Carol Ingrid Tabor was born to Shelby Edison Teekell from Rapids, Louisiana, and Clara Mae Atwell from Missouri. She came to Christ early in her life and worked hard to ensure that her four sons knew Christ as well. After her death, each of her sons found the following letter , Story , written to them in her own words:
Imagine a Snowstorm in July
I thought I felt a surge of excitement because it never or only rarely snowed at home and the kids would be thrilled. Then it hit me. Those poor people. I prayed for them. What would they do? There were only a few old quilts in those two cars and it was snowing like I had never seen before. I knew what I was going to do. But the hard part would be in getting Wes to go along with me. I shook him awake out of a sound sleep and he was confronted with a "get dressed. Let's get into the truck. Go down to the river and bring those poor people to our trailer." He said, "You're kidding me, are you not? Please say you are kidding." It would be I kind to intrude, but somehow I knew I was going to do it. We dressed, told our older boys we were leaving, and down to the river we went.
I felt so kind — and, God forgive me, good about the the deed we were about to perform. Those fortunate people. We were coming to their aid. The only trouble was, the only thing we could do was to bang on the windows. We could not arouse them. They were curled up and sound asleep, or at least pretending to be. I am sure they were wishing we would give up and leave. The other campers were leaving and the woman in whose face I had see my own feelings mirrored informed me that she had been trying desperately to rouse them. She tearfully told me that they were leaving all their camping gear and they wanted those in the cars to use them. They would come back in a week when the weather was better. My arms went around her and we cried together. We cried for the sadness of life andI think for the love that God has given our neighbor. The men were happy to have the tent and the woman and her two small children were in our trailer, but not too happy. Frank, Wes, and my older boys drove a few miles to an old deserted cabin belonging to a big ranching operation in the area. They cleaned out the old wood stove and shook out the old bunk mattresses. She smiled when we told her about the cabin. It was just a small smile. Certainly it was no solution to her problem. But at least it was a temporary roof over their heads. They left their small farm in Arkansas ten years before. There was no work and her husband's two brothers kept calling about good jobs. They were first in one state, then in another. She had given up with moving. They had a truck half paid for and a good rented house, and one whole year of living in the same place in Arizona. She was beginning to feel secure when a phone call from Montana blew everything apart. She was told that they would make lots of money. They left the half paid for truck and a good job for the snow and cold of Montana. They left for a place where there were no houses to rent and there were two more to cook for. She knew that her husband would never stay in one place. He had a happy, eager look on his face. I know that he was sure that good luck and good fortune were just around the corner. I liked them. I understood her feelings completely. I had sympathy for him because I, too, thought that the grass might be greener somewhere else.
God, forgive me for being the typical little missionary, for combing her hair and giving her a hair ribbon, for the phoney little pep talks and probably the wrong advice, and the cleanliness is next to Godliness feelings that I must have forced on her. I thank God that we brought along two of everything so we could give the extra clothes and shoes to them. But, God, they must have been irksome to her. What do I know of sorrow like hers? Just who am I to give advice? But, God, forgive my selfishness. I saw the way she looked at my new fur lined boots. Our shoe sizes were the same. I needed them for two days, then we would have been on our way home. We have no snow at home. She could have worn those boots for years and she really needed them. I gave her a pair of tennis shoes and some nice warm socks. I have such a nice warm feeling of "isn't it better to give". I feel so satisfied with myself. I'll enjoy telling everyone at home how we rescued those poor, unfortunate people, how we shared our goods. But, I won't tell them about keeping the boots for my fun for two days. God, forgive me for not being really sorry and for not admitting to myself or to others just why along with my great pity for others. I also feel that very real feeing of guilt. It makes no difference if no other person understands. It is not a corporate guilt. It is a very real personal knowledge that I will always think of myself and mine first, and you clearly said God, "your neighbor as yourself."
by Carol Teekell Tabor
Imagine a Snowstorm in July
I thought I felt a surge of excitement because it never or only rarely snowed at home and the kids would be thrilled. Then it hit me. Those poor people. I prayed for them. What would they do? There were only a few old quilts in those two cars and it was snowing like I had never seen before. I knew what I was going to do. But the hard part would be in getting Wes to go along with me. I shook him awake out of a sound sleep and he was confronted with a "get dressed. Let's get into the truck. Go down to the river and bring those poor people to our trailer." He said, "You're kidding me, are you not? Please say you are kidding." It would be I kind to intrude, but somehow I knew I was going to do it. We dressed, told our older boys we were leaving, and down to the river we went.
I felt so kind — and, God forgive me, good about the the deed we were about to perform. Those fortunate people. We were coming to their aid. The only trouble was, the only thing we could do was to bang on the windows. We could not arouse them. They were curled up and sound asleep, or at least pretending to be. I am sure they were wishing we would give up and leave. The other campers were leaving and the woman in whose face I had see my own feelings mirrored informed me that she had been trying desperately to rouse them. She tearfully told me that they were leaving all their camping gear and they wanted those in the cars to use them. They would come back in a week when the weather was better. My arms went around her and we cried together. We cried for the sadness of life andI think for the love that God has given our neighbor. The men were happy to have the tent and the woman and her two small children were in our trailer, but not too happy. Frank, Wes, and my older boys drove a few miles to an old deserted cabin belonging to a big ranching operation in the area. They cleaned out the old wood stove and shook out the old bunk mattresses. She smiled when we told her about the cabin. It was just a small smile. Certainly it was no solution to her problem. But at least it was a temporary roof over their heads. They left their small farm in Arkansas ten years before. There was no work and her husband's two brothers kept calling about good jobs. They were first in one state, then in another. She had given up with moving. They had a truck half paid for and a good rented house, and one whole year of living in the same place in Arizona. She was beginning to feel secure when a phone call from Montana blew everything apart. She was told that they would make lots of money. They left the half paid for truck and a good job for the snow and cold of Montana. They left for a place where there were no houses to rent and there were two more to cook for. She knew that her husband would never stay in one place. He had a happy, eager look on his face. I know that he was sure that good luck and good fortune were just around the corner. I liked them. I understood her feelings completely. I had sympathy for him because I, too, thought that the grass might be greener somewhere else.
God, forgive me for being the typical little missionary, for combing her hair and giving her a hair ribbon, for the phoney little pep talks and probably the wrong advice, and the cleanliness is next to Godliness feelings that I must have forced on her. I thank God that we brought along two of everything so we could give the extra clothes and shoes to them. But, God, they must have been irksome to her. What do I know of sorrow like hers? Just who am I to give advice? But, God, forgive my selfishness. I saw the way she looked at my new fur lined boots. Our shoe sizes were the same. I needed them for two days, then we would have been on our way home. We have no snow at home. She could have worn those boots for years and she really needed them. I gave her a pair of tennis shoes and some nice warm socks. I have such a nice warm feeling of "isn't it better to give". I feel so satisfied with myself. I'll enjoy telling everyone at home how we rescued those poor, unfortunate people, how we shared our goods. But, I won't tell them about keeping the boots for my fun for two days. God, forgive me for not being really sorry and for not admitting to myself or to others just why along with my great pity for others. I also feel that very real feeing of guilt. It makes no difference if no other person understands. It is not a corporate guilt. It is a very real personal knowledge that I will always think of myself and mine first, and you clearly said God, "your neighbor as yourself."
by Carol Teekell Tabor
Carol Ingrid Tabor was born to Shelby Edison Teekell from Rapids, Louisiana, and Clara Mae Atwell from Missouri. She came to Christ early in her life and worked hard to ensure that her four sons knew Christ as well. After her death, each of her sons found the following letter , Story , written to them in her own words:
Imagine a Snowstorm in July
I thought I felt a surge of excitement because it never or only rarely snowed at home and the kids would be thrilled. Then it hit me. Those poor people. I prayed for them. What would they do? There were only a few old quilts in those two cars and it was snowing like I had never seen before. I knew what I was going to do. But the hard part would be in getting Wes to go along with me. I shook him awake out of a sound sleep and he was confronted with a "get dressed. Let's get into the truck. Go down to the river and bring those poor people to our trailer." He said, "You're kidding me, are you not? Please say you are kidding." It would be I kind to intrude, but somehow I knew I was going to do it. We dressed, told our older boys we were leaving, and down to the river we went.
I felt so kind — and, God forgive me, good about the the deed we were about to perform. Those fortunate people. We were coming to their aid. The only trouble was, the only thing we could do was to bang on the windows. We could not arouse them. They were curled up and sound asleep, or at least pretending to be. I am sure they were wishing we would give up and leave. The other campers were leaving and the woman in whose face I had see my own feelings mirrored informed me that she had been trying desperately to rouse them. She tearfully told me that they were leaving all their camping gear and they wanted those in the cars to use them. They would come back in a week when the weather was better. My arms went around her and we cried together. We cried for the sadness of life andI think for the love that God has given our neighbor. The men were happy to have the tent and the woman and her two small children were in our trailer, but not too happy. Frank, Wes, and my older boys drove a few miles to an old deserted cabin belonging to a big ranching operation in the area. They cleaned out the old wood stove and shook out the old bunk mattresses. She smiled when we told her about the cabin. It was just a small smile. Certainly it was no solution to her problem. But at least it was a temporary roof over their heads. They left their small farm in Arkansas ten years before. There was no work and her husband's two brothers kept calling about good jobs. They were first in one state, then in another. She had given up with moving. They had a truck half paid for and a good rented house, and one whole year of living in the same place in Arizona. She was beginning to feel secure when a phone call from Montana blew everything apart. She was told that they would make lots of money. They left the half paid for truck and a good job for the snow and cold of Montana. They left for a place where there were no houses to rent and there were two more to cook for. She knew that her husband would never stay in one place. He had a happy, eager look on his face. I know that he was sure that good luck and good fortune were just around the corner. I liked them. I understood her feelings completely. I had sympathy for him because I, too, thought that the grass might be greener somewhere else.
God, forgive me for being the typical little missionary, for combing her hair and giving her a hair ribbon, for the phoney little pep talks and probably the wrong advice, and the cleanliness is next to Godliness feelings that I must have forced on her. I thank God that we brought along two of everything so we could give the extra clothes and shoes to them. But, God, they must have been irksome to her. What do I know of sorrow like hers? Just who am I to give advice? But, God, forgive my selfishness. I saw the way she looked at my new fur lined boots. Our shoe sizes were the same. I needed them for two days, then we would have been on our way home. We have no snow at home. She could have worn those boots for years and she really needed them. I gave her a pair of tennis shoes and some nice warm socks. I have such a nice warm feeling of "isn't it better to give". I feel so satisfied with myself. I'll enjoy telling everyone at home how we rescued those poor, unfortunate people, how we shared our goods. But, I won't tell them about keeping the boots for my fun for two days. God, forgive me for not being really sorry and for not admitting to myself or to others just why along with my great pity for others. I also feel that very real feeing of guilt. It makes no difference if no other person understands. It is not a corporate guilt. It is a very real personal knowledge that I will always think of myself and mine first, and you clearly said God, "your neighbor as yourself."
by Carol Teekell Tabor
Imagine a Snowstorm in July
I thought I felt a surge of excitement because it never or only rarely snowed at home and the kids would be thrilled. Then it hit me. Those poor people. I prayed for them. What would they do? There were only a few old quilts in those two cars and it was snowing like I had never seen before. I knew what I was going to do. But the hard part would be in getting Wes to go along with me. I shook him awake out of a sound sleep and he was confronted with a "get dressed. Let's get into the truck. Go down to the river and bring those poor people to our trailer." He said, "You're kidding me, are you not? Please say you are kidding." It would be I kind to intrude, but somehow I knew I was going to do it. We dressed, told our older boys we were leaving, and down to the river we went.
I felt so kind — and, God forgive me, good about the the deed we were about to perform. Those fortunate people. We were coming to their aid. The only trouble was, the only thing we could do was to bang on the windows. We could not arouse them. They were curled up and sound asleep, or at least pretending to be. I am sure they were wishing we would give up and leave. The other campers were leaving and the woman in whose face I had see my own feelings mirrored informed me that she had been trying desperately to rouse them. She tearfully told me that they were leaving all their camping gear and they wanted those in the cars to use them. They would come back in a week when the weather was better. My arms went around her and we cried together. We cried for the sadness of life andI think for the love that God has given our neighbor. The men were happy to have the tent and the woman and her two small children were in our trailer, but not too happy. Frank, Wes, and my older boys drove a few miles to an old deserted cabin belonging to a big ranching operation in the area. They cleaned out the old wood stove and shook out the old bunk mattresses. She smiled when we told her about the cabin. It was just a small smile. Certainly it was no solution to her problem. But at least it was a temporary roof over their heads. They left their small farm in Arkansas ten years before. There was no work and her husband's two brothers kept calling about good jobs. They were first in one state, then in another. She had given up with moving. They had a truck half paid for and a good rented house, and one whole year of living in the same place in Arizona. She was beginning to feel secure when a phone call from Montana blew everything apart. She was told that they would make lots of money. They left the half paid for truck and a good job for the snow and cold of Montana. They left for a place where there were no houses to rent and there were two more to cook for. She knew that her husband would never stay in one place. He had a happy, eager look on his face. I know that he was sure that good luck and good fortune were just around the corner. I liked them. I understood her feelings completely. I had sympathy for him because I, too, thought that the grass might be greener somewhere else.
God, forgive me for being the typical little missionary, for combing her hair and giving her a hair ribbon, for the phoney little pep talks and probably the wrong advice, and the cleanliness is next to Godliness feelings that I must have forced on her. I thank God that we brought along two of everything so we could give the extra clothes and shoes to them. But, God, they must have been irksome to her. What do I know of sorrow like hers? Just who am I to give advice? But, God, forgive my selfishness. I saw the way she looked at my new fur lined boots. Our shoe sizes were the same. I needed them for two days, then we would have been on our way home. We have no snow at home. She could have worn those boots for years and she really needed them. I gave her a pair of tennis shoes and some nice warm socks. I have such a nice warm feeling of "isn't it better to give". I feel so satisfied with myself. I'll enjoy telling everyone at home how we rescued those poor, unfortunate people, how we shared our goods. But, I won't tell them about keeping the boots for my fun for two days. God, forgive me for not being really sorry and for not admitting to myself or to others just why along with my great pity for others. I also feel that very real feeing of guilt. It makes no difference if no other person understands. It is not a corporate guilt. It is a very real personal knowledge that I will always think of myself and mine first, and you clearly said God, "your neighbor as yourself."
by Carol Teekell Tabor
Inscription
Beloved wife and Mother
Gravesite Details
b CA; d San Francisco; w/o James Wesley "Wes" Tabor,Ceres Calif Body To Science Finale Disposition Burial Turlock Cemetery
Family Members
Children
