It really is a journey that we’re on. All through life, we interact with so many different people. Some of them come just for a bit and make our lives better. Some come into our hearts and stay. And those are the times when we are truly blessed. Some of the best friends are the ones who have and you can't seem to remember when you first met. It's as though you've known them your whole life. Those are the friends who have crossed our paths and we've know in our heart-of-hearts that our life's journey has been changed for the better. We know that we have been changed for good. Martha Gibson is one of those friends for me. She works at Evans as a server. She's done it for more than 30 years. Her feet and knees will wear out long before her heart ever does. Through the years I've known her, she has been the best pastor I've ever had. Martha has a way of welcoming us all. I've watched as she has been kind to those who appear to have power and privilege, and she shows the same kindness to those who don't. She pushes through her aches and pains, through her own hard-times to help make our times better. She serves grits with a butter-smile in the center (thanks to Myko, our chef) and always asks if there's anything else she can get for you. Can you imagine that? In this day and age when so many of us are racing in two directions at once, there stands Martha day-after-day, plate-after-plate asking if there's anything else we need. And when it comes down to it, more often than not her kind and gracious attention is just what we've needed all along. I think I've witnessed this best as I've watched her with the men in my life. Our boys, Brogan, now 6'1"+ and Sam, 5'11" each started out as centerpieces at Evans at one time or another. Early on, each of the boys would be laid out in the center of the table while we ate our meals. As babies Martha hugged and loved on them, and she continues to do it every time they come to the restaurant (although now she needs to stand on her tiptoes to get her their hugs). And she was so very kind to Dad. My father lived for 19 years with Alzheimer's, his final decade here in Atlanta. As his disease progressed it was harder and harder for him to go out to eat. His world seemed to grow ever smaller. But our family continued to bring him to Evans until his last few months. And every time he walked in and Martha was working, she seemed to make a point of coming over and giving him a big hug. Five years have passed since his death and I can still see the look on Dad's face during Martha's bear hugs. He was safe. He was known by someone who cared so much for him. He still mattered. Martha's path has crossed mine. We were strangers once a long time ago, but because angels are always nudging us, somewhere on the journey she and I have become friends. I've learned a lot about compassion from her over the years, and I've eaten way too many pancakes. And along the way thanks to those angels, I have been blessed to call Martha my friend. Louise Penny is truly a gifted and life-bringing author. She writes wonderful stories about characters who are never-dull, ever-strong that get inside my heart and stay for a while. She weaves incredible ideas into her stories…so often these weavings raise me up and help me stand a little straighter, a little taller. In The Nature of the Beast she has done it again. Near the end of the book (and I’ll try not to give anything away)…my hero, Armand Gamache is facing an overwhelming task. We are invited in as we watch this character dig deeply into himself to find strength for what he has to do next. With his deep-digging he reminds himself of what is good and kind; he remembers, re-members who he is. Ms. Penny shows us that this is always possible to do. Here in this book, when faced with this impossible event Gamache forces himself to think of the ones he loves. He lists them in his head by name. And then he remembers moments of love – last year’s Christmas dinner, a recent gathering at his friend Clara’s house, walking his dog that morning. And in his reflecting he comes to himself. He re-members himself. And that is enough. This past week I was visiting with one of our hospice patients. She has come to be very special to me. Her lung disease has brought her to our hospice, but her illness does not tell you much about who she is. This spunky, gracious lady loves Christmas – she and her husband, George have 14 Christmas trees fully decorated throughout their house. She began as an elementary school teacher, and evolved into a Special Education teacher who birthed a vibrant countywide program in the 70’s. She loves taking the Eucharist more than life itself. When I was visiting with her, I could tell right away that she was having a very hard day. Lying there in her hospital bed that George has turned toward her big picture window, she weakly greeted me. She was using her oxygen on full-throttle and she “just didn’t feel good.” She looked at me with her big, brown eyes and said, “Tell me something good.” I told her about what I’d read from Louise Penny. I invited her to try it. Soon I listened as she shared names of the people she loved and she knew loved her. Her list sounded long and full, and I listened and listened. And as she shared her list of loved ones, her eyes seemed to grow a little bit clearer. When she stopped to take a drink of water, I asked her to share some of her best memories of the past year. And again, her list went on and on. She started with the Christmas in July party they’d recently had at their house, and her list went on from there. As she was talking, I was aware – and I think she was, too – of the strength was in her - still...always. As I go from house to house, room to room I encounter folks who are living while on hospice. As I listen to them, I am reminded that I have no idea what it feels like for them. I can’t begin to even put myself in their shoes. What I can do is walk with them for a bit. And share a word or two of encouragement and hope along the way. There is strength, wisdom, power that comes to me when I circle back ‘round to this life I have lived, and am living. When I begin to list folks I love and I know love me – those who are living and those who have gone on…when I begin to think of moments that I’ve lived in love, in laughter, in grace…there is enough – more than enough – for the facing of this hour. Louise Penny reminded me of this strength that I carry with me. Every minute of everyday. I pray that I can practice this spiritual exercise of connection and gratitude the next time I am afraid. I pray that I will remember to re-member. This is not an exercise of simply looking backwards. Instead I believe it is a spiritual practice of looking inward and breathing it deeply in. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun, And makes gaps even two can pass abreast… The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: 'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' We wear our fingers rough with handling them. He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'. Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: 'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.' ~ Robert Frost Life has been very kind to me. I have been blessed most all my life with good neighbors. I was reminded yesterday. On one side of our house these days we have a young family with three little kids. Mostly giggling, sometimes crying, very active little kids. Their folks are kind and forward thinking. Daddy Mark is faithfully talking about the benefits of buying an electric lawn mower (and not one with one of those long, dangling cords). They are on the move, these folks. On the other side of our house is a beautiful, 80 something-year-old woman, Miss Ola Kate. She continues to take college classes (“this math is just too hard”) and wear her hats on Sunday morning to church. Yesterday when I was finishing something in the front yard, Miss Ola was getting out of the car and unfolding her walker to head on into her house. I went over and held her arm (for me more than her) as she maneuvered across the magnolia roots on the ground in front of her ramp. “I’ve had one of the best days of my life,” she said to me. “I went to the beauty parlor and had a lady wash my hair – can you image that? – my arthritis is just too back these days. And then me and my son went to the Golden Corral and I just sat there long after I was full. I just sat there thinking about the things I wish I could still eat.” Miss Ola is a woman whose glass is almost more half full. How blessed I am. And the folks across the street, Emily and Eric who are raising their two little boys (3 years apart, just like Bro and Sam). Oldest son, Natie just started kindergarten. Good boys. Weary and great parents. Life is truly kind. We grew up on a corner lot in Mattoon, IL. We lived there from the time Mom and Dad brought baby Betsey home from the hospital until moving down to Georgia, low those many years later. All our growing up we had one neighbor, Dewey Clark. She was a widow who lived next door to us. I remember a couple of things so clearly about her: she wanted to see our report cards on the day we got them from 1st grade through 12th and she really hated it when we hit baseballs up on her roof. She was watchful and connected. She was stern, but always with something sweet attached to it. She was our first neighbor and she set the standard for all that was to come. My neighbors in the dorm at Hamilton Hall at Illinois State are still good friends. Except for the night they stole my stuffed dog, Brownie and dangled him outside my 8th floor window – with a ransom note, no less (something involving pizza, I’m sure) – except for that one criminal act, those girls truly got me through college and into what was next. When we met 35+ years later this past summer and had pizza bread at Avanti’s nothing had changed a bit. We could still laugh loud and hard enough – loud enough for the manager to come to our table and `speak to us.’ When Linda and I moved into our first house we were introduced to our older-than-our-parents-next-door neighbor with her (introductory) questions: “Is that some part of the ritual you have? Is that what you all do?” It was several weeks later that we came to understand what she was asking. When we were moving-in all the folks who helped us move were women. And Miss Eva (honestly) thought that it was a Lesbian initiation ritual that one had to do manual labor to “enter into the club.” As years past, and our families visited and our children were born, as we mowed her yard and helped her with projects, she came to realize that Linda and I weren’t members of some club. As the years past, she came to call us her favorite neighbors. Now I think about how quickly the world is spinning these days and all the places that feel tender and broken. I wonder what would happen to us all if we incorporated the word “neighbor” more into the rhythm of our lives. Can it become a verb for us? Can it be an intention? Can this notion of being neighborly become something we are more mindful of? Especially in these days, I’m mindful of the importance of Frost’s question: What I was walling in or walling out? I’m as guilty of this as the next person of this walling business. Living in ATL can sometimes invite us to compartmentalize ourselves. It’s overwhelming to think about the sheer volume of the people that live within a square mile of our yard. What’s to be gained by walling others out or me in? What is so often lost? I like playing with the dogs in our backyard and hearing the kids giggling and so obviously “up to something” next door. I am grateful for Miss Ola’s hats and her calling out “good morning” every time she sees one of us. Mrs. Clark taught me well: my sisters and I mattered. Mom and Dad mattered to her. Our dog, Sloopy mattered to her. Our grades mattered to her. Buying Girl Scout cookies and candles for our choir trips mattered to her. It wasn’t OK to hit baseballs on her roof (even if that meant I really `got a hold of one’). We were connected to her. Seen by her. Known to one another. We were her neighbors and she ours. Yesterday a child went out to wonder caught a dragonfly inside a jar. Fearful when the sky was full of thunder and tearful at the falling of a star… And the seasons, they go round and round and the painted ponies, they go up and down. We're captive on the carousel of time. We can't return we can only look behind from where we came and go round and round and round in the circle game. Now the child who dreamed of tomorrow is twenty Though her dreams have lost some grandeur coming true There'll be new dreams maybe better dreams and plenty Before the last revolving year is through… We learned "The Circle Game" during our summers at Girl Scout camp in Indiana. We’d sing Joni Mitchell’s song singing around a campfire into the night. I remember loving it from the first time I heard the words. The melody came to stay right away in my heart – and stays with me still. I remember when I learned the words for the first time, I could not imagine being 20, as the last verse says. I was excited then about being 16, but 20…wow that was old. And as my good friends Susie, Kimberly and Ellen and I sat around the table for yet another Saturday breakfast at Evans yesterday morning, I found myself looking at our hair. I’ve known these good, wise women for many years – and when we started meeting for our weekly breakfasts together, we were dark-headed. And time has come. And time has past. We’ve ridden through some pretty tough storms – together. We’ve shared deep sorrow and deep joy- together. We show up with and for one another. And time continues to pass. But it is certainly not passing us by. We are leaning in and doing our best, day-by-day and week-by-week. We keep showing up with and for each other. Many of the folks I encounter or interact with now have more grey hairs than not. Wrinkles are on faces – and I see and understand well now, laugh lines. Time goes round, seasons fold one into the next – and I was reminded again yesterday morning just how blessed I am. I still can cry at the falling of a star, my dreams have lost some grandeur in coming true, but ahhh, there is such a deep, rich gift of growing up and growing older with such good folks … and the circle goes on. Come Thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy praise… Sometimes I make my world awfully small. Rarely do I ask the next question and I’m bad to hold a grudge. My friend Gay Baby would tell me that there's value in asking that next question. Sometimes that next question can break open a conversation and allow us to get a bit closer to the heart of the matter. It takes time to do that; it’s a bit risky. But too often time is spent talking about the weather, when there’s precious matters to share. Sometimes my world is just kept awfully small. And I’m bad to hold a grudge. For instance, I continue to be mad at our hometown Braves for trading away Craig Kimbrel. I can hear you from here, “Move on already.” Tune my heart to sing Thy praise. I love that President Obama sang in Charleston at the end of his eulogy for Rev. Clementa C. Pinckney. His words spoke of grace and hope. His words spoke of being better, doing better. And for his words, I am grateful. But I love that he sang. His singing didn’t feel orchestrated or pre-planned. It was as though the words he wanted to convey to us needed to take flight. They felt and sounded like a continuation of his message. I heard in his singing of Amazing Grace a tune of faith that leads to something greater than what immediately feels possible. Streams of mercy never ceasing, calls for songs of loudest praise…. I’ve been reminded of his singing in these past days. The echo in my heart has felt both inspiring and comforting. With all respect, I’ve heard many, many better renditions of Amazing Grace. But honestly, I can’t remember ever feeling as moved when I heard him sing at the memorial service. The melody and words came from deep roots of faith, hope and love. They came from inside him, and he sang (I believe) because the song could not be stopped. Those streams of mercy holding those in the service, and those of us who were watching around the country - those streams brought light to the darkness, love greater than hate or fear. I love that he sang in that service and because he did, I have been reminded of the significance of acting on faith. In my work as a hospice chaplain, it’s tough sometimes to continue to show up. It’s tough sometimes to sit with patients or family members who are angry or afraid. And several times this week, I have been encouraged by one man’s singing of a very familiar song. Remembering the image of his digging deeply within himself and finding his voice, his song – has encouraged me to do the next thing. To not be stuck. To ask the next question. I love that he sang. I love that he led us in that way, in that space, in that moment. My world can be awfully small sometimes. And moments like President Obama’s singing after the tragedy at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston…those moments keep me moving toward something bigger than my small world. Through many dangers, toils and snares I have already come `Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far And grace will lead me home. (thanks to Susie Gentry for the picture above) This wasn't the "Returning home after being JUST MARRIED" as I imagined it to be when I was a little girl. All my life I'd seen the back windows painted in capital letters JUST MARRIED, cans tied with string pulling behind. This wasn't that kind of journey home. Instead it was "you've got my pillow," "move over," "how long till we stop?" And in so many ways, it was just right. It's funny to even think about what Linda and I just got through doing...we got married. It's just that for so long we never thought getting married would be something we would do. She and I have been together almost half of my life - literally half of hers. It's just for all of those years, it didn't seem like it would happen for us. Commitment service. Yes- we did that in 1991. But with a public, acknowledged, honored, legal ceremony - we didn't think it would happen. But/and it did and we are – .JUST MARRIED Our service was wonderful. Three generations gathered around, celebrating. We asked a Presbyterian minister to officiate, and there was a great bonus – the lady could sing. We used the same scripture we had chosen in 1991, and in so many ways those words still felt true and right – Romans 12. Sisters, Claudia and Bets held the circle together bridging this ceremony to the one in 1991. We were deeply missing folks who couldn't be with us physically, but we felt them very close. Both boys participated in the service. Sam carried our rings and John Brogan sang. When were passing around our rings, for everyone to bless, John Brogan sang a Harry Chapin song: (one of the verses) "I've found you a thousand times, I guess you've done the same. And then we lose each other, it's just like a children's game. And as I find you here again, a thought runs through my mind - our love is like a circle, let's go around one more time." When Linda said her vows, I started laughing because the words I heard her saying to me, I had planned to say much of the same to her. I guess we know when another very well. Somebody asked me how this wedding night compared to the one of our commitment service. Here's the truth-in 1991 our friend, Jan's cousin had known a guy, who knew somebody who had gotten us a room the top of the Marriott here in Atlanta, and there on the bed were roses and chocolates. The night Linda and I were married we were deciding whether to take the kids to see the movie The Terminator or play the game Head's Up. (We all played Heads Up.) JUST MARRIED. It all just feels so weird, so surreal. "JUST MARRIED." With the Supreme Court's decision, I have felt my shoulders relax and my breathing become a bit more steady. All this time there has been an un-named feeling of being less-than or invisible. When other states starting welcoming Gay Marriages, Linda and I chose not to go. We live here in Georgia and we both knew that although it would be great to get married somewhere else, we would not be able to claim it here at home. June 26, 2015 changed all that for us and for so many. And so after a wonderful week up in Illinois, we came home to the farm, played with our dog, and started a load or two or three of laundry. We yelled at the boys to not stay up too late, brushed our teeth, and crawled into bed. And for the first time in all our years together we crawled into our own bed – just married. (Thanks Claud, for this first batch of pictures) Where were you when there was a shift in the world? That happened yesterday, on Friday morning for me in Atlanta, when my world shifted…my world - as I had known it - changed. Linda and I met the first day of seminary in August, 1988 at Candler School of Theology at Emory University. I fell head over heals in love for the first time in my life. And she has been and continues to be my life partner. We met on the first day of seminary. My hope for love and being loved; my understanding of God, and God's love for me...broke wide-open on that first day...and has been true, now for the rest of my life... …and yesterday the world shifted. For once and forever…the world shifted. In a 5-4 vote the Supreme Court of the USA said that Linda and I existed, not only that, they said that our commitment to one another matter. Justice Kennedy wrote: No union is more profound than marriage for it embodies the highest ideals of love, fidelity,sacrifice, devotion, family and love...The judgement of the Court of Appeals for the Sixth Circuit is reversed. It is so ordered. I’m a simple girl with simple notions of the world. My world. We get up everyday and we do our best…and the world continues to turn…and we continue in it. And yesterday – I cried all day long. All day. For little things and big things, I cried. I cried for Justice Kennedy’s words and truly, truly what they meant to me. To the essence of me. His words spoke to me and to my family. I cried most for his last line: "It is so ordered." Linda and I met. We fell in love. We made a commitment in front of family and friends on November 1, 1991 that we would love and cherish one another. We bought a house. We live now in our second house. We talked with our friend, John about having a family. And now we are John and Rande – having a family. We welcomed John Brogan on September 27, 1998 and then Samuel Clark on November 11, 2001. We – the six of us are raising a family. With an amazing, generous, life-giving village. And on June 26, 2015 the Supreme Court said that it was good. And fine. And within our rights as citizens here in our country – and in our families and in our community. It is good and fine. And it is ordered. The law of the land. Next week we are going up to Illinois to our Hashbarger-Brogan family reunion and on Thursday, at 1:00 pm CST in my cousin Jill's living room, Linda and I will legally be married. My Uncle Jim and cousin, Mary Fran and Gamma will speak the prayers and read the scripture (Romans 12 read back in 1991 at our commitment service) – and when we come back to our driveway, here in Decatur, GA – we will be married. How amazing – how blessed – how thankful am I, are we. I wish Bill Mallard were alive to see it. He helped us “come on” all through seminary and now we are doing that very thing. I wish my parents were alive to see it. They were there with us at our service in 1991. I wish, Linda’s Dad were here to dance with his daughter…I wish… And my heart is full and grateful. It IS Amazing Grace after all. Thanks be to God. Clark Brogan never met a stranger or passed a piano by. Father’s Day is so tender every year. This year, too. I miss him. My Dad was the smartest person I knew, and the one I went to when I was at the end of what I knew to do. That “end spot” has come round several times since Dad’s death in October 2010 and each time I wonder how Dad would have advised me. Dad’s compassion for neighbor and stranger alike was a sight to see. If stopped, Dad turned and gave his full attention. And more often than not, somewhere in each conversation there would be laughter. Dad helped build the hospital and start the YMCA in our hometown, Mattoon. And he shoveled the sidewalks on those cold winter mornings for the neighbors who couldn’t get out to do it for themselves. Too many favorite memories to tell – but one always speaks to man. Every night after the 10 o’clock news he would walk our family dog. Our last one, Mr. Chips was pretty smart (Dad would say, “Smarter than two of my kids”). Every night, didn’t matter the season, Dad and Mr. Chips would head down the front steps. When they came to the sidewalk Dad would wait – and whatever direction Mr. Chips would turn, Dad would know that they were going to walk ½ or 2 miles. Their evening stroll. And then, when they came back, Dad would sit down at the piano in our dining room and play - with no books or sheet music - until 1 or 2 in the morning. Jazz filled the house every night of my growing up. Dad worked his way through Yale playing piano and working as a short order cook in a diner. He sat next to Bill Buckley in a couple classes. He was a lawyer and trust officer by trade. He played piano for the church choir for 200 years (give or take). He helped started the Girls Baseball League (Ponytail League, it was called) when we were growing up. He and Mom were married 53 years. And this dear man lived his last 19 years with Alzheimer’s. I wish, I wish, I wish his ending could have been written differently for him and Mom and all of us. What a waste, what a loss. He died with his three daughters beside him, as we sang, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” And I miss him everyday…this is one of the chapters from my new book. It tells a little more of him. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ My Dad’s (next to) Last Gift (God bless you, Clark Whaley Brogan) Without the others knowing it, my two sisters and I each grew up believing that we were our parents’ favorite. It was that kind of growing up and they were those kinds of parents. None of us was perfect, it wasn’t that. We each had our personal foibles. But our parents raised us with unconditional love and did the best they could by their three girls. There was a particular moment years later when I came to truly understand the meaning of trust. And more specifically the notion of trusting God – with my whole heart. Dad had been living for fourteen long and painful years with Alzheimer’s, and Mom had lived nineteen months with lung cancer. At that time Dad would live another five years and Mom would live another month. I had fumbled and bumbled my way through so many emotions during those days: anger, despair, thankfulness, restlessness, bitterness, depression. The list felt endless. And in the midst of all that, there was one moment when I felt wrapped in the lovingkindness of God. In that moment I felt rocked and cradled by trust in the One who was, is and will be. In that moment I recognized both life’s fragility and preciousness. Here I understood for the first time that death would come for Mom and Dad and for me, as well. Here I understood that death would not be the end. Love was greater than death. Here for the first time, I understood what it meant to trust God. It was the afternoon that I picked Dad up from his room at the Assisted Living Facility where he lived. Dad and I drove to the house he and Mom had shared since moving to Atlanta. It was the afternoon they would say good-bye to one another. Mom’s health was beginning to ebb and my sisters and I knew we had begun to count her last days with her. After Mom and Dad’s tearful good-bye I was driving him back to his place. We were stopped in a line of cars at a stoplight. In that moment I began silently yelling at God, “It’s not fair! They are such good people. Such deaths for them…it’s not fair!” I was lost in my personal ranting when Dad nudged me, pointed forward and said “Hey!” It had been years since he’d called any of us by name, and a long time since I'd heard him say even a word, so you can imagine how I was jolted out of my spiritual lamenting. The car ahead of us had a license plate that read “Lesley.” I looked at my father and he was beaming. I knew in that moment that Dad knew me, Lesley, his middle child and I felt God’s presence in our car. The psalmist speaks of “pouring out our hearts” and I believe that is how many of us make our way on the journey from despair to hope – from bitterness to trust. When we find our voice and pour out all that has been bottled up inside, a shift can happen from the inside-out in our spirits. In this moment (or over time) we come to intimately know the One who created and is creating still. Here in this trusting place of the One who calls me by name, I found refuge and sanctuary. (Grief and the Psalms: Companioning the Moon for 29 Days is available on my website – www.Lesleybrogan.com) Seeing a book you've written feels pretty darn good. I can recommend it. Especially for those of you who have had this desire/dream in the back of your head somewhere - I can highly recommend the writing and the publishing. It feels life-giving and fulfilling. At the same time it feels overwhelming and so much bigger than life. And now this miracle has happened for the second time and I’m about ready to burst. The first book Relying on the Moon was literally written in 3 ½ days. Working fulltime, you take what you can get – and that’s what I had – 3 ½ days. And in many ways that book wrote itself. Linda helped me carve out the time and precious friend, Susie generously let me use her house on Skid-Away Island as the Writer’s Studio. A computer, a 12 pack of Diet Coke and walks with Susie’s great pooch, Zeke every couple of hours- and I was good to go. The first book had been percolating in me for about 4 years – and the words just flew out onto the paper. Stories of grief -- living with it and through it appeared. 29 chapters (for each night of the lunar cycle). Susie then added her gifts of amazing pictures – and the book was self-published 3 months later. The second book has been very different. From the start this book was all about companioning. Again as with the first book, this book used the image of the moon. Each chapter, each night was joined with a verse or two from the Psalms. Grief and the Psalms was written after being invited to companion my seminary advisor and friend, Bill Mallard in the living of his last months. He and his partner, Gatra welcomed me for visits during that tender time. This book was born in those days. The two books are very different from one another – and they are much the same. It was important in Relying on the Moon that each chapter be short and that the reader have a lot of “white space.” Knowing that grieving can be exhausting and even the reading of a couple paragraphs can be about all that a soul can do. Grief and the Psalms is more a book of reflections, and there isn’t as much white space. They make for a good pairing, I think. In grief there are times when connections come in abbreviated spaces and at other times, we lean in to hear the whole story being shared. I’m an ordained minister in the United Church of Christ and after the first books, I heard from many folks who had read the first book – asking for “more words of faith.” The second book is more faith-based. Relying has a question for reflection with each chapter, while each chapter from the Psalms ends with a prayer. Writing has proven to be a helpful spiritual practice. The moon has been a faithful and encouraging teacher and the truth is that she continues to teach. Like grief, the moon is always changing. Never in the exact same place, or with the exact same shape. Each night the moon appears at a different time. And sometimes, much like times of grief, even when I can’t see the moon, I know that she is there. Since writing the first book, I’ve been invited into groups to have conversations around the book. Both books lend themselves to weekly gatherings for discussions. In the writing and in the times for conversations, I have come to experience places of healing for the losses I’ve experienced - and I've heard that from many others as well. In the writings, I’ve come to understand better and trust that grief is not static and there is hope and that healing can come. As I said at the beginning – I can recommend it. [And if I may…Grief is with us. If you have lost a loved one or know someone who has, one or both of these books might provide a comfort. Visit the Home page within this website to purchase either or both of the books. With my thanks, of course.] (For me, it's writing. For Linda, oysters. We understand one another pretty well ) |
Lesley BroganWorking in Family Experience at Children's Healthcare of Atlanta, Lesley is an ordained minister in the United Church of Christ. A Candler School of Theology graduate, Lesley has just published her second book, Grief and the Psalms: Companioning the Moon for 29 Days (available on this website). She and her partner, Linda Ellis are raising their two sons, Brogan and Sam in Decatur, GA. Archives
April 2018
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