Category Archives: from the archives

Aug 20 2017
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art and photography, from the archives, learning to live, on, Quotes, social work, what they are teaching me

until we know ourselves

A young boy in KKK robes sees his reflection in a riot shield held by an African-American state trooper. Taken in Gainesville, Ga., in 1992, this photo by Todd Robertson has resurfaced through social media. via Poynter.org Quote by Krista Tippett in Becoming Wise (2016), "...the human condition, in all its mess and glory, remains the ground on which all of our ambitions flourish or crash. The adage that "he who does not know history is doomed to repeat it" doesn't go far enough. History always repeats itself until we honestly and searchingly know ourselves.A young boy in KKK robes sees his reflection in a riot shield held by an African-American state trooper. Taken in Gainesville, Ga., in 1992, this photo by Todd Robertson via Poynter.org

“…the human condition, in all its mess and glory, remains the ground on which all of our ambitions flourish or crash. The adage that ‘he who does not know history is doomed to repeat it’ doesn’t go far enough. History always repeats itself until we honestly and searchingly know ourselves.“

Krista Tippett, from Becoming Wise (2016). New York, NY: Penguin.

 

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Sep 30 2015
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from the archives

from the archives: when you throw a party

when-you-have-a-party

From one of the very first blog posts ever several years ago, tonight’s small group reminded me of this very conversation…

EXCERPT––

When you throw a party, invite the people you would never invite. When you do, all the rules change. Instead of it being about a who’s who, a name-dropping-affair in an effort to get an invite to the actual parties, it becomes a whole different affair. It becomes more like a dinner party in the kingdom of God. 

And it will be incredible. 

If you think you are too good to sit down at the table with the homeless man, the chronically ill woman, the woman out of prison, the man who stands just outside of downtown Jackson in the soup kitchen parking lot staring at the street as North Highland traffic drives by…if you think you are too good to have them at your party, you’ll invite all the “important people,” and they will…no doubt…stand you up. And when you invite the man from the corner to keep from embarrassing yourself when no one else shows to your party, you will actually find that you are enjoying yourself––perhaps even becoming more of yourself. You are likely to decide that the “men of standing” aren’t invited to your parties anymore.

CLICK HERE TO READ THE ORIGINAL POST from over four years ago.

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May 04 2014
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from the archives, grief and trauma, guest post, learning to live, what they are teaching me

Remembering Sam Bomar today

In remembering the life and legacy of Sam Bomar today, even as just a few days ago multiple scholarships were given from the Sam Bomar Scholarship Fund, special thanks again and as usual to Rayna Bomar for her important and thoughtful words.

Originally posted April 2, 2012 as a guest post by Rayna Bomar, that post and its subsequent comments can be found HERE.

rayna bomar guest posts

This is the first guest post here on mosthopeful.com, and I couldn’t be more convinced of its appropriateness. Hugh and Rayna Bomar have become friends of mine these last few years, and their ongoing journey of remembering their son Sam has had an impact in my own life. I hope you glean from Rayna’s words about what has helped and what has not helped as she has been on her own very personal journey with grief. 

In August 2009, as my son Sam started his senior year of high school, I happened upon an essay by a woman named Mimi Swartz entitled “Empty Nest: In a Week He’ll Be Gone – And I Can’t Stand It.”  Her son, also named Sam, was leaving for college a year before my Sam would leave, and I read her words to prepare for what, I thought, I would be experiencing the following August. And, the following August, I did share some of the life changes described by Swartz – dinner for three became dinner for two, my schedule no longer revolved around the school calendar, and the “mundane rituals of child rearing,” just as Swartz had predicted, were gone.  But my role as a mother changed for a reason not anticipated. My Sam didn’t leave for college. Instead, he died on May 4, 2010, ten days before graduation.

There are many things that I could say about the past almost 23 months, but what I would like to do now is share some of the ways that others have helped us get through those months – and a few things that have hindered us.

My husband Hugh and I quickly realized that all grief is personal. What you have experienced losing a loved one, even a child, is not the same as what I have experienced losing Sam. My experience is not the same as Hugh’s experience. Therefore, things that I mention that have helped (or hindered) us may not help (or hinder) you.  I am an expert only about my own grief.

We have been most touched by the kindnesses that have been shown by Sam’s friends. We are in awe of the young men and women who are so naturally compassionate and who have put aside their own grief to help us with ours. They have taken us out to eat on Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day, visited on holidays, designed t-shirts and bumper stickers in Sam’s memory, mowed our yard, shared stories about Sam (what we love the most), written letters and sent cards, laughed with us and cried with us, helped with chores, preserved Sam’s spot in the high school parking lot, invited us to their celebrations- I could go on and on.  We are greeted with open arms and a hug. Sometimes we get more than one hug. They tell us that they love us. They share their lives with us and allow us to be part of their future. Their actions are drops of water on parched ground.

What they don’t do is, perhaps, more important. They don’t tell us that it’s almost two years since the accident and it’s time to “move on.” They don’t give us any advice.  They understand that our world changed when Sam died and that we will never be the same. They don’t expect us to be the same because they will never be the same after losing their friend. They don’t try to “fix” us. They don’t make any demands on us. If we feel like a visit, that’s great. If we don’t, they understand, and they don’t take it personally.

Maybe because of their relatively young ages (late teens to early twenties) they don’t have any preconceived ideas about how we should act or feel. Therefore, they don’t think they know what’s best for us, and they don’t try to impose their own feelings on us or try to dictate what is appropriate behavior.

Instead of trying to make us be who they think we should be, they already know who we are. We are Sam’s parents, and we always will be. That’s good enough for them, and it’s good enough for us.

“Death ends a life, not a relationship.” Robert Benchley.

One of the upcoming ways you can join the Bomars in remembering Sam is by attending the 3rd annual Sam Bomar Night at the Jackson Generals. Half of each ticket pre-ordered with the promo code SamBomar goes to the Sam Bomar Scholarship Fund.

For other most hopeful posts on grief, loss, trauma and resilience, CLICK HERE.

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Sep 04 2013
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from the archives, learning to live, poems, Prayers

repost | of course it makes no sense at all

we try our best to talk about it as if it does
but we know good and well as we hear the words
falling from our mouths
or dancing in our brains
that of course it makes no sense at all

of course the weak lose to the strong
of course the meek lose to the proud
of course the poor answer to the rich
of course the cheerful are better off than the tearful
of course the peaceful lose to the first to strike

and even when the story ends..

TO READ THE REST OF THE ORIGINAL POST FROM SEPT 2, 2012, CLICK HERE.

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Aug 11 2013
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from the archives, learning to live, on, the calendar, what they are teaching me

from the archives: the last of our twenties

I’m reposting this post, from 364 days ago (wait, was there a leap year this year?). This is the last day to reflect from my twenties. Even the last year of the twenties has made this post from one year ago more true, not less. It’s been a good run so far, I’d say. I’ve been surrounded by good folks.

djordan
Pine Tree

VIEW THE ORIGINAL POST FROM AUGUST 12, 2012 HERE.

 THE LAST OF OUR TWENTIES

 

It is not uncommon to think we know exactly who matters and exactly who will shape the course of our future, or join us as it shapes. At the ripe age of 16, there were several folks who would be those people. They filled the shop for a surprise party that I was too dumb to figure out. Those people still remain friends, and fewer remain close. At 18, we headed to Memphis in a limo and made predictions about the future; we were right on with most of them. And now, at 29, we will head again to Memphis for the last birthday of the twenties. All that we did know, and all that we didn’t know, wrapped up like a gift for the opening.

I remember my high school English teacher, Mrs. Kee telling us once in class that we would never talk to the people we were friends with in high school after we graduated. She was right in most things, crazy in many, but wrong about that. Yet knowing how she worked, and how crazy she was, maybe that was a dare, a challenge, a kind of psychological game to make us make it work.

And now, looking at the last of the twenties, it has worked. The picture above was taken laying down Mom and Dad’s foyer rug on mine and Brooke’s 21st birthday. We will hop in a limo later this week to celebrate the 29th.

I suspect I can speak for all of us to say it’s a privilege to celebrate with old friends.

The privilege is likely greater, though, that the circle has grown.

When I was laying down on the carpet back then, I would never have imagined the role those folks would play in my life, but I would have expected it. What I never would have expected, h on owever, is the role that new friends who have entered the circle would play––how they would become crucial pieces in the story of who I am and who I am becoming.

There would have been no way to know.

Even 8 years ago, two years ago, I would not have guessed what people who crash into the circle would bring, how they would change my mind, broaden my understanding, invigorate my imagination, and strengthen my hope in the already-not yet kingdom come on earth as in heaven.

From West Texas to South Africa; from a desert meal in Israel to a client in a trailer in Lexington; from the front porch on Pine Tree to the valleys of Napa; from a group of those wrestling with grief to a classroom of those disciplining hope; from cheese and toast around the kitchen counter to hors’ doeuvres on white tablecloths under candlelight, from a rocking chair in Nicaragua to a hammock on Pleasant Plains; from a limo ride over ten years ago to a limo ride today, I am now more sure than ever:

I am still confident of this:
I will see the goodness of the Lord
in the land of the living.
+ Psalm 27:13

djordan
Pine Tree

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Sep 16 2012
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art and photography, from the archives, what they are teaching me

i dusted the picture frame

I dusted the picture frame that sits on my bathroom counter. I think it has been in the same space four or five years.

I would be lying if I said I have dusted it in the last four or five months. I’m sorry, Mom.

But today I dusted that joker. I cleaned, as in scrubbed, that obnoxious tile in the space between the toilet and the wall. I swiffered the heck out of the space between the bottom of the bed in the guest bedrooom and the floor. I found books, the dog’s collars, and chargers to phones that I’ve long stuffed into the drawers that I have no idea what actually hold.

But for some reason, it was the picture frame in today’s cleaning that stood out to me.

I’ve got a buddy coming in from out of town for the week, and so I found my Sunday evening, usually wrapped up in preparing for work, also cleaning the spaces that have long ago moved off the last-minute-cleaning to-do list.

I picked up the picture frame, long abandoned as jobs and times schedules have shifted, and froze for a moment while wiping the dust off the image.

The last two weeks have been unusually weighed heavily with late-night meetings and early-morning conversations, catch-up schedules and bedtime questions about the worthwhileness of the work itself.

And tonight, in dusting off of photos that sit and are looked at daily on the bathroom counter, I remembered, all over again, of how I am changed, and privileged, by the work.

All is worth it. All is unearned. All is prized.

And all is worth a space in the middle of the daily routine, even the bathroom counter space of the daily routine, as a reminder that the world goes not well, but the kingdom comes.

Thanks to the boys in the picture, David and Kevin, for the voice of the gospel that they continue to bear, and to a friend visiting for the week who forces me to clean the tiles and dust the picture and remember.

djordan
Pine Tree

 

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Aug 22 2012
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from the archives

from the archives | loss as loss, not as lesson

 

In reflecting on the upcoming one-year anniversary of mosthopeful.com on August 23, I’m throwing some of the posts that readers have looked at the most back into the mix. Thanks for allowing me the space. It’s been a most humbling experience.

Below is the most viewed post from the blog over the last year, the first year of the blog. Thanks to the friends, families, and clients who have helped me grow in understanding and practice as it involves those grieving, and for helping me learn that we are all learning how to live in a world that is not yet whole.

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View the original post and comments from March 12, 2012

 

loss as loss, not as lesson

 

Loss as loss, not as lesson

Maybe it springs from our own deep need to protect ourselves when we know we cannot.

When a tragedy happens of some kind, especially the loss of a son or friend to a kind of accidental death, it is our nature to jump to working at meaning-making. When someone is lost to old age, or even long-term illness, there are many bedside conversations that make space for meaning to be made.

I am sorry for this.
I want you to know this.
I wish we had this.
I want us to do this.

You mean this to me.
You taught me this.
You are loved.

But when an accident happens, or a sudden death, or a suicide, or a crime…
There is no time for words to fill the space.
No hands touching hands.
No way to know they know.

And so we end up stuck on this side of the sleep, trying our damnedest to make sense of the whole thing. We look into every question we could possibly ask to make meaning, and there is none to be found. Often those closest to the loss are stuck spinning in the losing itself, until they can solve it, keep it from having ever happened, get those last words in.

Which of course, proves meaningless as well.

And then there are the onlookers among us, tucking our children in at night, kissing our spouse, patting our buddies on the back, and wondering what we would ever do if we were to lose them.

That’s when we find ourselves making the loss a lesson, as if that makes it worth happening. As if it protects us from it happening to us or those we love. We begin to talk about how “it has taught us …”

And there is an illusion to our nature of doing this that suggests there is meaning as long as we learn something from it. If we make a tragic loss a lesson, it won’t be meaningless anymore.

But I don’t want my dead son, spouse, buddy to be a lesson; I want them to be my son, spouse, buddy. We want lives to be meaningful, not deaths. We want to say their names and images of life, not tragedy, to be conjured up. And when they are gone, especially when I didn’t have time to make meaning with them, I want to grieve. And I want them to be remembered for what their lives taught others, not their meaningless, untimely, horribly tragic death.

The meaning is in remembering who they were.
The grief is in losing them to begin with.

The loss is a loss.
Meaningless.
Void.
Empty.
It is not things as they should be.
It is before all things are made new.

There is, however, meaning in remembering.
And grief is not our enemy, but a sign that we have hearts full of love and woven with connection.
In our caring for the greiving, may we, like our God, be close to those whose hearts are breaking.

Breaking hearts are not a lesson; they are breaking hearts.
And they, in themselves, are worth all the world.

djordan
Pine Tree Dr.

 

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Aug 21 2012
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from the archives

from the archives | thank you for your prayers, we are tired of war

In reflecting on the upcoming one-year anniversary of mosthopeful.com on August 23, I’m throwing some of the posts that readers have looked at the most back into the mix. Thanks for allowing me the space. It’s been a most humbling experience.

Special thanks to an awesome friend, Caroline Powell (www.longwindingroad.me), for including us on her sabbatical journey, and for the following guest post.

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View the original post and comments from June 10, 2012

“Thank you for your prayers, we are tired of war” | a guest post by Caroline Powell

 

Caroline Powell is a dear friend of mine and native of Cape Town, South Africa. She works with The Warehouse, also dear friends of mine seeking to see the church be a transformative presence in the community in issues of poverty, injustice and division. Caroline is on sabbatical from The Warehouse, in Caroline’s words, to seek kingdom “stories of hope and people of peace.” I’ve been following her blog these last several weeks, and this post is one I’ve enjoyed the most.

Join Caroline on her sabbatical journey at www.thelongwindingroad.me, and in the meantime, thank her for joining the guest voices here at mosthopeful.com. Her words are always words with which to spend considerable time and generous thought. Thank you Caroline. 

 

“Thank you for your prayers, we are tired of war” | a tribute to the DRC

When I was planning this trip, one of the first places I desired to visit was the town of Goma, on the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) side of the western border between DRC and Rwanda. There were several reasons for this. In Cape Town, I study with and enjoy the friendship and encouragement of several Congolese people, through connections at college, church and my work at The Warehouse. I have been fascinated with and deeply troubled by the story of this part of Africa for some time. I have met some very inspiring residents of Goma through Amahoro-Africa who run awe-inspiring initiatives through their churches in their town, and I longed to see first hand what they are involved with on a daily basis.

Getting there and fulfilling this dream has been a different story but one that has invited me into a deeper sense of love and committed prayer for this nation. Advised by Joel from Goma, that I must  have a visa before trying to visit the DRC, I went about filling in application forms and getting invitations letters from my friends in Goma. Once this was done, and all was sent off to the embassy in Pretoria, the waiting game started. I was convinced that visiting this region was to be part of the plan for my trip and especially felt that I would love to go there to encourage my friends by receiving their hospitality – visiting them despite the fact that at times, there are more people leaving the DRC than coming to visit for a holiday. I prayed about it and felt that, while I would take no unnecessary risks at all, if it was a time of peace, I would strive to spend a portion of my trip there.

At about the same time as I was planning for my visit, rebel warlords in the region were planning their next move and just as my passport was arriving in Pretoria for processing, war was breaking out in the very region I was hoping to visit. My passport got stuck at the embassy for too long, as they were in crisis mode due to the conflict and it became clear that this was not to be part of my journey. I called the visa agency and asked them to send my passport home to me. I wrote to my friends, thanking them for the great effort they had gone to in writing invitation letters, scanning signatures and planning to host me. With a deep sadness in my heart I explained that I would not be visiting. With a hope that they did not sound like empty words, I said that I would be praying for them.

A kind reply came back to me, sharing sentiments that they hoped there would be a chance in the future. It was signed off: “Thank you for your prayers, we are tired of war”

Very few words on a computer screen have affected me as deeply as this simple, sad greeting. In much the same way as I might say “I am tired of being cold” at the end of a long winter in Cape Town, they stared back at me. A stated fact. We are tired of war. A fact that I cannot imagine for my own context and yet a fact for countless numbers of people on our planet.

I have just returned from visiting the town of Gisenyi on the border of the DRC. I had arranged to meet my friend Joel on the Rwandan side of the border that is shared between Gisenyi and Goma, and as I travelled from Kigali towards Lake Kivu, the lake that shares is shores with the two cities, the man seated next to me on the bus pointed out a large tented settlement. “Transit Camp” he told me. We were passing one of the many refugee camps that exist, sometimes temporarily, but often permanently in this part of the world. I have made friends in the past few weeks with people who grew up for many years of their childhood in a camp much like this.

Joel met me at “Grand Barrier”, a not so grand piece of road that makes the enormous difference between living in a land at war and a land in times of peace. This same piece of road operated in the opposite direction during the 1994 Rwandan genocide as thousands of people fled their homeland. Then, the transit camps were on the others side. Today, for me, it is a cul-de-sac on my long and winding road. A country that I can only dream of visiting. Homes, less than a kilometer away with rooms and beds where in more peaceful times, I would have visited and slept. Joel took me on a walking and moto tour of his town from the safe side of the border. The two towns are separated by a stone wall at most in some places, even less in others. They are reportedly the two closest border towns in the world. He showed me the region where his family home was destroyed along with thousands of others during the eruption of Ndiragongo in 2002. I took a photo of him with this still active volcano in the backdrop. He pointed toward where he now lives with his family. We walked and talked- of church, recycling, youth ministry, war, upcoming life events and hope. And then he returned home and I went back to Auberge de Gisenyi and watched some of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee celebrations on TV in French.

It is my hope that this essay, as insignificant as it is in the grand scheme of things, will serve as a tribute to the Democratic Republic of Congo and her courageous people. There are too many wars like this one in the world for us to pray individually and with understanding for each one, but sometimes, as the case is with me in this season, God brings one thing to your attention, and all you CAN do, is pray. DRC, I pray for hope, peace, courage and patience for you. I pray too, that one day I will be able to enjoy your hospitality on your soil, not just from over a stone wall.

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Aug 19 2012
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from the archives

from the archives | a time for everything

 

In reflecting on the upcoming one-year anniversary of mosthopeful.com on August 23, I’m throwing some of the posts that readers have looked at the most back into the mix. Thanks for allowing me the space. It’s been a most humbling experience. This post is especially important to me, as it was a moment of honoring the pain and struggle of the year before, and then celebrating––in advance––what waited in the year ahead.

There were conversations that evening about how we would learn from the ridiculous pains and struggles of the year, and move toward the kingdom with new insight, and new scars, into the future.

A few weeks after that party (talked about below), I was sitting with in Stellenbosch with some of my favorite people in all the world, and I began talking with a friend from London, living and working in Cape Town, about how victories and happy memories are honored with parties thrown and anniversaries given, but the painful experiences and struggles are only valued once we come up with “reasons” for why they happened.

She mentioned, feet in the chilly water at a campsite in Stellenbosch, that we ought honor the painful landmarks in our history as well as the ones we naturally celebrate. The party thrown at the beginning of this year was an opportunity to celebrate and to mourn what had been, and to look with great expectation toward the future, knowing that God is working through his people in his world toward the kingdom.

So, another top-viewed post from the archives…

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View the original post and comments from January 8, 2012

 

a time for everything

 

It is with great joy that I enter 2012.

2011 was filled with pain, loss, struggle, sadness, anxiety, and anger.

The year overall was one of seeing the best of circumstances end up as the worst of possible outcomes.

And yet through each season and struggle, there has been tearful laughter, growing community, deeper honesty, brave introspection, and tenuous hope.

And it all feels a little closer to the truth. A little closer to telling the truth.

To others.

To myself.

To the part of all of us that tries to close our eyes to what we know the painful truth is sometimes.

There are times when everything in me wants to arrange my circumstances in ways that hope for the best; those same times, if I were being honest with myself and those around me, I would instead be anticipating the worst. Before this year, I think I’ve tried to push everything, no matter the truth, into a single season.

As if allowing ONLY a season for birth, and then trying to translate death into birth in order to make sense of it.

As if allowing ONLY a season for building, and then trying to add on to things that needed only to be torn all the way down.

As if allowing ONLY a season for embracing, and then awkwardly trying to embrace when I should have refrained from doing so.

As if allowing ONLY a season for speaking out, and then trying to explain why I couldn’t be silent if I had wanted to.

The pain of 2011 has made important room for fall and winter. There is a need and space for dying, for tearing down, for refraining from embrace, for remaining silent. A season for these things.

And in the spaces made from telling the truth about our winters, spring comes on the heels. The ground is made soft, the legs become limber, the imagination becomes ready, and things begin to take root, people begin to dance and build again.

And so here’s to the new year, filled with possibilities for both celebration and mourning. Life and death. Dancing and weeping. Building and tearing down.

And an insistence on the holiness of both––on telling the truth about both–to ourselves and others.

For everything there is season.

djordan
Pine Tree Dr.

 

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Aug 18 2012
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from the archives

from the archives | a little help from his friends

 

 

In reflecting on the upcoming one-year anniversary of mosthopeful.com on August 23, I’m throwing some of the posts that readers have looked at the most back into the mix. Thanks for allowing me the space. It’s been a most humbling experience.

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View the original post and comments from April 2, 2012

a little help from his friends | guest post by Rayna Bomar

 

rayna bomar guest posts

This is the first guest post here on mosthopeful.com, and I couldn’t be more convinced of its appropriateness. Hugh and Rayna Bomar have become friends of mine these last few years, and their ongoing journey of remembering their son Sam has had an impact in my own life. I hope you glean from Rayna’s words about what has helped and what has not helped as she has been on her own very personal journey with grief. 

In August 2009, as my son Sam started his senior year of high school, I happened upon an essay by a woman named Mimi Swartz entitled “Empty Nest: In a Week He’ll Be Gone – And I Can’t Stand It.”  Her son, also named Sam, was leaving for college a year before my Sam would leave, and I read her words to prepare for what, I thought, I would be experiencing the following August. And, the following August, I did share some of the life changes described by Swartz – dinner for three became dinner for two, my schedule no longer revolved around the school calendar, and the “mundane rituals of child rearing,” just as Swartz had predicted, were gone.  But my role as a mother changed for a reason not anticipated. My Sam didn’t leave for college. Instead, he died on May 4, 2010, ten days before graduation.

There are many things that I could say about the past almost 23 months, but what I would like to do now is share some of the ways that others have helped us get through those months – and a few things that have hindered us.

My husband Hugh and I quickly realized that all grief is personal. What you have experienced losing a loved one, even a child, is not the same as what I have experienced losing Sam. My experience is not the same as Hugh’s experience. Therefore, things that I mention that have helped (or hindered) us may not help (or hinder) you.  I am an expert only about my own grief.

We have been most touched by the kindnesses that have been shown by Sam’s friends. We are in awe of the young men and women who are so naturally compassionate and who have put aside their own grief to help us with ours. They have taken us out to eat on Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day, visited on holidays, designed t-shirts and bumper stickers in Sam’s memory, mowed our yard, shared stories about Sam (what we love the most), written letters and sent cards, laughed with us and cried with us, helped with chores, preserved Sam’s spot in the high school parking lot, invited us to their celebrations- I could go on and on.  We are greeted with open arms and a hug. Sometimes we get more than one hug. They tell us that they love us. They share their lives with us and allow us to be part of their future. Their actions are drops of water on parched ground.

What they don’t do is, perhaps, more important. They don’t tell us that it’s almost two years since the accident and it’s time to “move on.” They don’t give us any advice.  They understand that our world changed when Sam died and that we will never be the same. They don’t expect us to be the same because they will never be the same after losing their friend. They don’t try to “fix” us. They don’t make any demands on us. If we feel like a visit, that’s great. If we don’t, they understand, and they don’t take it personally.

Maybe because of their relatively young ages (late teens to early twenties) they don’t have any preconceived ideas about how we should act or feel. Therefore, they don’t think they know what’s best for us, and they don’t try to impose their own feelings on us or try to dictate what is appropriate behavior.

Instead of trying to make us be who they think we should be, they already know who we are. We are Sam’s parents, and we always will be. That’s good enough for them, and it’s good enough for us.

“Death ends a life, not a relationship.” Robert Benchley.

One of the upcoming ways you can join the Bomars in remembering Sam is by attending the 3rd annual Sam Bomar Night at the Jackson Generals. Half of each ticket pre-ordered with the promo codeSamBomar goes to the Sam Bomar Scholarship Fund. Click HERE to learn more, and to buy tickets for the event on June 23.  

For other most hopeful posts on grief, loss, trauma and resilience, CLICK HERE.

 

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