Hope & Miracles

by Amy Newmark

  ~Nancy Emmick Panko

  A Note from Heaven

  Grandmas hold our tiny hands for just a little while, but our hearts forever.

  ~Author Unknown

  I can still remember the feel of her hand the last time I held it. She lay very still in my mother’s bed, her kidneys failing. My thumb lovingly stroked her thin translucent skin. Her old wrinkled hands told a lifetime of stories: of cradling her children and grandchildren, preparing hearty warm Thanksgiving and Easter meals, skillfully handling dental tools, crocheting and tatting yarn into beautiful lace and flowers, and rubbing the sore back of a frail husband. I smiled as I saw the soft apricot nail polish on her long right thumbnail. Only yesterday I had knelt at her feet, oiling her dry legs and giving her a manicure. She was so proud of that long nail, holding it up and smiling, and with a wink, warning me not to file it down too much.

  It was time to go back to Boston, to say goodbye forever. “I love you Gram, more than I can say. Mom will take good care of you,” I whispered into her ear. I rested my head against her shoulder, gently embracing her with my arm across her chest. How do you let go? How do you pull away when you know it will be the last time? I memorized the pattern on the bedspread tucked around her, the sound of her breathing, the feel of her touch, the smell of her Estée Lauder perfume. I wanted to keep those memories with me for a lifetime.

  Two weeks later, 1,000 miles away, I received the call. “Gram is in heaven,” my mother said softly. Tears filled my eyes.

  As the days unfolded, my mother asked me if I would sing at Gram’s funeral. I was honored, agreeing to do anything I could to help make this easier for her. I set aside my own grief to prepare the hymns, the music that would comfort all of us.

  After my flight back, I walked into the house and felt drawn to the room, the bed, and the place where I had last held her hand. The same pattern on the bedspread, the same quiet now filled only with the sound of my own breathing. I knelt on the floor and gripped her pillow and breathed in, searching for a little bit of the familiar Estée Lauder perfume. But there was none and I wept.

  Seeing my despair, Mom quietly came over and slipped her hand in mine, leading me into another room where a shrine of sorts had been set up in my grandmother’s memory. The green marble urn containing her ashes sat on a table surrounded by her red rosary, the faceted beads worn by years of prayerful touch. There were pictures of Jesus welcoming someone to heaven and lovely images of Gram in healthier days. I stood quietly taking it in.

  The funeral went as well as could be expected. I made it through the emotional hymns, keeping myself together, and doing what had to be done while my mother cried her tears of loss and gratitude. After the service, I rode in the car with my dad and uncle to the store where we shipped my grandmother’s ashes to Chicago to be buried next to my grandfather. My uncle and I added a single rose next to her urn before the box was taped shut.

  As I flew home I watched the palm trees and beaches shrink below me as we soared over the sparkling ocean water. I felt closer to Gram, to heaven, as we slid through the white clouds.

  Walking into my house, I set my luggage down and was greeted by gentle hugs from my family. As everyone dispersed, I headed downstairs to be alone.

  Suddenly in the quiet of the basement, I felt overwhelmed. I fell to my knees near a closet under the stairs where I kept boxes of old photos and mementos waiting to be sorted someday. It’s the kind of place where you could not put your finger on something even if you wanted to. There is no rhyme or reason, just cards, negatives and photos thrown in random boxes for “someday.”

  My grief bubbled to the surface at last and all the goodbyes poured out on the floor in my tears. “I miss you so much, Gram,” I sobbed out loud, bringing my hands to my face. As the pain of missing her filled my heart, I called out to God, “I know she is happy being with you in heaven, and I wouldn’t want to take that away from her, but I miss her so much . . . .” I cried as I had never cried before.

  Suddenly, an unexpected wave of complete, warm peace moved through my body from head to toe like a wave. I sat up on my knees and caught my breath. My shoulders relaxed as I brushed the tears and damp hair from my cheeks. I heard a whisper: “Reach into the closet.”

  Still on my knees, I reached for the handle, twisting it slowly. I slid it open just wide enough to slip my hand and arm into the dark. Reaching into a box I could not see, I grasped the first thing I felt, a piece of thin paper. I slowly withdrew my hand. I was holding a fragile yellowed piece of paper I had never seen before. The edges were torn but the words were intact: “Cathy. I love you! Gram.” Somehow, my dear grandmother had reached out across the universe to send a message to comfort a hurting soul.

  ~Cathy Stenquist

  A Spirit of Hope

  All that is in heaven . . . is also on earth.

  ~Plotinus

  When my husband, Steve, and I lived in Dallas, Texas, we spent a lot of time visiting and caring for my mother, Ethel M. Marsden. Ethel lived in a nearby nursing home, and after years of declining health, she eventually passed. We laid her to rest in her longtime home of St. Louis, Missouri.

  A few months later, as a thank you gift for his support and assistance during that difficult period, I bought Steve a beautiful painting of a dragonfly. Dragonflies were not particularly significant to either Steve or me. But the painting was created by our favorite artist, and he had used our favorite colors—purple and blue—so we both loved it.

  Immediately after purchasing that painting, we discovered that in many circles the dragonfly is considered to be a symbol of transformation. Certain Native American tribes, in fact, believe dragonflies carry the souls of the departed. We had no idea how significant that information would become!

  You see, both Steve and I were present at the time of my mother’s transition, and I was having a very hard time letting go of that final, painful image of my mother’s lifeless form. One day, I felt divinely guided to visit the gravesite of another loved one buried right there in Dallas . . . far from my mother’s final resting place in St. Louis. As I stood by the grave, a fluttering motion caught my eye. It was a couple of dragonflies hovering over a headstone a number of rows away. A few minutes later, those two dragonflies had been joined by ten more. And later still, dozens had gathered at this single spot in the cemetery.

  I was just about to leave the cemetery—and was, in fact, in my car—when I noticed in my rearview mirror that even more dragonflies had now converged at this one place on the grounds. That’s when I distinctly “heard” a still, small voice urging me to go over there. Strongly sensing that something very important was happening, I backed up my car, got out, and walked over to the headstone where the dragonflies had assembled. And guess what name was etched in the granite? Ethel M. Out of hundreds and hundreds of graves in this huge, metropolitan cemetery, I had been drawn by a group of dragonflies to the one headstone that bore my mother’s name.

  As the dragonflies swirled all around me, I immediately understood the message. My mother was no longer sick and withered. She was — as the dragonflies symbolized—transformed! As Spirit, Ethel was now dazzlingly beautiful and flying free! And I was now free, too — free of that disturbing, lifeless image that had been haunting my thoughts for so long.

  Were those dragonflies actually my mother letting me know that—as Spirit—she still existed, and that she was once again happy and whole? That’s for you to decide. All I know for sure is this: That miraculous occurrence lifted an emotional burden that had been weighing me down for a long, long time. And I am grateful.

  ~Carol Marsden Taylor

  Paradise Cove Revisited

  When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure.

  ~Author Unknown

  When John died, a part of me died with him. Though we knew each other for only eighteen months and lived on opposite coasts, we had fallen deeply in love and entered into a long-distance relationship. John Crawford was a retired actor
in Los Angeles, best known for his role as Sheriff Ep Bridges in The Waltons, and I was a widow with two children in Maryland. I had written him a fan letter, which had unexpectedly led to a romantic relationship. I loved visiting him in California and being a part of his world. After he crossed over, I longed to be close to him again, so I went back to L.A. a year later and revisited many of the places where we had been together. But the glow was gone, and I found it all achingly empty. I soon realized that it was John who had given everything we shared its magic, and John was no longer there.

  One special place I went back to was Paradise Cove in Malibu, where John had first introduced me to the Pacific Ocean. I ate dinner outdoors at the beachside restaurant, surrounded by the same magnificent panorama of sea and sky that I had shared with John, but instead of feeling comforted, I felt even more lonely. Memories only intensified the pain of losing him.

  I finished my meal and wandered along the beach, looking for something, anything, that would signal John’s presence. The weather had been an odd mix on that last day of September, but the sun had finally managed to break through the clouds and showers. As I gazed out over the ocean at a beautiful late afternoon sky, deep blue with gold- and rose-tinged clouds, a rainbow formed—no, two rainbows in two completely different places, but they weren’t your typical rainbows. They were more like pieces of rainbows, carefully arranged. I took pictures of them, and they were so unusual that they were reported on the local TV news that night. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I couldn’t help but believe that those unique and lovely rainbows were somehow a sign from John.

  A few more months passed and I still longed to be close to John, so I made an appointment to see a psychic for the first time. Irene Richardson knew nothing about me, much less John, and she didn’t even know why I was coming to see her until I walked into her shop and sat down. After nervously telling her that I wanted to connect with someone who had passed, I was careful not to feed her any information other than what she asked for: name and date of birth for John and me.

  She immediately connected with John’s spirit and asked me if he had been a writer. I said yes, because John was indeed a writer as well as an actor, with a book and an award-winning screenplay to his credit. He was a wonderfully talented artist as well, and his oil and acrylic paintings were hauntingly beautiful. He had given me one that had been in storage, but I was always admiring the special ones that adorned the walls of his home. I often wished that he had left one of them to me, but I didn’t tell Irene any of this.

  A little later, Irene asked me if John had been famous. Hiding my amazement, I simply said yes and didn’t elaborate. She saw him associated with classic Hollywood. Another bull’s eye. She continued to tell me things that she couldn’t have known beforehand about John and me. Then she asked if I had recently visited a beach that I had been to with John. I said that I had. Had I seen a rainbow directly in front of me, out over the ocean, in the shape of a cross? I almost stopped breathing for a moment. I hadn’t thought about it that way before, but that was exactly what the rainbow over the ocean had looked like: a bright, colorful cross, brushed across a canvas of blue sky. Had I seen another rainbow at the same time, back and to my left? I had, just over my left shoulder, towards the cliffs. I got goose bumps as this woman I had just met accurately described the unusual rainbows I had seen on that September day in Malibu.

  What Irene said next completely blew me away. “John is saying, ‘I was there with you that day. Forget about the other paintings; those rainbows were my painting for you.’ ”

  When I got home, I looked again at the photos I had taken of the rainbows, and they were just as Irene had described them. On God’s canvas, John had painted a masterpiece for me.

  We can sense a loved one’s presence beyond the veil, but we don’t often get the tangible evidence that we crave. I got mine that day in Paradise Cove, and I have treasured it ever since.

  ~Elizabeth S. Kline

  Spiritual Connection

  Other things may change us, but we start and end with the family.

  ~Anthony Brandt

  I was lucky to have a very close relationship with my parents. I was an only child, and we did everything together. On winter evenings we used to sit by the fire playing card games. Dad often read favorite books aloud while Mom and I knitted or sewed. We loved going to the theater and always had season tickets. After I got married, my career and family kept me very busy, and I sensed my parents felt somewhat abandoned, as if they had never thought about me growing up and leaving them. So we began buying theater tickets again, just for the three of us.

  The years passed happily, but by the time Dad reached eighty-five he had become quite frail. He began having seizures and we started spending time in emergency rooms and doctor’s offices. Then he fell in their bathroom, hit his head on the sink, and was never the same again. Mom and I spent every day with him in the hospital, but as the days turned to weeks, we began to visit separately.

  One dreadful day, I got a phone call from the hospital. “Your mother slipped on ice and fell on the way to visit your father, and now she is in the Emergency Department.” I raced to the hospital. Her hip was broken, but they had quickly put her on strong painkillers and surgery was booked for that night. The surgeon assured me she was in excellent health and would make a full recovery.

  I went upstairs to Dad’s room. His nurse had already told him about Mom’s fall, and he was sitting up in bed, eyes wide with fear and confusion. “Do you blame me?” he asked, as tears spilled down his cheeks.

  “No, of course I don’t!” I assured him with a hug.

  “I heard the weather was bad, but I insisted she come anyway. It’s all my fault!” he cried.

  “She’s not in any pain, and it could have happened any day, Dad. And Mom wouldn’t have missed a day with you anyway, you know that.” Then I told him all the reassuring details from the surgeon, and how confident he was about everything. “And soon I will be able to bring Mom to see you, so we can still all be together!” The relief on his tired old face was heartbreaking.

  Mom’s surgery was completely successful and she was transferred to rehab for six weeks of therapy to ensure a full recovery. Thankfully it was in the building next door, so I was able to take her to see Dad every day. I trundled her wheelchair through basement corridors and up elevators, and their faces lit up the moment they saw each other. I kept a lot of hankies on hand!

  In a strange way, those six weeks became very pleasant. The three of us laughed and chatted, Dad read the newspaper aloud and we played our card games like old times. But as Mom grew strong and healthy again, Dad slipped farther away. He became forgetful, confused and belligerent, and the staff struggled to cope with his refusal to accept his medications. He even began to forget who Mom and I were.

  The doctors, who had tried so hard to keep Dad well, eventually took Mom and me aside and told us that there was nothing more they could do for him. They planned to transfer him to a separate palliative care facility, where he would receive the proper care until the end. It was the most dreadful thing to hear, but we had known for a while that his time was near. Mom was just one week away from her release date from rehab, so it wouldn’t be long before we could resume our daily visits. And since he slept most of the time by then, we hoped he wouldn’t miss us too much. I saw him whenever I could, and I telephoned his nurses twice a day. They always assured me that he was comfortable and peaceful.

  The day before Mom was scheduled to go back home, I cleaned and prepared her house as instructed by her doctor. I had to remove all scatter rugs and anything she might trip over, install a raised toilet seat and various other safety items, as well as clear out the fridge and restock it with easy meals.

  All the time I worked, I felt uneasy. I felt as if I was struggling, frantic, fighting for something, searching for something. I kept getting short of breath and felt the need to stop working and gasp for air. Then finally everything was done and ready for Mom. I glan
ced at the old hall clock, hoping I would beat the traffic going home. It was just coming up to 3:00 p.m. I wanted to call Dad’s nurse, but I was anxious to get home.

  Suddenly—I breathed. Deeply. I felt as if I hadn’t taken a good deep breath in hours. As the old clock chimed three times, I sighed and slumped, exhausted.

  When I got home, there were three phone messages from Dad’s nurse. I called immediately.

  “Are you sitting down?” she asked.

  I was.

  “I am very sorry to tell you that your father passed away.”

  I had been expecting and dreading that call for a while, but it was still a shock.

  She went on to say, “Alan had been restless all day, getting more and more anxious and agitated, struggling and short of breath. Then suddenly he gasped, breathed in deeply, and then he was gone. I was bathing the man in the other bed, so I was right there when it happened.”

  “Can you tell me what time that was?” I asked.

  “Yes, it was exactly 3:00 p.m.,” the nurse answered. “I checked my watch.”

  Then I made the worst phone call of my life, to my mother. I gently told her what had happened, without mentioning anything about my experience at their house.

  Her first question was the same as mine: “What time was it?”

  “Exactly three o’clock this afternoon.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she began hesitantly, “I hope you won’t think I am crazy, but I had just returned to my room from physiotherapy, so I knew it was three o’clock. I felt so restless and anxious. I opened the window, as I felt I couldn’t breathe. Suddenly a gust of wind blew in my face, and I immediately thought of Alan. I gasped a deep, deep breath. It felt as if your father was right there with me.”

  Was Dad trying to contact both of us at that last moment of his life? Did we all share his last breath, even though we were far apart from each other? Can souls reach out to the people they love? We will never know for sure, but I do believe that somehow, spiritually, we were all together at that last moment of my father’s life.