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PART II
GRANDMA CRIES...
Continued from "Life After Death" by Remay
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Imaging by Remay
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"Grandma, you still haven't cried, have you?"
"No, and it really hurts." said my grandmother.
I said, "Tell me about the two weeks before my father died. What was happening with him?" I was, of course, trying to find the link between the art work and my father.
My grandmother had told me that in the last weeks of his life, he wove-in and -out of consciousness. Half of the time he didn't know who she was, or anyone else for that matter. Most of the time he was unconscious or incoherent.
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Other Links to Me:
Other Stories by Me:
Back to Part I
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She said he had called my name a few times during those two weeks.
"I don't know if this is going to make any difference to you or not, Grandma, but Daddy was in touch with me during those two weeks. I didn't know it until we were at the church this morning, but now I'm sure." I went on to tell her about my creative urge, and then, how the picture just popped into my head while I was talking to him during the service.
She was so happy for me, and I was surprised that she even believed it was possible. I had no idea what my grandmother believed because as a child, I only got to visit her during summer vacations and some holidays. We hardly ever had anytime alone to talk because there were always so many other people around: my aunt, her husband, my father, my brother, and my four cousins. We always seemed to be busy cleaning or preparing to eat, and the grownups almost always excluded us from their conversations. As an adult, I hadn't seen my grandmother since my father had disowned me, so how could I know what she believed.
"Grandma, if there was a way for you to talk to Daddy, would you try it no matter how far-out it sounds?" I asked.
She said, "If it could make me cry, I would try anything!"
So I told my grandmother about this Nigerian ritual used in contacting souls who had crossed over, and I asked her if she wanted me to pick-up the things she needed in order to contact my father. I knew it worked because I had tried it with my boyfriend about three years earlier. She was gamed to try anything.
On the day I was going to be leaving town, I went shopping for my grandmother. I brought her to her room where I had set-up the altar and gave her some final instructions. I gave her a great big hug, kissed her on her cheek, and said to her, "If you believe it is possible to talk to Daddy, it will be possible. Have faith, and continue with the ritual until he comes to you. After that, you can decide whether or not you need to continue to be in contact with him. I'll call you in a week." She kissed me goodbye, thanked me for trying to help her, and told me she loved me."
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Due to the high volume of SPAM, I removed my email address. If
you would like to contact me regarding my hometown pages, sign
my Guest Book on the List Page of "Remay's Poetry Corner" or
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For the next week, I thought about my grandmother off and on, wondering if she had any results, if she believed it was possible, if she had cried yet. By the end of the week, I called her to see how she was doing. She was so happy, she said she was waiting for my call because she couldn't wait to tell me what happened: "I was sitting there in the room, like you told me, and I was talking to your father. I didn't know if he was hearing me or not, then all of a sudden the room got very dark and I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was your father's hand."
"How do you know, Grandma?"
"Because he talked to me. He said, 'Ma, I'm alright. Please don't worry about me anymore. I'm alright.' Remay, I started to cry. It felt so good, I was crying."
"Oh, Grandma. I'm so happy for you. Are you going to try to keep in touch with him?"
"No, I don't need to. He's okay and I have cried, so I took the altar apart.
"Thank you for helping me, Remay."
I never really gave any thought to why it was so easy for my father to communicate with me during the church service, and one day I realized the correlation between the Nigerian ritual I shared with my Grandmother, and the arrangements at the church. Everything I provided for my grandmother's communication with my father was traditionally provided at the funeral services. The differences were the substitutions: instead of his picture, my father's body was present; instead of coaxing him with something which gave him pleasure while on earth, I coaxed him with myself, his daughter.
From the experiences of my father's passing, I have learned so much. Things aren't always as they appear, and we have more power than we have been led to believe. If these aren't examples of God working in mysterious ways, they are surely beyond scientific comprehension and beyond the realm of what has been deemed as normal.
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