The Eagle and the Rose (19 page)

Many young people, like Peter, have been inquisitive about death and afraid of life, and they have been unable to express, to anyone who understands, how they feel and what they think. To them, suicide seems the only alternative to life, and unable to overcome temptation, they try it.

So the next time any of you are asked by your children, “What happens when you die?” please don't brush things under the carpet or pretend you didn't hear. And don't be afraid to say that you don't really know. Kids can cope with that, but they can't cope with being ignored. Talk to them, and more important still, let them talk to you.

If we can all listen to each other, I am sure that many of us would feel relieved to discover that our thoughts and feelings, and our fears, are shared by many others.

Peter, while communicating through me, was able to show his family that he had survived death. What a pity that he didn't discover a way to communicate sooner— while he was still on earth.

Coach Crash

W
hen a person decides to take his or her own life— to commit suicide—it is, of course, such a great tragedy. But a choice was made, a conscious choice, by that person, to end their life.

What happened to Mrs. Smith in this next story reflects God's choice of how tragedy can strike at the happiest times, when life is at its sweetest.

The coach, full of passengers all enjoying their continental holiday, had been traveling for a few days, taking in the breathtaking sights during the day, stopping each night at a different hotel.

On this day, the mood on the bus was light and happy, everyone chattering, while the tour operator pointed out various places of interest and gave a commentary of the history of the towns and villages they passed through.

No one on the coach could possibly have suspected, on that warm and sunny day, that their lives were soon to be shattered—for some, completely.

How could any one of those people have guessed that, before this fateful day was over, some of them would feel the cold hand of death upon them? And others would be seriously injured?

The first sign or warning that told them something was wrong came when the passengers heard a loud bang that sounded like a small explosion. But it was too late to do anything about it.

One of the tires had burst, sending the coach careening and screeching across the road.

Bodies were flung into the aisle and across seats. There were ear-shattering screams as people were flung into the air, to land broken and bleeding over the bodies of others. A few people died, and many were injured, some quite badly, in this terrible and traumatic accident.

Mrs. Smith and her husband had decided on a coach tour of the continent because it seemed to them the best and most reasonable way to holiday abroad.

They were a happily married couple with one son, now a teenager, who was old enough to stay at home with relatives. It was their first holiday together, on their own, for quite a number of years, and they had been looking forward to it for a long time.

As the coach thudded to a standstill, the screams stopped, and all that could be heard was the sound of people moaning and crying. Dazed faces, bewildered and stunned, gazed around at the chaos before them, unable to grasp the horror of the events that had taken place within the last few minutes.

Mr. Smith, stunned and confused, managed to pull himself shakily to his feet. His first thoughts were of his wife, and he searched frantically around the bus. He turned to where they had been sitting, a hundred years ago, it seemed, holding hands and sharing the thrill and excitement of their wonderful holiday.

Little had they known that they were also sharing their last moments together.

Mary Smith lay sprawled across the floor of the coach, and as her husband reached her side, he saw that the back of her head was broken and bloody.

She must have been thrown when the coach overturned and had hit her head. Death had been instantaneous and virtually painless for her, but for her husband … he was to feel the heartache and pain of losing her in such a way for the rest of his life.

Immediately, as I had started to work, Mary Smith made herself known to me, and I saw and heard her quite clearly. She was not very tall, with a neat figure, fair hair, and a warm smile. It was she who had described to me the chaos on the coach and all of the incidents that had led to her passing. I then asked Mary what else she would like to tell me, and without hesitation she said, “The funeral, I'd like to talk to you about the funeral.” And to my amazement, she started chuckling.

“Ask him,” she said, pointing to her husband, “just ask him about the funeral. What a shock he had, oh boy, what a fright!”

She was still laughing as, perplexed now, I asked: “But, Mary, can't you tell me, explain to me, please, what you mean?”

Shaking her head, Mary was adamant. “He'll know what I mean, just ask him.”

Well, I was in a predicament now, wasn't I? I could hardly say to this poor man: “Your wife's splitting her sides laughing about her funeral.” Not when Mr. Smith sat, broken and desolate, hoping to hear words of love and comfort.

But Mary, undaunted, went on. “Tell him that I'm laughing, and tell him I thought his face was a picture, an absolute picture, when he opened the coffin lid.

“Please,” she begged. “I know it sounds macabre, but he will understand, you'll see.”

So, as gently and as carefully as I could, I repeated word for word what Mary Smith had said and finished by saying: “I'm afraid your wife has a very strange sense of humor, Mr. Smith, because she keeps chuckling about the coffin.”

To my immense relief, and for the first time since he had walked into my study, Mr. Smith smiled and cried out.

“That's her, that's my Mary, and trust her to think it was funny. Mind you, she's right,” he went on, chuckling now himself. “I did have a bloody shock. The hairs on the back of my neck must have stood out a mile, and it's a wonder I didn't turn pure white.”

Mary, nodding and smiling herself and agreeing with her husband's comments, then went on to tell me the rest of the story.

She wasn't the only one to die on the coach that day; others also lost their lives. Because of the circumstances, and the fact that the accident had happened abroad, it took several days before the authorities would allow the bodies to be shipped home.

Mr. Smith, along with the other survivors of the crash, were flown home straight away, which meant he had been forced to leave the body of his wife behind.

Mary's body, along with the bodies of the other victims, was eventually shipped home to England and delivered on the day of the funeral to Mr. Smith's home. Side by side Mr. Smith and his son stood and watched as the coffin was brought into the house. The grief and sadness that the man and the boy felt drew them close together as both stared at the box that held the body of the woman so dear to them.

Mr. Smith put his arms firmly about his beloved son's shoulders and asked him if he would like to see his mother's face for the last time. The boy, unable to speak, nodded his head, and together they reached forward to lift the coffin lid.

With tears now streaming down their faces, Mary's husband and her child gazed lovingly into the coffin … and froze.

For there, lying outstretched and looking for all the world as if in peaceful slumber … was a stranger! A total stranger!

Mr. Smith had been given the wrong body.

Mary continued, telling me that her husband, after the initial shock, had simply gone berserk. “He kept repeating, over and over: ‘Where's my Mary? What have they done with my Mary?’ And all the time,” she said, “I was standing by his side, trying desperately to get through to him, to them both. My husband and my son were so distraught, and try as I might, I just could not make them hear me.”

Talking of her son, Mary was particularly proud of him and told me that he was hoping to wear a uniform. “Tell Paul that I approve,” she said. “It's wonderful news.”

At this piece of information Mr. Smith stared, obviously amazed as he exclaimed: “But he only applied a few weeks ago. He's hoping to join the police force.”

“Well,” I said, “perhaps you could tell your son that his mother knows all about it.”

Since that time Mr. Smith has been to see me several times, and the last time was a wonderful occasion for all of us. Mary came through to see me, as usual, and the first thing she said was: “Tell him I think she's lovely. I couldn't have chosen better myself.”

Well now, you don't have to be psychic, do you, to understand that message?

Mr. Smith had met someone else, and indeed she was a lovely lady he thought the world of. He was hoping to spend the rest of his life with her, but there was just one snag, one little hurdle he had to get over: he needed his wife's approval. He wanted Mary to tell him, truthfully, what she thought of his new girlfriend.

Mary thought that it was wonderful, and she told me that she felt as if a terrific burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

“I have been so worried about him,” she said, “and all I've wanted was for him to find someone to love, and who would love him, too, and look after him properly. Well, now he has,” she continued. “It has taken a long time, but he's done it, and I couldn't be more pleased.

“Tell him, will you, please, to be happy, as I am.”

So even though Mr. Smith's life had been shattered and in pieces, he has been able, gradually, to pick up those pieces and make a fresh start, a new beginning.

He told me that, but for the evidence given through me of his wife's survival, his life would have been unbearable. That evidence gave him strength.

I was able, he tells me, to help him to see that death, although tragic in Mary's case, is not final. It is not the end, but just a transition from one world to another.

During his first sitting with me, Mr. Smith experienced sadness and laughter mingled together. I know that his memories of his first communication with his wife through a medium will stay with him forever, bringing him strength, comfort, and joy.

The one message from Mary to her husband that stands out clearly in my mind is the one she gave when talking about the mix-up with the coffins.

“I stood by his side,” she said, “as he cried out in agony: ‘Mary, oh, Mary, where are you?’ and I tried my best to make him hear, and to help him to understand.

“I called out to him, and to my son, again and again: ‘I'm here, I'm here right next to you.’

“It didn't matter to me,” she recalled, “that it was the wrong body. After all, what is a body but an empty shell! I kept on trying to tell them both—I'm not in that coffin, nor am I in any other coffin. The body that I once used is now useless to me, so it doesn't matter what happens to it. All that matters,” Mary went on, “is that you, my husband and my son, know how close I am to you.

“I'm right here by your side … always!”

The Little Girl and the Tiger

I
t began with a phone call, a lady wanting a consultation. “You are a medium, aren't you?” she said quite aggressively, and before I could reply she demanded an appointment for herself and a friend, saying she had lost her daughter and wanted to contact her.

Now, being a medium doesn't automatically mean that I am a nicer or more tolerant person, though I do endeavor to control my thoughts about others. But I'm afraid this phone call niggled me, and something about this woman irritated me a little. So when I had written down her appointment in my diary, by the side I put a question mark, something I usually do if I am unsure about someone.

I then promptly forgot all about it until the week of the sitting, when I looked in my diary and saw the question mark there. At first I couldn't remember why I had written it in, but then it was like hearing her voice all over again as I recalled her telling me that she had lost her daughter.

It is difficult to tell on the telephone what age a person is or what they look like; so I had no idea how old my prospective client would be and therefore had no idea how old her daughter would be. I might be looking for a teenager, a twenty-year-old, or even a forty-year-old. So although I knew my client had lost her daughter, I was still working blind.

The morning of the consultation I woke early. It was about six o'clock, and the first thing that came into my head was, “Oh, no, that woman is coming today.” Then, shrugging it off, I turned over, hoping to go back to sleep. As I did so, out of the corner of my eye I saw something move.

Curious, I turned onto my back so that I could have a proper look at whatever it was, and standing before me was a little girl. Visits in this way from those in the spirit world were not at all unusual, but this child was especially cute. She was about four years old and the sweetest, prettiest little thing, with a plump little body, round rosy cheeks, and beautiful blond hair. Her eyes were large and cornflower blue, matching the blue of the dress she wore. Clutched in one hand was a teddy bear, very small, well worn, and ragged looking. What an adorable child, I thought.

Smiling shyly at me, with her free hand she waved. A small child version of a wave, wriggling her chubby little fingers.

“Hello, young lady, what are you doing here?” I asked, smiling gently.

“My mummy's coming to see you today,” she whispered.

“Ah,” I said, “is she now? And are you going to be a good girl for me, and talk to me when your mummy comes?”

The child nodded and giggled self-consciously, wriggling her little fingers at me all the time, and I smiled at her again and asked: “You will try hard, darling, won't you?”

She bobbed her head up and down, and I took that to mean yes, but when I asked her her name all I got from her was a toothy grin.

I tried again but got nowhere at all, so not wanting to push too hard, I tried another tack: “Is there anything you want me to tell Mummy, or is there anything you want to say to me before your mummy comes this morning?”

Bobbing her head up and down once again, she looked at me with those large cornflower blue eyes and whispered softly, “Tell Mummy ‘bout the tiger.”