Walking On Water

 The following is a true story.  And it is a story that asked me to drop all stories I had ever thought I’d known before. I ask only that you read it with the eyes of the heart, so that its grace can be felt and its message received  deep within you. 

Some background information before we begin. 

I grew up with two of the most loving parents I could ever have hoped for. I lived in a city suburb and was taught by the Nuns of the Roman Catholic Church. I was the oldest of three children and our lives were carefree until the day our parents divorced. We were so young and we misunderstood and misinterpreted the events that unfolded. My Father was the North Star and guiding light for every one who knew him. He was the love of my life and the love of the lives of all those that he touched. The ever charismatic Irishman. The bagpiper, police man and protector of hearts. He simply shined. 

My father remarried. His new wife and her five children would become his wedded family. As young children, my siblings and I misunderstood and had not yet learned enough about life to make peace with its unfolding. Our lives went on with quiet wounds that begged for healing, but we silenced the scar tissue and simply carried on.

I began doing hospice work early on in my adult life. It was the one and only thing I felt I knew how to do explicitly and intimately and without instruction. Having had a near death experience of my own, and caring for  three different family members at the end of their lives, I had found my pathway forward. Because I thought I knew the way.

The phone call came at 6 p.m. on a warm Wednesday night in early September. My father’s wife screamed to me that he was “gone.”  After grabbing my own heart, my mouth finally uttered the words I felt needed to be said. I asked her if she was ok and if her children were with her and if she needed me. Once I felt she was safe our phone call ended. To be continued. 

I lowered myself to the ground. My hand still gripping my heart. And I spoke to the Spirit of my Father and to The Spirit of my Father God.  I did not speak an ultimatum. I merely stated the fact of the matter, of the nature of reality I now found myself in. 

I. Fully. Surrendered.

I surrendered every judgment. Every false notion, false witness and false testimony I had ever held against others. I energetically emptied myself of every sword I’d ever carried in the pockets of my past. I released all the stories as I thought I’d known them. About everything and everyone. But I did so in exchange for just one word from my Father, letting me know that he was alright. I told God that I would not get up off that floor until he allowed me to speak with my Father. Because I knew God had the power and the way, and I knew my Father could learn quickly from the other side, how to come and talk to me. 

I can not fully explain to you the way in which the following scenarios occurred. But they were like “downloads “ of fully felt and instantly known flows of information.  I was “told” that I needed to wait three days time before I could hear from my Father. During that time period I would learn that my Father died by suicide. He had gone into his bedroom. Alone. At 85. And shot himself in the head. My hospice heart could barely breathe. I needed to care for my Mother and my severely distraught siblings. I needed to become the liaison between my siblings and my Father’s family in order to try to make final arrangements that could heal this massive broken heart. And then during this same time period, in her own grief and desperation, my sister threatened her own suicide. Out loud and believably. 

On the “Earth Plane”, I was given a “Trauma Team “ by the suicide prevention line. In order to know when to swoop down and carry my sister to safety if needed. But on the third day, my Father arrived and for me, he carried us all. 

My Father came with a team of guides. I felt them and energetically relied on them for the next two months. They allowed me to see, in real time, panoramic view, the ways in which I could care for others and carry them through to safer shores. My Father needed this team, because he was newly crossed over and had not yet learned how to communicate on his own. The first thing asked of me, by my Father, was that I energetically and metaphorically give him back his gun. The gun I saw in my mind. The gun whose barrel I stared down now on a daily basis. I at first, refused. Thinking this was my connection with him in his final hours. He assured me, patiently, that only Love connected us, and only our Love would remain. I eventually surrendered the gun from my heart, and the rest of the swords still buried deep within me, and our Walk across the Water began at full speed strength.

I can assure you now, that there is no such thing as “after life”. For there is Only Life. And Love is the only map we need in order to find our way. The guidance I received from my Father and his team at that time was correct and clear. All things that were foretold to me have come to pass. I have risen up from off the floor. And my Fathers, Who art in Heaven , continue to this day to Walk me On the Waters.