For Life and its expressions are one. Each soul or entity will and does return, or cycle, as does nature in its manifestations about man; thus leaving, making or presenting—as it were—those in infallible, indelible truths that it—Life—is continuous. And though there may be a few short years in this or that experience, they are one; the soul, the inner self being purified, being lifted up, that it may be one with that first cause, that first purpose for its coming into existence. (Edgar Cayce reading 938-1)
(This article is an excerpt from “Dying is Weird: A Journey of Enlightenment” and is republished from the Association for Research and Enlightenment’s Venture Inward web site blog.)
At the nursing home, my dad’s life was slowly ebbing away. He would frequently call out, “Let’s go, let’s go.” When I would ask him where he wanted to go, he would look at me puzzled, like I should have known exactly where he wanted to go.
Several days later as I was sitting pensively by my computer and thinking of my next task, all of a sudden an aroma filled the room. It was a different smell, hard to identify at first, but very familiar. As the scent filled my nostrils, I looked up and said, “Dad?” I immediately picked up the telephone and called the nursing home.
“How is my dad?” I asked, feeling anxious. The nurse said he was still the same the last time they checked on him.
“Are you sure he is all right?” I choked. “Do you think he is dying?”
“No way to tell,” she said, “He seems the same.”
“Okay, I will be there right after work as usual,” I said.
I left the office a little early that day. Something was nagging at me to get on my way, but the harder I tried to leave work, the more I was delayed by one thing or another. I was thinking how I wished I had trusted my intuition and insisted they check on him right away. Finally, I was on my way, driving the ten miles to see him. I started to drive very fast. I felt an urgency deep within my being. A city bus pulled out in front of me, and I almost sideswiped it. Okay, I thought, that’s it, slow down and take it easy or you will never get here alive. I thought about the aroma during the drive. What did that mean? I had never experienced anything like that before. When I arrived at the home, I rushed to the door and was met by the nursing supervisor.
“We tried to call you,” she said, “but you had already left. Your father just died.”
It was November 1, All Saints Day, a Catholic holiday. I considered that to be a bit ironic. Dad was anything but a saint, but he was a Catholic. Dying is so weird.’
Two weeks after Dad’s death, I was going through some of his belongings—a few small items and pictures that had meant a lot to him. I began reminiscing and touching each little article carefully. All of a sudden, I became aware of the same scent that had caught my attention a few weeks earlier.
“Oh my gosh, is that you, Dad?” I said out loud. The aroma lingered for a short time and then dissipated. My dad had made a visit, I was sure of it.
In the springtime of the following year, I visited my sister Loretta’s grave at a quaint little cemetery on the edge of town in the upper peninsula of Michigan—the place my sister had lived and died so long ago. Standing at the grave, I asked her if she had seen our dad yet. There it was again, that same scent that I associated with my dad, in the open air of the cemetery. Tears came to my eyes as I felt they indeed had connected. Maybe we all three had connected, but then again, maybe we had always been connected, more so than I could have ever imagined. It was a wonderful thought.
For many an individual entity those things that are of sorrow are the greatest help for unfoldment. (Edgar Cayce reading 3209-2)