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I had never been particularly close to my mother. We had a turbulent relationship but she was my mother and I loved her.

In the summer of 2005, she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. There was no chance. It had been caught too late and was in an advanced state. By the end of November, the end was drawing near. By this time I had been in nursing for many years so I took a leave of absence from work to take personal care of her. Her major concern was that the family have a happy Christmas, not a mournful one. She had me running around fulfilling specific, carefully detailed and constructed plans for the holiday, from the dinner to the presents she wanted me to purchase for my siblings and the grandchildren. I obliged her, showing her each gift I had purchased to ensure they met her specifications. The last gift was for my brother and his wife. It wasn’t quite right, so I exchanged it and she was satisfied with that new one. With all the preparations taken care of, right down to what type of Christmas tree we would have and where it would be, she passed peacefully away.

The family tried their best to make this a happy celebration not only for the sake of the grandchildren but also as a celebration of our mother’s life and in honor of her dying wish that we celebrate Christmas, not hold a wake.

Christmas morning (not mourning) finally arrived. All the carefully chosen presents were distributed all tagged “with love from mom”. My siblings fought back tears as they opened these carefully chosen gifts but they also opened them with a smile and great care. The children simply tore into theirs with glee of course. When we were done with the presents, my eight year old niece pointed out that there was still one more little present nestled right in the tree. I was confused by this as I had not placed any present in the tree. My niece removed it from the tree and reading the label, handed it to me saying it was for me. Now I was really confused. All eyes were on me. I had purchased all the other presents as instructed but I certainly had not bought one for myself. I looked at my siblings and they just stared blankly at me, as confused as I was. None of them had purchased it and the presents they had bought me were certainly not tagged, “with all my love, mom”. I unwrapped it. Inside was a small jewelry box. Upon opening it, I not only gasped, but almost dropped it. My sister-in-law came rushing forward as if to steady me and my brother asked with some concern what it was. The box contained a heart shaped locket imbedded with a single pearl. On the back was an inscription from the book of Psalms, “The Lord is my Shepard” and when I opened the locket on the right side was a picture of me and on the left was a smiling picture of my mother. If all this were not enough, the thing about this locket is that I received an identical one on the occasion of my confirmation almost thirty years before. I cherished it. In fact, it was the first real of “grown up” piece of jewelry I had ever received. When we moved from Guilford to Hounslow, I had lost it. I was heart broken! For years, and I mean years, I looked for another locket like to no avail. It was and is unique. My siblings had long since forgotten about it and never understood why I was making such a fuss about it in the first place so even if they wanted to give me a special, sentimental gift, it would not have been that particular piece of jewelry. And now, after all these years, here it was in my hands again. I immediately placed it around my neck and have not taken it off since and never will until the day I die. At that time, I intend to pass it down to my daughter. One other thing about the locket; everything about it was identical to the one I received for my confirmation except for one thing. The one I “originally” had contained a picture of me on the right side and Mother Mary on the left. This one had a picture of my mother in place of Mother Mary. Although we had had a strained relationship, I felt at peace with her now and that for the first time in my life, I had a real mom.. Thank you mom and Merry Christmas.

Author's Note: On a personal note which I am always reluctant to engage in, these stories came to me at a very poignant time. I was at a point when I did not know if there was even going to be a second book in me to finish. Just prior to receiving Michelle’s remarkable stories, I had just learnt of the impending death of my own mother. The timing was uncanny to say the least. Like Michelle, I too had had a strained relationship with my mother. At first my mother seemed to be at peace with the news, almost happy go lucky. I knew this would not last for long. Sure enough, on Thursday the 7th of September, when I spoke to her, she was quite despondent. I was upset for her. I myself had been quite depressed all along, not just by this news but also because this would be the third death in my family in the past two years. I would be alone, immediate family- wise speaking anyway. I was at the end of my ropes and felt totally spent. That night, I retired to bed at the usual time. I was not ill so my fiancé had not stayed over that night. Just after 12 a.m., I was suddenly awoken by a presence in the room. In my sleepy state, I thought it was my boyfriend. I had been sleeping facing the window so I turned to face the door and began to ask who I thought was my fiancé, but stopped in mid sentence. It was not my fiancé at all. I was face to face with the figure of the Hooded Monk I had first encountered in our family home on Merion street in the 1970’s. Although the room had been cool, it was now warm and comfortable. There was no mistaking the power and presence of this entity. (To this day, he is still being seen on that street as is documented in chapter one of this book.) I was mesmerized and for some crazy reason, the only thought that entered my mind was, “Hello old friend. Long time no see”. He communicated to me in no uncertain terms that “you are charged with a mission that must be completed. Remember!” As I began to rise, he vanished. Although he did not speak the words, "my mission," I knew he was referring to this second manuscript which I felt had withered and died in me like an unborn child. It had been buried with all those loved one’s I had lost. I interrupted “remember” to mean the message I had received from, what two of the consulting psychics on my books said had been from the Monk: “Death does not possess you. You possess death and acquire its magic” only we took magic to mean transforming power and wisdom and that much of life is an illusion.

I also remembered the message we had received from the sitting which I had thought was directed at someone else about not being able to turn back (AREEL, chapter one). Although I have never fully grasped the deeper meaning or intent of the first message, I was certainly traversing through the valley of the shadow of death. In fact, I was practically on a first name basis with the Grimm Reaper. The following day, I felt strangely imbued by the timely visit of this enigmatic entity but still trapped like a caged animal. I had been sick, at times paralyzed by the onslaught of overwhelming, negative events. How could I possibly make contact with the book buried within me? How could I even begin writing again? Nevertheless, I felt heavily burdened by this “charge” that was upon me. Later on that day, I received the most amazing phone call. One of the afore mentioned psychics in England (Julian) had put a woman in touch with me. She had been emailing me but I had been too ill to get out and retrieve my messages.

That very day, being Friday the 8th, she felt an overwhelming urge to phone me directly. She was calling all the way from Hounslow, England. “Coincidently”, Hounslow is the name of my publisher, owned by the Dundurn Group. She had two stories to share with me and was anxious that they be published as she passionately believed that they would be of comfort and benefit to others (her compulsion and belief was so strong that she invested a good deal of time and money carefully relating the stories to me). Little did she know that she had already accomplished that for at least one person as she knew nothing of my circumstances. The stories she related to me are the ones presented above. She lit a spark in me which enabled me to begin writing again. I promised her that I would write up the accounts immediately and Email them to her for her perusal. I always keep my word so write it up I did. Her stories could not have come at a better time. It was no mere coincidence. It afforded me the means to address the situation I was facing with my own mother and reminded me that there is no real death, just change, as drastic and painful as that change may be. I am sure it will do the same for others who read it as well. And it forced and inspired me to start writing again, to take up the “charge” as it were. All this from a Hooded Monk from long past and a “stranger” from Hounslow.

Thank you Michelle from Hounslow and again, hello old friend returned from maybe a better time and place. I guess I have accepted “my charge”. So once again, I find myself standing on the shores of the river Rubicon. God help me or at least toss me the occasional life preserver. We can all use one of those at times.