If you ask Renee Moor what inspired her to found Journey Home, a non-profit community service dedicated to “empowered living and dying,” she can list many ways her own life has prepared her. It began with proving herself after being told, as a late-developing child, that the best she could hope for was assisted living; it continued through two decades as a behavioural therapist helping parents cope with autism diagnoses for their children; it carried on through her practices as a Buddhism psychotherapist, a student and instructor of yoga, and as a master in the art of reiki healing. But even these, compounded by the deaths of her father and husband within 18 months of each other, don’t complete the story.
The experiences that locked into place the final piece of Renee’s life puzzle came in her dreams.
“My dad just kept coming and coming in my dreams and guiding me,” says Renee of the years after her father’s death. Seated in the space she has created for people to meet, share, and learn from each other as they go through their individual experiences with death and dying, Renee is relaxed and confident. “In all my twists and turns of life,” she says, “I found my way.”
Already a reiki master and busy yoga instructor at the onset of the Covid pandemic, Renee found herself in the same situation as many: cut off from her livelihood and society in general. It was in those dark days alone at home, with the time to fully process the loss of those she loved, that she began to thoroughly embrace the practices of meditation embedded in both yoga and Buddhism. Then came a series of visions and vivid dreams that inspired her to train as a death doula.
Much like a childbirth doula, a death doula supports a dying person and their family through the dying process, first by helping them gain information and insight, by connecting them with available medical and community supports, and finally by helping make the last moments a positive experience.
“I saw a huge gap in services, because doctors and nurses focus on treatment; funeral homes and crematoriums focus on the remains—but, there’s no one there for the death.”
In contrast, says Renee, her father showed his family that death can be beautiful. “He made his dying about us and we made his dying about him.
“He knew he had six months to live after his diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, and after his fear, anger and sadness, he chose acceptance and love. Each day he showed up to life as fully as he could, both on his good days and his bad days.
“We as a family have beautiful, funny and grateful memories of the season my dad died. After his dying, I wanted everyone to experience a death like this, but life had other plans for me then.”
As time went on, though, says Renee, “He kept coming to me in dreams and meditations. He would offer the most profound philosophies, and now I see he was preparing me. As I opened my heart and mind, his message became clearer to me.”
Renee looks back on three dreams as pivotal to placing her where she is now. One came not long after her father’s death, where she saw him striding down a rocky slope with arms wide open. “Don’t worry about me,” he called to her. “I’m in a better place.”
Some time later, as Renee’s life went through more changes and she began to focus her energy on services for those touched by death and dying, her father appeared in another dream. He asked her to meet him on Dundas Street, which is a stretch of highway that connects the city of Hamilton in Ontario, Canada, with the city of Toronto, about 65-kilometres away. For Renee at the time, this location was symbolic of her life adventures up until then.
“… [N]ow I see he was preparing me. As I opened my heart and mind, his message became clearer …”
As she walked down the street to meet him, a large building seemingly made of white lights guided her toward him. Again, her father held his arms open to her and she ran to him. As they met, Renee’s car keys caught in the back of the sweater he was wearing. As her older sister helped disentangle them, Renee’s father said, “Don’t worry. We all get a little lost sometimes, but now you’ve found your way.”
Soon after that dream, Renee became aware of a location for rent in a small town next door to Hamilton. Surveying the bright, high-ceilinged space inside a large heritage building in the centre of the community, Renee knew this was the perfect location for Journey Home. As she stepped back outside and looked toward the main street, she understood the true force of that dream: Journey Home would be located in a town called Dundas.
Not only that. As a student and instructor of yoga, Renee knew that the entanglement at the back of her father’s neck had significance. It sits opposite the throat chakra which represents how we express ourselves, how we listen and how we communicate. For Renee, Journey Home is more than a suite of services for an underserved segment of the population; Journey Home is her means of expression.
All the same, championing an organization whose services centre around death and dying is a daunting prospect. While people who work in hospice care and a handful of medical professionals understand the value she brings to her community, the majority of health practitioners have not been so receptive. Despite having established a board of directors, together with a group of supporters and co-workers to help ensure Journey Home’s success, there are days when she feels very alone.
But, says Renee, her father has an answer for that, too. In another dream, she came upon him carrying large sacks of flour up a stairway. “I’ll do the heavy lifting,” he told her. “You just keep baking the bread.”
Editor’s Note: Until recently, the retail space next door to Journey Home was occupied by a thriving business called The Village Bakery.
The Meaning of Forever Project continues to accept stories of comforting experiences with loved ones who have passed on, and of near-death experiences that have helped to show the continuation of life beyond the physical body. You can email your story to us atthemeaningofforever@gmail.com and you can find more about our project on our Facebook page, and our Meaning of Forever Website.
Imagine you’re sitting with someone you love during their last days of earthly life. They’re saying things that make no sense. Maybe you’ve discounted this as delirium or the automatic mutterings of a mind and body winding down to the final moment.
But, what if the nonsense you’re hearing isn’t nonsense at all? What if it’s actually a conscious attempt at using limited earthly language to describe a world there are no earthly words for? This is a theory developed by linguist Lisa Smartt in her 2017 book called Words at the Threshold: What we say as we’re nearing death (New World Library, Novato, California).
In Smartt’s vocabulary, words that don’t make sense to the hearer are not necessarily “nonsense” in the way most of us consider that word. Yes, they’re non-sense, in that we don’t understand what they mean, she says. But that’s only because the listener hasn’t cracked the code. And, according to her research into the words of people who are dying, there is a code—or, at least, a system of sense-making that can be applied.
Smartt says her research (in which she asked loved ones and care givers to record the words of dying patients) revealed that they often spoke in metaphor, or in language that seemed to symbolize something the patient was experiencing but didn’t have precise words to describe. And, she says, these metaphors seemed to evolve as the process of dying wound down.
“While some of the words may seem nonsensical when heard in isolation, they often form cohesive patterns over the course of days and weeks,” she writes.
Smartt gives the example of a woman who tracked the expressions of her great-uncle. On four separate occasions, he spoke of a group of poker players asking him to join their game. “They’re telling me I have to play and I just don’t want to,” he said in the beginning. Five days later, he said, “I don’t have no choice now, do I? They’re bad folks though…” The last time, ten days after that, her uncle said, “It’s okay. I don’t have much choice anyway… I’ll get out of my old chair here and sit with them.”
Often, palliative patients speak of a journey, says Smartt, or the need to get ready for one; they speak of visits from deceased loved ones, or of other beings who have come to escort them to a destination. They talk about modes of transport, of needing to go somewhere, of doors to be passed through. Sometimes they’re getting ready for a celebration, or they are in one place in the process of going to another.
Like this patient who said, “I am falling. I am falling but I am not ready to go. They are getting ready to pick me up. When I fall, they are going to pick me up.”
That use of figurative speech is not unique to the words of the dying, she says. Smartt refers to the work of Dr. Raymond Moody, who wrote the introduction to her book. Moody is the best-selling author of Life After Life (Covington, GA: Mockingbird Books, 1975), whose ground-breaking study introduced the term, near-death experience (NDE) and listed commonalities in descriptions. Both Moody’s and Smartt’s subjects lace their narratives with metaphor, references to movement or travel, and paradoxical statements that can seem meaningless to the unpracticed ear.
Smartt offers pointers for readers with a loved one who is dying. She suggests that you “lean in” to the conversation by asking questions. She advises going along with the flow to help validate their experience, rather than ignoring or discounting it.
“The more at ease we are with the language of the threshold, the greater comfort we can bring to those who are dying and to all those dear to our beloveds,” she writes.
As Smartt’s book progresses, she seems to make a consciousness shift of her own, from the application of linguistic models to words of the dying, to another area of inquiry: Are these people actually seeing beyond the threshold of death into a new dimension?
“It may be that the words we hear from the dying come from a sea of ineffable metaphysical experience. And we, the living, are merely witnesses to language at the tip of the iceberg.”
Smartt makes glancing reference to research, still in its infancy, into something called “terminal lucidity” during which patients whose brains are known to be severely damaged become, once again, cognizant just before they die. Even though cases like these are not yet well studied, says Smartt, “These accounts may suggest a crucial distinction between the brain, which obviously dies, and the self—the user of the brain—which might not.”
Smartt’s work predates Dr. Christopher Kerr’s book, Death is But a Dream: Finding hope and meaning at life’s end, (New York: Avery, an imprint of Penguin Random House, 2020), which we reviewed in an earlier blog (See that review here). While Smartt freely admits that her work was not scientifically rigorous, Dr. Kerr and his team set out a tightly controlled experiment to monitor the words and behaviour of patients in their care at Hospice Buffalo, New York.
Like Smartt, they concluded that the seemingly non-sensical words of the dying are not gibberish, nor are they hallucinations or signs of delirium. Delerium, they say, is a distinctly different state in which a patient exhibits (among other things) disorganized thinking, agitation, restlessness and fear. By contrast, Dr. Kerr’s subjects exhibited clear consciousness, heightened acuity and awareness of their surroundings.
Like Smartt’s, Dr. Kerr’s subjects also spoke of seeing deceased loved ones, of visitors, and of expecting to go or be taken somewhere.
While Kerr was careful to note his research was strictly to track the experiences of patients as they were dying, and that his findings were not meant to make a case for life after death, he did acknowledge that his patients clearly experienced something outside the physical references within which those around them were operating.
Similarly, Smartt makes no claim to prove that life exists beyond the death of the physical body. But, her study and those of others, leave her wondering: “Perhaps the changes in language that we see at the end of life are part of the process of developing a new sense—not nonsense.” She goes on to ask, “Is there another dimension, a new transcendental sense?” (Emphasis hers.)
These writings bring back memories of my husband Scott in the weeks and days leading up to his death. Sometimes, as he dozed and I worked quietly at the other side of the room, he would startle me with a sudden exclamation and a few non-sensical words. Then he would come fully awake. We both knew he was moving back and forth between worlds, accustoming himself to his final transition (as David wrote of his mother doing in our last post). Scott said he’d been shown where he was going, and that he liked the place. (See David’s story here, and Scott’s story here.)
For those of us who believe an aspect of our loved ones—and the love we have shared—lives on after the physical body dies, findings like Smartt’s and Kerr’s make a great deal of sense. They provide additional anecdotal evidence that there’s more than one level of existence, and that it’s possible to move from one to the other.
If the stories collected by Smartt and Kerr lend credence to the possibility that the process of dying opens a window into another existence, a new question arises: Can another type of anecdote—like the stories about encounters with loved ones after their deaths that we’re posting on The Meaning of Forever Blog—provide some evidence that, once we pass over, it’s possible to reach back through that same window and reassure those we’ve left behind?
The Meaning of Forever Project continues to accept stories of comforting experiences with loved ones who have passed on, and of near-death experiences that have helped to show the continuation of life beyond the physical body. You can email your story to us atthemeaningofforever@gmail.com and you can find more about our project on our Facebook page, and our Meaning of Forever Website.
David was twenty-nine years old when his father died at home of cancer and the undertakers came.“You might not want to watch this,” he was told as they brought in the gurney. David isn’t sure where the words came from but he replied, “That is not my Dad, only his body.”
It was the beginning of a decades-long search for the answers to questions that ran deeper than, “Where do we go when we die?”
Raised in a Roman Catholic home, David struggled with the idea that his father’s body would someday be resurrected. He kept in his heart the priest’s explanation at the funeral that his Dad was a soul created by God and was, therefore, eternal. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder, “Why would my Dad, as eternal soul, want to come back into a body that was messed up?”
Today he’s convinced he’s found the answers to his questions.
David had other questions that priests couldn’t answer satisfactorily; like: “Is there a meaning to Life? What happens to the love given to others throughout the lifetime of an individual that has passed? And, more importantly, where did that love come from?”
Eventually David left the church and became what he calls “a seeker”. Today, he’s convinced he’s found the answers to his questions, and it all comes back to that idea of soul and his father being more than a body on a gurney. Each of us is soul with free will and conscious of ourselves, he says. Further, we are unique creations of Divine Spirit, which is an aspect of God. We exist because God loves us.
“I began to get a glimmer of understanding that soul manifests God’s love through its relationship with Divine Spirit.” In David’s lexicon, Divine Spirit is another term for Holy Spirit, or the creative energy that brought us into existence. “It is through the physical form that soul uniquely manifests that light of love here on this earth,” he says.
David built on this concept when asked to write his mother’s eulogy. He tried out the idea that, as souls, we come into this world with only love to give, we give that love throughout our lives and take that refined ability with us when our physical bodies die.
He tried out the idea that, as souls, we come into this world with only love to give…
“I posed a question: People remember how we each gave out love; that is why we are here to honor my Mom. So, is it our sole purpose here on earth to better learn to give out God’s love?”
And, he took the idea further: “Maybe it is to recognize God’s guiding hand in this world and help Him make it a better place by allowing His love to shine through each of us.”
David believes evidence of our creator is all around us in the form of light and sound—the fundamental energies that make up our existence.
“Throughout our lives, as each of us as soul refines our ability to give and receive love—and as the light passes through soul—the resulting vibrations resonate on this earth as well,” says David. “This is why we sometimes feel relaxed around certain individuals we meet. Their vibrations are compatible, or in alignment, with our own.”
David believes it was that compatibility which allowed him to see his mother in a dream as she gradually became comfortable with the next world while still in this one. In his dream, he saw that, prior to her death, she passed nightly into the next world, then returned to her body. This made her transition easier when her time came.
“All I could do was give love, melding my memories of Mary Lou within the flow of Spirit and letting them go.”
More recently since the passing of his sister, David has found himself applying all of what he’s learned—but the learning isn’t finished.
“Since I understood that we are all connected by Divine Spirit, I asked my spiritual guide to show me how the soul that was Mary Lou is doing.” he writes. At first, he was taken aback at the reply: “Don’t interfere.”
Yet, he trusted his inner guide and accepted the advice. “All I could do was give love, melding my memories of Mary Lou within the flow of Spirit and letting them go,” he says.
“I had been expecting to have a dream experience, or to see her inwardly somehow. Not being able to do that was very hard to deal with, but I felt a strong reassurance from my inner master.”
Still, he felt hurt, “until I became aware of Divine Spirit filling the void with God’s love. I know my memories of Mary Lou will always be within me as soul, and those memories of her will add their own uniqueness to the light that shines through me into the world.”
David’s written poetry for his mother, his late cousin, and for his sister.
One way David has found to fill the emotional gap left by the physical absence of his departed loved ones is to relive heartwarming memories, then put them down on paper, either in story or poetic form. He feels that most of us can do the same, by finding a quiet place to open our hearts to memories of our loved ones. Using this method, David’s written poetry for his mother, his late cousin, and for his sister. Here’s an example:
Mary Lou
After struggling throughout her life with many health woes,
Sensing that her time on this earth was coming to a close
My sister was led to comment on a recent day,
“Nobody knows when, but everyone dies someday.”
What did we say to the one who has passed from this Earth,
Stuck in the middle of us and a survivor from birth?
What memories of the Soul we knew as Mary Lou?
Remember the feeling of her love given to each of you.
Love, that invisible and unbreakable strand that binds us all,
Guiding us home while listening to God’s beckoning call.
Her body ravaged by cancer is now in its final resting place,
Look deep into your hearts and see her in God’s loving embrace.
The Meaning of Forever Project continues to accept stories of comforting experiences with loved ones who have passed on, and of near-death experiences that have helped to show the continuation of life beyond the physical body. You can email your story to us atthemeaningofforever@gmail.com and you can find more about our project on our Facebook page, and our Meaning of Forever Website.
When someone says, “I will love you forever,” what do they really mean? Will they literally “love you forever,” even though you both know the human being speaking those words will not–cannot–be with you forever?
At The Meaning of Forever Project, we have a theory: That when two souls truly love each other, their love does last forever, beyond the life of one physical body–beyond (if you accept the idea of reincarnation) the life of many physical bodies. The stories you can read on our blog back this up (click here).
Your story may be like one of them, or it may be about a different experience entirely. But if it has reassured you that your loved one (human or animal) continues, even after physical death, please send it to us at themeaningofforever@gmail.com.
If you don’t consider yourself a writer, don’t worry, just write from your heart. We’ll work with you on the finer points of language and construction to shape it into a post that conveys exactly what you mean. We won’t publish your story until you are completely happy with it and give your okay.
Please join the discussion. Drop us a line at themeaningofforever@gmail.com Your experience may bring hope and comfort to others, just as it has to you.
It’s been a long time since you’ve seen a new post on The Meaning of Forever Blog, but I had to step back because my husband was dying and he needed me. Now that I’ve retaken level ground, the intention is to begin posting regularly once again. We’ll start with my story.
The apparent irony was not lost on me; that the person whose blogs touted an antidote to the pain of loss would be told a year-and-a-half into her project that she was heading for a heart-breaking loss of her own. But God wasn’t playing a cruel joke; It was handing me a gift. Stories of love from people around the world—with widely-varied lives and beliefs—let me focus on the positive, and to find reassurance in the experiences of others. When I needed it most, these stories confirmed what my project partner Joan and I weren’t alone in our assertion: Love truly does last forever.
Scott’s cancer diagnosis came in July of 2017, and only a few months later we learned it had already spread to his lymphatic system. There would be no cure, only treatments to hold off the inevitable. We knew three things that helped us accept this:
The loving force that created us works always for our spiritual good, no matter how that looks to us;
Before we entered these bodies at birth, we agreed to undergo experiences in this life that would take us toward that good, whether or not we remembered; and,
That everything in the universes of Divine Spirit is in its rightful place.
From diagnosis onward, we knew this was not the end for Scott; rather, it was the beginning of a new spiritual passage. We had no idea where the road would lead us, but we trusted there was purpose in the journey. We focused our energy on living the best life we could, while we could.
As his final days neared in early 2022, Scott would wake sometimes from a doze seemingly in the midst of a conversation. This signalled he was moving between worlds, preparing for his final transition. We joked about it, how he got a kick out of switching from one state to the other, how he would surprise me at times with a sudden exclamation to some being in his other world. I asked if he knew where he was going, and he said he’d been shown, that he liked the place. As we talked about his leaving and me being left behind he assured me, in his gentlest voice, that the length of time until we’re together again—when it happens—will seem “like the blink of an eye.”
We’ll be together again “In the blink of an eye.”
Scott’s final thirty-six hours were traumatic for both of us. It became impossible for him to take in enough oxygen using the prescribed at-home devices. After a harrowing night, he agreed to be taken by ambulance to the hospital emergency, where medical staff managed to stabilize him for a few hours—long enough for me to go home and get some sleep. But it didn’t last and I was called back, this time to accompany him to the Intensive Care Unit where we could say our final good-byes in private.
But we never got to do that. While I waited outside and the nurses settled him into his ICU bed, Scott left his physical body for the last time—just as they rushed me to him. I came upon him sitting upright, eyes staring, one hand raised as if hailing someone, heart already stopped. The nurses let me stay as long as I wanted, to hold his hand while his colour and warmth drained away, and to accustom myself to the fact his body was truly dead. I felt both cheated and guilty.
For all the attention we’d placed on bringing our best selves to the effort; for all our resolve to walk this last stretch of road together; for all the emergencies and near-misses; for all his determination to remain in his physical body as long as he possibly could—when Scott’s final moment came, I missed it.
Why didn’t I just stay with him all day? But we’d both been awake nearly thirty hours when I left him that last afternoon, and there was nowhere for me to rest. His room in the ER was barely big enough to hold a bed and the equipment to keep him breathing. There was one rigid, armless chair for me, which the doctors and nurses had to squeeze past to do their vital work.
“For all our resolve to walk this last stretch of road together…when Scott’s final moment came, I missed it.”
Part of our adjustment two years into Scott’s illness in 2019 was to sell the beautiful home we’d built on a magical property in the country. Scott was a gardener. He loved to plant things, to watch them grow and nurture them through their life cycles. He was with them before the first sign of shoots in spring until snow covered the ground in winter. He loved brightly coloured flowers and adopted reds and yellows as his theme. He envisioned our gardens as the house went up, and arranged them so there were special views from the rooms we used the most, ensuring there was always something in bloom. Later, still a gardener at heart when we’d moved to town, he arranged for delivery of fresh flowers every week with a card addressed to me.
It may have been the morning of, or a few days after I’d come home a widow exhausted and numb, that I saw this just before waking: A magnificent tree, tall and full, with giant trumpet-shaped blossoms in brilliant red and yellow, more vivid and fantastical than anything of this world. I knew it was Scott showing me a glimpse of his new home and saying all was as it should be, that I hadn’t let him down.
These events happened more than a year-and-a-half ago. When I look back on the months between, it’s hard to believe how much has happened since then, how much my life has changed and how many steps I’ve already taken to move forward. But earlier this year, as winter gave way to spring and the March 26 anniversary of Scott’s passing neared, the trauma of those last weeks came crashing back. As did some of our conversation in his final days.
When we got around to talking about funeral arrangements—which we left far too late, neither of us wanting to seem like we were rushing the end—I asked Scott what to do with his ashes. “I don’t care,” he said. “Just don’t keep them.”
“I asked Scott what to do with his ashes. ‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘Just don’t keep them.'”
I knew what he meant. He didn’t want me so attached to him that I couldn’t get on with the rest of my life or allow him to be fully freed of his. I agreed but added, “I’m going to need you to hang around for the first year, though, just to make sure I’m okay.”
As the one-year mark loomed closer, I became increasingly anxious about what to do with those ashes—and whether I’d actually be able to let them go. I began to wonder what it would be like once Scott’s first-year promise expired. He prided himself on being a man of his word—and on being punctual. He expected the same of others, including me, though I often fell short on punctuality. All the same, I knew I needed to follow through on his wishes. After much consideration and contemplation, I decided the most fitting place to scatter the ashes would be from a high cliff overlooking our new neighbourhood. We had managed to hike there one day while Scott could still breathe well enough to make the trip. It had felt good to stand side-by-side looking out over our newly-adopted neighbourhood.
But as February gave way to March, I began to wonder if Scott would disappear forever once I spilled those ashes over the edge. In effect, by keeping my promise, I would be releasing him from his. But, how would I face the rest of my life without the visits and dreams and tiny signals that I’d had to comfort me all through my first year without him? At some point, a romantic verse from our teens began repeating in my memory: “If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.”
I started imagining how I would go about fulfilling my end of our bargain.
The section of cliff I write of is a busy place. People come from all over to hike the trails that eventually lead to a rock promontory rising 100 metres (300 feet) above the town, affording a grand view into the distance. There is rarely a day when a glance toward that look-out does not reveal any number of tiny figures gazing down on life below.
When could I get the peak to myself, and how exactly would I handle Scott’s ashes? It would have to be early morning on a weekday, the least likely time for tourists. Winds would have to be calm, something that rarely happens that high up.
I hadn’t asked the funeral home for an urn, knowing I wouldn’t be keeping the ashes, so they rested in a closet inside a sealed plastic bag within a sealed cardboard box, tucked inside a drawstring bag of deep green velvet. The most practical thing would be to put just the plastic bag inside a knapsack. But I would need something to cut the seal at my destination and another bag to enclose the first in case of spillage. I’d also need a small scoop to withdraw the ashes a bit at a time—both to test the wind and because I couldn’t bring myself to dump them all at once. And I’d need to accomplish all of this before the first wave of hikers arrived.
I needed to make a dry run.
“Now with the strength to continue on my own, I turned from the peak, shouldered the empty pack and made the trek back out.”
The day before I took the practice hike, I had another vision—again, just before I awoke. This time, I saw Scott. He was striding toward me, hale and healthy, dressed in his usual khaki pants, black fleece jacket and thick-soled boots as if ready for adventure. I was so delighted to see him this way. And I didn’t just “see” him; I could feel him with me as surely as if he were physically alive. I awoke with the courage to keep planning his last journey.
A day later I drove to the departure point, got my gear together, put the pack on my back and began our rehearsal walk. Soon, in my inner vision, I could see Scott off to the side, dressed just as he’d been the morning before. So, we walked together, me rehearsing exactly what I would do, what I might say as I let those ashes go. The steeply undulating trails were still slippery with ice and mud, so I made a note to be better prepared next time.
At the destination, I checked out each of three points from which I could scatter Scott’s last remains. Even though there had been only a gentle breeze when I’d left home in the town below, I could feel a stiff wind up there at the top. Carrying Scott’s ashes back out, they felt twice as heavy as they had on the way in, but I found that weight comforting, as if he were still with me. As I shed the knapsack and climbed back into the car, I thanked him for coming. We now had a plan.
A few days later, I took that last walk with Scott. Accustomed to the weight of the knapsack, and with the addition of cleats and a walking stick, my steps felt sure. He was not there in my inner vision this time; it was just me and his ashes and a close, foggy spring morning. At the peak, the air was calm. His ashes fell in a satisfyingly straight line into the rocky gorge below, and no other humans came near to interrupt the peace of my small ceremony there.
Now with the strength to continue on my own, I turned from the peak, shouldered the empty pack and made the trek back out.
I have felt him with me since, both in dreams and waking life and I know his visits come, no longer from obligation, but from love alone.
The Meaning of Forever Project continues to accept stories of comforting experiences with loved ones who have passed on, and of near-death experiences that have helped to show the continuation of life beyond the physical body. You can email your story to us atthemeaningofforever@gmail.com and you can find more about our project on our Facebook page, and our Meaning of Forever Website.
For many of us, the death of a parent is particularly difficult, because we have unresolved issues that have accumulated over the years, and that remain unresolved at the time of our parent’s passing. Below, Maggie tells us about her long estrangement from her mother and brother due to their mother’s schizophrenia. In later years, she and her mother were able to heal their rift, and her brother was able to be present in the hours before their mother passed away. This reunion–even as her mother lay dying–led Maggie to declare to the cleric who was present at the time that she felt like she’d “won the lottery.” And, as Maggie shows us here, the healing continues–even after her mother’s physical presence is gone.
By Maggie Martin
In my family, we were all estranged from each other. I left home in Ontario, Canada, at the age of 19, unable to cope on my own with the increasing challenges of my mother’s schizophrenia. My brother Larry had left several years earlier, and my parents had already separated during my early teens because Dad couldn’t cope either.
Mom’s illness prevented her from forming close, loving and lasting relationships, and it was only in the last ten years of her life that I learned to accept her for who she was. During that time, we spent many hours together and I came to adore her. In the intervening years, however, I had only minimal contact with Mom. Larry didn’t see her during this period, so I didn’t see him either. He had relocated across the country to Calgary, Alberta.
Despite all of this, I knew I was very much loved by my mom in the best way she knew how. I believe she adored both my brother and me. Larry’s estrangement was very painful for Mom and me.
When she was in her early sixties, Mom’s schizophrenia spiralled out of control, and she was placed in a retirement home where the medical professionals could monitor and regulate her medications. It was an eight-hour return drive from where Mom lived to where I lived with my husband in Southern Ontario. I still wanted us to be in touch, so I would invite her to come and stay with us. Mom and I became very close. I truly wished my brother could know this person and not the one he had grown up with.
Amazingly, my relationship with Mom only got better and better as I became older. Every Sunday at 4:30 p.m. I would telephone her at the retirement home. This went on for fifteen years or so. One Sunday, Mom didn’t answer the phone. The nurse went to investigate and found her on the floor of her room and immediately called an ambulance. Then the nurse called me back to let me know that Mom would be admitted to hospital. Early next morning was the soonest I could drive north. She had an MRI (magnetic resonance imaging) scheduled first thing in the morning, so I arrived on Monday in time to go with her and hold her hand. The plan was that, after she returned to her hospital room, I would go have lunch, then return to her bedside.
“Amazingly, my relationship with Mom only got better and better as I became older.”
I had helped her settle back into bed following her MRI and was just about to leave when my cell phone rang. Even though I have a policy of not answering my phone in the midst of another conversation, I did pick it up. It was Mom’s doctor telling me I needed to immediately let her know that she was extremely ill and dying, and that I needed to phone my brother and tell him the same thing. I was shocked and confused. I knew my face would give that away, so I stumbled out of the room without saying anything to Mom.
A nurse saw me and came immediately to my side and asked, “Are you okay?” I said, “No”.
I was still holding my phone and staring at it. The nurse asked me what had happened. I told her what the doctor had said. I think the nurse took the phone from me, perhaps to talk with him. Finally she said, “Follow me. I’ll take you to a room behind the nurses’ station where you can make your phone calls.”
After I entered the room, I stood there staring at the phone on the wall. Then I looked around and was surprised to see a man sitting there. He asked if he could be of help. I told him I needed to make some phone calls. He came to sit next to me and I moved away. He asked if he was bothering me. I said, “Yes,” so he left the room, but not before he conveyed to me—either verbally or telepathically—that I didn’t have to worry about making those calls. Just as he was leaving, the nurse entered. She asked me who he was. When I said, “I don’t know,” she immediately went looking for him.
Soon, the nurse sought me out and told me she hadn’t been able to find the mysterious man, but that I didn’t need to make the calls because the doctor had phoned my brother and had also broken the news to Mom. So, the man in the nurse’s room had been correct. I didn’t have to worry about making those calls.
Only later did I realize who he was: my inner and outer spiritual guide, Harold Klemp. He is the leader of my spiritual path called Eckankar, and I had seen him previously in a public venue, but never before up close. I had always thought of him as larger in stature than he appeared in person. What I did get from our “chance” meeting was that he was there to help when needed, and that all was in its rightful place, both for me and for Mom.
“What I did get from our ‘chance’ meeting was that he was there to help when needed and that all was in its rightful place, both for me and for Mom.”
However, it now became imperative for my brother to come immediately if he wanted to see Mom prior to her death. He was able to catch the first flight out and arrived from Calgary in the wee hours of Wednesday morning, so exhausted that he lay down on a bed next to Mom’s and slept. Soon afterwards, a nondenominational chaplain came in. Mom was awake now. On one side was her much loved son Larry, and on the other side was her much loved daughter, me.
With a big smile on my face, I exclaimed to the chaplain, “I feel like I just won a million dollars! I feel like I just won the lottery!”. Mom had a broad grin on her face too! She had what she wanted most: Her two children sitting on either side of her. The estrangement was over. Mom died peacefully a few minutes later.
Since Mom’s death, my brother and I have kept in contact. We have both realized that there never was any disagreement between us; we had simply felt overwhelmed trying to cope with the difficulties of Mom’s disease. Since then, not only have Larry and I kept in touch, but Mom and I keep in touch too.
I recently asked myself anew how Mom communicates with me now. Just as I asked this question, a beautiful female cardinal appeared right in front of me. I could reach out and touch her, she was that close. Cardinals were one of our family’s favourite birds, but it had been a long time since I had spotted one—and I had never seen one where I now live.
The sighting reminded me of an experience I’d had years ago. It was not long after my father passed away. Even though Mom and Dad chose to separate when they were in their early forties, they had never legally formalized it. Technically, they were still married when Dad died at the age of eighty-nine. He was buried in a small community cemetery close to my home in Southern Ontario.
During one of Mom’s vacations to my home, she had asked to visit Dad’s grave and say goodbye. So, I drove her there one beautiful, sunny afternoon. Standing at the graveside, Mom said, “I guess I’m a widow now.” That really surprised me, and I could see that, even after all those years of separation, her marriage had been very important to her.
We buried Mom beside Dad. I was by myself when the internment was over at the small community cemetery. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky as I watched a pair of Canada geese fly directly overhead. As a child I had been taught that Canada geese pair for life. To me this signified that Mom was safe, happy and reunited with Dad. She was, once again, with the love of her life.
“There wasn’t a cloud in the sky as I watched a pair of Canada geese fly directly overhead… To me this signified that Mom was safe, happy and reunited with Dad. She was, once again, with the love of her life.”
With the recent appearance of the female cardinal, Mom was answering my question, showing me one way that she does still communicate with me.
Just a day before I finished writing this story, I had a wonderful opportunity to be part of a monthly discussion on the book titled Stranger by the River. It is a poetic book on the secret knowledge of God, written by Paul Twitchell, the modern-day founder of Eckankar. The chapter we were studying that night was titled “Love.” A particular line caught my attention. It said: “But I say that all disagreement between friends and thee comes from impatience. If you have patience, then life will teach thee better.”
As I studied that chapter, I began to understand more about my relationship with Mom, and how and why it changed over the years. What changed was that I learned patience. I stopped arguing with her. Mom was doing the best that she could in her illness, and I was learning to accept her for who she was. During those years that we became closer, I realized I had been given the gift of a mom who was a wonderful, joyful soul. Very simply, I learned to love her as she was—and is—in my ongoing Meaning of Forever relationship with her.
The Meaning of Forever Project continues to accept stories of comforting experiences with loved ones who have passed on, and of near-death experiences that have helped to show the continuation of life beyond the physical body. You can email your story to us atthemeaningofforever@gmail.com and you can find more about our project on our Facebook page, and our Meaning of Forever Website.
Andrew sent us this story about his life-long relationship with dogs, and how his dogs have taught him that the loving connection between master and pet continues despite the separation of physical death.
By Andrew A.
Please understand that we are just a ‘normal’, everyday family who never got interested in paranormal stuff or anything weird or spiritual.
We were never religious in any way, but we always believed in God and that all good, kind, loving people are going to be with God in Heaven. That sums up our spirituality for the most part. We never, ever thought we would encounter the things I am going to describe here. But, having experienced them, we have greatly expanded our ideas about the afterlife and all things spiritual.
I grew up with dogs and they were my best friends all through my childhood in Ontario, Canada. In 1987, I got married, moved to Massachusetts, and two years later we had a daughter. I wanted her to grow up with a dog like I did, so we adopted a two-year-old mini poodle from a woman who fostered rescued puppies when my daughter was about three months old in 1989. We called her Fluffy.
In 2000, when Fluffy was too old to play with, my daughter wanted a younger mini poodle, and I wanted to rescue another dog, so, after a lot of fruitless phone calls, eventually I found a breeder in New Hampshire who had a young adult dog that was not up to American Kennel Club specs, so she wanted to get rid of her.
We drove over two hours to see her and fell in love with her immediately. She was seven months old, white, with longer legs than a normal mini poodle and a beautiful, curved tail that arched over her back, even though it was cropped. When she walked, her hips swayed from side to side, like a sexy model; she really was a character.
My daughter called her Angel and she turned out to be that in every way. She was incredibly intelligent, intuitive, sensitive, caring, very perceptive and responsive to human emotions. Angel could run faster than every other dog besides a greyhound, because of her long legs, and she loved teasing other, much bigger dogs to chase her in the park, and then outrunning them to exhaustion.
“My daughter called her Angel and she turned out to be that in every way.”
About six months after we got Angel, my daughter saw an ad in a local magazine saying that two mini poodle puppies were available for adoption. The foster home was very close to where we lived, so I said to my daughter we could go see them, but I didn’t want to get another dog, especially a puppy. However, when we walked into the woman’s home, I just fell in love with the little, black, bouncing bundle of energy that I saw.
She and her brother had been rescued from a terrible situation of starvation and abuse in a puppy mill. Every adult dog in the mill had been euthanized, and she and her brother were the only survivors, being only a couple of months old. I happily paid the woman her small adoption fee and we promised we would take good care of her. My daughter called her Muffin and we took her home to give her a bath (she smelled terrible!) and introduce her to Fluffy and Angel.
Fluffy was too old and deaf and blind to care, but Angel jumped off the bed and ran to us to see what we were holding as soon as we walked in. While we bathed Muffin, Angel stood and watched intently, and being almost one and a half years old, she immediately adopted Muffin as her baby. She was totally possessive and protective of her and even would let Muffin take food and chew toys out of her own mouth.
Muffin just adopted the role of the prized, spoiled baby of the home, and never lacked any self-confidence or assertiveness, even though she was much smaller than Angel. Our afternoons and evenings and weekends were filled with hikes and parks and woodland walks with the dogs, exploring anywhere and everywhere they could go.
They ran down trails, swam in streams, chased each other around baseball diamonds and fields, chased squirrels and rabbits and birds wherever they could find them, and just enjoyed every minute of life together. They were always together, no matter what. Angel found her full identity in being Muffin’s mother and protector and best friend, and Muffin just loved being the adored, spoiled baby of the family.
In October 2004, I had to euthanize Fluffy one night at about 2:00 a.m. She was almost 16 and was clearly in pain. I had never euthanized a pet, and I had no idea how difficult it was, and the aftermath of it. I was absolutely devastated when I left the animal hospital without her. Even though I knew she had had a long, wonderful life with me, I could not shake the grief and sadness. I continued with life as best I could, but I found I could not sleep at night. I was in a hyper-energetic mode and could not calm down.
“I said aloud, Fluffy I am OK, you can go, I will be fine, I have Angel and Muffin to keep me company.”
After two weeks of not sleeping, I knew I was going to be in trouble if I did not calm down and adjust to the loss. Angel obviously picked up on my heightened energy levels and never came near me for those two weeks. She would not sleep at the foot of my bed as she usually did and stayed out of my room and away from me completely. She slept with my daughter on her bed and stayed in her room.
Muffin did not seem bothered by anything, and slept right next to me under the blankets, cuddled against my torso, as usual.
One night I was walking Muffin and Angel in a park, trying to figure out where all this extra energy was coming from and why I could not calm down and get to sleep. I suddenly had the thought that, what if I was not feeling my deep emotions for Fluffy, but rather, what if I was actually feeling Fluffy’s spiritual and emotional energy towards me and for me?
I decided to try release it, and I said aloud, “Fluffy I am OK, you can go, I will be fine, I have Angel and Muffin to keep me company. We had a great time together, but now please go to the Light and be happy, and I will see you when I get to heaven. Don’t worry about me. Go to the Light and be happy.” As soon as I said that, I palpably felt a presence of energy lift off me and leave, and my emotions and energy calmed down. That night Angel came back on my bed as usual, and I was able to sleep again.
Angel and Muffin both had heart murmurs, and my vet told me often that Angel was much worse than Muffin. But there was not much we could do about it. I moved to California for a job in June 2014 with the two dogs, and Angel started to collapse while walking outside. In November, she stopped eating, and five days later, she passed away while lying next to me on my bed. She was just over 15.
I took her body to the vet and they had her cremated. Muffin and I missed her terribly. I thought Muffin was going to die of depression. She was just totally lost without Angel. She stopped eating for about a week, and it took a lot to get her interested in life again. Eventually she adjusted, but she really was never the same little happy-go-lucky dog ever again.
“I was very confused at first, but I simply had to deduce that Angel had returned to sleep on my bed with me as she usually did.”
Shortly after Angel passed away, I was sleeping deeply one night, but my sleep was disturbed, as I was woken up by a tangible pressure on my legs. That was where Angel used to sleep, at the bottom of my bed, and I often felt her pressing against my legs. In my half-awake state, I assumed she was lying on my legs, and told her to move, as I often had done. Nothing changed. I then remembered that she had just passed away, so I assumed that Muffin must have uncharacteristically gone to the bottom of the bed and was lying on my legs.
I roused myself to move Muffin off my legs, but then I saw Muffin sleeping peacefully right next to me. I was very confused at first, but I simply had to deduce that Angel had returned to sleep on my bed with me as she usually did. I accepted her presence there, moved my legs to make space for her and went back to sleep. This happened a few times afterwards, and then it stopped.
I came back to Toronto to care for my parents in 2016 and I brought Muffin with me. She was then 15-and-a-half. Before I left California, I asked my vet to fill out whatever paperwork Muffin needed to enter Canada, and to give her whatever shots she needed. I had never given her anything but the Rabies vaccine, but that day, in addition to the Rabies, the vet squirted another vaccine up her nose.
That night, Muffin had her first seizure and started to go blind. (Over the next few years, her right eye shrank away and totally disappeared). I thought she was dying. After that, she had a seizure about every two weeks, although some days she had multiple seizures. I gave her some herbal and vitamin supplements and eventually, over several months, the seizures tapered off and stopped.
But I am convinced that Muffin would see Angel every time she had a seizure. After each seizure she would howl and cry incessantly, and run around frantically for hours on end, looking for something. This could last for four or five hours. I would have to take her walking outside or she would go crazy inside. Often this was at 1:00 or 2:00 a.m. She would totally ignore me (which was extremely unusual for her) and her food and everything else, other than what she was looking for but could not find, and I have to assume it was Angel.
Eventually she would exhaust herself, fall asleep and then wake up the next day, back to normal, until the next seizure happened. Eventually, when she was almost 19-and-a-half, I recognized that she had very little quality of life; she was deaf, blind, sad, lonely, incontinent, she started having seizures again, and was having trouble standing and walking, so I decided I had to euthanize her. A very, very sad day for me.
I cannot wait to be with my dogs again in heaven, along with all the other wonderful animals I have met on earth.
The Meaning of Forever Project continues to accept stories of comforting experiences with loved ones who have passed on, and of near-death experiences that have helped to show the continuation of life beyond the physical body. You can email your story to us at themeaningofforever@gmail.com and you can find more about our project on our Facebook page, and our Meaning of Forever Website.
In this blog, which first appeared on The Meaning of Forever on June 9, 2017, we present two ways of exploring the concept of life after death. One depends on scientific method, while the other is strictly spiritual. Which one appeals to you?
If we accept the quote in the image above as true, it’s not a stretch to believe that a loved-one who has passed into that next “stage of experience” continues to love those left behind and may, possibly, try to let them know.
Contributors to The Meaning of Forever Project have experienced just that: feelings of love from the person, or animal, who has died. They have been visited in dreams, in visions, through sounds, the appearance of articles that hold special meaning, and in many other ways. Some have had near-death experiences that, by showing how life continues after death, help them deal with the loss of those close to them.
In our previous post, a dream experience allowed a grieving mother to hold her daughter once again. Another contributor wrote of feeling both ecstasy and grief at the time of her mother’s passing; one described how her much-loved dog returned to her in a new body; yet another described how sounds and discovery of small articles demonstrated that her grandparents and her mother continued to be with her long after their physical bodies were gone.
The common thread in all these experiences is love, a love that lives beyond time and space, beyond the physical bodies of those who share it.
Harold Klemp writes that soul is the essential, animating part of every individual, that this essence within each of us can never die, and that its defining nature is love.
“…Soul, knowing of its divine nature, sees beyond the ends of eternity and knows It can never be extinguished like a candle’s flame.”
Harold klemp – spiritual wisdom on life after death
“…Soul, knowing of its divine nature, sees beyond the ends of eternity and knows It can never be extinguished like a candle’s flame,” he writes in Spiritual Wisdom on Life After Death.
In her book Surviving Death, journalist Leslie Kean applied objectivity and scientific method to her research into the possibility of an afterlife. Here’s what she says in her introduction:
“While exploring the evidence for an afterlife, I witnessed some unbelievable things that are not supposed to be possible in our material world. Yet they were unavoidably and undeniably real…I came to realize that there are still aspects of Nature that are neither understood nor accepted, even though their reality has profound implications for understanding the true breadth of the human psyche and its possible continuity after death.”
Kean documents what she calls “after death communications” (ADCs) in the form of “dream visits”, moving forms or apparitions, effects on electrical items, lights, voices, sounds and smells. She says these ADCs sometimes come as a shock because they are often unasked for and may occur for people who would never consider such things possible. Kean acknowledges that many people—including herself—are uncomfortable talking about these phenomena.
“Because they come and go quickly, and are rarely documented, ADCs are not evidential in a strict sense. Yet, these experiences can be the most potentially life-changing link to belief in survival for their recipients, because the messages can be so profoundly personal and specific,” writes Kean.
So, perhaps that the dream you had—or the fleeting image you saw, the sound of a voice long gone from this earth, or the feeling your dear one was there beside you—was not just your mind playing tricks on you. It may be that it was your loved one saying in a manner meant specially for you, “I’m fine in my new life, and I love you as I always have.”
At The Meaning of Forever Project, we value and honour any experience you may have had with a departed loved one that has made you feel loved and helped you move forward in your grief. If you would like to share that experience with us, please do at themeaningofforever@gmail.com
See our website, Facebook page and previous blog posts to find out more about The Meaning of Forever book project.
Mellie and her grandmother were best friends, and when she found out her Nanny had suffered a serious stroke, her first reaction was numbness: “I was completely devoid of feelings,” writes Mellie.
But that changed as soon as she walked into the hospital room.
“Immediately I felt scared. Scared for what she must be going through mostly, since she couldn’t communicate. I was also scared for myself. What was going to happen?” All sense of control was gone, says Mellie.
Soon the fear became anger.
“I didn’t approve of this event happening in my life. This wasn’t okay with me, I was thinking, all the while knowing deep within that I had in fact signed up for this, and there was a lesson for me hidden beneath the sadness.”
Even though Nanny could not communicate outwardly, says Mellie, something began to happen between them. Once, while in the hospital gift shop, “I saw the most beautiful butterfly kimono, and in my head Nan’s voice was telling me how beautiful it was and that I needed to buy it. I wore that kimono every time I visited her.
“Prior to Nan’s stroke, we’d had a conversation about how she would appear after she passed on and we agreed she would come back as a butterfly, because she thought they were so beautiful and had always loved them. I didn’t know at the time, but this kimono became the first of many visits I would receive from butterflies.”
“…this kimono became the first of many visits I would receive from butterflies.”
Eventually, Mellie began to feel guilt. “My nanny was my best friend, a woman that I considered to be one of m y soul mates and, yet, seeing her lying there in that bed with half of her brain function lost, I eventually began wishing for her to go.”
Still, Mellie kept up her visits. “I could feel her spirit drifting in and out of her body. Sometimes it felt like she was there and other times I felt no connection to her body at all. She was all around me, flying about like a butterfly.”
Finally, deciding she couldn’t bear the idea of her Nan not returning to the woman she’d been, Mellie decided it must be time to let her go. “I felt shameful for having these thoughts, and yet when I discussed them with my family, I found they felt very similarly.
“My Nanny passed peacefully on August 29, 2015.”
Now, Mellie began to feel th e loss. Her Nanny was gone forever. They would never again share a hug or a cup of tea and a chat. “I would never again hear her tell me she loved me.”
A few days after her death, though, Nanny got through to Mellie. A family member who also happened to be a psychic medium, contacted Mellie with a message from her: “(She) wanted me to let go, spread my wings and fly, just as she had done only days ago. She offered me her strength to make that a reality.”
The following March, Mellie tried another means to connect with Nanny. This time, though, it was to let her go. “I felt that I was holding her back in some way, tying her down to the earthly realm. Wishing that she hadn’t left was making it difficult for me to carry on, so I thought that it may be time to let that go.”
Mellie signed up for an exercise called “conscious connected breathing” in which participants use breathing techniques to bridge between their conscious and unconscious. “During the breathing, the woman assisting me began massaging my hands. As she held my hand, hers felt like my Nanny’s. It was an odd sensation, so I quickly dismissed it. When the exercise was coming to an end, I rolled over to eye-gaze with my breathing partner. The man I was paired with had blue eyes like my Nanny’s. When I gazed into them, I had a strong feeling of looking into the eyes of my Nanny.
“In that moment, I realized that she is all around me.”
“In that moment, I realized that she is all around me. Her spirit lives inside of me and every other person. The oneness of the universe really became apparent to me through my breathing experience.”
Mellie says that even after that event, her Nanny continued to communicate with her through butterflies. “Whether it be an encounter with a live butterfly, or even just my eye catching a butterfly on someone’s scarf, I knew all of these butterflies were being sent by her.
“Nanny also tuned me in to certain songs. I would be contemplating some aspect of my life and the perfect song would come on the radio to answer my question. Each time this happened, my heart knew it was a message from her.”
Little more than a year after her grandmother’s passing, Mellie was getting ready for her wedding when she consulted a medium hoping for another message from her grandmother. She was not disappointed.
“My Nanny told me that I was on the perfect path, and that every decision I had made was the perfect one. That each choice had led me to this moment.
“She also told me that, on the other side, she had created the most beautiful garden she could ever imagine, but that no garden was more beautiful than watching me bloom into the young woman I am today.”
Nothing is more comforting than being able to know her grandmother’s still there, says Mellie, and her experiences move her to offer words of wisdom for others finding their way through grief:
“If I can offer anything to help others in their grieving process, it would be to let all of your feelings be truly expressed. There is no map for grief, and I don’t believe that grieving ever ends, it just changes form.”
“The signs from our loved ones aren’t always overt,” she says. “Sometimes they can be very subtle, but when you open yourself to this form of communication and you feel like something is a sign from someone on the other side, like it was orchestrated perfectly for this moment, don’t dismiss those feelings. They are real and will bring such comfort in the days, weeks and years following a loved one’s death.
“If I can offer anything to help others in their grieving process, it would be to let all of your feelings be truly expressed. There is no map for grief, and I don’t believe that grieving ever ends, it just changes form.
“Know that your loved ones are always with you. A piece of them lives on within you, and so you can never be truly apart from them. Like a butterfly, they have flown from their cocoon. A new story is only just beginning.”
The Meaning of Forever Project continues to accept stories of comforting experiences with loved ones who have passed on, and of near-death experiences that have helped to show the continuation of life beyond the physical body. You can email your story to us atthemeaningofforever@gmail.com and you can find more about our project on our Facebook page, and our Meaning of Forever Website.
On The Meaning of Forever blog, we’ve posted many stories from people who have had comforting dreams featuring their deceased loved ones. And we’ve often referred to the research of Dr. Joshua Black, who earned his doctorate degree in psychology based on pioneering research into what he calls “grief dreams.”
On a website called nextavenue, based in Minneapolis-St. Paul, MN, writer Kevyn Burger interviews Black and others to begin putting grief dream research into the context of the Covid 19 pandemic and the trauma of sudden loss. You can read the full article by clicking here.
The Meaning of Forever Project continues to accept stories of comforting experiences with loved ones who have passed on, and of near-death experiences that have helped to show the continuation of life beyond the physical body. You can email your story to us atthemeaningofforever@gmail.com and you can find more about our project on our Facebook page, and our Meaning of Forever Website.
The Meaning of Forever 