It started with a Shipwreck

Week of October 1

 

“It all started when I was shipwrecked off the coast of Africa.” This is how my dad started every bedtime story when my little sister and I were growing up. He always made the stories up according to his mood and while the stories were always different, the beginning was always the same; he was shipwrecked off the coast of Africa. We loved his stories.

 

  He had lived a life full of both hard work and temperance. He was a stonemason, didn't smoke, and he drank only a tiny glass of family home-made wine occasionally. He walked about 5 miles daily to relieve the loneliness and grief after my mom died  from cancer. My dad was a spirit filled man who prayed the Rosary daily on his knees.

 

Dad had been ill for about a year while hospitals misdiagnosed him. Finally we got him to Mass General Hospital where he was diagnosed with stage 4 leukemia. He was bleeding internally and that spiked the stroke that killed him. He was 75 when he passed.

 

I should tell you that in my family we have  instances of contact by guides on the other side so we always expect to get word that our loved ones “arrive safely.”  So when my dad died my sister and I expected to hear from him.

 

A short while after the funeral my sister and I were driving separate cars in two different states (Connecticut and Massachusetts) and we happened to be listening to the same program on Public Radio. Faith Middleton was interviewing an author and asked him to read a page from his newly published book. His first words were, “It all started when I was shipwrecked off the coast of Africa.”

I called my sister that evening and we both knew that it was a message from our story telling dad.

 

I’ve had one other contact from my dad. There came a time several months after his death when I was overcome with grief and was weeping for him in my bed, calling him in fact, wanting him to be near. At the time, I was lying on my left side in the bed, my head on the pillow. I suddenly heard him call my name, loudly and directly, into my right ear as though he were standing next to me.  After I heard my name, my right ear 'pinged' and a ringing sound began in an odd way. Not my left ear, nor did both ears 'ping' -- only the right one into which his voice came.  I knew immediately it was my dad and I was at peace.

 

I hope that these stories I have shared give others as much comfort as I received experiencing them.

 

Diane Valentine Reading
Middletown, Connecticut

Strange find in smouldering ruins

 Week of September 24

 The house seemed quieter than usual. Michael, my seventeen year old, had just left in the car for the store to return some soda cans and my mother, who lives with us, was away visiting my sister. 

 

It was “Maddy” and I relaxing in the living room  in the glow of the candlelight. “Maddy,” our miniature Schnauzer, was sprawled on the rug where he usually is when I’m in the room. I had no clue how this tranquil evening was about to change.

 

It was about nine on a work night so I decided to take my shower and get ready for bed.I normally take long showers but on this night I cut it short. I don’t know why but it is a good thing I did. As soon as I turned off the shower I heard the smoke alarms screaming and the dog scratching frantically at the bathroom door. I put on a pair of slacks, grabbed a towel and without thinking flung open the bathroom door. A thick wall of black smoke rushed in and I instinctively gasped—mistake. I choked, fell backward s and fainted.

 

I don’t know what happened in the next minute or so. My first recollection is I’m standing outside, still

 

wrapped in a towel staring at my house that is completely engulfed in flames. Maddy is with me barking frantically but I have no idea how either of us escaped that overpowering smoke. I rushed to my neighbor’s house and Marcel took one look at the inferno behind me and called 911.

 

Michael had just left the store when he heard the sirens of the fire trucks. He pulled his car over to let the fire engines pass and as is his habit he raised his hand and offered a little prayer for those in distress. Little did he know that he was praying for his mother and his own house?

 

When the fireman arrived it seemed half the town was right behind them. The fire fighters did everything they could but the house was too far-gone. I never saw anything burn so quickly. Like many New England homes built in the 19^th century the walls had been stuffed with newspapers and hay to provide insulation. Our old colonial went up like a tinderbox. All we could do was stand helplessly and watch our home burn.

 

A school friend of Mike’s pointed out an eerie sight. Framed in the window of an upstairs bedroom was the velvet portrait of Jesus hanging on the wall over  Michael’s bed and illuminated  by the flickering flames below.

 

 We learned latter that the fire was started probably when the dog knocked over a candle on a table by the window that fell igniting a phone book left on the ataman. The window curtain caught on fire and the flames literally raced through the walls.

 

The next day, after spending a short night at my friend’s house, Michael and I returned to the ruins. There was only one wall standing. We found only two things not completely destroyed by the fire. One was a blanket my mother had crocheted although it reeked of smoke. The other was the framed portrait of Jesus that was still hanging on the one remaining wall.

 

When we took the portrait down there was no evidence of the fire. It didn’t even have a smoky smell to it. How do you explain that?  

 

Sylvia Jarvis

Sturbridge, Massachusetts

A boy challenges God

 

Week of September 16

 

 

It started like any other day for Jay, an eight-year-old going on nine thank you, but what happened that afternoon would change his life in a flash.

 

Jay was growing up in a new subdivision in Woodhaven Woods, Michigan where his dad was serving as a minister. The homes were new and had flat back yards with no fences and all backed into a wood line fifty to seventy yards deep. It was a great place for an eight year old to grow up and play.

 

Most of the trees were hardwoods, like oak and maple, tall and straight. All except one as Jay remembers. That tree was forked about four feet up. One fork was badly decayed and hollow near its base while the other was solid and healthy.

 

Jay remembers the afternoon was very windy, lots of threatening clouds but it wasn’t cold and it wasn’t raining. He was standing in his yard when he challenged God. He doesn’t know what prompted him. He just did. What goes through and eight year olds mind anyway? Jay tells it this way.

 

“ I saw the trees swaying and said, ‘Ok God. You knock over a tree and I will never doubt you again.’ Within seconds there was a loud crack. Even though

 

I was several hundred yards away but I could see it was the forked tree that had fallen. Some parents gathered around the forked tree and I went over to see. It was then I saw that the solid half of the forked tree had cracked all the way to the ground and toppled. Surprisingly, the decayed half was still standing. You could look right threw and see light on the other side. I don’t know what was holding that tree up. It looked as if it would fall over at any minute so the parents were keeping the children at a safe distance.

 

I thought about it later. God knocked over the strong but held up the weak. You could read into that. The weak half of that tree never did fall on its own. Some men cut it down later to insure it wouldn’t fall on anyone.

 

I didn’t tell anyone about this experience for the longest time. I guess I thought that was between God and me. Even now, years later I have only shared this experience with a few others for fear of being seen as bragging or worse. But there is no doubt in my mind that God felled the strong half of that tree that day.

 

Jay Hessler
Woodhaven, MI

Give Me a Sign

 

Give Me A Sign

Week of September 10 

“Some of you are feeling pretty low right now but believe me you will feel a lot better in six weeks.”

 I heard him loud and clear. I wanted this six-week Divorce Recovery Workshop at my church to be over now so I could feel better. The instructor was right about one thing. I was feeling lower than a reptile slithering in the mud. I hoped he was right about feeling better in six weeks. All I could do now was hold onto that hope.

 

My marriage of seven years wasn’t officially over yet but it had ended a long time ago. Drugs and alcohol had taken their toll. I had been the one to sober up first but all I got for my effort was more verbal abuse from a husband that blamed everything on me,. He continued to medicate himself while I felt a constant ache of loneliness and the pain from the yelling and nightly name calling. There seemed to be no end. Somebody had to end this madness. I moved out and filed for divorce.

 

I told all this to my Divorce Recovery small group. Each person in the group got to share their situation. We all listened to each other with compassion. I felt particularly sorry for the gals with young children. At least I didn’t have that problem. A childhood disease had left me barren. I didn’t think I could ever feel good about that but I was thankful now that I didn’t have to go through this with a child too.

 

The group and our facilitator became my support base for the next several weeks. We helped each other deal with the grieving over the loss of an intimate relationship and to focus on what we had to do to become a whole person again. That meant we had to let go of the anger and the blame in order to begin the healing process. The group was there for me the night my divorce became official by court order. I was glad to be with them and not alone in my apartment.

 

The instructor was right. I did feel better on “graduation night” from the workshop and there were plenty of tears and hugs and brownies. Our group exchanged phone numbers before leaving. The high I felt at the end of the workshop came crashing down a week later when I lost my high salaried marketing position. The corporation just eliminated the entire department.

 

I was devastated. During all the trials of the divorce I had poured myself into the job and had relied on the steady income to keep me independent. Now what would I do? How would I keep the apartment once the severance pay ran out? I went into depression. It got worse as the weeks went by and I

 

 

couldn’t find another position within the corporation or a like paying job in the city.

 

 I was at or nearing the bottom of my depression pit when a friend from the divorce group called. She asked me how I was doing and I told her. She invited me to he son’s sixth birthday party that afternoon and I at first declined. But she insisted and I thought maybe it would cheer me up.

 

The party was outside in the yard. It was a mistake to be there. The children playing and the mother’s talking about kids and families depressed me more. When they were occupied with a pin the tail on the donkey game I slipped into the house. I wandered into the living room and all of a sudden the tears gushed out and I was shaking uncontrollably.  I cried out to the Lord. With my head bowed and my hand gripping the fireplace mantle I said, “Lord are you there? Let me know. Give me a sign or something that I can know you can hear me… that I matter.”

 

The tears subsided and the shakes stopped. I lifted my head slowly and there in front of me above the mantle I saw through moist eyes a framed copy of “Footprints.”

 

 

 

 

“Footprints”

 

One night a man had a dream and in his dream he reviewed the footsteps he had taken in his life. He looked and noticed that all over the mountains and difficult places he had traveled there was one set of footprints but over the plains and down the hills, there were two sets of footprints, as if someone had walked by his side.

 

He turned to Christ and said, “There is something I don’t understand. Why is it that down the hills and over the smooth and easy places you walked by my side; but here over the tough and difficult places I walked alone, for I see in those places there is just one set of footprints.”

 

Christ said to the man, “It is that while your life was easy that I walked along your side;

But here, where the walking was hard and paths difficult, was the time you needed me most and that is when I carried you.”

 

"Call on Me in your day of trouble and I will deliver you and you will give me the glory.”

(Psalm 50:15)

 

Mary Beth Darling

San Francisco, California

Pain and Healing

Week of September 1

 

THE APPROACH OF THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF MY SON STEVEN'S DEATH , I HAD BOOKED A TRIP TO TAHITI WITH A FELLOW CO-WORKER.    I WANTED TO BE FAR AWAY FROM EVERYTHING .   THE MORNING OF THE DATE 09/01, I LET MY FRIEND KNOW THAT I NEEDED TO BE ALONE FOR A WHILE AND DECIDED TO GO DOWN TO THE BEACH.  AS  AN AFTER-THOUGHT I REACHED FOR MY CAMERA. 

AS I SAT VERY PEACEFUL LOOKING OUT TOWARD THE WATER,OUT OF THE CORNER OF MY EYE, I SAW A FIGURE  ON HORSEBACK,IN THE WATER,  AS THE HORSE DREW NEARER, THERE WAS A YOUNG MAN,BARE TO THE WAIST, WITH LONGISH BLOND HAIR.  I FELT MY SELF SUDDENLY ALERT AND AS HE WAS JUST IN FRONT OF ME HE TURNED HIS HEAD AND SMILED, NODDING HIS HEAD...I THOUGHT MY MIND WAS PLAYING TRICKS ON ME AS HE WAS THE IMAGE OF STEVEN. 

I SLOWLY REACHED FOR MY CAMERA AND TOOK A PICTURE...THE CALMNESS THAT CAME OVER ME WAS BEAUTIFUL.. I REMEMBER THINKING , NO MATTER HOW FAR YOU TRY TO AVOID THE REALITY, IT WILL FOLLOW YOU.

WHEN I WENT BACK TO THE HUT,MY FRIEND, ASKED IF I WAS OK AND I REMEMBER TELLING WHAT OCCURED AND STATING THAT I WAS FINE AND COMFORTED, BUT IF WHEN I WENT BACK HOME AND DEVELOPED THE FILM AND THERE WAS NOTHING THERE...I WOULD REALLY FREAK OUT.

 IT TURNED OUTTHE PICTURE WAS REAL AND ANYONE I SHOWED IT TO SAID , "THAT'S STEVEN"

 

A FEW YEARS AFTER THAT EPISODE, I FELT IT WAS TIME FOR ME TO GO TO VERMONT WHERE STEVEN DIED.  I ONLY KNEW THE NAME OF THE TOWN  AND THE NAME TERRIBLE MT.  A FRIEND INSISTED THEY DRIVE ME THERE.  WE APPROACHED THE TOWN AND AS WE CAME AROUND A CURVE IN THE ROAD, I ASKED MY FRIEND TO STOP AND ASK A MAN RAKING LEAVES IF HE KNEW WHERE THIS PLACE WAS.  HE POINTED TO THE ROAD WE WERE JUST PARKED BY AND WE WENT.  I WALKED AROUND THE PLACE WHERE THE HOUSE BURNED BY MY SELF AND LOOKED AT THE MAGNIFICENT VIEW MY SON HAD SEEN AND FELT AT PEACE.  AS I GOT BACK IN THE CAR, I ASKED MY FRIEND TO TURN ON THE RADIO AS WE DROVE DOWN THE MT.

FIRST SONG WAS THE BEATLES "LET IT BE" AND THE VERY NEXT THE GRATEFUL DEADS "RIPPLES IN STILL WATERS".  BOTH OF THESE SONGS WE SUNG AT MY SONS FUNERAL....AGAIN A SENSE OF CONTACT THAT HAS NEVER BEEN BROKEN WITH STEVEN HAS HELPED ME FACE MANY OF LIFES STRUGGLES.. I AM TRULY GRATEFUL TO HAVE EXPERIENCED THESE MIRACLES IN MY LIFE.

PEG SALTER
FARMINGTON, CT.