On Monday...

Things that make you go...

Not "Hmmm" this time. This time it's something that made me cry my eyes out. I was driving to the store when this song came on the radio. I was holding it together until Sting got to the Sun setting. You know, time running out and all that.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UppX6vP3c4g

Here's the lyrics:

Youll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
Youll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in the fields of gold

So she took her love
For to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down
Among the fields of gold

Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley
Well forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we lie in the fields of gold

See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon the fields of barley
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold
I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that Ive broken
But I swear in the days still left
Well walk in the fields of gold
Well walk in the fields of gold

Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold
Youll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold

I said to myself, "I SERIOUSLY need to get out the house more often."

A Sad Rumor Confirmed: Baron Lupus is Dead

Earlier this evening I was shocked and saddened to learn that an old friend had died.

http://op.atlantia.sca.org/op_ind.php?atlantian_id=2032

I am angered to learn he died by his own hand.

Since I fully believe the dead can hear what we say, I will tell Lupus that, even though I haven't laid eyes upon him for at least 15 years, I am mad at him for what he did.

I will miss you, Lupus. You had dozens of years left to live. I am angry that such a firebrand as you took the coward's way out.

We all have our issues. How we deal with our issues is a big part of what makes us who we are. This world makes us insane, but we have to survive it to get to the next level.

Lupus, I hope and pray that when I finally get to The Other Side, you will be there to greet me. GOD rest your soul. May GOD bless all those that miss you. I will pray for you when ever I think of you.

And I'm still mad at you.

And I'm positive I'm not the only one.

I'm going to go lick a lime now. Lupus knows why.

I Talk to Dead People, Part Four: Rev. Brooks Visits

If the previous posts about talking to/with dead people haven’t scared you away yet, read on.


I’m not shy about revealing that I talk to dead people. I’m asleep and dreaming at the time, so it’s not like I could MAKE them stop, now is it? I remember my dreams best first thing in the morning. People that want to say something for me to remember, say it then.

There are “just” dreams. Then there are communication dreams. When talking to people in Heaven, I can feel the difference. “Just” dreams are entertaining. Communication dreams are more personal. Quite often people give me encouragement before I start my day.

So, several months back I was visiting my parents. When I had a quiet moment, I asked Mom, “Did I mention I talked to Reverend Brooks?”

“Um, no, you didn’t,” Mom answered. Mom looked a little nervous, but she waited to see what I said next. I wondered how many years he’s been dead now, but didn’t stop to ask at that moment. It probably wasn’t a good time to ask.

“Well, I dreamed I was at Rhett Avenue watching a service. Rev. Brooks was the minister. His sermon was about the Pilgrims and how they were seeking religious freedom. Afterwards, he walked to the narthex and he talked to me. He was happy and relaxed. I guess he would be, since he’s in Heaven and all that. I woke feeling really positive.”

I spent a minute telling Mom about minor details of the dream, but those were unimportant. The first minister I can remember, the man that married my parents, took time out of his busy schedule in Heaven to give me words of encouragement as I started my day.

GOD bless Reverend David Brooks. One day we will meet again.

The PARTY in HEAVEN

I have attempted to explain to people what I see when I visit Heaven in my dreams. My description leaves much to be desired, but try to play along for a few minutes.

Imagine a party, if you will. Everyone is standing around, happily talking, laughing, and just visiting. No one is in a hurry to get someplace. They literally have all the time in the world to listen to a long story and they really want to hear the story their friend is telling. There is music faint in the background. The lighting is not harsh, nor is it too dim. No one is bored. Everything is just right.

If we were at an earthly party, everyone would have drinks in their hands. The listeners would be busy stuffing finger foods in their mouths while the story tellers told their tales. But we aren’t at an earthly party. We don’t need food to distract us from the business of reconnecting with old friends.

So we talk.

I’m allowed to join this party for a few short moments before I wake up. Some people have a message to pass along. Others just offer encouragement.

I hate to leave the party.

I have been sent back against my will. I could hear my alarm going off and the man I was talking with laughed and pushed against my chest. “Go back NOW,” he instructed. His shove slammed me back into my body. Who was he? I have absolutely no clue today. I knew him well enough to speak with at length. He was/is a Heaven Friend.

I have seen a recently deceased friend. He waved at me, then turned back to his argument with his cluster of old pals. They tried to make him understand that no one is ever 100% ready to go. He was still very much arguing with them and they were good naturedly explaining matters. Much later I worked up the courage and spoke to his widow. “He really didn’t want to go then, but his friends told him ‘Your wife and kids will be just fine. Here’s how things will work out…’ Then they started showing him how things were going to come together.”

I think she might have understood the message, after she got over the shock of “Why would YOU dream of him?”

Because he was a friend. I passed along a message for my friend.

The tapestry is being woven, even if we don’t see it. We will see all the pretty colors when we get to Heaven and our friends that preceded us point them out to us.

I look forward to the day I get to join the party, hopefully MANY years from now.

Happy Miscarriage to Me

I have finally realized why I've been so grumpy all week. Eighteen years ago this week, I miscarried my first child.

In the years since, I have learned to deal with it. Actually, I learned very quickly that I was the ONLY one whose life changed as a result. I guess that happens when GOD speaks to you. Exactly what GOD said is the topic for another day.

Today I just want to take a moment and remember.

I remember the pain. Physical. Emotional.

I remember the surgery. I was terrified, but I knew this was to help protect my fertility.

I also remember waking up and being asked, “So, when can you fuck again?”

Gee, the baby died and you cared so much. Is there any wonder I only refer to you as The Jerk these days?

Happy Anniversary, Jerk. Your first child died today. Some how I doubt you remembered.

I Talk to Dead People, Part Three: Rhonda visits

I had a dear friend when I was young. We knew one another from the second grade. Rhonda and I got along well. We were buddies, pals, and partners in crime. When we discovered how wonderful telephones were, we spent many hours chatting on the phone.

I envied Rhonda’s long telephone cord. (This was the age before cordless telephones.) The long cord allowed her to roam all over her house. Meanwhile, I was stuck sitting at the proper “telephone table.”

This little metal torture device had a small table for the phone to sit upon. Just beneath that was a rack large enough for one city telephone book. The seat was a joke. Anyone other than a child had to sit perfectly still, lest the whole thing decide to tip over. The telephone table was shoved into a corner of my parents’ dining room. This stabilized the unit and provided zero privacy. Exactly what a pre-teen wants, no?

With the long telephone cord, Rhonda could wander through her house, go into her room, or even hide in the bathroom. “Ignore the running water. You don’t hear a thing,” she would say. She read excerpts from her dad’s Playboy magazines. “I cannot believe any woman would say this. Just listen and tell me what you think…” We spent many a hot Summer day simply talking. We were best friends.

I went to my bathroom and cried when my father called to say that Rhonda had died. It was just before her 30th birthday. I was a whole seven weeks OLDER than Rhonda. How could she be dead?

We had grown apart after we married. Rhonda married the weekend before I did. I was her bridesmaid. She fixed my hair for my wedding, then drove me to the service. We tried visiting or calling, but our husbands hated each other. Jerks. So we lost touch. I heard she had a son. I don’t know if she ever heard about my kids.

Early one morning I dreamed about Rhonda. I visualized her at her old house, hiding in the bathroom, telling me secrets on the phone. I realized something was not quite right. Why wasn’t I in the dining room of the old house? Hey, we aren’t teenagers anymore! Suddenly, the answer hit me:

“Rhonda! You’re dead!”

The dream dissolved around us. We were standing in a white mist. She moved towards me as she laughed at my ignorance. “Janie,” she teased, “Don’t you know? I can visit the people I love ANY TIME I WANT TO!”

I woke with a start. This was important news, even if Rhonda had been dead two years. It took me a few days, but I got the courage and acquired her grandmother’s telephone number. I talked with her MawMaw and shared what I had dreamed. MawMaw informed me that the dream had taken place very near the anniversary of Rhonda’s death. At her encouragement, I called Rhonda’s mother and told her the news.

We cried together. It was wonderful, sad news. Rhonda was still aware of us and still cared enough to check up on us. Rhonda was safe in Heaven, waiting and watching. One day we will join her.

I Talk to Dead People, Part Deux: Jake leaves a message

A good friend was having a hard time in life. It looked like just a rough patch to his friends, but Jake decided life was unbearable. Jake decided to kill himself. Then, with great planning and preparation, he did so.

Weeks later, as the details of his problems emerged, we all realized Jake had shared tiny portions of his problems with us. Unless we had all gossiped horribly about him, none of us had a large enough piece of the puzzle to realize he was about to kill himself.

I tell you this so you will realize Jake's suicide was a complete surprise.

As a friend of his widow, I wanted to do something, anything, to help her. I had a small child. (Oldest was yet to turn one.) A high-strung child did not need to be around a group of people actively grieving an unexpected loss. Hubby made the decision for me that I should do their laundry.

One more "drip in the bucket" or "straw that broke the camel's back" was that Jake's washer had broken down the week before. Laundry had piled up as they had attended to other matters. Hubby thought I could best help by getting the laundry done. Their house would be neater without a mound of two weeks laundry. The widow wouldn't have to deal with laundry when other matters were more pressing.

At first I was a little mad at Hubby. I wanted to HELP. Sure, doing laundry was a sort of help, but I wanted to be over at the house actively helping my friend. So, just a little grumpy, two days after Jake's death, I began to sort their laundry and run it through my machines.

Oldest went down for her afternoon nap. I sorted more laundry. I felt a presence in my kitchen. As I looked up, it was like someone pulled back beyond the doorway. I was sure I had imagined it. I began to think of things Jake had shared with me in the months prior to his death. "As a paramedic I saved people's lives, so if I die, I know I still made a difference." Things of that nature bubbled to the surface.

"Why did you have to do it, Jake?" I demanded of the air. "You talked to me, but didn't tell me you were THAT troubled." I ranted along this subject until I realized the presence in the kitchen was not of my imagination.

The first impression of an answer I got was "I didn't mean to do it. It was an accident."

"NO!" I snarled at the kitchen, "going out into the yard and blowing your brains out IS NOT AN ACCIDENT! You most certainly DID mean to do it." I wiped away tears, then realized Jake was trying to say something more clearly. I quit screaming at him. There was a baby upstairs attempting to nap, after all. Life was moving on for me. I still had to deal with all of life's little problems: sleeping babies, a dead friend's laundry, the living widow's laundry.

After a bit, I realized what Jake was saying. He didn't realize until he had the clarity of death to see:

Many people loved him.
Many people liked him.
Many people were damned hurt that he did not confide in them that he was having problems.
Many people were damned mad at Jake for taking his own life when he still had so much life left.

Jake had not understood.

And most important of all, Jake was sorry. Jake was very sorry for all the people he hurt. He didn't realize how many people cared that he was gone. "It was a mistake" was the correct message.

Jake asked me to tell his wife he was sorry. I explained that she was too distraught to listen right then, but in a few days I would tell her about all we had discussed.

A couple of days later, I was feeding Oldest her lunch. Her highchair was near the bay window. Oldest kept looking out the window, then back at me. A tapping on the glass started. I looked to see if a bird was pecking the pane. I could see nothing, but Oldest kept giving me a strange look. What does she see? I wondered. I felt Jake's presence again. "No, I haven't forgotten to speak to her," I informed him. "She's almost ready to listen. She can talk about you without automatically breaking into tears. I'll talk with her tomorrow."

The tapping stopped. Oldest quit staring out the window and went back to her food.

I shared the message with the widow. I've shared Jake's message with other people. I've even encouraged others to just talk to him, because he can hear us now.

A few years later, a book at a store yelled "Buy me!"

"Why in the world would I want to buy you?" I asked the book, then turned it over to read the back. It was about messages from The Other Side. I bought the book.

As I tried to read the book, Jake's presence was... annoying. "That point! Yeah, that's a good one! That page. She needs to read this. I wanted to tell her this. Buy a copy and send to her."

"Could you just SHUT UP AND LET ME READ?" I asked more than once. "I promise I will send her a copy of this book." I could literally not put the book down until I was done. I contacted her and got her correct mailing address. She had the opposite reaction to mine: a page was all she could digest at once. She, too, felt Jake's presence as she read this book.

Now I have to go dig up the book to send to someone else hurt by Jake. They need to hear Jake's apology for themselves. He didn't mean to hurt you, either.

I Talk to Dead People, Don't You? Granddad's Message

No, I'm not channeling "The Sixth Sense". For what it's worth, I've been talking to dead people since before that movie came out. Perhaps I should explain myself before you think I'm completely nuts.

Many years ago, I was lying in a hospital bed with no real clue what was wrong with me. Other than an abscess in the vaginal cul de sac caused by "an infection", the doctors didn't know what to treat. The IV gave a steady drip of antibiotics while the needle was busy leaving a scar in the back of my hand. (Ask me to show you some time.)

Suddenly I was at my Grandmother's house. Various other relatives were there, milling about as if it were Thanksgiving. (All this is a normal dream thus far.) Next I realize that not only is my Grandfather present, Grandma can see him. She's busy pretending she can't see him while he's quietly talking to her.

I rush over to him and grab him. Dear God, Granddad is SOLID! He's not a ghost, he's solid! I hug him tight, wrapping myself around his neck. I haven't hugged my Granddad in over a dozen years. Too thrilled to think of anything else, I ask, "What are you DOING here?!?"

Granddad patiently peels me off him and holds me at arms' length. "I've been talking to your Grandmother, getting her ready. I want you to know...

"Everything will be all right. You are going to be FINE..."

These words ring in my ears as the nurse speaks to me, ready to do my vital signs. She gives me a second to awaken before she starts. I suddenly realize I have a slight problem. "The bed is wet. I've been sweating..."

"Your fever must have broken," the nurse says as she reaches over and touches me. The nurse quickly finishes recording my vital signs, then suggests I go to the bathroom while she changes my bedding.

The long story made short is this: just as Granddad promised, I was eventually fine. I've learned just last year that I was most likely suffering the after effects of an amniotic embolism. The next day after my "dream", the doctors drained the abscess. There was no bacteria in the fluid. (Amniotic fluid doesn't like to let bacteria grow...) The doctors were mystified and wanted to cut on me some more to see what else they could find. God forbid that they should admit I was in that state due to one of their idiot doctors' bad judgements during the delivery of my first child. After their "exploratory surgery" got postponed the third time, I took the hint from God and refused to let them treat me again. When I had my tubal ligation several years later, my doctor spent several minutes trying in vain to find this "damage" the first doctors had insisted I had.