by Jo O'Neil
Divine Hope
Jo O’Neil
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author
Divine Hope
Jo O’Neil
Copyright 2013 by Jo O’Neil
Cover illustration copyright © 2013 Mel Kraus
ISBN: 9781311755438
All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
In loving memory of you, dear Mum
May you be laughing with God and His Angels
Forever more, I will love you
AND
To God
Thank you for teaching me there is no greater love than ‘Divine Love’
My soul will be true to You and will love You and Your darling Angels for all eternity
Prologue
At the dawn of time a covenant was scribed by the Creator. The Almighty safe guarded His sacred promise in the Akashic records under the protection of His Army of Angels and the Lords of Karma who vowed to defend the honour of God from the dark side. God’s treaty foretells a time when a Daughter of Eve will be born with the providence to defeat evil. This soul is said to be so powerful, Lucifer fears her arrival. The time is now . . .
Chapter One
The Admin Mix-Up
I had always ticked along quite satisfactory with life. That was until what I perceived was my best chance of becoming Mrs. Somebody before anyone else in my peer group walked down the aisle, was taken from me at my law firms Christmas party by someone else’s wife. Not content with her own husband she had to steal my-soon-to-propose-to-me.
Alone again and not much enjoying the experience I would have agreed to anything to promote myself as quickly as possible from spinster to committed spouse. So when my friend and colleague Molly ‘Mischief’ Myers suggested my significant different breast sizes might be standing between me and wedded bliss, and surgery may well be the answer, I thought it was worth a try, as after all one only lives once. (That’s not exactly true, but I will get to that much later.)
Asset rich, but cash poor after my savings had radically diminished courtesy of my extensive and most impressive art and book collections, of which I had some original canvases and first editions; my wine cellar which housed many bottles of fine and rare vintages; and my wardrobe which included some rather expensive designer garments, shoes, and unique pieces of antique jewellery, it was apparent to me I was going to have to find alternative law abiding means to fund my makeover.
Ever resourceful, I swindled my bank manager out of an unprotected loan which I stated was for a new sports car as I could hardly say it was for a unilateral breast-reduction, and booked a private suite at the celebrity popular Make Me Perfect hospital in my home town of London, Mayfair.
Three months’ after being romantically displaced in favour of one of the clerks at the solicitors I was a junior partner at, Molly drove me in my silver Mercedes-Benz convertible to Make Me Perfect where I less than entirely enthusiastically prepared to throw myself under the knife.
I remember quite vividly the panic I felt as I turned from the hospital entrance to watch Molly whiz out into the sunny late winter’s day London traffic. I was very protective of my Merc. I loved the way it accommodated my petite frame, albeit my choice of car had been problematic for the six-plus-footers I had dated. Molly didn’t feel Mayfair life warranted any form of transport other than London’s underground, save the iconic black cab which conveniently taxied her safely home after a professional celebratory drink of which I’m proud to say there were many. Preferring London transport to her own, Molly rejected car ownership; although she was rather partial to driving mine. However, as an infrequent driver her skills did seem to be rusty, particularly when navigating the congested streets of the Capital. It was these neglected and therefore decidedly ineffectual highway abilities which were adding to my already flustered persona, even though at the time I would have fiercely denied I had the mildest pre surgery jitters.
As I entered through the revolving doors to the sun blessed white and black marble dominated reception area complete with chessboard floor, the butterflies which had been steadily multiplying the nearer the clock struck to my scheduled surgery began to agitatedly quiver in my stomach. Reluctantly, I checked-in with the excessively cheerful receptionist whose smile didn’t falter as my green eyes conveyed my annoyance at letting Molly talk me into surgery while I left my precious Merc in her care. Ironically, a dented wing was the least of my concerns.
It turns out my much older cousin Henry had a heart murmur which I inherited somewhere along the gene pool. The blonde bimbo nurse who was supposedly in charge of my well being overlooked this defect, so instead of two even boobs closer to bagging myself a husband I was ‘wonder surgeons’ first fatality.
Admin mix-ups don’t just occur in the realm of the relative; heaven makes boobs (please forgive the pun), too! Blonde bimbo’s angel was taking a nap when she missed my heart murmur. Apparently, angels suffer with fatigue just as us mere mortals do when overworked. And overworked is exactly what the angels had been, as God, our wondrous Creator who only has to think of love for a new angel to get their wings, had been considerably weighed down with centuries of war and famine, and as such He hadn’t kept up the supply of angels to meet the demands of humankind.
To His credit though, God took full responsibility for the blunder. Great, I thought, I’ll be back in my body before anyone has time to notice I’m deceased. However, God had other ideas and produced a contract for me, Serena Olivia Unity Lewis, to sign, binding me to work for Him on a temporary basis. He was very vague on how long ‘temporary’ was – time has a different scale in the Absolute.
If I agreed, He would return me to earth after I completed my assignment. My reward for my service would be to have my pick of eligible men. (Free will could occasionally be negotiated if the cause was great enough.) Plus, He would ensure my body parts were perfectly balanced rendering my bank loan null and void; which was a good job as being unprotected death wasn’t going to cover the cost.
God omitted to mention what would happen if I declined His offer of work. In spite of this, I figured I was safe to refuse, or at the very least barter for more favourable conditions. You see I had grown up an only child of a traditional two parent family being lectured on God’s legendary mercy, so I was confident He wasn’t in league with the Mafia who I guessed were associated with the Devil. Therefore, I questioned the Creator on why I couldn’t go back to my life immediately. Surely, He could have a quiet few days’ in which to give more wannabe angels their wings so he could balance the ratio of angels to humankind. This would give Him a sufficient number of angels to do His work, and I could go straight home since I didn’t believe God needed time to organise my return.
As I argued these facts admirably, which was nothing short of a miracle given I was feeling extremely self conscious attending an interview with my Maker in the standard fit hospital gown my physical body had been wearing just before I was deployed to heaven, my attire magically changed to mirror the respectably short tailored skirt and jacket I wore to the office. My nail-vanish-less hands and feet (au naturel was a stipulation of surgery due to hygiene regulations, much to my dismay) were also given a makeover of perfectly matching French polish. Sexy, yet smart Stuart Weitzman peep toe sling-backs adorned my feet, and the diamond and sapphire ring my parents had given me on my graduation sat comfortably on the middle finger of my right hand. I felt for the sapphire amulet I always wore which was obediently hanging around my neck, and the diamond bracelet I liked to dangle from my right w
rist was also present. The only absentee was my Cartier watch which I guessed God figured I didn’t need in time-less heaven.
Feeling my confidence soar in my preferred dress, I eloquently stated there had been enough afterlife stories in the news to render my waking up after being dead for half an hour or so unmiraculous, especially if compared to Jesus who had two days’ before his body showed any sign of life. It seemed the messiahs little episode defied the ‘Laws of the Universe’ and caused a lot of trouble between God and the Devil.
Caring little about the rift between the Omega and Satan, I was just wondering if I would be better off making a pact with Lucifer when God employed tough love. He reminded me by partaking in communion I had committed to faithfully serve Him. Recognising when I was out-argued, I reasoned I didn’t look good in red (the preferred choice of colour for the uniform of the Devil-ettes, I presumed) as it clashed horribly with my auburn hair, so I agreed to be processed for God’s Honorary Angelic Induction Programme. Besides, I was starting to find the harp music being played through the sound system tiresome. I just hoped it was confined to Gods chambers and not piped throughout the whole of the Absolute.
Immediately I had agreed to Gods terms, Archangel Michael, the Head Angel, materialised to escort me to my uniform fitting. Tall, with a gladiator physique, blonde shoulder length hair, and soul stealing blue eyes which dazzled when caught in his gleaming golden chest armour, I couldn’t help but feel Archangel Michael would be any girls dream knight in literally shining armour; although the large feathered white wings which protruded from his torso might be an issue for some. Draped around his neck was a bluish-purple cloak, and a decorative sword swung at his waist drawing my attention to his muscular legs which were visible from just above his knees where his leather kilt fell, to the top of his calves which hid in his lace up boots.
After I was dressed more angelic like I was to meet with Archangel Raphael, Archangel Gabriel, and Archangel Azrael. I had already encountered Archangel Azrael, the Angel of Death, when I had been catapulted from my body. He was sitting on the top shelf of the operating theatre with his large white feathered wings poised to escort me to heaven in a blaze of white light. The sheer expanse of this almighty Archangel covered the artwork one is asked to identify if one claims to have had an experience with the hereafter. Not wishing to be deemed a fraud, I made a mental note to view the spirit dwellers art gallery when I floated down from heaven back into my body in case I needed credibility to my afterlife story.
Archangel Azrael had been very kind to me in the face of my tantrums. I wasn’t overly keen on departing my life a singleton and protested vehemently that it was not my time. Archangel Azrael empathised, even though he genuinely didn’t know it literally wasn’t my time. He found this out when Saint Peter refused me entry at the majestic pearly gates. My name wasn’t on Saint Peters list so as far as he was concerned I wasn’t getting through.
I was thoroughly impressed how Archangel Azrael showed complete professionalism throughout. He didn’t allow Saint Peter’s rigid authority to intimidate him, and instead he calmly alerted God to the almighty faux pas from the pearly gates telecom. After Archangel Azrael passed the telephone to Saint Peter, who with a look of thunder passed it back to my Archangel Guide only moments later, my admittance was gained; though quite frankly this was one time I would have preferred to have been shunned at the door.
As God’s tailor worked on the perfect fit to my angelic uniform which altered magically in harmony with his thoughts, I grilled Archangel Michael on the many unanswered questions which were assaulting my consciousness. The first one which came to mind was; in my new honorary angelic capacity was I going to be allowed to attend my own funeral? I hoped so as I was very curious who would honour my memory with their presence. The sandwich chap who had a not-so-secret crush on me possibly would if it was held after the lunch time rush. However, what I really wanted to know was; if I was going back at some point to clean up on the romantic stakes, how was that going to work if I had been buried some time earlier? People were no longer committed to the ground with a bell to ring. Besides, I had left instructions in my will I was to be cremated. Was I to be a Phoenix rising from my ashes? Archangel Michael in his strong but equally caring voice assured me all would be revealed at the right time. Patience, it seemed literally was a virtue, a fact whether I liked it or not, and I must say patience and I have never been on fond terms, I was going to have to get use to if I was to remain in honorary angelic study.
