Journey to the Upper Realm

286 Pages·2013·4.46 MB·English

Journey
 to
 the
 Upper
 Realm:

How
 I
 Survived
 the
 Deaths
 of
 My
 Sons

and
 Learned
 to
 Communicate
 With
 Them

on
 the
 Other
 Side

Maria
 I.
 Pe

©
 2013
 by
 Maria
 Pe

June
 21,
 2013
Dedication

For Sean and Kyle
The lights of my life
and my greatest teachers
All that time I thought I was teaching you
And you were really here to teach me.
I honor you.

  2
PROLOGUE

On
 June
 21,
 2011,
 my
 two
 sons
 began
 their
 transition
 to
 the
 Other
 Side.

 At
 the
 time,

I
 didn’t
 see
 it
 that
 way.

Tuesday,
 June
 21,
 2011,
 was
 a
 "normal"
 morning
 for
 me.

 I
 finished
 getting
 ready
 for

work
 and
 was
 just
 about
 to
 leave
 the
 house.

 I
 was
 ready
 to
 click
 the
 tv
 off
 when
 the
 news

story
 caught
 my
 attention:

 Murder-­‐suicide
 in
 Bonita.

 The
 camera
 panned
 to
 a

neighborhood
 and
 I
 saw
 the
 house
 across
 the
 street
 from
 my
 ex-­‐husband
 Tom's
 house.

 My

heart
 began
 to
 beat
 faster,
 panic
 began
 to
 set
 in.

 The
 news
 reporter
 indicated
 that
 a
 man

and
 two
 young
 boys
 had
 been
 killed.

 My
 heart
 began
 beating
 even
 faster.

 I
 called
 Tom's

home
 phone.

 No
 answer.

 I
 called
 Tom's
 cell
 phone.

 Voicemail.

 I
 called
 Sean's
 cell
 phone.

Voicemail.

 I
 called
 Kyle's
 cell
 phone.

 Voicemail.

 No.

 No.

 No.

 No.

 I
 rushed
 out
 of
 the
 house

and
 got
 into
 my
 car.

 I
 drove
 the
 six
 miles
 to
 Tom's
 house.

 I
 was
 in
 a
 state
 of
 panic
 and

disbelief.

 There
 is
 no
 way
 this
 could
 be
 my
 sons!

 I
 got
 to
 the
 neighborhood
 which
 was

filled
 with
 news
 crews.

 The
 area
 was
 cordoned
 off
 with
 yellow
 crime
 scene
 tape.

 I
 parked

my
 car
 in
 someone's
 driveway
 and
 ran
 down
 the
 street
 to
 the
 first
 police
 officers
 I
 saw.

"Tell
 me
 that
 it's
 not
 my
 sons,"
 I
 begged
 them.

 "Please
 tell
 me
 it's
 not
 my
 sons."

 They

escorted
 me
 to
 the
 house
 across
 the
 street.

 A
 man
 came
 and
 asked
 me
 my
 ex-­‐husband's

name.

 My
 son's
 names.

 Sean.

 Kyle.

 He
 confirmed
 that
 it
 was
 their
 house.

 Then
 he
 said

that
 there
 had
 been
 gunshots.

 No!

 No,
 no,
 no,
 no,
 no!

 I
 crumpled
 to
 the
 ground.

 There

were
 no
 words.

 There
 were
 no
 words
 possible.

My
 ex-­‐husband,
 Tom,
 had
 killed
 my
 sons,
 Sean
 and
 Kyle.

 He
 had
 given
 them

sleeping
 pills
 to
 make
 them
 fall
 into
 a
 deep
 sleep,
 then
 he
 had
 shot
 them
 while
 they
 slept
 in

their
 own
 beds.

 Then
 he
 had
 shot
 himself.

  This
 is
 how
 my
 journey
 began.

This
 book
 is
 the
 story
 of
 my
 journey
 –
 my
 “Journey
 to
 the
 Upper
 Realm.”

 It
 is
 the

story
 of
 my
 experience
 during
 the
 13
 months
 after
 my
 boys
 were
 killed,
 day
 by
 day,
 as
 it

was
 happening.

 It
 is
 my
 story
 of
 how
 I
 survived
 the
 deaths
 of
 my
 sons
 and
 learned
 to

communicate
 with
 them
 on
 the
 other
 side.

 And
 ultimately,
 how
 I
 found
 myself
 on
 the
 road

to
 forgiveness.

Prior
 to
 my
 sons’
 deaths,
 I
 had
 never
 kept
 a
 journal,
 but
 I
 started
 writing
 in
 a
 journal

shortly
 after
 my
 sons
 died.

 I
 didn’t
 really
 know
 why,
 but
 I
 felt
 that
 I
 had
 to
 record
 my

thoughts
 and
 feelings,
 and
 the
 things
 that
 I
 learned
 along
 my
 journey.

 It
 was
 through
 the

process
 of
 writing
 this
 book
 that
 it
 finally
 became
 clear
 to
 me
 why
 I
 had
 been
 keeping
 daily

journals
 about
 my
 experience.

 I
 was
 “guided”
 to
 write
 this
 book
 by
 my
 sons,
 and
 by
 Spirit.

I
 understand
 now
 that
 this
 book
 is
 part
 of
 my
 remaining
 work
 here
 and
 my
 contribution
 in

this
 lifetime.

This
 is
 my
 journey.

 It
 is
 my
 Truth.

 And
 the
 gift
 that
 I
 received.

LIFE
 BEFORE
 JUNE
 21,
 2011

  Nothing
 in
 my
 life
 could
 have
 predicted
 for
 me
 that
 I
 would
 be
 faced
 with
 one
 of
 the

greatest
 challenges
 in
 my
 life
 at
 the
 age
 of
 49.

 I
 was
 born
 on
 July
 4,
 1962
 in
 the
 city
 of

Manila
 to
 a
 Chinese
 father
 and
 a
 Filipino
 mother.

My
 father,
 Raymundo
 Lim
 Pe,
 had
 a
 childhood
 that
 was
 very
 different
 from
 my
 own.

He
 was
 born
 on
 July
 11,
 1928
 in
 China.

 His
 mother
 was
 the
 second
 of
 four
 wives
 to
 his

father,
 Pe
 Bungking,
 and
 my
 father
 was
 one
 of
 twenty-­‐two
 children.

 He
 and
 much
 of
 his

family
 immigrated
 to
 the
 Philippines
 when
 he
 was
 seven
 years
 old,
 and
 he
 lived
 in
 the
 town

of
 Coron
 located
 on
 one
 of
 the
 islands
 of
 Palawan.

  3
He
 was
 a
 child
 during
 World
 War
 II.

 As
 he
 recalls
 in
 his
 autobiography,
 “Living
 in

Sang-­‐ham
 as
 a
 six
 year
 old,
 I
 remembered
 having
 nightmares
 as
 the
 talk
 centered
 on
 the

Sino-­‐Japanese
 war,
 nightmares
 of
 evacuation,
 family
 separation
 .
 .
 .
 .”

 On
 December
 8,
 1941,

after
 the
 Japanese
 attacked
 Pearl
 Harbor,
 “school
 was
 let
 out
 and
 everybody
 in
 Coron
 was

in
 turmoil
 not
 knowing
 what
 to
 do
 next.”

 For
 the
 next
 few
 years,
 he
 was
 taken
 care
 of
 by

various
 family
 members,
 half-­‐sisters
 and
 half-­‐brothers
 in
 Manila.

He
 returned
 to
 Coron
 in
 1945
 after
 the
 war
 ended.

 At
 17,
 he
 enrolled
 in
 the
 5th

grade,
 but
 his
 education
 was
 interrupted
 by
 family
 needs
 and
 obligations.

 He
 moved
 back

to
 Manila
 with
 his
 mother
 and
 brother,
 and
 lived
 with
 a
 large
 number
 of
 relatives.

Even
 at
 that
 young
 age,
 he
 understood
 the
 importance
 of
 getting
 an
 education:

 “It

was
 difficult
 to
 find
 jobs,
 having
 no
 real
 qualifications.

 I
 was
 in
 the
 illiterate,
 ignorant
 pool

of
 workers
 and
 this
 spurred
 me
 on
 to
 get
 an
 education.”

 He
 decided
 to
 return
 to
 Coron
 to

start
 a
 general
 store
 and
 continue
 his
 education
 there.

 After
 persuading
 his
 mother
 to

move
 back
 to
 the
 province,
 they
 set
 up
 a
 modest
 storefront.

 With
 his
 mother
 tending
 shop,

he
 was
 able
 to
 transfer
 from
 his
 night
 school
 in
 Manila
 to
 a
 newly
 established
 high
 school
 in

Coron.

In
 his
 fourth
 year
 of
 high
 school,
 he
 transferred
 to
 the
 University
 of
 Santo
 Tomas
 for

his
 last
 year
 of
 high
 school.

 After
 four
 years,
 he
 earned
 his
 bachelor’s
 degree
 in
 electrical

engineering.

My
 mother
 also
 lived
 through
 the
 experiences
 of
 World
 War
 II,
 being
 just
 one
 year

younger
 than
 my
 father.

 Her
 father,
 Feliciano
 Villanueva,
 came
 from
 a
 large
 family
 of
 ten

children,
 all
 well
 educated
 with
 professional
 careers
 in
 accounting,
 law,
 medicine,

engineering,
 and
 agriculture.

 My
 mother’s
 mother,
 Paz
 de
 Guzman,
 was
 an
 elementary

school
 teacher
 for
 thirty
 years.

My
 mother
 was
 born
 on
 December
 5,
 1929
 and
 christened
 Zenaida
 Villanueva.

 She

was
 the
 youngest
 of
 five
 children.

 She
 lived
 with
 her
 family
 in
 Manila.

 She
 had
 just
 started

elementary
 school
 when
 World
 War
 II
 broke
 out:

 “I
 remember
 being
 in
 school
 around

noon.

 We
 were
 told
 to
 go
 home
 because
 war
 had
 started.

 This
 must
 have
 been
 December

8.

 We
 didn’t
 know
 what
 it
 meant.

 That
 evening
 we
 witnessed
 the
 Japanese
 and
 American

aircraft
 in
 a
 ‘dogfight’
 to
 shoot
 each
 other
 down.

 Against
 the
 dark
 night,
 we
 heard
 the
 rapid

planes’
 fire.

 It
 was
 scary.

 At
 the
 same
 time,
 it
 was
 exciting.

 Tony,
 my
 brother,
 and
 I
 would

try
 to
 slip
 by
 our
 mother
 to
 go
 out
 and
 watch
 the
 action.

 We
 had
 a
 makeshift
 shelter
 in
 the

ground
 floor
 of
 our
 house.”

 Shortly
 after
 war
 broke
 out,
 she,
 her
 brother
 and
 her
 sister

were
 put
 on
 a
 train
 to
 their
 uncle’s
 house
 outside
 of
 the
 city.

 “People
 were
 rushing
 out
 of

Manila
 to
 escape
 the
 Japanese
 occupying
 forces.”

When
 the
 war
 finally
 ended,
 she
 recalled:

 “Liberation
 came
 in
 1944
 when
 the

Americans
 defeated
 the
 Japanese.

 The
 Japanese
 burned
 and
 destroyed
 what
 they
 could
 and

killed
 many
 before
 they
 retreated
 south
 of
 Manila.

 There
 were
 no
 lights
 because
 of
 curfew

regulations
 and
 yet
 I
 remember
 the
 first
 night
 American
 soldiers
 started
 coming
 into
 the

city,
 it
 was
 well
 lit
 because
 of
 the
 many
 fires
 going
 on.

 There
 was
 also
 the
 unforgettable

sound
 of
 boots
 –
 the
 retreating
 Japanese
 stepping
 in
 cadence.

 I
 hid
 and
 peeped
 at
 them
 as

they
 marched
 by
 our
 house.

 The
 surrender
 of
 Japan
 in
 1944
 marked
 the
 beginning
 of

getting
 back
 to
 normal.

 Schools
 were
 opened.

 We
 were
 older.

 I
 was
 18
 when
 I
 graduated

from
 high
 school
 –
 a
 three-­‐year
 delay.

 Our
 school
 was
 partially
 damaged.

 There
 were
 no

walls.

 We
 lacked
 everything
 because
 war
 depleted
 everything.

 I
 remember
 my
 class
 sitting

on
 the
 ground
 under
 a
 tree
 because
 of
 lack
 of
 classrooms.

 In
 spite
 of
 this,
 we
 were
 eager

and
 glad
 to
 be
 back
 in
 school
 again.”

 She
 went
 on
 to
 attend
 the
 University
 of
 the

  4
Philippines
 where
 she
 earned
 her
 bachelor’s
 degree
 in
 psychology
 and
 her
 masters
 degree

in
 guidance
 and
 counseling.

My
 parents
 met
 in
 1958
 and
 were
 married
 that
 same
 year
 in
 October.

 They
 were

older
 newlyweds
 –
 my
 father
 was
 30
 and
 my
 mother
 was
 29.

 Nine
 months
 later,
 they
 had

their
 first
 child,
 a
 daughter
 christened
 Maria
 Lourdes
 (Marylou).

 Then
 their
 first
 son,

Raymundo,
 Jr.,
 was
 born
 on
 December
 3,
 1960.

In
 1960,
 my
 father
 was
 working
 for
 the
 Ed.
 A.
 Keller
 Co.
 Ltd,
 a
 Swiss
 trading

company,
 which
 supplied
 raw
 cotton
 to
 all
 of
 the
 textile
 mills
 in
 the
 Philippines.

 As
 part
 of

his
 job
 duties,
 he
 was
 sent
 to
 Memphis,
 Tennessee
 for
 training,
 his
 first
 trip
 to
 the
 United

States.

 When
 he
 returned,
 he
 continued
 to
 progress
 in
 his
 career,
 earning
 a
 good
 living
 that

enabled
 him
 to
 build
 a
 comfortable
 home
 for
 his
 growing
 family.

 They
 lived
 in
 a
 suburb
 of

Manila
 and
 enjoyed
 an
 upper
 middle
 class
 lifestyle
 complete
 with
 maids,
 a
 driver
 and
 other

servants.

In
 1961,
 Marylou
 contracted
 meningitis.

 It
 would
 be
 a
 long
 ten-­‐month
 struggle

before
 she
 died
 from
 the
 illness.

 During
 that
 time,
 my
 mother
 was
 pregnant
 with
 me.

Superstitions
 in
 the
 Philippine
 culture
 told
 her
 that
 she
 was
 carrying
 a
 girl
 that
 would

replace
 the
 daughter
 she
 was
 losing.

 After
 my
 birth,
 I
 was
 left
 in
 the
 pediatrics
 ward
 of
 the

hospital
 for
 two
 months
 while
 my
 mother
 grieved
 the
 loss
 of
 her
 first
 daughter.

In
 1962,
 my
 father
 got
 a
 job
 as
 a
 marketing
 manager
 for
 Abbott
 Laboratories.

 The

following
 year,
 he
 had
 another
 opportunity
 to
 travel
 to
 the
 United
 States
 to
 Chicago.

 While

he
 was
 gone,
 their
 second
 son,
 Roberto,
 was
 born
 on
 June
 24,
 1963.

 Shortly
 afterwards,
 my

father
 returned
 to
 work
 for
 Keller
 Co.

Despite
 his
 successes
 and
 comfortable
 lifestyle
 in
 Manila,
 my
 father
 began
 to
 think

about
 moving
 to
 the
 United
 States.

 The
 decision
 to
 move
 forward
 was
 a
 quick
 one
 and

made
 rather
 spontaneously.

 As
 he
 describes
 it:

 “The
 U.S.
 was
 under
 a
 quota
 system
 only

admitting
 a
 few
 hundred
 applicants
 with
 good
 qualifications
 and
 the
 waiting
 list
 was
 a
 very

lengthy
 one
 so
 that
 I
 did
 not
 even
 bother
 to
 go
 to
 the
 U.S.
 embassy
 to
 inquire.

 One
 day
 in

January
 1965,
 I
 was
 visiting
 an
 office
 building
 where
 one
 of
 my
 nieces
 was
 employed
 and

where
 the
 Canadian
 embassy
 was
 also
 located.

 While
 passing
 by
 I
 spied
 a
 big
 crowd
 at
 the

embassy
 office
 and
 I
 inquired
 of
 some
 people
 around
 and
 found
 out
 the
 embassy
 was
 giving

applications
 for
 emigration
 to
 Canada.

 I
 got
 a
 form
 and
 filled
 in
 an
 application
 for

emigration
 to
 Vancouver,
 B.C.,
 Canada.

 Three
 months
 later,
 we
 were
 requested
 to
 have

medical
 examinations
 for
 emigration.”

On
 December
 8,
 1965,
 less
 than
 one
 year
 after
 applying
 for
 emigration,
 my
 father

arrived
 in
 Vancouver,
 British
 Columbia.

 He
 was
 able
 to
 get
 a
 job
 with
 an
 engineering

consulting
 firm
 in
 January
 1966,
 and
 he
 then
 notified
 my
 mother
 to
 come
 immediately
 with

the
 children.

The
 move
 was
 not
 an
 easy
 one
 for
 my
 mother:

 “It
 is
 very
 difficult
 to
 describe
 what
 it

means
 to
 emigrate
 to
 a
 far
 country
 totally
 unknown
 to
 you.

 It
 is
 painful
 to
 bid
 goodbye
 to

friends
 and
 relatives
 at
 the
 airport,
 not
 knowing
 when
 and
 if
 you
 will
 see
 them
 again.

 At

times
 I
 thought
 that
 we
 were
 making
 a
 big
 mistake.

 After
 all,
 we
 had
 a
 nice
 house
 in
 Manila

and
 Raymond
 had
 a
 good
 job.
 .
 .
 .

 Raymond
 had
 bought
 a
 used
 Volkswagon
 beetle.

 We
 all

piled
 in.

 January
 was
 cold
 of
 course
 and
 uncomfortable.

 The
 best
 Raymond
 could
 get
 was
 a

second-­‐story
 studio
 apartment.

 He
 bought
 a
 folding
 bed
 and
 extra
 mattresses
 and
 a

tv/record
 player/radio.

 I
 didn’t
 know
 which
 to
 do
 first,
 second,
 etc.
 because
 I
 had
 always

been
 surrounded
 by
 help.

 Fortunately,
 the
 kids
 loved
 cereal
 and
 milk
 and
 that’s
 what
 they

ate.”

  5
We
 lived
 in
 Vancouver
 for
 only
 eight
 months.

 In
 1967,
 my
 father
 received
 a
 job
 offer

from
 Stearns-­‐Rogers
 in
 Denver,
 Colorado.

 Engineers
 were
 in
 high
 demand
 at
 the
 time
 so

my
 father
 was
 finally
 able
 to
 use
 his
 engineering
 degree.

 The
 company
 offered
 him
 higher

pay,
 incentives
 and
 the
 assurance
 that
 it
 would
 help
 our
 family
 obtain
 U.S.
 citizenship.

 So

our
 family
 moved
 again
 and
 bought
 a
 home
 in
 the
 suburb
 of
 Arvada
 outside
 of
 Denver.

We
 moved
 again
 a
 little
 over
 two
 years
 later
 after
 my
 father
 was
 laid
 off.

 He
 was

able
 to
 get
 another
 job
 in
 Detroit,
 Michigan,
 but
 because
 of
 the
 cold
 weather
 he
 left
 that
 job

after
 only
 three
 months.

 In
 1969,
 my
 father
 was
 able
 to
 get
 a
 long-­‐term
 position
 with
 Rohr

Corporation
 in
 Chula
 Vista,
 California,
 and
 my
 mother
 was
 able
 to
 get
 a
 job
 with
 the
 San

Diego
 County
 Department
 of
 Welfare.

My
 parents
 bought
 a
 house
 in
 Chula
 Vista
 and
 most
 of
 my
 childhood
 memories
 are

associated
 with
 that
 home.

 My
 brothers
 and
 I
 had
 a
 stable
 and
 comfortable
 childhood.

 We

took
 many
 family
 vacations;
 my
 parents,
 especially
 my
 father,
 loved
 to
 travel.

 We
 had
 all
 of

the
 creature
 comforts
 we
 could
 have
 wanted
 and
 we
 were
 given
 many
 opportunities
 to
 be

involved
 in
 numerous
 activities.

Having
 grown
 up
 in
 the
 Philippines,
 both
 of
 my
 parents
 were
 Catholic,
 and
 so,

naturally,
 they
 intended
 to
 raise
 their
 children
 in
 the
 Catholic
 faith.

 As
 a
 young
 girl,
 I

remember
 going
 to
 church
 every
 Sunday,
 and
 dutifully
 attending
 Sunday
 school.

 I
 admit,

however,
 that
 I
 don’t
 remember
 a
 single
 thing
 that
 I
 might
 have
 learned
 from
 those

experiences.

When
 I
 was
 nine
 years
 old,
 my
 father
 discovered
 the
 “Church
 of
 Tennis.”

 It
 was
 to

become
 my
 “religion”
 for
 the
 next
 twelve
 years.

 I
 spent
 several
 hours
 on
 the
 tennis
 court

each
 day.

 Tennis
 became
 my
 main
 activity,
 and
 I
 played
 competitively
 in
 Southern

California
 throughout
 my
 youth.

In
 1980,
 I
 graduated
 from
 high
 school
 and
 was
 admitted
 to
 Harvard
 University.

 I

had
 been
 recruited
 to
 play
 on
 the
 varsity
 tennis
 team,
 and
 I
 played
 on
 the
 team
 for
 three

seasons,
 serving
 as
 captain
 for
 one
 year
 and
 being
 named
 to
 the
 All
 Ivy
 team
 each
 season.

In
 1984,
 I
 completed
 my
 bachelor’s
 degree
 in
 Sociology.

 I
 eventually
 returned
 to
 San
 Diego

in
 1985.

In
 1991,
 I
 earned
 my
 law
 degree
 from
 the
 University
 of
 San
 Diego
 School
 of
 Law.

After
 graduating,
 I
 served
 as
 a
 law
 clerk
 for
 a
 federal
 bankruptcy
 judge
 from
 1991
 to
 1993.

I
 met
 Tom
 in
 1993
 and
 we
 were
 married
 one
 year
 later.

 After
 completing
 my
 bankruptcy

clerkship,
 I
 practiced
 law
 for
 several
 years
 in
 a
 local
 San
 Diego
 law
 firm.

 It
 was
 during
 my

time
 at
 the
 law
 firm
 that
 my
 two
 sons
 were
 born.

 Sean
 Robert
 was
 born
 on
 May
 9,
 1996

and
 Kyle
 Joseph
 was
 born
 on
 February
 4,
 1998.

My
 career
 path
 led
 me
 to
 start
 my
 own
 training
 and
 consulting
 company
 in
 2000

which
 then
 led
 to
 a
 position
 with
 one
 of
 my
 clients,
 a
 local
 defense
 contractor
 in
 2002.

 I

moved
 on
 to
 take
 a
 position
 with
 the
 County
 of
 San
 Diego
 Treasurer-­‐Tax
 Collector’s
 office

in
 2003
 where
 I
 still
 work.

My
 life
 experience
 was
 all
 about
 “mainstream”
 America.

 I
 learned
 and
 lived

according
 to
 the
 values
 of
 upper
 middle
 class
 culture.

 I
 studied
 hard
 and
 did
 well
 in
 school.

I
 excelled
 in
 tennis.

 I
 was
 accepted
 into
 one
 of
 the
 best
 colleges
 in
 the
 country.

 I
 earned
 my

bachelor's
 degree,
 then
 my
 law
 degree.

 I
 began
 my
 career
 as
 a
 lawyer,
 and
 over
 the
 years
 I

developed
 strong
 values
 in
 the
 principles
 of
 analysis,
 evidence
 and
 proof.

 I
 married,
 bought

a
 house
 and
 had
 two
 beautiful
 children.

 Although
 my
 marriage
 to
 Tom
 ended
 in
 2007,
 we

eventually
 developed
 a
 relationship
 that
 allowed
 us
 to
 co-­‐parent
 the
 boys
 so
 that
 they
 had
 a

stable
 and
 secure
 childhood.

 I
 continued
 to
 develop
 even
 closer
 bonds
 to
 my
 sons,
 and
 I

cherished
 every
 moment
 that
 I
 spent
 with
 them,
 especially
 the
 trips
 and
 adventures
 that

  6
we
 shared
 together.

 I
 also
 had
 a
 strong
 relationship
 with
 a
 new
 man
 in
 my
 life,
 Tony.

 I
 was

happy
 again,
 happier
 than
 I
 had
 been
 in
 a
 long
 time.

I
 was
 on
 the
 "right"
 path,
 the
 path
 of
 achievement,
 and
 of
 moving
 forward
 and

upward
 in
 life.

 I
 had
 no
 need
 for
 religion,
 meditation,
 or
 spiritual
 practice.

 I
 had
 no
 interest

in
 mediums
 or
 psychics,
 and
 I
 was
 not
 interested
 in
 concepts
 of
 the
 afterlife,
 past
 lives,
 near

death
 experiences
 or
 other
 spiritual
 encounters.

 I
 knew
 what
 life
 was
 all
 about.

 Or
 at
 least

I
 thought
 I
 did.

 Then
 suddenly,
 on
 June
 21,
 2011,
 everything
 changed.

JUNE
 2011

  On
 June
 9,
 2011,
 twelve
 days
 before
 his
 death,
 my
 son
 Sean
 recited
 the
 following

poem
 at
 his
 high
 school:

An
 Honest
 Opinion

Honestly,

I
 give
 the
 world
 nothing

Because
 I
 don’t
 have
 anything

That
 this
 world
 needs.

Sometimes
 I
 feel
 useless,

like
 a
 pencil
 with
 no
 lead

or
 a
 dead
 battery.

Honestly,

I
 have
 nothing
 but
 my
 soul,

But
 I’m
 getting
 rid
 of
 that
 as
 soon
 as

the
 devil’s
 check
 clears.

But
 I
 didn’t
 deserve
 it
 anyway.

Because
 we
 have
 become
 the
 most
 violent,

greedy,

and
 ruthless
 creatures
 on
 this
 planet.

We
 were
 given
 the
 privilege
 to
 be

the
 most
 successful
 animals
 in
 this
 world,

but
 we
 abused
 it
 and
 now
 the
 world

is
 ripping
 itself
 to
 pieces
 because
 it
 can’t

stand
 letting
 us
 live
 a
 day
 longer,

and
 the
 sun
 has
 turned
 away
 because
 it

can’t
 bear
 to
 watch,

and
 the
 moon
 and
 all
 the
 planets

are
 cringing
 at
 the
 sight
 of
 another

planet
 getting
 destroyed,

and
 they
 just
 have
 to
 sit
 there
 and
 watch,

feeling
 hopeless
 to
 do
 anything.

A
 feeling
 that
 I
 am
 very
 well

acquainted
 with.

If
 you
 ask
 me
 the
 same
 question

in
 about
 25
 years,
 I
 will

tell
 you
 the
 same
 answer.

Honestly,

I
 don’t
 give
 anything
 to
 the
 world.

  7
Not
 because
 I
 don’t
 have
 anything
 to
 give,

But
 because
 I
 choose
 not
 to
 give
 this
 world
 anything.

Because
 I
 have
 seen
 this
 world’s
 true
 face,

and
 it
 is
 not
 pretty.

This
 world
 is
 a
 jungle.

The
 rain
 forest,
 once
 beautiful,

but
 slowly
 burning
 to
 the
 ground.

The
 world
 doesn’t
 deserve
 what
 I
 have
 to
 give,

no
 matter
 how
 small
 and
 insignificant
 it
 may
 be.

This
 world
 is
 like
 a
 black
 hole,

It
 takes
 what
 we
 have
 to
 give
 and
 gives
 nothing
 back.

Until
 this
 world
 learns
 to
 change
 into
 a
 better
 place,

It
 deserves
 nothing.

The
 only
 thing
 that
 lets
 me
 sleep
 at
 night
 is
 knowing
 that
 there
 are
 still
 a
 few
 good
 people

out
 there
 even
 though
 they
 are
 outnumbered
 by
 the
 bad.

Honestly,

I
 only
 want
 to
 give
 the
 world
 one
 thing,

I
 want
 to
 change
 it.

To
 change
 it
 into
 what
 we
 all
 want
 it
 to
 be.

So
 we
 can
 all
 stop
 fighting
 and
 killing,

and
 start
 loving.

I
 want
 to
 turn
 the
 world
 on
 its
 head.

That’s
 all
 I
 want
 to
 give
 this
 world.

I
 know
 it
 might
 sound
 like
 I’m
 complaining,

but
 I’m
 just
 telling
 it
 like
 I
 see
 it.

Honestly,

I
 don’t
 care
 if
 I
 go
 down
 in
 history.

I
 don’t
 care
 if
 I
 am
 remembered.

But
 if
 I
 am,

I
 hope
 that
 it’s
 for
 a
 good
 reason.

On
 June
 21,
 2011,
 Sean
 and
 Kyle
 left
 Earth
 realm.

June
 24,
 2011

Email
 to
 my
 family
 and
 friends:

 I
 had
 the
 most
 amazing
 and
 beautiful
 experience
 just
 now

with
 Jenny.

 As
 I
 was
 walking
 her
 to
 her
 car
 down
 the
 street
 at
 the
 parking
 area
 by
 my

brother's
 house,
 two
 black
 and
 yellow
 butterflies
 came
 down
 together
 and
 fluttered
 over

our
 heads,
 circled
 around
 a
 few
 times,
 and
 then
 flew
 off
 as
 if
 they
 were
 running
 off
 to
 play,

then
 came
 back
 together
 and
 flew
 away.

 There
 were
 only
 two
 of
 them,
 there
 were
 no
 other

butterflies
 anywhere
 to
 be
 seen.

June
 26,
 2011

Email
 from
 Susan:

 I'm
 thinking
 and
 praying
 for
 you
 and
 your
 family.

 I
 may
 wait
 until
 after

the
 burial
 to
 pay
 my
 respects
 at
 the
 cemetery
 for
 the
 boys
 when
 its
 more
 quiet....if
 that's
 ok.

I
 know
 it's
 not
 the
 same,
 but
 my
 collie
 Dillon1
 recently
 passed
 away
 and
 I
 have
 been
 terribly

depressed
 for
 a
 few
 weeks,
 then
 with
 the
 boys
 now,
 it's
 made
 it
 worse.

 I'm
 a
 pretty
 private

1
 Dillon
 became
 an
 important
 figure
 in
 my
 journey.

  8
person
 so
 I
 would
 like
 to
 go
 to
 the
 cemetery
 after.

 I
 went
 to
 the
 little
 memorial
 their

friends
 put
 at
 the
 house....they
 were
 very
 loved,
 and
 hopefully
 your
 niece
 and
 Tony
 told
 you

I
 called
 twice.

 It's
 heartbreaking
 for
 those
 left
 behind
 when
 you
 lose
 those
 you
 loved.

June
 30,
 2011

“Imagine That . . .”
We are not limited by what we can taste, touch and see
We are, in fact, far more than we appear or dare to believe
Imagine . . . .
The universe already knows what we cannot yet
understand; that though vast, the universe is still small,
and time and space are really nothing at all
So imagine . . .
The soul can go places our eyes cannot see,
To visit people and places beyond the physical reach of the
human body
So imagine . . .
Imagination is not make-believe; it is more than a dream
It is where understanding begins for the things unknown
and unseen
So imagine . . .
The mind can bind, or it can set free
All that we hope for and aspire to be,
and even more than that if we’ll just let it be free
So imagine . . .
The body longs to touch what the heart knows it had
The heart remembers and will always be glad
The Soul connects both, though they don’t always agree,
On just where to focus their combined energy
So imagine . . .
Love is the energy with power to transform and shape
All that exists—anywhere, anytime, anyplace
Let it heal every hurt, lift every dark mood, and
Take you to places where nothing else could
Imagine . . .
-- Sharyl H.

[Sharyl’s
 reflections
 on
 “Imagine
 That
 .
 .
 .”:

 The
 morning
 of
 June
 21,
 2011
 brought

heartache
 and
 shock.

 I
 was
 home
 sick,
 watching
 the
 morning
 news
 on
 TV
 and
 saw
 the
 live

coverage
 of
 an
 unfolding
 news
 story.

 As
 I
 watched
 I
 saw
 a
 familiar
 figure,
 you,
 walking
 up

to
 the
 house,
 escorted
 by
 police,
 as
 a
 reporter
 explained
 that
 two
 boys
 had
 been
 shot
 by

  9
their
 father,
 who,
 after
 taking
 the
 lives
 of
 his
 sons,
 had
 set
 the
 house
 on
 fire
 then
 shot

himself.

 The
 shock
 and
 dismay
 at
 what
 I
 was
 hearing
 did
 not
 register
 with
 me
 nearly
 as

much
 as
 watching
 you
 clutch
 your
 stomach,
 double
 over,
 and
 drop
 to
 your
 knees.

 It
 felt

surreal,
 and
 difficult
 to
 grasp,
 and
 it
 felt
 heavy.

 That
 ache
 I
 witnessed
 in
 that
 moment,
 as

you
 learned
 what
 had
 happened
 to
 your
 sons,
 resonated
 with
 me.

 While
 I
 have
 not
 lost
 a

child,
 I
 have
 experienced
 the
 gut-­‐wrenching
 anguish
 and
 irreversible
 permanence
 that

comes
 from
 being
 without
 children.

 I
 was
 never
 able
 to
 have
 children.

 I
 ached
 for
 you.
 I

felt
 I
 had
 some
 understanding
 of
 what
 you
 faced.

 I
 had
 met
 your
 boys
 on
 several
 occasions

at
 the
 office
 and
 work
 functions,
 and
 although
 you
 and
 I
 did
 not
 have
 a
 close
 personal

relationship,
 I
 was
 aware
 of
 how
 nurturing
 and
 loving
 you
 were
 with
 your
 sons;
 your

support
 of
 their
 interests,
 and,
 the
 way
 that
 you
 created
 opportunities
 for
 them
 to
 grow

and
 broaden
 their
 life
 experiences.

 I
 had
 witnessed
 the
 pride
 and
 joy
 you
 took
 in
 their

accomplishments.

 At
 work,
 in
 the
 days
 following,
 there
 was
 much
 sharing
 of
 stories
 about

you
 and
 your
 boys
 and
 all
 they
 meant
 to
 you.

 There
 were
 also
 updates
 given
 about
 how

you
 were
 doing
 and
 what
 your
 wishes
 were
 for
 how
 to
 support
 you
 in
 your
 time
 of
 loss.

 A

coordinated
 effort
 was
 initiated
 to
 create
 a
 memory
 book
 for
 you
 that
 everyone
 at
 work

could
 contribute
 to
 as
 an
 expression
 of
 their
 love
 and
 support
 to
 you.

 I
 thought,
 “What
 a

perfect
 opportunity!”,
 but
 I
 struggled
 at
 how
 to
 say
 what
 I
 felt
 needed
 to
 be
 expressed.

 I
 did

not
 feel
 a
 need
 to
 express
 condolences
 as
 much
 as
 I
 felt
 a
 need
 to
 share
 the
 understandings

my
 experiences
 had
 brought
 me
 and
 a
 message
 of
 hope
 and
 healing.

 The
 plans
 for
 the

services
 for
 the
 boys
 was
 shared,
 and
 I
 learned
 that
 you
 were
 scheduled
 to
 see,
 for
 the
 first

time,
 the
 bodies
 of
 your
 beloved
 sons
 that
 next
 day.

 I
 went
 to
 bed
 that
 night
 feeling
 a

heaviness
 in
 my
 heart
 and
 concern
 for
 what
 lay
 ahead
 for
 you.

 I
 did
 not
 know
 how
 to
 speak

to
 that,
 so
 I
 closed
 my
 eyes
 and
 shared
 my
 concerns
 in
 heart-­‐spoken
 prayer.

 Sleep
 was

illusive
 and
 I
 found
 myself
 in
 more
 of
 a
 deep
 meditative
 uneasy
 rest
 as
 I
 sought
 for
 a
 way
 to

speak
 healing
 to
 you.

 My
 prayers
 began
 receiving
 responses
 that
 I
 can
 only
 describe
 as

verbally
 and
 emotionally
 conversational.

 I
 felt
 a
 heart-­‐ache
 that
 was
 not
 organic
 to
 the

relationship
 I
 share
 with
 you.

 I
 had
 a
 sense
 that
 what
 I
 was
 feeling
 belonged
 to
 your
 sons

because
 of
 the
 nature
 of
 the
 love,
 sorrowful
 but
 not
 sad,
 appreciation
 for
 what
 had
 been

experienced
 here,
 and
 insistence
 that
 you
 live
 in
 love
 and
 be
 well.

 The
 emotion
 was

overwhelming
 and
 I
 cried
 soft
 silent
 tears
 as
 a
 result
 of
 its
 sweetness
 and
 intensity.

 The

tears
 were
 not
 my
 own;
 I
 recognized
 that
 they
 came
 from
 the
 emotion
 of
 who
 I
 was
 in

conversation
 with.

 The
 responses
 I
 was
 receiving
 imparted
 a
 bittersweet
 peace
 to
 you
 for

the
 present
 and
 the
 future
 that
 was
 becoming
 a
 literal,
 and
 poetic,
 conversation.

 I
 relaxed

and
 let
 the
 conversation
 continue.

 It
 was
 so
 beautifully
 eloquent
 in
 how
 it
 expressed
 and

captured
 all
 that
 I
 was
 hoping
 to
 convey
 and
 contribute
 to
 your
 path
 to
 healing.
 Finally,
 I

felt
 peace.

 As
 the
 message
 was
 received,
 I
 felt
 the
 heaviness
 lift
 and
 my
 concern
 ease.

 I

committed
 to
 remembering
 the
 poetry
 of
 the
 conversation
 and
 promised
 to
 write
 the

message
 received
 in
 the
 morning
 as
 soon
 as
 I
 got
 up.

 Immediately
 that
 thought
 was
 met

with
 resistance
 and
 a
 sense
 of
 urgency
 that
 pressed
 for
 me
 get
 up
 now
 and
 write
 down
 the

message.

 After
 a
 few
 back
 and
 forths,
 I
 got
 up
 and
 went
 in
 the
 front
 room
 and
 began
 to

write
 down
 the
 message.

 That
 urging
 was
 right;
 even
 though
 the
 message
 was
 fresh,
 it

didn’t
 flow
 as
 easily
 in
 my
 waking
 state
 as
 it
 had
 in
 my
 prayerful
 meditative
 state.

 It
 came

in
 pieces
 as
 I
 went
 back
 into
 that
 meditative
 conversation
 to
 recapture
 a
 thought
 at
 a
 time

and
 back
 out
 to
 write
 down
 what
 had
 been
 shared.

 After
 an
 hour
 and
 half
 I
 put
 my
 pen
 and

paper
 down.

 I
 had
 the
 thoughts
 on
 paper,
 even
 though
 they
 were
 not
 in
 their
 right
 order,

and
 I
 was
 released
 to
 return
 to
 bed
 and
 get
 a
 much
 needed
 few
 hours
 of
 rest.

 The
 next

morning
 I
 was
 able
 to
 compile
 my
 notes
 into
 the
 order
 and
 poetic
 context
 that
 reflected
 the

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