Finished this one last night:
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqHLcaaIxsn9T5QT0zvF8tkl_pdHF3nhi3aqV6MUlZBhJ9jWHEJxXGY_qMSzheoPFYY1RBJJnScRmxKr8g5SFhnHfIhN0QBnSvZJV11Cs4hzdUZ046qodC1lLFxjCr5a5LePy2PQ/s400/n86031.jpg)
It's Book Four of the Crosswicks Journal. (I read Book 2 on the plane to Winnipeg, remember? Way to read books in order, Jane) Book Two was about the summer her mother was dying. This one, written during the summer of '86 - is about her husband dying. It's almost enough to put you off summers. Or reading.
L'Engle is a gentle, elegant writer with much depth. These books are not fluff. And are probably best appreciated by perimenopausal readers.
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