First, we started with love.
This is the beginning sentence I was spiritually guided to type, but it did not happen this way. At least not in a way where I could feel or sense it.
I sat quietly as Biscuit appeared, my first dog with my husband Josh. She was with us for only 2.5 years and passed away of a genetic issue when our daughter was a month old, over 18 years ago. I felt Biscuit’s “presence” as I was reading my husband’s conversation with her spirit in an entry on the “Speak! Good Human” site. It felt like an invitation, something nudging me to open myself to her. She didn’t speak at first but unsettled me enough that I knew she was there. She also could’ve enveloped me with love, but for some reason, some of us get the disquieting feeling instead of love. It’s something I’ve grown to recognize as a medium (when I talk to certain spirits), and although I prefer love and request that all the time, when this shows up, it’s hard to ignore. To me, it feels like someone’s in my space, like when you’re waiting somewhere and someone stands right next to you. Tooclose.
Before I was able to feel love, Biscuit started showing me mental pictures. I saw the house we lived in when Biscuit was alive and with us, specifically the family room, where I spent much of my very difficult pregnancy. I heard and saw thoughts (psychically, these appear as though I can see and hear words) that could transform into a conversation, but I also wanted to feel the love first. The thoughts continued, yet the love was still missing. Or at least I wasn’t feeling it. As I mentioned this, Biscuit said, “Feeling love changes the direction of conversations.” Wise words.
Spiritual Insight is Valuable…But I Still Would Like to Feel Love
I was shown several potential conversations Biscuit and I could have. The one that would take place without my feeling the love would be explanatory. The one with love would be revolutionary. I’m used to the first but I’d really like to try the second!
As I waited (and it felt like this was part of Biscuit’s offering; “Some well-placed insights,” she said), I then was shown our former kitchen, which opened to the family room. I saw thoughts psychically. They traveled higher in that room, like a kite would rise up into the wind as it was swept along. Whatever thoughts were going to come did the same, rising symbolically higher.
Biscuit psychically (by showing me a vision) took me to the bedroom in our former house, where when I got up at night to use the bathroom, she’d scoot into my place in the bed, right next to Josh, causing me to feel displaced when I came back only minutes later. This again was symbolic of how things were in the family dynamics. Biscuit often seemed to replace me when it came to feeling and receiving love from Josh. I’d tried not to be jealous then (this was 20 years ago), but sometimes I couldn’t help it. I had no experience sharing love with a dog, nor with someone I love being so enthralled with someone else. It hurt and I couldn’t change it, nor did I want to because I loved her too. I simply wanted to be included in such a pure type of love exchange and didn’t know what to do about it — with either my husband or our dog.
“You were meant to feel that way,“ Biscuit began. “Before you get upset, know you set it up too. You contributed to it at the soul level ahead of time. We all do.”
I struggled to return myself to love here.
“What was the purpose of your departure?” I questioned.
“You were preparing to devote yourself to one being only: your child,” said Biscuit.
“Doesn’t everyone prepare?” I asked. “You could’ve stayed. You added love to our home!”
“We all have different needs, all have roles uniquely suited to each of us.”
For some reason, without hearing more of what Biscuit was saying, I started crying because I somehow intuitively felt like Biscuit was privately sharing with me she was my mom in some other life. She acknowledged this as true. The conversation was flowing but not coherently.
“But why didn’t you tell me?” I responded.
“This time was a growth experience for us in many different ways…“ She cut off. “It was my time to go, and although you nor he remembers it now, or then, it was scheduled this way ahead of time. Only until the birth of your own child would I remain with you in this body, but my love would never vanish. You needed time to prepare for motherhood. You had little. The illness (pregnancy) took your preparation and debilitated you. Again, with great foresight….”
I thought back to how challenging our daughter’s life was the first few years. There were doctors’ visits, specialists, and many things I’ll keep private but it was overwhelming. I had almost no outside help, and it was painful and hard to cope with the new responsibilities that situation required. I fought to help our child and had to refocus my life in many unpredictable ways.
“I didn’t do very well,” I said sadly.
“You do now,” Biscuit responded gently, “as you did then. Although you couldn’t have foreseen it, I did. <smiles lovingly> With me in the way, who could’ve helped Savanna as fully as she needed? You help everyone whom you choose to with love. You devote yourself to the human cause with care and undivided attention. You grew into the role, and you grew from your role, even as you experienced all the love and focus you believed you’d receive from your spouse splinter away from you. It didn’t but his attention was often diverted. He’s busy doing a lot for others. He also needed his space. To cope. Heal. Remember.”
“Selfishness is painful,” I said, believing myself to be this at times.
“But growth is Divine,” she remarked, with an awareness I do not always possess for myself.
She showed me what life would’ve been like had she stayed with us. The family divided, burdened a little more than what would’ve been accomplishable. “We were not separated,” she said. She showed me her last day with us, Josh sitting with her under her favorite tree in our backyard, after her eyesight had left and her body was preparing to shut down. Josh’s pain was palpable, almost unbearable. She asked me to feel a portion of it. It hurt too much.
To be continued…
© 9/28/16 by Angel-Rose Coen.