Sentimental Journey was the name of a Sunday afternoon radio program I hosted when I lived in Florida not so long ago. One of my guests, Bill Guggenheim, and his former wife, Judy, had written a book, Hello From Heaven, that was seven years in the making. Over lunch after the show Bill told me that initially he had been skeptical about life-after-life. Judy, however, was insistent that in order to write the kind of book she envisioned, they interview everyone they could find who had communicated with a deceased love one without the aid of a psychic or seance. After that lunch I never saw, or heard from, Bill again. Yet, eight years later, his and Judy's book would play a critical role in the healing of a man so deep into the pain of losing his son that he was nearly suicidal...and I would be the one chosen to deliver a message that would cause him to look at the entire experience in a new and positive light.
But let me start at what I think may be a beginning for this telling of Dean's tale.
Up until I was thirteen years old my parents traveled a great deal. Daddy liked to drive while it was still cool, so by sun-up we would be well on our way to wherever it was we were going. When I was little more than a toddler, I'd fill the back seat with storybooks and crayons in preparation for our journey. Momma made me a bed up on that shelf under the rear window. It was wonderful to snuggle into a fresh-scented sheet, cuddle into a soft blanket, and look up at the purpling sky. The air still smelled of night, still hinted of cricket clicks and stillness. As we drove along, Daddy would whistle. Funny how people used to whistle. I wonder why they don't anymore.
Going across the miles, I'd stare into the heavens as the brightest star lost itself in an island of lavender that soon smudged into pinks and shades of orange. My first clear memories are of those time when I must have been no more than three or four. I can still feel how my throat clogged with tears that I kept choking back. The sky was so beautiful! I felt something that I wouldn't be able to name for many years to come. I know now it was homesickness. I'd whisper, so my parents couldn't hear, "Why can't I be with You?" Odd that I never questioned who "You"might be. I didn't realize at the time that it was God. I just knew it was "You" and I missed "You" terribly.
When I outgrew the back ledge of the car, I graduated to a bed made up on the backseat, but I could still see up through the rear window. I still marveled at the breaking of dawn; my heart continued to ache with longing.
There was no one I could talk to about it. It didn't even cross my mind to discuss it with anyone. I had no questions. I was comfortable in my aloneness. I can remember Mother turning in the passenger seat and, seeing my tears, groan to my father, "Oh my Lord, Les. She's back there squalling again. I don't know what in the world is wrong with that child."
Her comments never bothered me. I didn't really know her all that well, and neither of us ever took the time or trouble to know one another any better. As for my dad, he'd glance into the rearview mirror, give me a knowing grin, and wink. Then he'd go back to his lovely whistling.
I remember, in particular, when we stayed the night in a motel across from a southern beach. I crept out of bed around dawn and hurried across a deserted two-lane highway, to a sea wall. I was about five. A storm was brewing. The sky was grey and filled with churning clouds. A gale whipped across sawgrass and sand dunes. I saw an opening in the wall and slipped behind it, to sit on stone steps that led down into the Atlantic. I huddled on that top step, shivering in the delicious salt sprays. I wanted to stay there forever. Then I heard my mother's voice calling me over the sound of the wind. Oh so reluctantly I got to my feet and went to her. She grabbed me around the shoulders and hustled my little buns back across the road, to the motl, and thre they memory ends. Looking back, I'm amazed the water didn't pull me into the ocean, but I was never afraid, enver gave it a thought. I felt protected, as if I were wrapped in loving, invisible, arms. That feeling has stayed with me throughout my life.
I didn't attend Sunday School and my parents never went to church. I think, looking back on them, that they were probably good people, if I can be sure what "good" means. Nobody hit me. Nobody yelled at me or at each other. Nobody even talked to me very much, but that was fine. They did, however, seem to care for each other to an extraordinary degree. Nancy and Ronald Reagan would remind me of them years later. I adored the man I called Daddy. He had the best smile in the world. But I was mainly alone. Happily alone. And, religion or no religion, I knew there was a God even if I didn't know His name. My question now is--how did I know?
We lived for a time in Tampa, Florida where my favorite grandmother, Grandma Delamater, lived with Grandpa in a lovely old home off Bayshore Boulvard. How I looked forward to going across the wide porch, through the front door, and diving into a featherbed that was so high--or maybe Grandma was so small--that a three-step stool was needed for her to climb into it. The front room had a sofa along the left wall where Mom and Grandma sat and talked. The featherbed was along the opposite wall, under a tall window. At the foot of the bed, angled toward the sofa, was a rocking chair. This is where Grandpa always sat smoking his pipe, rocking gently, a twinkle in his dark eyes. He was fairly tall, mustached and distinguished looking. Very regal. I don't recall him ever wearing anything but neatly pressed black trousers, white dress shirt, black bow tie, and a dark sweater. Occupied with the treasures inside Grandma's button box, every now and then, from my place in the center of tha wonderful featherbed, I'd glance at Grandpa who would give me a little nod. A smile would flicker at the corners of his mouth, but he never spoke. It was comforting just to know he was there.
The bathroom in my grandparent's home had been added long after the house was built. It was in what had once been a broom closet on the back porch. To get there, I had to go through the kitchen, which was a small room with a tiny table for two along the left wall, across the threshold from the living room sofa. One day Grandma was preparing lunch at the sink. The little table had a tiny vase filled with fresh flowers in front of the one place setting. Grandpa sat there, facing the door, as I came through. I had to brush past him to get to the back porch, on my way to use the facilities. He glanced at me with that dear half-smile. I lowered my eyes shyly.
Why do I consider these rather mundane stories about my Grandpa interesting?
Fifty-eight years later I'm in my aunt Betty's California mountain cabin and we're talking about our relatives. Grandma Delamater was actually my great-grandmother. She was Betty's grandmother. Somewhere in our conversation, I mentioned to Betty how much I loved Grandpa, too, but that I could never remember having heard him speak. My aunt said, just as cool as you please, "Well, I guess not. He died years before you were even born."
What?
Died?
Now, let me tell you, this is not what you expect to hear fifty-eight years after the fact. I was stunned. I simply couldn't comprehend what she was saying. What if you had a favorite teacher or a best friend in your childhood, one that certainly seemed to be as much flesh and bones as anybody else you knew, and you went through your entire life thinking of that person as one of your best memories, only to learn that the teacher or best friend never existed? It's incredible. I still have trouble with the notion Grandpa was never there.
Looking back on it, I can see that all through my life God has been trying to tell me something. I think the messages that Dean has sent from The Other Side are a continuation of that effort...and that I have finally, finally, gotten it.
My challenge now is to see that you get it, too.
