Early May, 1997. For six months, since Stephen passed away, I have been going through cartons of his belongings. I know his kindergarten grades and his daughters’.
We first met in a graphic arts department for newspaper advertisements, where he was the manager, and I was a graphic artist doing paste up. He fired all part-timers, thus changing my initially increasing, but now short-lived liking for him to dislike, since I was one of those he fired.
Three years later, we met at “A Course in Miracles,” when I learned he had loved me since out first meeting, and we dated.
During the time we lived together, our counselor told Stephen that judging from the tonal quality of his voice, apparent to her while answering her questions, what he really wanted to do was become a voice-over recording artist—which he did, allowing him to write his songs to God and sing them. We married the day before he had brain surgery to remove an aggressive tumor.
Now, still living in our large apartment on two floors, among old palm trees, I was methodically giving away most of our belongings. This night, I was in the dining room staring out the floor to ceiling window—my mind elsewhere. A spotlight on the building lit up the middle section of a tree close to the balcony. I realized I was seeing half of Stephen’s face—it was the left half with the right half behind the narrow trunk. I found this comforting, scary, and strange. I stared, walked closer, moved back, went upstairs to look down, returned, and stared longer. This went on for six nights, and I never thought to take a photo.
My realization is, “There is activity in spirit that may enter our awareness, deepening our faith. Death is physical and our journey after it may include soul contact within the earth’s atmosphere—for those destined to receive.”