No Reason for Goodbyes

BALBOA PRESS

Contents

Acknowledgements.................................................................................viiForeword.........................................................................................ixPreface..........................................................................................xiIntroduction.....................................................................................xvChapter One - Sightings..........................................................................1Chapter Two - When the Medium Brings the Message - Part I - John Holland.........................23Chapter Three - Lucid Dreams.....................................................................35Chapter Four - When the Medium Brings the Message - Part II - John Edward........................70Chapter Five - Messages by Special Delivery......................................................76Chapter Six - When the Medium Brings the Message - Part III - Wind Dancer........................100Chapter Seven - Reminders........................................................................105Chapter Eight - When the Medium Brings the Message - Part IV - John Holland......................127Chapter Nine - Synchronicity.....................................................................160Chapter Ten - When the Medium Brings the Message - Part V - John Edward..........................180Chapter Eleven – The Inexplicable and Other Little Miracles................................183Chapter Twelve - When the Medium Brings the Message - Part VI - Robert Brown.....................219Afterword........................................................................................237Appendix A.......................................................................................241Appendix B.......................................................................................245Appendix C.......................................................................................247

Chapter One

Given the number of young men and women who have lost their lives in the service of their country, especially in more recent years, I thought it appropriate that we begin our testimonials with the moving contribution by Colleen.

The memorial service for my father was over. All that was left was to move the bouquets to the car and then get through the hours of the reception. Some time before the end of that longest of March days, my mother informed my sisters and me that another service was planned for him at Arlington National Cemetery during the Christmas holidays.

I couldn't believe it. Death had never been considered an ending in our family, just another door like countless others that lead to different experiences through a lifetime. His ashes were already interred at Arlington and I didn't understand why Mom wanted to prolong the mourning for the father and husband we'd all lost. I told her so.

"Your dad wanted to have a service in Arlington," she said quietly. "And I'm going to do it for him."

Dad was a Marine during the Second World War. He was a radioman and family legend puts him onboard ship where he witnessed the raising of the flag at Iwo Jima. We all remembered countless ball games and parades where the Marine Corps Hymn was played — Dad standing practically alone until the last bars faded. He had a look on his face I still can't describe. But even as a child, I knew there was something of deep importance for him in that tune and I always stood quietly while it played.

The seasons moved by and suddenly it was time for Christmas in Virginia. Family flew in from all over the country. Discussion at the dinner table centered on the ceremony to be held right after the holiday. Time hadn't changed a thing for me. I still felt the exercise was pointless and maudlin, but out of respect I kept my thoughts to myself.

It was cloudy, chilly and threatening rain as the ceremony began. Across the rolling hills in the gray light, the graves of Arlington marched away like stone soldiers. The reds and golds and blues of the Marines' uniforms seemed to be the only color. Military precision and the air of command captured my attention, but nothing changed the way I continued to feel — sad, uneasy, and vaguely angry. All I could seem to do was stare at the shoes of the honor guard. Patent leather polished to a high sheen moving like clockwork against the cold ground.

I really don't believe in death. I've had countless proofs that life continues. And as I sat there listening to the eulogy, I knew Dad was still moving forward through his experience, continuing to learn and grow. But the sadness wouldn't lift. I missed him. Alzheimer's disease is what sent him on and the most recent memories we'd shared were conflicted and frustrating and profoundly sad. I was lost in those memories as the service neared its end.

But then an odd thing happened.

Suddenly, something caught my complete attention, as if someone had called my name. I was instantly aware and looked up in confusion. And as I did, a sweet, deep sense of peace flooded my thoughts. Time stood still. I felt embraced and comforted and filled with joy. Although there were no words, a voice seemed to say, "God is Life and Life is forever. Life goes on forever and ever. Everywhere and everywhen."

I looked at the faces of my family sitting quietly and at the Marines as they crisply folded the flag. Everyone was glowing. Color poured back into the scene and the misty day now seemed to be sunlit and glistening. I was suddenly aware of the deep affection the Marines held for my father, even though they'd never met him. How much they held for us as his family. The care they'd all taken to prepare the service — the 21-gun salute, the immaculate uniforms, the powerful eulogy. I finally understood Dad's love of the Marine Corps. Had it been appropriate, I would have leaped from my chair and hugged them all.

And then I saw Dad standing there watching the service, too. Just standing there quietly, smiling, completely absorbed in the ceremony. He was happy and proud, relaxed and energized, as if he'd just strolled by during a morning walk. Even as the thought about how weird it all was came to mind, I was swept by the understanding that what I was experiencing was natural and normal. The way things are supposed to be. He wasn't an apparition. No séance had brought him there. He was just Dad.

I had no desire to go to him. It was enough just to see him whole and strong. To see my dad again with the clear light of intelligence and humor in his eyes. And I somehow knew I couldn't speak with him, even if I'd tried. But I knew that we would some day.

I know that we will.

Colleen Lester

Bottom line: Colleen's experience is a reminder of all the fathers, sons and daughters who have served, dedicated or have given their lives in military service to our country. And of course, once a Marine, always a Marine, whether on this side of the veil or the other.

* * *

Giving credit where it's due, the sighting experienced by Joyce Braga was the primary impetus for this book. A fellow member of a writers' critique group to which I belong, I'd known her for years. One day while we were discussing my work-in-progress, a mystery that involved a sighting, she dropped this tidbit, which didn't register at the time. Once I realized what she had said, I called her later and asked for an explanation, which she gave me. Except for her husband and her sister, she'd never talked to anyone else about it. Since I'd kept mum about my own contacts from Bob, I was consumed by several emotions: pure joy that she'd been given such a gift; sympathy at knowing why she had never spoken of it; and outrage that we'd felt so constrained. I wondered how many others might be suffering in silence. I found out. So my sincere thanks to Joyce. And her dad.

My sister called me with the news that our mother had died at 6 a.m. from a massive heart attack. Because my parents lived in Florida, and she and my brother and I were in Maryland, we had to move quickly because my dad was now alone. He was suffering with Alzheimer's disease, and our mother had been his sole caretaker for everything, including food, clothing and bathing.

I will probably never know how Daddy was able to process Mother's death. By the time we arrived twenty-four hours later, he was slumped on the sofa, surrounded by a pile of papers. He'd been trying to read the death certificate and the paramedics' report.

He looked up at me, his thin gray hair still wrinkled as if he'd been sleeping. His grey eyes seemed to be looking straight through me. He had on a wrinkled white, mis-buttoned shirt. His pants, which were way too large, were cinched by a large leather belt he'd tied instead of buckled, and he wore no shoes. The only thing he said, "Dorothy." He either didn't know or remember my name, Joy, and it had been years since he'd used my nickname, "Mouse." I remembered Daddy's meticulousness in minute detail because I, like many small children, had spent hours watching my father shave and fuss in the bathroom, a habit I'd carried on until my teen years, when he allowed me to go on about my angst as he groomed for the day.

Arranging Mother's cremation was the easy part. I'd expected making arrangements to be difficult, since three siblings had to agree. Surprisingly, we all favored cremation.

The hardest part was the final goodbyes. My mother and I had been estranged for years and I had no idea what emotions I would feel. As I kissed her on the forehead, I felt a twinge of sadness and nothing more. The true difficulty was waiting in caring for my father in the limited time we had and the need to move him closer to us. He knew what going into a nursing home meant and so did I. I struggled with this decision, but knew it was the best option we had. We could only stay in Florida for a limited amount of time with family tugging in our home state of Maryland.

I was nominated to make the arrangements and drive him to the nursing home. Once we arrived, he said, in one of the few lucid moments he would have, "If you put me in here, I'll never come out. I'm waiting for mother's ashes." That was the worst day of my life. Not only did I have to leave him there, I'd also learned that my mother's ashes had been lost in transit. Thankfully the ashes arrived the next day, a Saturday.

We took the battered box of ashes to him on Sunday, and over that day and the next, he saw all of his children and our families. It never occurred to us that it would be the last time we'd see him alive. He died Monday night. It was not, however, the last time I'd see him.

It was Thursday, the morning after his cremation. The day was sunny, May at her finest, and my husband, Mark, had hurried off to work. The house was quiet, settling. I was in the kitchen about 8 a.m. The initial shock of my parents' death was over. Now I was a mixture of frustrated, upset, almost angry. After all I'd done, the mad scramble to bring Dad north, the agonizing search and all the frantic wheeling and dealing to get him into a nursing home, he'd died anyway.

Then I thought I heard a noise in the master bedroom. Curious, but for some reason, not alarmed, I stood in the doorway of the bedroom and noticed that Mark had left the light on in the master bathroom.

The bedroom was very bright, with sun beaming through the windows, since the curtains were open. The master bath was on the left side of the room, next to a double-door closet. I went about midway into the room, perhaps a couple of feet. I could see the edge of someone's arm in the master bath.

This master bath was very small. If you used the sink to shave or brush your teeth, your arm would be visible in the bedroom. I stopped. Oddly enough, I didn't feel frightened, I was curious. I moved towards the bed so I could see who it was, then sat down on the edge of the bed and stared. It couldn't be....

The arm moved and someone turned. My father had stepped away from the sink and was facing me. He didn't move past the door sill. In fact, he didn't move at all.

The bathroom light was still on. He looked perfectly natural and normal. He had on the same clothes he had the day I dropped him off at the nursing home, except they were freshly pressed and clean. His hair had been washed and towel dried because it was a mass of white curls. He was clean shaven. His light gray shirt was tucked into his gray pants, his belt buckle properly buckled instead of tied, as he'd worn it in Florida. For years he'd had trouble with that and Mother always had to fix it for him. He wore light colored socks and the white open mesh shoes he always wore in the summer.

I don't know if I said or thought, "Daddy?" but he answered. He smiled, showing a perfect set of white teeth. His gray eyes were clear. He said very softly, "Don't be afraid, Joy, it's just me. I wanted to tell my little Mouse everything is okay. I'm fine. You did the right thing. Don't worry." Here was my father, who had suffered from Alzheimer's for ten years, sounding like a rational, clear-headed man. He was once again the immaculately groomed dad of my younger years. It was like time had been suspended.

I saw him move and turn sideways towards the mirror. The arm was leaning against the sink as if he was checking his face in the mirror. Then the arm disappeared.

I sat a few moments, hoping he'd come back. I got up and looked in the bathroom, but there was no evidence he'd been in there. I felt a great calmness, an elation, a serenity. I left the light on in the bathroom that day. He never came back. But I could live with that. My dad was alright. He'd come back to let me know.

I feel the timing of his visit was critical, considering how angry I'd been. But I think my father knew I needed to see him one last time. It made the grieving process easier. I still went through all normal stages of grief, but every time I had a memory that triggered a sad image of my father, it was immediately replaced with the image I'd seen in my bathroom.

Joyce Braga

Followup: Joyce relates that growing up, her father was the one she could confide in, and with whom she could share stories about psychic experiences she'd had, spirits she'd seen, unusual visions she'd had. He was very open, told her that he, too, had seen things and that her grandmother and great-grandmother had had "the power of sight." It was a secret she and her dad shared and he cautioned to keep such conversations between them to herself. His appearance after his death convinced Joyce he'd been telling her the truth.

She shared the news of his visit with her sister. To her surprise, it gave her sister the courage to tell her about experiences she had had and had never shared. The only other person Joyce told was her husband, who was supportive. And when his father died and his mother had a stroke, he told Joyce he was beginning to understand what she'd experienced. He is convinced his father was guiding him in solving his mother's medical problems. So Joyce feels that sharing was eventually beneficial, thanks to her dad.

* * *

Before beginning this project, I'm not sure what my reaction would be upon sighting someone I knew had made their transition to the Other Side. Depending on the circumstances, I might have convinced myself it was a look-alike, or my imagination, perhaps wishful thinking. I'd have probably wrestled the memory to the ground and killed it, secure in the knowledge that I'd retained or at minimum, had regained my sanity. Now, at least I'd take the time to wonder about it. Fortunately for Lorena, whose sighting follows, she had backup. What luck!

My Aunt Frances's partner, Ann, passed away in 1988. We were very, very close. Seven years later in April of 1995, my dad passed away at home from cancer. Most of my family gathered there, including Aunt Frances, my mother's sister. My husband and I had come out of my mom's house and were going off of the deck down three fairly narrow steps into the yard. The steps were just wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side.

Suddenly, just as we were to start down, my husband and I both at the same time, stepped aside at the top of the stairs and stood there facing each other to let someone else come up the steps. As soon as she passed between us, heading into my mom's house, my husband and I looked at each other with our eyes wide and our jaws almost to the floor. We had just stepped aside for Aunt Ann to come up! It had seemed so natural in the instant that it happened that it took a second for us to realize what had actually just taken place.

She did not look like a "ghost," she simply looked like Aunt Ann. It was so real that we had moved out of the way without thinking about it. As a matter of fact, she looked so real and alive and normal that I would probably have tried to convince myself it had never happened if my husband had not seen the same thing at the same exact time! I've always wondered if she knew it was a rough day and maybe she was there to be with Aunt Fran.

Lenora Shope

Bottom line: Perhaps a clue to this sighting is in Lenora's statement that she and her aunt's partner were very, very close. Given that, it is no surprise that Lenora would be able to see Ann. That her husband could share in this miracle was a bonus. The bottom line was love, Lenora's love for Ann and Ann's love for Fran and her family. Or course she would be there to lend her support!

* * *

Then there's this unusual sighting of Lenora's:

On October 23, 2001, I woke from a sound sleep at about 2 a.m. and for no obvious reason, looked past the foot of my bed and slightly to the right to the bathroom doorway. Standing there was my dad, my nephew, who had committed suicide several years prior, and his mom, my sister. It's hard to explain how they looked, not like an actual person and not like a "ghost" in the movies, but more like vapor or fog-like figures. Perhaps if you could see energy, that's what it would look like. Although I don't recall actually seeing facial features, I had absolutely NO doubt at the time who they were. I had a strange sense of calm, as though they were simply there to let me know that everything was okay, but I felt a little freaked out about it at the same time because my sister was not dead and I was confused as to why I would see her there with them. I blinked, they were no longer there, and I went back to sleep.

About 7 a.m. I came out of my room and into the living room. My daughter, Jacklen, nineteen at the time, was sitting on the couch. I looked at her and said, "Okay, I think we're watching ENTIRELY too much John Edward," to which she replied, "Mom, there's no such thing as too much John!" and laughed. I told her with a nervous giggle, "I am not kidding. I saw your Aunt Joanne in my room in the middle of the night, and Aunt Joanne isn't dead. I'm telling you, too much John!" We had a laugh and went on about our day.

About 4:30 that afternoon, my sister, Elizabeth, called and said, "Sit down. I have terrible news. Joanne is dead. She was murdered at work last night." She worked as a security guard at an apartment complex for AIDS-infected women and children. She was last seen about midnight and was found murdered about 5 a.m.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from No Reason for Goodbyesby Chassie West Copyright © 2011 by Chassie West. Excerpted by permission of BALBOA PRESS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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