a sweet delivery

My friend Bernice died early Saturday morning. Her last days in her physical body were not pleasant ones. She was restless and seemed uncomfortable, and the medications she was receiving did not seem to make any difference in her state. I guess sometimes that's just the way it is.

When I heard the news, I did not cry. I felt no grief. Instead, I immediately issued an intention to be open to any communication from her wherever she was. She had told me she would find me. I wanted to make sure I could hear her knock on my door when it came. I was eager to see what direction our friendship would expand into now that she had left her body behind.

Later that afternoon, I found myself standing in the aisle of Walgreen's, holding a box of my dad's favorite cookies in stunned disbelief. (Apparently Maurice Lenell still makes pinwheels in their Illinois bakery. I have not seen their label in almost 20 years, and they turn up on the bottom shelf in the drug store one block from my house?!)

I was immediately transported to a sweet memory of my dad's obsession with Fancy Chocolate Chip cookies. My mom used to make a special trip to the baking factory to buy him huge striped boxes that contained about 6 dozen of them stacked sideways in rows. He always stored them on top of the fridge. Which did not stop us kids from getting to them – we just climbed up on the kitchen counter!

So I am smiling there in the Walgreen's aisle, remembering my dad who died in 2000, and suddenly, I am jolted with the awareness that Bernice is there with me. I had not thought about her for hours. My heart was at peace with her passing. I had released her in joy, with no unfinished business between us, and was enjoying my day with no grief or sadness.

She popped up out of nowhere. Grinning. Triumphant. Playful. I did not see her with my eyes ... rather I felt her with my heart, and knew her with my mind. It was as if reminiscing about my father had opened the door to the other side, and she just snuck right through. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had found me, and that she was fine, and that her last weeks of suffering had made no lasting impact on her well-being. I laughed out loud with recognition and glee. Walgreen's!!

Can I prove it? Nope. But that makes no difference to me. The message was intended for me alone, and I got it. Message received. Zero distortion.

Some of you may find this story disturbing or feel skeptical. Some of you may find it comforting. In any case, you could still try to experiment with opening your heart and mind to the possibility of connecting with loved ones who have died. You don't have to know when or how or any other details. Just adopt an attitude of expectant curiosity. They'll do the rest.

They'll send a messenger – a bird, a song on the radio, a headline on the newstand. A book that falls off the shelf. A whiff of a fragrance. Something they loved or shared with you when they were in their physical body. You'll feel in your bones that it came from them.

If there is unfinished business, it's not too late to finish it. Write them a note. Speak as if they can hear you. Unburden your heart and mind to them. Ask for help, guidance, or information. Offer and ask for forgiveness.

What if the only reason they have not been able to communicate with you is because you believe it to be impossible?

What if they are waiting patiently, grinning non-physical ear to non-physical ear, for you to open up a crack of possibility in that belief so they can pry it the rest of the way open and tell you a new joke?

The way I see it, you certainly have nothing to lose. And so very much to gain ...


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