Anthony’s Message (Part 1)
Anthony’s Message was written for the family of Anthony McColl about three months after the accident that took the life of a vibrant 19 year old young man. Anthony was – and still is – the son of dear family friends.
This story was my attempt to recount our own experience in the wake of the possibly avoidable death of Anthony – to offer some peace, reassurance and a life altering perspective on this tragic incident.
A year later, this story was published in the book A Father’s Tears by David McColl, Anthony’s father. If you have lost a child, or are supporting someone who has lost a child, I highly recommend reading A Father’s Tears.
The recent tragedy in Newtown CT compelled me to publish Anthony’s Message here. The loss of a child is unthinkable. But when we are forced to think about it, let alone experience it, we may leave ourselves open to a spiritual awakening.
I hope that Anthony’s message will give people hope that life is not what it seems, that there is a higher perspective – an expansive view of life being lived on a continuum. We never lose those we love. They are with us, and here to support us on our earthly journey. This is the first of three installments. Please read on…
“Mommy!!! Wake up! Wake Up!”
Matilda is sitting straight up in bed in the darkened room. She’s got both hands on my bare left arm, yanking me from a deep sleep. Kate, Matilda and I are supposed to be in the middle of a Friday night sleepover at Mom’s condo. Matilda and I are bunking in Mom’s room. We all went to bed late. It’s now well past midnight, the exact time unsure. This is too soon to wake up.
I’m barely conscious. “what’s the matter, Mattie?” I murmur.
Matilda is talking in a stage whisper. “Mommy. I’m scared… There’s somebody here. They’re here on my side. I don’t know who it is. Can we change sides? Please? I’m scared…”
“o.k.” I sigh as I slide towards her, pull her up and over me and settle her on the other side of the bed. I scoot over to Matilda’s well-warmed spot. I find her soft white blankie and her dog-eared bunny toy nestled there. I snuggle them down beside Matilda who is now almost back to sleep, then roll over on my side to get more shuteye.
But I can’t.
There’s definitely somebody here.
I stop trying to sleep and try to discern the subtle but pressing energy. It feels like a male presence. It’s moving around this corner of the room. A paper rustles, something softly scuffs a surface. He’s by the bed again – it’s a calm gentle energy. It could be my Dad, or my grandfather or …? The usual suspects would normally let me know exactly who they are. And there are a few others who tend to wake us up at night. Who is it?
But it’s weird. Nighttime visitations have never happened at Mom’s condo. Whoever it is, is not making himself known. I know I’ll find out soon enough if it’s important. I try again to settle down to sleep. I can’t. I wonder what he needs?
Sunlight is leaking around the edges of the drapes when Kate and Mom tiptoe into the room. Matilda is snoring softly on her side of the bed as I whisper to Mom that Matilda didn’t sleep well. We need to let her sleep in. Someone woke her up. Someone has definitely been in the room. It felt like it was a male. Mom whispers she’s not slept well either. Kate was very restless, flopping around like a fish out of water. We both agree. Something’s “up”.
Bleary-eyed with coffee in hand.
Mom and I try to revive ourselves in the living room. As I gradually perk up I think more about last night. Very strange. Matilda would normally tell me to get rid of the unknown visitor – tell them to go away. People she doesn’t know she calls “monsters” – I guess because she’s scared, they don’t come in clearly enough to be seen. I’d say the usual: ‘Thanks but no thanks. We can’t help you now. Please go.’ They usually do.
During these situations, Matilda always asks me to call in Grampa Grant to watch over us to make sure nobody will bug us. But last night I didn’t do any of this. Did Matilda feel this person was meant to be with us? I guess I may have felt that too. At least it never occurred to me to ask them to leave. The energy was somehow familiar.
With Matilda now up and both girls busy munching on breakfast, I slip into Mom’s bathroom for a quick shower. I’m not fully positioned under the showerhead when I hear the matter-of-fact statement in my head, “ “Someone close to you has died.”
“Whaaat?” I say back, incredulous. This is awful. My mind whips into worst-case-scenario. Oh God, I hope it’s not my husband. He’s in the air right now on his way here, to be with his family. It’s a stormy morning, with high winds.
I’m given no more details.
But when I get out of the shower, I hear the phone ring. The voice in my head says softly, calmly, unemotionally, “Here we go…” I peek out the bathroom door and Mom is in the bedroom, portable phone to her ear, tears streaming down her face. “You better talk to your sister…” she says into the phone.
It’s my brother Andy. Andy is in charge of calling people. We’re his first call. He can hardly talk. Brief details. Anthony was in a fatal car accident early this morning. I get hit by a wave of grief. Anthony is such a great kid. Everybody loves Anthony. This is devastating. Oh God. Poor Monica and Rufus. As parents, it’s their worst fear realized. This shouldn’t be happening. It’s not right.
Then a thought bubbles up. Could it be Anthony who visited last night? What time was the crash? What time did Matilda wake me up? Around 3 a.m. I’d guess. Matilda doesn’t really know Anthony. She was a baby the last time his family visited us at the lake. Whoever it was seemed to be attracted to her.
I’m packing up our sleepover bags. The girls are readying their gear to load the car, then pick up their Dad at the airport.
A voice in my head says. “He’s with his grandmother. He’s crossed over. It was instant.”
I don’t know if this is wishful thinking or if it’s a clear message. I let it rest.
Hubbie is home safe.
We’re now in our kitchen at the lake, making platters for the appetizer table at the annual fundraising event for Matilda’s co-op preschool – it’s happening tomorrow. Kate has helped us finish filling spring rolls and now we’re busily rolling sushi. For no apparent reason I look up and stare at the stacked ovens. Why am I looking there? We’re not using the ovens.
A male is standing there facing me. He’s a big guy, he’s young. Dark wavy hair falls in front of his face. It’s not the first time I’ve had Spirit visitors beside my ovens. All the electricity – it’s a magnet. Spirits often use the energy that charges big appliances to come through to this side. My fridge has the same power, and the same effect.
Is that Anthony?? I’m not sure. He’s faint. He comes in and out – at least it seems that way. I sigh. I don’t enjoy this space – not knowing whether it’s wishful thinking, my imagination or a real visit. But I’ve learned what to do. I push away the vision. If it goes away, it’s wishful thinking. If the vision comes back again, gets stronger with more details, if we interact, it’s the real deal.
We continue our veggie sushi marathon. I look up from my sushi mat, frustrated with an inside-out roll that’s not working for me, to find the young man standing by the ovens but this time with an older woman beside him. I think it’s his grandmother. They aren’t talking, just calmly surveying the scene. I acknowledge their presence. They disappear. I’m feeling it’s Anthony but my ego needs more proof. I don’t say anything to my husband.
It’s late.
The girls are now in bed and I’m in my upstairs bathroom – my channeling room – brushing my teeth, washing my face. A subtle presence comes in. I say, “Anthony, if this is you, I will help you get any messages to your family. I promise.” There’s no answer.
I don’t sleep well. None of us do. Kate wakes up. “Daddy!” She’s had a bad dream and can’t get back to sleep. Her Dad goes down to Kate’s room to settle her down. I hear her cry out every time he tries to leave. He stays with her.
It’s Matilda’s turn. “Mommy!” Matilda often wakes up in the middle of the night. She gets up by herself to pee, read her picture books, chat with unseen friends, sing pre-school songs, recite newly learned rhymes. She only calls out if she’s sick, she’s wet the bed, she’s hungry. Or, if there’s a visitor.
I stumble down the stairs. “Mommy!” Matilda is crying now as I walk into her room. “There’s somebody here!” Matilda pleads.
“It’s okay, Honey. It’s okay. It’s just Anthony. He’s our friend. He’s visiting. He’s a good guy. We love Anthony. Time to go back to sleep. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
Matilda seems reassured. “o.k… Can you stay with me ‘til when the sun comes?” Matilda mumbles from under the covers.
I agree, crawling into the spare bed.
I dream that Dad is standing by my bed.
He tells me in my sleep, “Anthony and Matilda have the same kind of energy.”
In the morning we are scrambling to get ready for church. I’m back in my bathroom, finished my hair and now doing my face. My Dad, now in Spirit for more than 15 years, is in his usual spot, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.
“Dad? Why Anthony?”
Dad answers back immediately, “Soon you’ll understand.”
I reach into my walk-in closet and dig out some pant stockings from a drawer.
Dad adds, “You’ll say his name in church today.”
ugghh. I know what this is. It’s a test from Spirit.
Dad knows I like to lie low in the pew.
I go to church, but as an outlier in the protestant religion, I feel it’s not my place to speak up in church: I feel I’m in no position since I don’t subscribe to some of its fundamental tenets. Case in point: I have not accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior, yet this is a cornerstone of our religion.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m a firm believer in what Jesus stood for, his lessons, his compassionate role model, and I am in awe of Christ consciousness that manifests every day, in warm gestures, in respectful responses, in thoughtful deeds, showing how we are all connected. The Dalai Lama sums up Christ consciousness by saying, “My religion is kindness”. I subscribe to that. So I go to church.
Dad’s request refers to a quiet portion during the service where churchgoers are encouraged to speak the names of people who are in their thoughts this week. Gisele, our Minister, then leads the congregation through a spontaneous community prayer that includes the names of these people. It’s an unrehearsed moment where everyone seems to connect.
I make a feeble attempt to lessen my potential involvement at church this morning. “Dad, You know I don’t DO that…”
Dad looks at me and waits.
“But…,”I’m thinking out loud. “I guess if there was a time to speak up, it would be today, after what happened.”
“Don’t worry about it, Putty,” encourages Dad in my left ear. “It will all work out.”
(Putty is my nickname – because I tend to be on the go, doing something, thinking about something, working on something. Dad used to say I was always putt-putting around. )
I don’t know how this is going to play out. Maybe I will say something. Maybe I won’t need to. I have to wait and see. And trust that soon I’ll understand…
- With thanks to Spirit for infinite return.
(Story to be continued in Anthony’s Message – Part 2.)
(c) 2010, 2011, 2012 The Accidental Medium. UltraMarine Media Inc. All Rights Reserved.
