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