How many of us hear from our loved ones after they depart?
Show of hands? Please tell us your story.
Multiple studies confirm that about 50% of the bereaved sense their lost loved one’s presence in some way.
Our loved ones want us to know they’re okay. Death is no big deal. They feel fine in the spirit world.
My father-in-law, after his “demise,” was seen in the carpenter shop where he used to work.
He let his beloved wife know he wasn’t really gone, because he left candy bar wrappers around the house at night. (Don’t ask me how.)
My mom visited each of her six children, mostly through vivid dreams. Sometimes she gave audible messages in her own voice.
On Mom’s birthday July 8th, years after she passed, my sister had an extra rough emotional day. She left work and went to Mom’s grave, in a huge desert cemetery.
She almost got lost.
Feeling her way along the gravel roads, she sensed Mom leading her, practically driving for her. She heard, “Okay, turn here. There’s the tree.”
“Thanks Mom, I see it, I’ll be there in a minute.”
She stepped out onto the dry desert in her high heels. The dead hot sun of July pressed on all the nothing, all the flat grave-markers for veterans and their wives.
She gazed at Mom’s polished stone, splotched with dirt and dust. Wished she had a spray bottle to clean it off.
She said, “Happy Birthday, Mom.” Had a talk.
The heat seared through her dress suit.
“Gosh, it’s hot. Why did you have to be born in July?”
Suddenly a mild breeze arose. Sprinkles of rain fell on her. She looked across the grounds — no rain anywhere but right here. Enough rain fell to clean the gravestone and cool her down.
“Oh, that feels so good,” she said. “Thank you.”
As quick as the rain came, it stopped, within about a minute.
My sister was in shock. “Oh my gosh, was that you, Mom?”
Here’s another Mom-visit, from the same sister:
“I had been working out, going to the gym early every morning before my day started. I was committed, but it was tough. One morning I wanted to quit. But I slumped into the car anyhow. Leaning to get into the driver’s seat, I bumped into somebody on the passenger side.
Instinctively I said, “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Nobody was there, but a Presence. Everything went still. I went into a daze.
The Presence said, “You’ve gotta do this. Don’t stop. You have to take good care of yourself.”
It stayed right there giving me this pep talk nonstop while I backed out of the driveway and drove up the street. When I turned the first corner, the Presence left.
I know it was Mom.”
So . . . how have your loved ones contacted you?