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Memoir Writing ~ Our Shannon


May 1, 2010

Last summer I took a Memoir Writing class at the University of Mary Washington. Our final project was to write a fifteen page memoir. I knew how difficult it would be to finally put into words the events of that first week in May, twelve years ago, but I knew I had to do it.
As I have journaled with Shannon this year, through the blog, I knew I would get to May 1 once again and the pages of her journal would be blank, but every year I have tried to find meaningful ways to celebrate the gift of her life. I suppose in sharing our story, my hope that you will be lifted...through the sadness that we all face...to the realization that we have to keep our hearts open, we have to love our way through...we have to keep breathing.
I know we will cry together...but we will also smile, and that is our gift to you.



Shannon's Story

On May 1, 1998, I was still at work, calling home every few minutes to be sure Shannon had gotten there safe from Grams. No answer. Thunder storms. She should be home by now.

Finally, the familiar stuttering dial tone, a message. . .

“Julie Brown has been in an accident. Please call Orange County Sheriff’s Office.”

Julie Brown? Not again. Someone was always getting their names wrong. Jules, Shannon’s Dad, was usually Julie, Broom - Brown, Shannon - Sharon, just another mistake. Please, just another mistake.

I frantically searched for the number. George, my supervisor, had stepped out. I was sitting at his desk, couldn’t find my glasses, couldn’t find the number, couldn’t breathe. I refused to cry, I had to believe that she was fine. Just another mistake.

Directory Assistance . . . finally, I had the number, I dialed, trembling.

“Dear God please keep her safe. Please. Please. Please.” I whispered to myself as the phone rang.

I forced calm. I ignored the impulse to vomit. George had returned and was looking at me questioningly.

“Orange County Sheriff’s Office, What is the nature of your emergency?”

“Oh thank goodness! I just received a message that Julie Brown has been in an accident and for me to call. My husband is Jules Broom and my daughter, Shannon, driving a car registered to Jules is returning to Fredericksburg from Culpeper.”

I felt the tears filling my throat, my eyes, the room seemed to get smaller and smaller until I couldn’t breathe.

“One moment please.”

“I’m on hold again!” I whispered to George, trying to explain why I was at his desk.

“I’m sorry. I am unable to release any information to you at this time.”

“But you left a message that I should call.”

“I’m sorry but I am unable to release any information at this time. My advice to you would be to go to the location of the accident.”

“But where is the location?”

“I’m sorry I am unable to release any information at this time.”

On a Friday afternoon, in a severe thunderstorm, on a blind curve, my daughter left the road to avoid hurting rescue workers who were placing flares in the highway. She was not speeding. She was not on the phone. She was not eating or drinking or smoking. She was in the car alone, seat belt fastened, heading home after a week with her Gram. Shannon’s car collided with a tree. My brother came upon the accident and talked with the Trooper. He called me, told me she was being taken to Mary Washington Hospital. George drove. I prayed.

When the ambulance arrived at the hospital, I was waiting. I told the lady at the desk who I was. She told me to take a seat. I was patient. I waited. I fantasized about tearing the walls down, screaming at the top of my lungs, finding my Nan, hearing her tell me that she was okay. Another Mom came in. She was hysterical and abrupt. She was yelling and demanding and they took her back. I waited. Well behaved. Patient. More afraid than I had ever been in my life.

Finally, a doctor, white coat, stethoscope . . .

“Mrs. Broom?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Dr. Earnhardt. I’ve been taking care of Shannon. Let’s step over here.”

Dr. Earnhardt led me to a small room. Two IKEA couches facing each other with a small table and lamp in between. The room seemed unusually dark and the air was warm and heavy. The fabric on the little sofas was scratchy. The entire room was done in earth tones. My heart was pounding, and my knees felt weak. A young woman joined us, but she never said a word. She just looked at me, holding a box of tissues. She looked afraid. I wanted to run.

“Shannon suffered a traumatic brain injury called brain shear. I’m sorry. She’s a fighter, but it doesn’t look good. The delicate tissue that supports the brain was torn loose in the accident. Once that happens, the brain begins to swell. The swelling cuts off the blood supply from the brain stem. Shannon is in a coma. I’m so sorry.”

Dr. Earnhardt was kind, gentle, as he explained to me that our lives were over. I listened quietly.

I would not panic. I would not give up. Miracles happen every day. Shannon would not leave me.

“Dr. Earnhardt was my Obstetrician when Shannon was born. Your father?”

“No relation. Were you able to get in touch with your husband?”

“No . . . but people recover from comas. I’ve heard stories of people coming back. If anyone can come back, Shannon can. I know she can. Can I see her now?”

His sad eyes and gentle, apologetic demeanor were irritating. He didn’t know Shannon. He didn’t know me. We could do anything together. We believed in miracles. Shannon would not leave me.

He took my arm and led me into the treatment area. Shannon was on a gurney in the middle of the floor. Not behind curtains, not in a room, out in the open. Exposed, vulnerable.

“Hi my Honey. Mommy’s here. It’s going to be okay. Just hold on. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me Nan.”

I whispered in her ear as nurses cut through her damp clothing. Shannon was going to be so mad that they cut through her new lavender bra. They explained that they had given her something for pain. Once stabilized they would take her up to ICU.

Intensive Care was surprisingly quiet. The lighting in Shannon’s room was subdued. I stood by her bed. She looked so peaceful. I held her hand. Such small hands. Pine bark mulch still under her fingernails from helping Gram. She might have simply been sleeping. She would hate the catheter, the fuss. I tried to keep the ugly green gown wrapped around her modesty. I watched as the swelling increased and her eyes would no longer close. The nurses were gentle and explained every procedure to Shannon. They explained as they placed bandages over her eyes. They explained as they drew blood, and read monitors. The nurses got me a wash cloth and a basin of warm water. I bathed her cheeks. I listened to the respirator push, push, push. More tests. Definitive tests. She kept fighting, kept holding on. Kept crashing and being revived. She kept holding on, while I pleaded with her to come back. I still hadn’t cried. I had to be strong. I had to will her well. I couldn’t live without her.

As I sat beside her bed, the darkness started closing in on me. I wondered what I had done to deserve this. What terrible thing had I done?

I smoothed a wisp of hair from her face. Soft, like corn silk. I kissed her forehead and then her chin. Suddenly, it became so clear. What had I done to deserve her? What incredible thing had I done to deserve her? I couldn’t see the tubes and probes. I couldn’t see the I.V.s or the monitors. In that moment all I could see was my beautiful Shannon.

I remembered a spring morning when she was barely four. I had just finished making new curtains and a coverlet for her bed. She bounced in and plopped in my lap. She threw her tiny arms around my neck and gave me a big wet smooch. She was all vanilla wafers and baby shampoo.

“I can’t wait to get to Heaven Mommy. It’s always warm and they never turn the lights off.”

“Where did that come from silly girl?”

“I dunno. Jus thinkin.” “Okay, but promise you won’t go ‘til Mommy is a very old woman.”

She giggled and climbed on her new bedspread. Tiny pink rosebuds and white eyelet. A breeze lifted the curtains, carrying the fragrance of honeysuckle and wild roses.

Loving Shannon was simple, wonderful, amazing. Loving Shannon enough to let her go? I wasn’t sure.

“I love you Nan. I’ll be okay. I promise. You will be an amazing angel. I will always always love you. It’s okay to go. I’ll take care of Dad. We’ll be okay. It’s okay to go. I remember what you told me. It’s always warm, and they never turn the lights off. I love you my silly girl.”

Shannon never regained consciousness.

Friends and family gathered to say their good byes. We moved through those hours trying to take care of everyone. We were numb. We were lost. We were in a nightmare that wouldn’t end. Shannon’s Dad and I left the hospital; we walked into the dark parking lot on Saturday night in silence.

Stephen Hawking describes a black hole as a region of space in which the gravitational field is so powerful that nothing, including light, can escape its pull. It is caused by the death of a giant star. Hawking also contends that nothing that falls into a black hole can come back out again – at least not in its original form. Shannon was my giant star and at the moment of her death, I fell - helplessly spiraling into the unforgiving darkness of this, my own black hole.

Emergency workers used the Jaws of Life to free Shannon from her car. The 1989 sky blue Pontiac Grand Am was towed from the scene of the accident to a nearby lot. The rain continued to pour into the open car, nature’s futile attempt to wash away the tragic tell tale stains. On his way to the hospital, Shannon’s Uncle Johnny stopped to get her things, her purse, her glucometer, her luggage and Leo, the floppy, brown, under stuffed hound, who had been Shannon’s constant travelling companion since she left for college. Johnny didn’t want her to worry, wanted her things in her room waiting for her when she got there.

That was never to be. Doctors declared Shannon brain dead on Saturday afternoon and honored her wish to be an organ donor on Sunday morning.

Sunday afternoon we made funeral arrangements. We made coffee. We made calls. We made busy. When everyone was gone, Jules and I retreated to Shannon’s room. We sat on the floor. I realized I was still wearing the bib overalls I had worn to work on Friday. I was afraid to sleep. I was afraid of that moment when I would wake up and have to remember. I kept thinking that if I stayed calm, kept breathing, stayed focused on taking care of Shannon’s things, stayed close to her, I would find my way through this. I picked up Leo, held him close. He was a little damp from his ordeal, and his once shiny nose looked a little worse for wear, but he smelled like Shannon and I breathed her in. When I could finally let go, I placed him gently on the “Oh So Many Cats” throw at the foot of her bed. I unpacked Shannon’s suitcase and put her clothes away. I held each piece, before carefully placing it in her dresser; the long sleeved, blue and white striped t shirt, the white linen shorts, her well worn, green plaid flannel pajamas, two pair of jeans, the Cheshire cat T, assorted Victoria’s Secret bras and panties, all freshly laundered before being packed for home.

I looked at Shannon’s Dad. We were so broken. I didn’t know how to ease his grief. I worried that he might follow her and I would be all alone. I kept unpacking.

Beneath the clothes I found the latest in Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, Wizard and Glass, and her Gratitude Journal.

In August of the previous year, Shannon and I had watched an Oprah Winfrey show, during which Sarah Ban Breathnach introduced her book, the Simple Abundance Journal of Gratitude. Oprah assured us that simply recording five things each day that you are grateful for would “change your life.” Of course there was the typical grumbling that accompanied any new venture I wanted us to try. Shannon found it especially irritating, and never hesitated to remind me, that this was one more thing that we had to do, “just because Miss Oprah said so”, but I hoped it would improve her outlook on her decision to major in Studio Art and her ever so frustrating career as a starving artist.

We rushed out to Waldenbooks, (well, I rushed, Shannon came along for the ride) and purchased the last two copies of the Simple Abundance Journal of Gratitude. The journal was never mentioned again. My own was abandoned around Thanksgiving, when holiday demands left barely enough time to scribble daily “to do” lists. Yet here was hers, safely tucked beneath Stephen King. I studied the journal. A small volume, hard cover, mint green leaf pattern with navy blue borders across the top and bottom. In the center of the cover, just beneath the title, a small, square, graphic of a tree. Inside the front cover, Shannon had scribbled her initials and “97 – 98”. Each off white page was lined in green and labeled with the date of each day of the year. Each month had its own title page with a quote . . .

January “You only live once – but if you do it right, once is enough.” - Joe E. Lewis

Shannon had added, “If not, there’s always reincarnation.” - SAB

I closed the journal and held it in my lap. I smiled, as I placed Dark Tower on Shannon’s book shelf, wondering how this sweet, gentle being could be so enamored with Stephen King. The suitcase was empty and I pulled the zipper slowly, listening, as if I had never heard a zipper before.

I looked around the room. The shelf of stuffed animals above her bed shared our history. Garfield and Cabbage Patch, E.T. and Alf, Winnie, Eyore, Kanga and Baby Roo. Even they looked sad. Cassette tapes and CDs also spanning a lifetime, from Bangles and Milli Vanilli, to Verve Pipe and Green Day. A place for everything and everything in its place. I wondered who she got that from, certainly not her parents.

Afternoon light was spilling through the windows and a rainbow shimmered across her diploma.

“Where is that coming from?” Jules asked, pointing to the frame above the TV.

“The crystal in the window. Hanging from the latch. We had to drive all over Fredericksburg looking for that crystal. Had to be a teardrop. We finally found it in the Hallmark in Falmouth. She wanted ‘rainbows without rain’.”

Shannon’s dad and I crawled onto her bed with the precious Journal. We sought refuge in her sanctuary. The walls were “Sharkskin”. I thought it was a hideous color in the can; she assured me it would be beautiful. She was right. We fluffed the pillows against the headboard and pulled her quilt across our legs. My eyes traced the double wedding ring pattern; hundreds of tiny pastel stitches, a biscuit background, endless rings of inter locking floral circles, the unbreakable love between you and your loved one. Finally I cried. Jules cried. We held on to one another. We held on to Shannon’s journal. I wasn’t sure that the tears would ever stop.

Exhausted and spent, we finally opened the journal. August 7, 1997, Shannon’s first entry. I leaned into my husband; I could feel his heart beating against my shoulder. Time slowed as we lingered on every word. . .

Thank you for this book

Thank you for the cat that was Riddle

Thank you for the goofy, smiley Emmy

Thank you for Denise

Thank you for hair that grows

Thank you for fat that melts away



I don’t remember how long we read. We laughed with her. We remembered with her. We felt the darkness lighten with her.

Thank you for Camper’s Special

Thank you for ‘Contact’

Thank you for Mom and Dad

Thank you for pups that don’t pee on the floor

Thank you for wonderfully warm soft blankets



Day by day, week by week, month by month, she hadn’t missed a day. In our desperation and disbelief, Shannon threw us a life line. She wrote about the little things that touched her, made her laugh, or ponder, or hope, the things that filled her senses or gave meaning to her days. I’m certain she never once thought that one day those innocent musings would save us.

As we made our way through the days that followed, I envisioned Shannon looking down on us. I knew that she would be expecting me to maintain some semblance of dignity and grace. We planned her memorial service, we included music Shannon would like, Enya’s “Paint the Sky”, and “Where the Angels Fly” by Chris Spheeris. We made bookmarks with the lyrics for John and Alex to hand out at the service. They were barely nine and so very brave. Bee and Bub, Shannon’s older cousins, were kept busy putting together photo collages that reminded all of us of the joy of loving, and being loved by Shannon. I gave her eulogy. No, Shannon and I, gave her eulogy. It seemed important, in that moment, gathered with everyone who loved her, that Shannon have a voice. I read from her journal . . .

I’m thankful for the life I have, nothing I want that I can’t obtain, Wonderful family and friends, and lucky enough to take my time finding a job. Everyone seems to be doing well right now and for that I am thankful.



Together, at the memorial service, we laughed at her world view, her opinion of all of us, her love of life, her innocence and profound wisdom. She was there with us, as it was supposed to be. This was the last tangible act we could give our precious child, my dearest friend, and I wanted to believe that she was elbowing the angel beside her, saying, “That’s my Mom and Dad, aren’t they something!” We wanted her to be proud of us. The chapel was full of bright flowers, especially daisies, her favorite. Her art, photographs, even Leo, filled the room with Shannon’s life. The urn, three bronze dolphins swimming around deep blue ocean waves, reminded us of the reality that we were yet to grasp, but even that was subtle and tranquil.



Of course there were moments, usually when I was alone in the car, when I screamed and cried so hard and so deep that my voice was torn for days. Or standing in the grocery store, holding on to the basket so that I didn’t end up in a heap on the floor. But in those moments when I couldn’t breathe or sleep or eat, I would remember.

Thank you for Chef Boy R Dee ravioli

Thank you for letting me reach adulthood

Thank you for laughter, and fear, and reason

Thank you for little boys and their baseball games Thank you for limitless choices



Her voice was always there.

When we started writing thank you notes for flowers and kindnesses, we realized that not everyone had been able to spend time with Shannon as an adult. We wanted them to know how wonderful and how happy she had been. Shannon and Denise made bookmarks. Shannon collected bookmarks. It was the perfect solution. We made a small bookmark that would fit in every letter of appreciation. We used photos of her art and entries from her journal. Everyone loved them.

In those moments when we were able to share Shannon, the black hole felt lighter, less frightening. I decided to write letters of appreciation to everyone Shannon mentioned by name in her journal.

Thank you for Paw Paw

Thank you for Rosie

Thank you for Oprah

Thank you for Lessie

Thank you for Maya Angelou

Thank you for Bill Cosby



At first the list seemed endless. But these people were important to Shannon, influenced the woman she had become. I wanted them to know.

In 1998, the Internet was in its infancy, but celebrities had a rudimentary web presence and I composed e-mails when appropriate. One of the first ones I wrote was to Oprah and her staff because they introduced us to the Gratitude Journal. Two weeks after Shannon’s funeral we got a call from one of Oprah’s producers.

Sandi Peddicord explained, “Oprah is having another show on Gratitude. Would you be willing to appear? It might help other families going through what you are. The show will tape on June 17, and air on July 19.”

Of course, this was just like Shannon. She got to Heaven and started working her own special kind of magic. Maybe this was her gift to me. She had arranged for me to finally meet Miss O.

“Could you read some of Shannon’s journal to me?”

I picked up the journal and got comfortable on the sofa. Emmy sat at my feet.

“How much would you like to hear?”

“As much as you’re comfortable sharing. I’ll just listen and make some notes.”

“I’ll just start at the beginning.”

Thank you for time for me, Leo and my car

Thank you for rain and the sun that follows

Thank you for shoe insoles

Thank you for garden veggie pitas



I read and Sandi listened. Time passed, she listened. When I was reading, Shannon was with me. I loved talking about her. Finally she had what she needed and explained the logistics of our trip to Chicago. I placed the phone back on the cradle and curled up on the floor next to Emma. Her big dark eyes closed and before long she was chasing rabbits in her sleep. I cried into her soft black fur, while she slept. She understood. She still sat by the door or watched, staring out the window, waiting for Shannon to come home.

We spent the next few weeks making three hundred laminated bookmarks, one for each of Oprah’s audience members. Oprah flew us to Chicago; a limo picked us up at the airport, took us to the Omni Chicago Hotel, allowed us an extremely generous room service tab that we didn’t use, and told us to be in the lobby at 7 a.m. A young woman battling brain cancer shared the morning ride to Harpo Studios. She asked the driver if we could ride by Oprah’s Chicago address and he said, “No”. She grinned at her Mom.

We sat through makeup and hair and I was horrified when I looked in the mirror. Black eyeliner and too much mascara, with pink cheeks and lips. I looked ridiculous. I wanted to weep. I had been told not to wear black or white. I was wearing peach, the dress I wore to Shannon’s college graduation. I didn’t recognize myself and the young woman’s assurance that it would look different on camera fell on deaf and determined ears. How could I be seen all made up when I would be talking about Shannon’s death? I wanted to convey hope and share how special and amazing Shannon was, but I didn’t want to look like I was all dolled up for a party. I felt sick. Jules tried to reassure me but I was frantic. When I was sure she wouldn’t notice I found the bathroom and scrubbed my face. We were given a seat in the “Green Room” to wait. We saw Oprah come in, in her ball cap and hunter green sweats and no makeup. We never would have recognized her on the street. When it was time for us to begin, we were “miked” and handed a four by six unlined blue card with the “suggested” script, typed in a size 14 font. As we were being led to our seats, we gave our little bundle of bookmarks to an usher, who assured us that they would be distributed as the audience left, but who can say. All of a sudden, nothing about this trip seemed right. Everyone had the best of intentions, the whisper of angels at work, but grief casts deep shadows and can obscure the brightest of lights.

We were sitting on the front row in the audience, shell shocked and pathetic, when they announced the show, “Letters to Oprah”. Not gratitude, not “Thank you notes to Oprah” but “Letters to Oprah” and letters they were. Six weeks after burying our only child, our story was to follow the whining, big mouthed, accusatory rampaging wife of a professional basketball player, who insisted that Oprah had offended and misrepresented them. Had I not been between them, I think Shannon’s Dad might have been compelled to hit her. Following a commercial break, Oprah introduced us and talked about gratitude and showed photos of Shannon on an enormous screen. I read from the card, that Shannon had been grateful for “Chapstick” and “good egg salad”, and “that feeling you get when you finally get back home”. Oprah presented us with two soft, green, leather bound journals that she “had made just for” us, and shook Shannon’s Dad’s hand. Oprah's compassion filled her eyes. In the months and years to come, I would revisit those moments, always believing that Shannon wanted us there, worked her magic, opened our circle of friends to include the world, and we continue to be grateful.

We flew home. We returned to work. We went through life's motions. When we came home at night, we cried. We fought the gravitational pull of the black hole, but often our resolve was simply not strong enough. More than once I contemplated relaxing into the bath water, allowing my head to slowly descend below the surface, listening as my breathing stopped. Some days I fantasized about driving off the Falmouth Bridge, or tried to calculate how long it would take to slit my wrists with a pink and white Bic disposable razor. Any time these dark thoughts surfaced, I could hear Shannon scolding, disapproving, and I knew she meant business.

Thank you for a level head

Thank you for time to enjoy life

Thank you for dogs and people healing

Thank you for rules to follow



I’m not sure how we got through that first year, or the second. Our mantra became “Shannon’s watching and we have to make her proud of us.” We never missed a day from work. I made meals and cleaned house. I did laundry and answered e-mail. To everyone around us we were fine. Our grief was private, our sorrow so intimate that we could only share with each other. Shannon’s Dad became really good at making bookmarks and the process kept our minds and hands busy.

By the spring of 2000, we were active volunteers for LifeNet, Virginia’s Organ Procurement Organization, and Shannon’s bookmarks had become an indispensable tool in their Donor Family Advocacy Programs. I had only two letters of gratitude left to send and made them my way of celebrating Shannon’s twenty-fifth birthday. I wrote a letter to Sandi, our contact at Oprah. I sent her bookmarks and asked if she might forward them, along with my letters, to Bill Cosby and Maya Angelou. Yes, it felt presumptuous, but I had come to believe that there was never an inappropriate time or manner to express gratitude. Or maybe death just made me brazen. Several days later Sandi called. We didn’t talk about the letters but she said that they would like to feature Shannon and her bookmarks on the “Remembering Your Spirit” segment of an upcoming show. We wouldn’t have to go to Chicago; they would send a crew to us.

On April 17, 2000, in a three-minute segment, we were shown making and gifting the bookmarks, in a celebration of Shannon’s life and continuing inspiration. Jules and John and I sat around the kitchen table chatting as we cut and laminated and punched tiny hearts in each bookmark. The crew interviewed several people in Fredericksburg who described what the bookmarks meant to them. In two years we had shared around 20,000 bookmarks with Organ Donation Organizations, civic groups, churches, schools, friends, and family.

On April 19th, the Oprah show called to ask if we had a web site. They had been so inundated with requests for bookmarks that their site crashed. A dear friend hurriedly created a web page with our snail and e mail addresses and linked it to Oprah’s site. “Bookmark Therapy” was officially born.

Over that summer we received thousands of letters, each more heartfelt and endearing than the last. We created and mailed more than one hundred thousand bookmarks in eight months. We recruited family and friends and spent every weekend printing, cutting, laminating and mailing bookmarks around the globe. We had less time for sorrow. We felt as if we were working with and for Shannon.

“Are you ready to start cutting? We have requests for 1000.”

“Do you have some printed?”

“Eternal Autumn, Day at the Beach, New Beginnings . . . that’s enough to get started. Don’t they look beautiful? Every time I look at them I’m in awe. She saw things most of us miss.”

“It may be time to invest in another paper cutter.”

“And we’re almost out of laminating pouches. Have you seen the heart punch?”



It has been twelve years. We have emerged from our black hole, though as Hawking suggested we are not unchanged. Hawking describes a black hole as a region of space in which the gravitational field is so powerful that nothing, including light, can escape its pull. I fell - helplessly spiraling into the unforgiving darkness of my own black hole, but the light of my giant star followed me. It did not die. It continued to shine as brightly as ever and illuminated the path that allowed me to emerge. It continues to illuminate the path that allows me to move forward.

Of course life will never be the same, some days it is unrecognizable, but I know that this moment may be my last. I hug a little tighter, a little longer. I try to be more patient and more resilient. I have found new ways of expressing my love for Shannon, and those around me.

We still get requests for bookmarks, but they are fewer and far easier to manage. We have friends we have never seen face to face, but recognize heart to heart. Just today I received a note from a young woman in Maine, “My Dad has been in the hospital since March, 2008. He has had many strokes and can no longer communicate. During the process I found a body on the side of the road. A victim of hit and run that died 18 hours later. I could use some words of hope as I am having a hard time keeping from the dark hole of depression. AJ.”

Do I have the right words? Can I ease her sadness? I’m never sure, but I know someone who can.

Shannon seems to have found a way of reminding us of what is important. In a conversation with her Aunt Candy just two weeks before her death, Shannon confided that she didn’t want just any job – she wanted a job that would make a difference. With every request for bookmarks or hope, or note of appreciation, I know that she is doing just that.



Contact Information









Music by Beth Nielsen Chapman

"Say Goodnight Not Goodbye"



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