Weeks pass, and I continue to ask the same question in my mind, “Did she pass?” and always, the answer is the same ‘Yes.’ But, I know something is not right. I trust my guide. I know he represents only the truth, so she must have passed, but I can’t understand what happened at the door, and he offers no explanation.
I decide to wait before sharing what happened with her family. There is no doubt they have a right to know, but I can’t add to their burden, not without understanding what has occurred. I can’t bring myself to expose them to something that will increase their concern without giving them some solace to their pain. For now, I deliver the messages Amber gave to me. She is safe. She loves them, and finally, she is on the other side, where she will find peace. Everything I say is right, though it feels incomplete.
I can tell Monica senses I’m withholding something. She repeatedly asks me to recount the events of that night. Every time I see her, she asks me to tell the story again. I can see she is seeking resolution. While consciously she doesn’t know it, her accounts of Amber’s communications with the family are disturbing to me as well. She sees Amber as they’ve always known her, and to her, it’s okay, but to me, her behavior sounds erratic and is not representative of someone who has passed to the other side. I’m frustrated as I can see everyone is still suffering. The family is not finding peace, and I cannot understand why.
I try to hope it is just Amber adjusting to her new experience, and maybe she’s having a difficult time letting go of the identity she had while living in this world. She loved her family a great deal, and being a young mother, she had powerful attachments to her children and her husband. She also belongs to a church that has faith in duality. So, she may know of no other way to be than to cling to her old self. I am increasingly concerned she might be bound here by her family’s love, but I am also confused by the possibility of it.
An inability to let go of worldly attachments is a symptom of someone who has not passed. I do not understand how someone who has passed can still hold on. I have been to the other side of the veil. I have lost my life and returned to it, and while I was there, the feelings of oneness consumed me. I couldn’t even comprehend making any other choice but to become the essence of the other side. I realize my family connection is bitter, and I have nothing to hold me to them, so I understand the experience offered to me was an improvement, not a loss. I likely surrendered to it more readily, but in the end, I came back. I loved being alive, and I returned, so I could submit to the pure love of Spirit and still return. I can’t understand how it hasn’t enveloped her how she hasn’t evolved. Something still doesn’t feel right.
My thoughts consume me, but I must lay them aside tonight. I have been called to another table to help an acquaintance of some friends I have. Regardless of my real need to focus on Amber, I have agreed to attend, so I will break if I can for just one night.
As I come to the table, I feel distracted and quiet, and while I know my ability to concentrate is not crucial to receiving guidance, tables are often smoother. Understanding comes more quickly when I can focus. If I come to the table open and willing to allow Spirit to guide me, we will reach a place to help this person. Regardless of the doubts I have about Amber, I know God is here with me, and I know my openness is the gift I use to bring healing. Still, tonight, my honesty is the most I can offer though I feel like I should bring more.
As we close the prayer and begin our communication, we work better at the table than I initially anticipated, and I feel more clarity than I have in the past. It is as if I have always done this work through a dirty window. I know my perception can distort what Spirit is trying to say, but tonight I feel my window is clear, and the answers are quickly evident.
We move through the guidance requested, and then, as we do before closing any communication, we ask a final question, “Is anything else that requires our attention at this time?”
Tonight, we receive a ‘Yes.’
I am tentative in my response, “Will you please move the glass to rest before the person you would like to communicate with next?”
The glass slowly travels the length of the table to rest in front of me.
I am confused at first, wondering what I need to process. I had so ‘let go’ of my questions regarding Amber and settled into the clarity here; it takes a moment for me to realize I probably have work to do at the table tonight.
After my hesitation, I begin my questions. “Is this about the work I’m doing?”
I return to the place I’ve been a million times before, “Did Amber pass?”
“Is my work with her complete?”
I am confused. How can I possibly have more work to do with Amber if she has passed? I don’t work with those on the other side. They come across to work with me. I haven’t even been to the other side in years. The message doesn’t make sense, but this doesn’t dissuade me. I am in the perfect place to continue my pursuit of the truth.
I start where I first became lost, “I saw a flash at the door as Amber passed through it. Is this about what I saw?”
From here, I use my instinct. I connect with the voice within me, and I confirm what I hear through the glass. Getting accurate confirmation is why we use a communication tool. Spirit is everywhere, all around us. However, the voices or ideas we have are a constant barrage of information. We must verify the words we hear and confirm they will guide us forward, not just make us feel safe.
“Was what I saw trying to prevent her from passing?”
“Did it succeed?”
“Is that a, ‘No?’”
Here I must stop for a moment. From what I’m seeing, I must assume this isn’t a ‘No,’ and it isn’t a ‘Yes.’ It must be something in between.
“Did it partially succeed?”
I’m dumbfounded. “So Amber split?”
Suddenly, I get it. She divided. The authentic Amber, the core of her essence, the part of her that knows God passed through the veil untethered. The truth of her found the other side, but the identity she held here did not pass. The person who owns the name Amber and lived here with her family and bore two beautiful children; this person could not let go. When the being came for her, she held tight to them. The moment at the door is a crucial moment for all of us. We have before us the opportunity of our heaven, but we must abandon the limitations of our life on Earth to have it. Amber did not choose. One truth could not outweigh the other or live within the same being, so she split.
Of course, she cannot be a complete representation of who she is this way. We all carry our true essence with us. We are incomplete without it. The pure unselfish part of her being is missing from this representation of her. Eventually, these two very distinct aspects could probably find each other again, or in a much worse scenario, they could continue along very separate paths. For the part of her that remains, this could be extremely dangerous.
Of course, neither Amber nor her family will ever feel true peace with her divided in this way. They may be getting what they think they want. They may be able to cling to a small part of her to keep her in their lives, but in the end, it is not what their hearts need. It is not the soul’s path to be separate. Though letting go is difficult, we must do this to grow and expand and finally experience peace.
I carefully return with this understanding to the glass. I ask for clarification one fact at a time. I want to make sure I get this right. “So, the essence of Amber has passed?”
“Is it simply her identity of herself that stayed behind?”
“Do I need to help this ‘identity’ to pass?”
“She is incomplete on the other side and unable to do her work without it. Is this correct?”
I still have a concern. I feel my work with the attachment that was tormenting her is complete, but I want to be sure of who intervened. “Is it appropriate for me to know at this time who interfered?”
“Was it a negative force?”
“Was it a ‘Spiritual’ being?”
A spark lights in my mind, and understanding fills me. When Amber went to the door to pass, someone who loved her a great deal, someone who loved her as much as she loved them, tried to stop her. They intended her no harm, just as she means no harm now. They could not bear the idea of losing her. They could not accept the thought. However, even with their best effort to keep her here, they could not prevent her from passing, not all of her.
“Was it a loved one?”
“Is this person still living?”
“Is it her husband?”
My heart breaks a little for them. Most of us spend our entire lives looking for or maybe even in denial of this kind of love. It’s the kind of true love that makes ‘happily ever afters.’ Amber and her husband were privileged enough to have found this love. I can’t even imagine the pain of losing it.
I have promised her I will follow this through until her family has found peace. I have sworn to it, and I will keep my word. But, I think my task just became substantially more difficult.
How do I even begin to help Amber now? I’ve done all I have known to do. Everything in this situation seems so unreal. How could this be the story of what has happened? Of all the work I’ve done, none has ever reflected so much pain and loss.
Though my work with lost souls has become more complicated than it was in the past, I don’t think I’ve ever met this kind of challenge. I no longer just pray for healings and walk away like I did when I began this work. I take the time to know the people I help and how they came to be who they are. I try to know their needs, and then I meet them with the truth. Because of my investment, I’m beginning to understand the human condition on a whole new level.
I’ve said for a long time, ‘I prefer to let the beings I help tell me who they are.’ I must hear Amber’s story to help me understand where Amber was in her life, so I can understand how to help her. Everything in my life has become about ‘the narrative of life.’ I guess this will too. I finally have my answers, not just to the moment, but to prayers, I have been praying for years.
I begin to write.