My mother would have been 87 years old today. When she passed away 23 years ago I thought I’d simply drift off into space. She had always been the one thing that kept me tethered to solid ground, figuratively speaking. Without her I felt as though I had been cast adrift, like a ship without an anchor. Who knows on what shore I would wash up? That’s a scary feeling.
For months after her death, I kept thinking I saw her everywhere. She was the woman standing in line in front of me at the grocery store, the lady walking down the street as I drove past, the person in the crowd at a baseball game. This seeking behavior during the grieving process is normal and quite common.
We had plenty of warning that she was going to die. In fact, she stuck around a whole lot longer than anyone anticipated. The doctors kept saying they couldn’t believe she was still here. We actually used to talk about it quite a bit, until the pain medication made her incapable of recognizing anyone.
She knew I occasionally liked to visit the Cassadega Spiritualist Camp for their free Sunday message service, where people who have crossed over can, in theory, communicate with the living through mediums. Toward the end my mother said to me, “Once I’m gone, don’t go back to Cassadega. I’m not going to want to be bothered.” She was joking. Sort of. But so far I’ve respected her wishes.
About a year after her death, I took a trip to New York City for the first time in my adult life. I was standing in line at the dock, waiting for the ferry to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island where all my grandparents had entered the country. I was listening to a street performer as he walked up and down the line entertaining the crowd. My mother would have loved this experience. I looked skyward and thought to myself, “Ma, you are with me. I love you.”
Right at that moment, the street performer came to a dead stop in front of me, and started singing, “You are my Sunshine”, which is a song my mother always used to sing to us. I do love those moments when one sheds happy tears, don’t you?
And then the other night I was working on the bridge at around 4 in the morning and feeling kind of lonely and sorry for myself. I looked out the window at the city skyline, and I said, “Ma, I miss you so much.” A minute later, a pen that was sitting on the window sill on the other side of the room, in a ridge that was there to specifically prevent such occurrences, fell onto the floor.
I thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “Okay, Ma, if that’s you, I need some kind of sign that this year is going to be better than last year, because frankly I can’t take another year like 2013.” Two minutes later, my backpack, which had been sitting in a chair on the other side of the room all night long, fell to the floor.
Was my mother trying to communicate with me, or were these just freaky coincidences? I don’t know. But in retrospect, does it really matter? The love is there either way, and it always will be.
My mother, with her whole life ahead of her.
The View from a Drawbridge 
Yes, she will always be with you. Hold those moments and cherish them, they will carry you through the rough patches.
They always have, up to this point. 🙂 The two of you would have gotten along great, by the way.
wow… I don’t really know what to think about the falling stuff… these are the great mysteries of the universe. Religions sells itself by telling us it knows where we go after we die… as long as we do what they tell us… But I do know that when I miss my friend John, I go outside at night and ask him where he is out loud.
And I believe he hears you. But of course I have no proof.
right
I’d had a dream right after my father died in which he told me he was ok and I’d be alright, but that was just a dream…wasn’t it? 25 years later my four year old, who’d never met him, came into the living room after he’d gone to bed. When asked why he was up he said he was playing in the bedroom with grandpa who told him to come ask if I was OK. (I was going through some trauma) I didn’t have pictures of my father displayed but my child picked out his photo in a photo album. Maybe after death the energy generated by love lives on as an enigmatic force to lift us when we need it most. I hope my love does.
Wow. That’s amazing. And comforting. What a great story!
As was yours. I love stories of afterlife experiences. Maybe you can post some other signs of the afterlife and encourage your followers to share theirs.
That’s a great idea. Thanks, Lyn!