 very long, lonely years if you ask me. Plus you get less time in jail for murder!
New York. 16th De
cember 1986.
[Christmas card.]
Dear Connie,
Happy Christmas. Hoping next year will be better.
Love Oliver.
Reading. 30th June 1987.
[Birthday card.]
Dear Oliver,
Well we can live in hope, I guess.
Happy Birthday old man.
Love Connie.
PS. You’ll always be older than me no matter how much you wish otherwise.
New York. 14th July 1987.
[Birthday card.]
Dear Connie,
You wait ’til next year when you reach thirty.
Happy birthday.
Love Oliver.
Reading. 16TH October 1987.
Dear Oliver,
Last night’s storm was horrendous. The BBC said there wasn’t going to be a hurricane, but with winds of over 100mph what else do you call it?
I know, technically hurricanes form over a certain type of sea and not over land. But Sevenoaks in Kent is now Oneoak! We lost the roof off the house and several fence panels. Several people were killed.
All the kids slept in my room like they do during a thunderstorm.
But we’re all safe and unhurt.
Love Connie.
New York. 5th December 1987.
[Christmas card.]
Dear Connie,
Happy Christmas. Glad to hear all is well.
Love Oliver.
Reading. 15th December 1987.
[Christmas card.]
Dear Oliver,
Times flies so fast. I have a pile of half-started letters for which I apologise. Not air letters like I usually use, which is probably why I never finished them. So shoving this one in with your Christmas card.
The kids are growing fast. Dorcas is 12 now and in secondary school! Paul is 9 and Zipporah is 7. I reckon we should have spelled her name as it sounds as no one can pronounce it from looking at the written form. Or maybe it gets pronounced differently in different places. Only in church on Sunday they read part of the story of Moses and called his wife Zefera. I always thought it was Zip-pour-ah. And that’s Zed not Zee.
