Do we really know what’s on the other side? Do spirits communicate with the living? I believe so. I think the lines between dimensions, conscious, unconscious and subconscious, are fluid depending on circumstances and perception. An example:
In February 2003 my father put a bullet in his brain. The ripple effect from his violent action resonated through my family. My mother, who was in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s, never noticed that her husband stopped visiting. I grieved. I still do. My husband blamed himself because they’d had a disagreement the last time Dad had been at our house. My 10-year-old daughter appeared to matter-of-factly deal with her grandfather’s death, then catalogued it and moved on. My 7-year-old son was devastated.
Grandpa belonged to Jackson. They played together, shared a bond that linked generation to generation. His death left a hole in Jackson’s universe.
In October 2003 we decided to take a road trip to Florida to visit friends. We rented a van to accommodate our family and a friend and his daughter who were also headed to the massive house party that was gathering on Hallowe’en. The trip was mapped, planned, budgeted, and began.
We left after work, picking up Mark and his quiet teenage daughter Teddy on the way out of Dallas. We intended to spend a night in Shreveport, and then have a hard drive to Panama City Beach in time for Hallowe’en. Mark sheepishly told us that, while he was perfectly delighted to help with the driving, it would be best for all involved if he did not take the wheel while in the state of Louisiana, as the law enforcement officials of that state had long memories and good computers.
The trip to Shreveport was uneventful. We started at twilight and drove for three hours as darkness fell, the children grew quiet, and Mark’s daughter strummed quietly on her guitar.
We spent the night in Shreveport, had a hard day’s drive to Panama City Beach, and a wonderful, relaxing vacation among a group of friends who because of their shared religious experience knew how to live life to the fullest. We returned home relaxed, refreshed, and renewed.
Life went on.
Several months later, over dinner, Jackson suddenly asked: “What happened to that boy?”
“What boy?” we asked, mystified.
“The boy who rode with us to Shreveport,” Jackson replied, slightly astonished that he should need to explain.
Again we asked: “What boy, Jackson? There was Mark and his daughter Teddy and the four of us. That was it. Are you thinking of Teddy?”
“NO, not Teddy,” he insisted firmly. “There was a boy. He had dark hair and dark clothes. He was really nice and he sat next to me all the way to Shreveport and I didn’t see him after that. Where did he go?”
We were stunned into silence. There was no flesh-and-blood live boy in that van. Yet, 7 years later, Jackson is still firmly convinced that he had a friend keep him company on the ride to Shreveport.
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I'm buying Jackson's story because kids are more reliable than adults. We can't prove him wrong, thus it happened that there was a dark-haired boy wearing dark clothes sitting next to him all the way to Shreveport. Case closed.
ReplyDeleteThank you! I believe him too. After he spent time with the boy, Jackson seemed to resolve some of his issues about Grandpa's death and was more at peace with it. Kids are definitely "fey" if they allow themselves to be.
ReplyDeleteI would be interested to see a picture of his grandfather when he was a boy. It would be interesting to see if the image of the boy matched.
ReplyDeleteWhen I was in therapy, one of the shrinks said in order to recover we need to accept the idea that there are millions and millions of people who, if they knew of our pain, would grieve with us. I remember she said that "sometimes even the walls cry with us". So it's possible that Jackson's pain was felt by someone somewhere, and that person came and just sat with him for a while.
Or it could all just be an incredible coincidence.
Chris