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LIFE, It's a Beautiful Thing

AuthorHouse

Contents

Author's Note.................................................................................................ixPreface.......................................................................................................xvCoal Miners Daughter..........................................................................................1Dream Baby....................................................................................................11My Little Old Soul............................................................................................15My Psychic Experience.........................................................................................21My Premonition................................................................................................28Our Silent Visitor............................................................................................37Guardian Angels...............................................................................................41It's A Miracle................................................................................................46Remembering...................................................................................................51Life Story Epilogue...........................................................................................55Walking With God..............................................................................................59Our Lord And Savior, Jesus Christ, King Of The Jews...........................................................59The Way To Peace, Contentment And Happiness...................................................................60The Way To Comfort, Fullness And Security In Life.............................................................61The Lord's Prayer.............................................................................................62A Prayer Of Atonement: The Act Of Contrition..................................................................62The Apostles' Creed...........................................................................................63God's Guide To A Life Full Of Blessings.......................................................................64The Ten Commandments..........................................................................................65Why Should We Pray?...........................................................................................65How Should We Pray?...........................................................................................66What Should We Pray For?......................................................................................67Who Should We Pray For?.......................................................................................67Mother Teresa.................................................................................................69Calling Upon God..............................................................................................70A Set Of Prayers Addressing God With Adoration, Confession, Supplication, Or Thanksgiving.....................70Afflictions And Healing.......................................................................................76Intercessory Prayer...........................................................................................76Intercessory Prayers In Favor Of Another......................................................................77A Prayer For Troubled Times In America And The World..........................................................83Finis.........................................................................................................84About the Author..............................................................................................87

Chapter One

Significant emotionally traumatic impact events are stored in our memory forever, and we have the power or process to recall what has been retained. Like a computer, information is inserted and stored and from which it may be extracted when wanted.

The year is 1938; the place is Jerome, Pennsylvania. It was the end of the season of the sun and the beginning of the season of darkness and cold. The setting is an old company house in a coal mining town. Daddy is frantically chucking wood and coal into the old coal stove trying to keep the house warm. The wind with its musical natural movement of air is whispering through ice crystal covered motionless trees; displaying shadows on the sparkling crystalline snow caps surrounding the old company house.

The sound coming from upstairs is hushed by the strength of the whispering wind. Then, finally, it is announced "It's a girl." Baby Girl was exceptionally small. So tiny, in fact, that in order to keep her warm she was nestled in daddy's wooden shoe box and placed in the bun warmer section of the old coal stove.

I am Baby Girl and this is my story. Mommy had rheumatic fever at the age of sixteen and from that time forth she was not in perfect health. Even so, I remember she always seemed to smile; she was beautiful and loving. From the time I was born my mother was in and out of the hospital. My grandfather on my father's side moved in with us in order to help take care of me and my sister, Felicia and brother, Eddie. Although I was quite young, I vividly remember the hospital bed that was positioned near a window in the downstairs portion of our company house. To this day, I can see my mother lying in that hospital bed and daddy washing her feet. Strangely enough, I can only see him washing her feet—not her face, arms, hands, or back, just her feet. Prior to the hospital bed being brought into the house, I remember one reoccurring event in particular. Once a week, my mother would take me to visit her best friend and they would talk for hours while I sat there listening. I even recall her name which was Mrs. Clementine. To get to her house we walked down the dirt road, across the paved two-way street, over the railroad tracks, and up the hill where the cottages were built, a distance from the company houses.

In the season of spring, the sun would melt the snow, and the crystalline snow caps surrounding the old company house were no longer bright, white and shiny. Speckles of coal dust appeared to be dancing on the white caps as the whispering breeze blew black dust from the coal mine into town, and the melting snow turned into squishy, dingy mush.

Although I was only five years old when my mother died, her death left a vivid consciousness within my memory. My mother had hand crocheted a beautiful blue dress for me with little capped sleeves and three small pearl buttons that closed in the back. To this day, I can visualize that dress in every detail. I wore that dress once a week when we visited Mrs. Clementine. The last time I remember wearing the dress is when I fell off the old porch banister into the coal-dust-soiled mushy melting snow. I was waiting for mommy to get dressed, and I begged her to let me go outside on the porch. She reluctantly said I could, and warned me not to climb on the banister as I might fall off into the soiled snow and ruin my dress. I remember my horror at having to show mommy my ruined dress and the warm, loving way that she told me it was "ok honey."

In those days we didn't have funeral homes as we do today. I remember exactly where the casket was positioned in the living room of our old company house. I can see folding chairs surrounding three of the living room walls, and the men who took turns sitting there on twenty four hour watch for three days. I can distinguish the sound of people crying and my Aunt holding me high enough above the casket so that I could look down and see mommy lying in peaceful slumber. I have committed to memory my feeling of uncertainty or suspense as I seemed to flutter in the air suspended above the casket. I remember my Aunt telling me not to cry that mommy was in Heaven with Jesus, and instructing me to go outside and play with the other children. I can see myself jumping down out of her arms, running outside and playing hop-scotch. I keep in my memory how that reaction of me jumping down and going outside to have fun played havoc on my mind until I was well into my teens. But the most important piece, the part that influenced me to write "The Coal Miner's Daughter" in order to share the memory that comes to mind most often, as told to me by my father and Aunt Genevieve is portrayed as follows:

Mommy was hospitalized at Memorial Hospital in Johnstown, Pennsylvania. Daddy was working in the coal mine, and was notified by the Doctor to come to the hospital, as mommy was failing fast. The Doctor didn't think she would live throughout the day. Daddy notified my grandmother and my aunts and they all were at her side praying in faith. Mommy lived through the night and the next day she appeared to be quite well. Actually, she seemed so well that the Doctor released her the following day. When she got home, she told my father that she wouldn't be able to stay home very long. She said that God spoke to her and told her that she could go home for a short time in order to take care of some family matter. She took daddy into their bedroom and opened up their armoire. She then took daddy's shoes out from the bottom of the armoire. When all the shoes were out, she lifted up the board that the shoes had been resting on and took out a cigar box. She gave the cigar box to daddy and told him that he would need what was in it to take care of the children. The cigar box was full of money that she managed to save during those hard depression times. Daddy did not know about the cigar box, or that the armoire had a secret compartment, and never would have found the money. She said she explained this to God and God let her come home to close out this family matter, but that she wouldn't be home for long. Within one week, mommy was back in the hospital. As each day passed she became frailer and again the Doctor called for the family to come to the hospital. Daddy sat beside her and held her hand; her mother and sisters were at her side. She softly spoke my father's name "Charlie" and told him to take good care of the children and keep close watch over tiny baby girl. She said she would be leaving him now, as the angels were coming to take her with them. She asked if he could hear the singing in the background getting louder and louder as the angels got closer and closer. She asked if he could see the tunnel and the light as it was getting brighter and brighter and then she said that it was time for her to go. She softly spoke "I'm leaving you now Charlie, good bye Charlie, I love you."

My mother's faith, trust in, and loyalty to God was without doubt or question; therefore, this noteworthy happening is no surprise to me and was told to me time and time again by both my father and my Aunt Genevieve. The lasting image or impression I have of my mother is her faithful devotion to her religion and religious observances, her warm and friendly smile and her loving motherly touch. She was special, different than the other moms. The angels, those magnificent servants of God, ushered her into heaven in June, 1944. I trust that when my time here on earth has come to an end that I too will have as beautiful a send off as my mother did.

Summer was coming to an end and I was registered to attend school. In those days we did not have kindergarten class and we children went straight into the first grade. My brother and sister walked me to school and dropped me off at the first grade classroom. I remember that the other children all had mommies who walked them to their first day of school. I was so tiny in comparison to the other children that the teachers would not allow me to go out and play during recess. Miss Rich was my first grade teacher and she would hold me on her lap. The second and third grade teachers, Miss Fender and Mrs. Berkley would sometimes take turns holding me during the time the rest of the children were outside playing. I remember one incident in particular when the teacher checked our ears, hands and nails to see that they were clean, and to ascertain that we each had an unsoiled handkerchief. I had no handkerchief and was sent home. I ran into the house crying and told my grandfather that I needed a handkerchief. He went out on the porch where the old ringer washer was covered with a white sheet. He cut a section off the white sheet, hand stitched the four sides, ironed and folded it and gave it to me. I ran hurriedly back to school where I proudly presented my very own handkerchief. Another incident I recall, I was walking to school and suddenly stopped in front of Mr. and Mrs. Mike Demko's house. I felt a gentle breeze and so I lifted up my little dress and saw that I had forgotten to put my under panties on. I ran home crying to my grandfather who handed me a clean pair of panties and again I headed off hastily back to school. Yes, I even remember their names because these significant emotionally traumatic impact events are stored in my memory forever, and like a computer may be extracted when wanted.

Daddy remarried three years later. I was eight years old, in third grade. Although my sister and brother attended their church wedding, I watched from the school house window as daddy and my new mom exited the church.

Our new mom was twenty-four; she was thirteen years younger than daddy and only twelve years older than my brother. She brought with her, into our family, her three year old daughter, Barbara. Barbara is my beautiful and wonderful stepsister, whom I love. Daddy told us in a matter of fact way that this is our new mom and we would address her as mom, mommy or mother, not "hey you" as my brother, Eddie, had tried addressing her. Daddy said hay was grass mowed and cured for fodder, food for cattle out in the fields. This is your mother, he said. She is not a hay bale lying out in the field.

When I was in ninth grade mommy gave birth to my loving brother Ricky, and a few years later my wonderful brother Mark was born.

Our new mom was also a Christian and she took us three girls to the Roman Catholic Church every Sunday. Daddy was Greek Catholic and he and my brothers would attend the Greek Catholic Church. I sang in the church choir and my brother, Eddie, was an alter boy. Growing up we were much disciplined. Our religious teachings were of Jesus Christ based on the Holy Bible as sacred scripture. We were taught the value of being responsible with moral, legal and mental accountability; the capability to choose between right and wrong. We were taught to honor our mother and father, respect our elders, and love our neighbors. We were taught to keep our commitments, obey the laws, follow the rules, and that honesty is always the best policy. If church services were held during the week, we were there. Approaching the church on my walk to elementary school I would invariably gently place my clean handkerchief on top of my head before entering the church to worship and praise God. For a young child my belief and trust in and loyalty to God were very strong. So strong, in fact, that up until my higher teen years I had considered becoming a Catholic Nun. Our new mom was very strict and did not display emotions of love or affection toward us. Even though I did not receive the motherly love that I desired, I loved my new mom and acknowledge her and her teachings for the faithful person I am today.

Coupled with the love and prayers of my maternal mother, the teachings of my new mom and the fact that I, as a very young and fearful child, had asked the Holy Spirit to come into my heart and guide me has formed the basics of my life and are my strengths and courage that I draw on. I thank God for his many blessings and am confident that I will, in time, be reunited in heaven with my family.

Chapter Two

Dreams are manifestations of all kinds of things going on in our lives; a series of thoughts, images, or emotions that occur during sleep. Being young, pregnant and pulsating with life I had a very special dream. In my dream I saw a large clear-glass bottle. The bottom part of the bottle was wide and round; the top part was very narrow like a giant American blended whiskey bottle. Inside the bottle was a beautiful chubby baby boy. His head was large and round and covered with coal-black hair. This chubby baby boy struggled to get out of the bottle. He continually made strenuous efforts against an invisible opposition.

During my pregnancy I had gained twenty pounds; weighing at the end of nine months a total of 120 pounds. My father-in-law annoyed me by persistently insisting that I eat more. I was healthy, I ate well, and I was petite. It was a cold November night when I went into labor. I remember getting out of bed and walking back and forth in the dark, cold farm house bedroom. I had very little pain and my water did not break, but I knew I was in labor. I walked until the night turned to day and the rooster crowed. Finally, still without much labor pain, I told my husband it was time to go to the hospital.

Arriving at the hospital, after check-in and preparation, the Doctor examined me and said "You will be delivering in about one-half hour." He said he was going to grab a quick lunch and he would be back in time to deliver my baby. During this time, I sat on the edge of the bed in the delivery room and combed my long blond hair. A nurse walked by who knew me and was surprised to see me sitting on the edge of the bed combing my hair. She stepped into the delivery room and said that I should be lying down. I told her I was fine and the Doctor would be back in one-half hour to deliver my baby. She shook her head and said "I'll tell your folks not to worry about you." In the bed beside me was a sixteen year old, crying out in excruciating pain. The nurses had her wrists strapped to the sides of the bed, and were hollering "push" "push". My heart ached for her and I wished that I could take away some of her pain. I was feeling little or no pain; I thanked God for being with me and my unborn child.

The Doctor returned and the next hour was characterized by activity, excitement and confusion. I was being primed for a cesarean section. My husband was struggling with the knowledge that he had to make a decision in the event that only one life could be saved. While in the operating room, I heard the big round clock on the wall ticking away as I counted 99-98-97 in anticipation of the anesthetic carrying me into blissful sleep. I lost five pints of blood and required 24-hour private nursing care over a two-week period. My beautiful chubby baby boy weighed in at 9 pounds and 6 ounces. He was 22 inches long and his head was 14 &fra12; inches in diameter. His large head was covered with coal-black hair. We named him Craig Lee Mull and he is my Dream Baby.

Dreams are the creative outlet for one's subconscious. I dreamed a dream and my dream was in accordance with the actual state of affairs. Dreams can come true; this one did as portrayed here.

Chapter Three

Aristotle defined the soul as the core or "essence" of a living being. From the moment Craig was born, he was my little old soul. At the tender age of six months he loved to munch on scallions fresh from the garden and oh how he loved sauerkraut. Unbelievable but true! He was off the bottle at eight months, walking by himself at nine months, and potty-trained at eleven months. An Old Soul indeed.

As a fourth grader, Craig was nine going on twenty. He loved to go grocery shopping with me and his little sister, whom he looked after with pride and joy. He delighted in helping me put the groceries away. Now what fourth grader have you ever known that would love to spend this kind of time with mommy? One Saturday afternoon in late October we had just arrived home from grocery shopping, and in those days I was a smoker. So, after carrying in the groceries, I poured myself a cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. He said "Mom, aren't we going to put the groceries away?" I responded saying "Sure honey just let me finish my cigarette". At that moment, this nine year old stood beside me and lectured me on smoking and black lung disease. He spoke so profoundly that I soon realized he was behaving as the adult and I was the child. I put my cigarette out in the ashtray, picked up the unopened carton of Marlboros I had just purchased, took my child's hand and together we walked down two steps into the family room. A fire blazed in the fireplace leaving a dazzling display of color in all parts of the room. I pulled open the fireplace screen and as I tossed the carton of cigarettes into the burning fire there was a sudden outburst—a blaze of fury reminding me of hell. We stood there together hand-in-hand listening to the rapid and repeated outburst of sounds like gunfire and watched intensely as we together blazed a new trail.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from LIFE, It's a Beautiful Thingby Laura Schaufel Copyright © 2011 by Laura Schaufel. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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