Last Rites

last-ritesI got the call. Not my brother. When all was said and done, it worked out perfectly…

Came home at 930 one night and felt a strong feeling in my stomach that mysteriously communicated that I must go to my bedroom. Starting toward the kitchen instead, I hesitated because, she, my highest self, persisted with her sensation of a deep pool of quiet understanding and knowing at the bottom of my stomach. She was leading me to crawl into bed. I grabbed a couple of magazines, my journal and day timer and headed upstairs. I did as she bade; crawled into bed and started reading. But she, wanted me to put my books aside. I got the message because I felt distaste for the books even though I always read or write before bed. The no reading or writing message felt odd. It made no sense.

I wasn’t resting in the darkness for long when the phone rang…a number I didn’t recognize. Because I felt a little scared having followed my instincts and then having the phone ring, I let it go to voice mail.

My father had been in the hospital during the week….so it’s beginning to make sense. She was preparing me to handle a late-night emergency. The voice mail said my father had a heart attack; you could hear the medical emergency chaos. Quickly responding, I listened to the agitated doctor who had been trying to reach my brother. After calling all his numbers, I shared the news. Stunned and hurriedly gathering himself, my brother telephoned the doctor while rushing out of the house.

As these minutes flew by while simultaneously moving in slow motion she, my highest self, made even more sense to me. She knew I wasn’t as connected to my father as my brother. She knew I needed a few minutes of quiet before receiving the phone call so I could confidently speak to the doctor and gently, quickly, and directly tell my brother the story. My brother was there before my father died, turning his head to take a last look at his son.

When I arrived, my brother was comfortably seated close to my father with a hand placed on his shoulder and his other hand holding my father’s hand. My brother, shoelaces strewn on the floor witnessed his father take his last breaths. Dear reader, you may think I’m callous when I say this, but it was a beautiful site. It was love they were sharing…a blessed moment!

I marvel at the perfection that arose by trusting her guidance.

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