My piano student asked me, “Do you believe
in Heaven?”
He’s eleven, so I had to think about my
answer. Anything I say can go back to his mother, who’s much more conservative
than either of us.
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“You talk to dead people. Ask them,” he
told me.
I noticed this was some new kind of
thinking for me. Why couldn’t I?
“They
talk to ME, I don’t talk to them,” I told him.
Luke
went back to piano and I mulled over the conversation. When I do readings and
work on murder cases, I do get messages from dead people. The problem is, I
don’t really ask, I just concentrate, hope, and wait.
Wouldn’t
it be wonderful if we could ask questions directly from people who have passed?
I’d ask my grandparents more about their parents, what they loved, how they
moved, what were their skills. I’d ask my mother about her biggest struggles
and satisfactions. I’d ask my dad for his jigger nut recipe for sundaes.
Heaven’s
a nice place to picture, but I’m not the expert. We all decide for ourselves.
If you do die before me and you feel like it, please talk to me from heaven or
wherever you end up, and let me know how it goes. As the song by David and
Bacharach goes, I’ll be wishin’ and hopin’.
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