This past Saturday, May 9, 2025, my family gathered to remember and honor my Uncle David. He passed away last September, and we finally came together at the cemetery where he’s now resting with generations of our family. He’s buried alongside his parents, his sister, grandparents, uncles, cousins—even our great-grandparents who came over from Kirkcaldy, Scotland and Bolton, England. It’s the kind of cemetery where the names on the headstones tell the story of a whole family tree. One day, I’ll be laid to rest there too.
We spent the day celebrating Uncle David’s life. He served 30 years in the U.S. Air Force, then gave another 20 years as a civilian working with them. He was a world traveler, a marathon runner, and—yes—a bagpipe player! He was the oldest of three siblings, followed by my dad, Bill, and their sister Althea, who passed away before him.
A special mention needs to be made of my cousin Maureen, who poured her heart into planning the memorial. She made sure every detail of the service reflected the love and honor due to Uncle David. And more than that, she took the time—quietly and lovingly—to clean and place flowers at the gravesites of all our maternal and paternal relatives laid to rest within the boundaries of “Althea Circle.” It was such a touching act. Even though the deer came the night before and munched off every bloom, leaving only stems, it was still so deeply meaningful. There was something poetic about it—a quiet reminder that family endures, no matter how weathered or worn. The graves tell stories of broken lives, lives well lived, lives cut short, and lives stretched long with years.
After the memorial, we had lunch together at a diner—but not your average New Jersey diner. This place was more like a fancy restaurant wearing diner clothes. While we were sitting and waiting for our food, my cousin Jimmy, quietly handed me an envelope. Inside were treasures—real ones.
There was a handwritten letter from my grandmother, Marion Riley Brown, to my grandfather, Alexander Brown. Her handwriting was elegant, full of grace, and the words… well, it was the most beautiful letter I’ve ever read. I had known it existed, but this was the day it found its way into my hands.
Also in the envelope was a typed page, also from my grandmother. It was made up of short, heartfelt paragraphs—each one a kind of poem, written for her three grandchildren at the time: me, my brother Bill, and our cousin Jimmy. Our cousin Tracy wasn’t born yet. Each paragraph was only about three or four sentences long, but they were packed with love. Honest, simple, deep love. Reading mine felt like years of therapy were suddenly compressed into a few lines of truth and tenderness.
It was like God nudged her back then—nearly 56 years ago—and whispered, “Write this down. She’ll need it someday.” And boy, did I need it now. I couldn’t stop the tears as I read it. The letter wasn’t just typed; it had little corrections and re-typed words where she made mistakes and went back to fix them. That kind of care? That kind of effort? It hit me hard. It meant everything.
I don’t even know if I have the words to explain how deeply this moved me. All I know is that God loves me. He saw this moment coming all those years ago. He knew what I’d need—and He made sure it was waiting for me.
And then it hit me—something else that made this day even more sacred: this might have been the last time our whole family will be together. Uncle David’s memorial brought us all together one final time. And for the very first time, the four grandchildren of our grandparents—Jimmy, Bill, me, and Tracy—were all together. Can you believe that? My brother is 64, Jimmy is 62, I’m 60, and Tracy is 54. And yet somehow, until Saturday, we had never all stood in the same place at the same time. That’s no accident. That’s God.
Once again, God revealed His great love for me. His attention to detail, His timing, His way of weaving beauty through even grief—it all overwhelmed me.
As it says in Matthew 6:8, “…your Father knows what you need before you ask him.” And He truly did. He saw my heart and prepared this gift decades ago.
Psalm 139:1–4 says:
“You have searched me, Lord, and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
Before a word is on my tongue
you, Lord, know it completely.”
That’s the kind of love I felt in that moment. Deep. Personal. Seen. Heard. Known. And so, so loved.
Brown Study and Wool-Gathering 