“It will all be better in the end, and if it is not better, it must not be the end yet.”
– Dean Koontz
“God wants us to be happy and enjoy our lives, and so he sends angels to help us.”
– Lorna Byrne
When people talk about their life flashing before their eyes, they often speak of it as reviewing images from a reel of movie film. I contend this film, or mental story book of our life, is constantly replaying somewhere in the back of our minds – especially as we age.
Some images come to us crisp and clear, popping to the surface of mental awareness with a flush of warm nostalgia or sudden inspiration. These memories have meaning and emotional depth, marking our lives like purposely placed book marks.
Others images fade into white, like footage or a window obscured by static or snow. Try as we might we cannot clear the window to remember what happened to our second cousin ten Thanksgivings ago. We also can’t recall the discussion our parents had, the night we were sent to our room early, or missed the season finale of our favorite TV show.
Perhaps the forgotten or missing elements of life are insignificant, the monotony of life finally overcome. That’s why we forgot them in the first place. No mystery hidden here by powers unkind.
But periods of monotony may not always be insignificant, and are not always forgotten.
Traumatic memories on the other hand, are those from which we tend to dissociate, forget or suppress, only to have them resurface later in life, like a file full of evidence it pains us to go through.
I contend there is meaning in everything.
Because sometimes not unpleasant scenes resurface as well, like benign flashbacks, of which we are at first unaware.
I begin to notice these if only for their repeated persistence.
These memories become more and more interesting until I am compelled to figure them out. I have several mysterious or “cryptic” memories like this in my life.
I tend to recall one summer in particular.
A highly sensitive child, I was oddly more in tune with my interior life, animals, nature, and the beauty and mysteries of the changing seasons, then I was with children of my own age, or the games they seemed to enjoy.
I see West Point very clearly, the visuals and smells of it.
I see tiny, sparkling rivulets of crystal clear rainwater meandering merrily down the road where I lived. I remember gentle sunshine filtering through leafy, overhead ceilings of oak and pine, and the soft, warm breeze which carried with it the sweet smell of green, neatly cut military grass.
I remember the incense-like stain of red and gold marigolds, which adhered to my hands like golden finger paint, from giant seed pods broken open with a pleasing snap.
For me, even to describe this induces such realistic sensations it renders the words just used insufficient by comparison.
It’s like I’m reliving that summer, or at least a part of it, in which there was a birthday party at the end of the road at a house, where a girl I knew from school lived.
She was slightly older than me.
She had been kind enough to invite me to her party, and therefore I was obliged to go. The fact that she was not a close friend and sometimes gave me a vaguely uncomfortable feeling was not relevant, nor was my disinterest in the trivial games that seemed to very much interest the other kids.
I don’t remember the cake.
I don’t remember the interior of her house.
I don’t remember of what most of the games consisted.
But I do remember when one of the girls dramatically announced that one of the other little girls – arriving late – was a fortune teller and was going to “read” our futures, and everybody got all excited. At that point I decided I had had enough, and tried to quietly slip away.
Too funny. I guess I had spiritual pride at an early age.
My interior life was way too interesting and I was way too intuitive, to imagine enlightenment could be aided by another little girl. Especially not one who might not mind overly sweet frosting, the brutality of bobbing for apples, or God forbid – playing spin the bottle with the few boys present. But if I was anything at that age I was docile, and did not want to hurt or offend anyone.
So when one of the older girls ran after me across the back yard (after I had made my quiet escape, sneaking guiltily out the door) I was subject to her, and returned with her. I was told that the little girl telling fortunes was really “nice” and she specifically wanted to tell me my fortune, for some reason unknown. I didn’t know who this fortune teller girl was but she had specifically asked about me, wanted to speak with me, and tell me my fortune.
With some kind of glass ball.
Or something she was using as a glass ball. I think it may have been a basketball.
Looking glass, basketball, did it even make a difference to them?
But I probably said make shift prayers of deliverance – you know – just in case she was consulting with demons.. or a basketball. I didn’t like demons, nor did basketballs particularly inspire my trust, and I certainly entertained more than a little superstition of superstitions.
The fortune teller girl matter of factly told me I would be divorced twice, have three children – one of whom would die very young – and a boy and a girl, who would survive.
I remember thinking she was the unfortunate one.
I remember interiorly balking at this stranger’s insistence (as she sat in the dark) that one of my future children was going to die. But I also remember she was indeed very “nice” and said do not worry, you will be very happy in the end.
So for some reason, every once in awhile, I remember this little clairvoyant, her calling me out, her “service” to me, and her ever so confident prediction. This is one of those odd scenes that has kept resurfacing in my life with increasing, mysterious persistence.
Of course, I don’t remember the little girl’s face, but perhaps that’s because it was obscured by a veil. I make note that this is not unlike the scene in Jane Eyre when Mr. Rochester disguises himself as a fortune teller, and gives Jane a spankingly accurate picture of herself.
Yes, for some reason, certain memories will occasionally resurface in my mind like a curious scene in a slide show, or movie the angels are showing me, to show me something important, repeatedly, until I finally figure out what it is.
Of course at fifty-one, two divorces, three children later (a boy and girl now grown, and a baby I tragically miscarried) I am paradoxically quite joyful, and have my suspicions why repeated exposures to scenes like this are important when taking instructions from angels – who reveal the mysteries of life to us, like scenes from a silent film, rerunning through our brain.
For they teach the highly sensitive we are not alone even when we thought we were, and unlike what we might think we are not the only child of God who intuits truth of a deeper variety – than held in fashion by what we perceive – as the “many”.
Yes, we are very special.
But so is every other individual human being in the eyes of God. God loves each of His children in a ferociously individual way. I think it’s much as if the suffering or death of just one of His children, is as untollerable as was the also “predicted” suffering and death – of His only begotten Son.
I believe there are many paths not widely taken, in fact, an almost infinite number of them.
Because souls themselves are as unique and individual as there are stars or snowflakes in the sky, and we each get our own road upon which our souls must “grow up”, our own private revelation language of sorts – in which God’s angels speak.
I believe, though we may feel alone in our journey (because each path is different), we must never forget our shared humanity, and the author of life who calls after each one of us.
Angels teach us how to be happy, bring us together, and help us learn what is important to learn, even if we remain unaware of their assistance. But as humans, we must also learn that service to others is as much a result of healing and happiness as it is a means to that end.
And it is God Who forever holds the globe of our earthly existence – in His own hands.
For at the end of the show there is only love or hate.
These are the only priorities left.