Angelic Pathways (12 page)

Furthermore, not only did this same karma lead to the single most humbling experience in my life, but it allowed someone the opportunity to show compassion when they didn’t have to. The first day I used my assistance, I rode back and forth in the electric shopping cart for a good thirty minutes. I was petrified of someone seeing me use it, of someone saying to me the heartless things my parents had said in the past, or saying to me things I myself had said to others. When I could wait no longer, I finally went through the checkout line. I couldn’t even look the cashier in the face as I went to hand her my card.

“You swipe it in the machine, baby,” she said as she gently took the card from me and swiped it herself. My hand was shaking so badly from fear, I couldn’t do it. She walked me through the process and then went to bag my groceries.

“I never thought my life would come to this,” I mumbled to myself.

“No one plans to be down on their luck, sweetheart. Just be grateful that God made a way so you can survive until you get back on your feet.” There was no malice in her voice. No mocking. No ridicule. Still, I couldn’t lift my head, and her words only made my eyes sting with unshed tears.

She put the last bag in my cart. “Look at me.”

I swallowed hard and gripped the handle of my cart.

“Pretty please?”

When I did, her smile was warm and genuine. “Do you know how many people are going through hard times right now? You’re not the only one, so don’t you go hanging your head in shame. You do what you can do and let God handle everything else.” She patted me on the back before returning to the register to take care of the lady behind me. I headed out of the store, and as I sat waiting for the bus—something else that was wholly foreign to me—all I could do was whisper a word of thanks to God for the compassionate souls that still roamed the earth, because there were too many like myself. Not the pathetic, self-pitying kind I had become, but the arrogant, self-righteous kind I had once been.

As dark days grew into darker months and I came to despise my circumstances with a loathing so potent that I could taste it, I became more resolute in my resolve—the moment I stepped foot in Heaven again, I was going to punch Archangel Gabriel’s lights out. If I had actually scripted the horror film that was my life—something I was having trouble believing at the time—why hadn’t he tried harder to stop me? Why didn’t he simply say, “No, Chantel. You’ll be miserable for the duration you’re there.” Because it is in the Realm of Spirit where we exercise our free will. It is there where we can work without all the limits and confines that we often feel in this reality. As long as we possess the mastery needed to navigate the lives we choose, no one will stop us from selecting whatever experiences we feel will increase our knowledge and understanding of ourselves.

After all, that is our ultimate goal—mastery of the self. While living this human experience, we can connect to our cosmic siblings, who will in turn help us to better understand our own human spiritual nature. From there, our knowledge expands to that of the Realm of Spirit, then to all sentient creatures, and then back to the Source. And within the Source you will find yourself, for there is where you began. There is your purest self, your higher self—unfettered, fully awake, and fully aware of all that exists within and around you.

But to get to that point, our young souls have to start somewhere, like in realities such as this one. Each human experience we have is like a class we attend for the betterment of our souls. Sure, you could take basket weaving for that easy A, but just how much would that class benefit you in the grander scheme of things? Likewise, trying to attempt computer science when you still have trouble just turning on a calculator won’t net you much, either. This is why working with the archangels before we’re born is so crucial—because they know and understand the nature of the Source (the collective spiritual consciousness) and Creation. Many of them have lived it themselves, so they are best suited to help us baby humans figure out what courses we should take from one semester to the next. Still, we humans are stubborn creatures, so we don’t always listen to our older brothers and sisters, which is why they come along for the ride. For that reason alone, we owe them our love and gratitude.

Once here, the archangels keep their vows to help us study, as well as drill us for exams. They run us through spiritual gauntlets to prepare us for the challenges coming around the bend. So despite my rocky beginning with the archangels, I love them beyond words. They have put up with my biting words, my ungratefulness, my obstinacy. They have served as my emotional punching bags and targets of blame. They do this for all of us, and still they dutifully, lovingly remain by our side.

There are no creatures so patient and willing to put up with every ounce of vileness that humans can throw at them as the archangels. Their love is pure and unconditional. They guide us, comfort us, encourage and inspire us. And when the time is right and we have learned the lessons we set out to learn, they will lift us up and celebrate with us.

Even when they don’t agree with the life scripts we write, even when they know they will be called upon to dry our tears, heal our hearts, and keep us company, they won’t badger us with
I told you so
… much. They won’t disparage or mock us. And they will never, ever abandon us.

[contents]

chapter four

RETURNING HOME

I sat in the parking lot watching the sun set over the trees in the distance. Transfixed by the deep, amber glow filtering through the dark leaves and over the tops of suburban houses, I allowed my thoughts to drift. This moment of silence, even for as brief as it would be, was something I needed. It was something that would hopefully quell the nervous anxiety that had gripped me days earlier and had refused to let go.

The trip down the spiral of that anxiety had begun a few days prior, in the autumn of 2006, when a client visited the store where I occasionally did readings. I had no scheduled appointments that day, but being at the store drinking tea was infinitely better than being confined to that upstairs bedroom at that godforsaken house, eating cold soup out of a can.

It was because I wasn’t expecting anyone that I was surprised to see my client walk in the door, and the worry etched deep in her features set off my internal alarms. Something was horribly amiss.

For the sake of this story, we’ll call her Tracy.

Tracy had always been one of my bubblier clients, always willing to share in a quip or two about “the boys”—what my clients had begun calling the archangels that I channeled for them. But that day, it seemed that all the light had been drained from Tracy’s soul. Within a few minutes of getting her seated and serving her a cup of hot tea, I found out why.

Her mother was dying.

“I’m at peace with Mom leaving,” she said as she held the china cup between her palms. “The family knew this was coming months ago. Mom knew. But now, as she’s nearing that moment, she’s afraid, Chantel. She’s so scared of dying, and there’s nothing I or my sisters can say to allay those fears.”

I felt my stomach clench. I knew exactly what Tracy was going through, for I had just lost not only my mother in 2001, but two very close spiritual mentors as well. Over the course of four years, I had lost the three most important female influences in my life. I had even had my own brush with death thrice during that time period, so the feelings I had for Tracy and her circumstances weren’t borne of mere sympathy. I was right there with her on the same page and processing my personal experiences and the emotions they evoked.

Still, there was one slight difference between us. Neither my mother nor my two spiritual mentors had ever expressed—to me, anyhow—any of the fears they may have had about their coming transition. Tracy’s mother had cancer, and I had lost all three women to a form of cancer. Each of them had known well in advance what was to come, at least according to the doctors. But none of them had spoken a word to me of the impending final moment.

I remember the day my mother, Peggy, was officially diagnosed with lung cancer and given only five months to live. The two of us silently left the doctor’s office, rode the elevator down to the first level, and walked out into the parking lot to face the brisk winter wind. My mom stood solidly against the wind, as if defying it. The look on her face wasn’t foreign to me. She was a tough cookie and often took that tough, wide-legged stance whenever she faced adversity of some kind. I, however, was a ball of nerves. I wanted to scream, cry, wail. I wanted more tests to be taken; I wanted second opinions. I wanted to hire the best alternative physicians in the world—to do anything that would give my mother a fighting chance.

With a stoic glance around the parking lot, I saw her clench her teeth. She then reached into her purse and pulled out her cigarette case. It was something I had come to view as an extension of her. Wherever Peggy went, so did that navy blue leather case where she kept her light cigarettes tucked away, along with an emergency twenty dollar bill, a cigarette lighter, a book of matches, and old lottery tickets—some winners, some losers. She gave the case a long, hard stare. Ever since she was sixteen, she had smoked. And here at age sixty-four, a habit that I had constantly badgered her about had finally caught up to her, it seemed.

She went to extract a cigarette from the case and then stopped short. With a sigh, she closed the case and tucked it back into her purse. “For the first time, I’m not in the mood for one.” She gave a dry chuckle and headed for the car.

As we drove around the small suburb, I remained quiet. She didn’t seem to have any real destination in mind, which frightened me even more. It wasn’t like my mom to look so lost. I could tell she was trying to hold everything together—it was just her way. And I wished I could be as strong as she seemed to be, but every now and then I had to turn my head to look out the passenger window and swipe away a tear.

To my shock, we wound up shopping that day. A lot. She shopped as if she didn’t have a care in the world, and it wasn’t just for clothes. She bought a couple new pieces of furniture—huge pieces that left me standing in the showroom with my jaw on the floor.

“I’ve been eyeing these pieces since last year. I plan on enjoying them while I can.”

Nonplussed, I simply nodded.

After a few hours we found ourselves sitting at one of her favorite restaurants. And still we were both locked in silence. We hadn’t said much to each other in the couple hours since the doctor’s office other than to toss opinions back and forth about her unplanned shopping spree. But the silence had been too long for me. I couldn’t take it anymore.

As I clutched my cup of coffee, I lifted my bleary eyes to her. No doubt they were red as I tried my best not to cry in front of her. “Mom, talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“I’m feeling just fine, baby. It’s God’s will, so I’m rolling right along with it,” she said as her eyes scanned the menu. How could she be so calm and collected? So unfazed by the literal death sentence that had been handed to her mere hours ago?

After another long pause, while I tried to sort the thoughts in my head, I finally gave voice to a question that perhaps was too soon to ask. Still, I had to know. “Do you have any regrets?” I muttered softly with trembling lips. My mother took a sip of her coffee and glanced out the window to the mid-afternoon traffic passing by.

She was quiet for so long that I didn’t think she’d answer me, but after a short sigh, she finally leveled a warm, loving gaze on me. “No, baby. I’ve lived my life as best as I could. I’ve lived it to the fullest, so there are no regrets here. Not a single damn one.” She smiled at me, and in that moment I saw unshed tears in her eyes. I reached my hand out to her across the table and she took it in a firm grip, a grip that could rival any man’s from all the hard work she’d done all her life to raise a family.

“And I don’t want you regretting anything, either,” she said before the waitress came to take our order.

My mother continued to hold on to that strength up until her final moments, so when my client Tracy relayed the fear that her mother was expressing, I couldn’t exactly look to my experience with my mother’s death for guidance. I had to look to my own personal experience with it. I’ve faced death a few times in this life. Throughout childhood, I had an unnatural fear of it. So as Tracy shared the details of her mother’s circumstances with me, I quickly filed through the process that helped me to move past that fear.

Tracy actually pinpointed the solution before I could. She lifted her eyes that shimmered with unshed tears and asked, “Will you come talk with her and tell her about the angels?”

Yep, that was it. It was my connection with the angels that helped me to overcome the paralyzing fear of death that had all but overtaken my life by the time I reached college. Seeing the angels with my own eyes, talking with them and learning all that they were willing to teach about spirituality, moved me past the fear and into a sense of peace I never thought I’d have.

Without hesitation, I took Tracy’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “Just tell me when and where,” I said boldly. Tracy then gave me all the information and a time that would be good to visit her mother. Naturally, the sooner the better. And up until Tracy left, I’d felt confident that I might be able to help her mother find the same peace the angels had given me.

That confidence crumbled the instant Tracy left the store. After a moment of thinking through what I had just consented to, I fell into a state of panic. To do consultations for clients and connect them with their angels was one thing, but to sit with someone who was standing on the very threshold between life and death and talk about angels was a whole different thing. As always with me, that tiny fraction of me that remains a skeptic, the part of me that defiantly stands before the angels during my personal conversations with them and says, “Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it,” reared its ugly head.