Reflections In A Mirror

CHAPTER ONE

INTRODUCTION

Slices of Life is an advertising phrase used to describe a type of radio or television commercial.

Remember the ads where the husband comes home after a hard day’s work, is greeted by his wife at the door and he notices how soft her skin is? Of course, the soft skin is because of the new soap she’s using.

Or how about the phone company commercial where the old man sits in his favorite chair, looking at long ago pictures of him and his son walking on the beach?

Suddenly, the phone rings. The old man sighs, picks up the phone and guess who it is? You’re right; it’s the son, who’s away on some business trip in Hong Kong but decided to give his father a call.

These types of commercials, where everyday circumstances are used to sell a product are called slices of life. They’re very effective because they take common, ordinary situations, boil them into simple, thirty-second dramas with one message: buy this product, buy this idea.

Why do these types of commercials work?

The answer’s easy: because we relate to them.

How many of us have sat around waiting for the phone to ring from a special person? How many of us want the perfect marriage, where the husband comes home from work and is greeted by a happy, smiling and beautiful wife?

If life were only that simple!

If only our lives were a television commercial, where everything was neatly packaged, explained and resolved in thirty seconds.

I’m not saying our lives are as idiotic and mediocre as television commercials but on the other hand, life isn’t as complicated as we sometimes make it out to be.

Maybe, if we watch our lives in simple, thirty-second snapshots, we might be able to see beyond the barriers we’ve put up around us.

If we could separate ourselves from ourselves, setting aside ego, vanity and fantasy, we’d be able to see life as it really is.

If we saw our lives as a continuation of the past we’d understand the life we’re living today. And, if we could see today’s life as a foundation for the future, imagine how our behavior would change.

If we could ourselves, and others, for what we really are; spirits created by the same God here for the same reasons: to learn, grow and mature there’d be no reason for jealousy, hate and fear.

If we could do all that, we’d learn and grow from the slices of life we find ourselves in.

Those are some pretty big Ifs.

Can it be done? Are those Ifs within our reach?

Life is at once simple as it is complex. In reality, life is a series of slices we go through discovering ourselves. Our life is a series of mini-lives; each one carrying its own meaning, lesson and reason.

This book, REFLECTIONS IN A MIRROR, will help you understand and appreciate the beauty and perfection of life’s simplicity.

We’re on this planet to learn. The slices of this book are lessons from this school called earth, reflecting the daily options this vibration places on our path: love and hate, courage and fear, sacrifice and pride.

What you can learn from the slices in this book depends on your perspective:

If you believe we’ve lived before and we’ll live again, you’ll see how everything somehow fits into place.

If you believe we’re spirits created by the same God, you’ll see how we’re all interrelated with each other.

If you believe we’re on this planet to learn, experiment and grow, you’ll see how nothing happens by accident.

And finally, if you believe we incarnate not only for our own progression but sometimes to help others, you will see the simplicity and beauty of life.

ALL the stories in REFLECTIONS IN A MIRROR are true. They’re based on events that actually happened. But, the dates, times, places and names have been changed.

I’ve done this for two reasons:

People have a right to privacy.

This is a basic human right, and I simply don’t have the time or legal resources to contact the individuals who appear in these stories and get their permission to use their names. Some are no longer even on this vibration.

The other reason is one of belief.

Not everyone believes in an afterlife, reincarnation or karma. It would be unfair to explain their lives in terms of my values. After all, one of the reasons we’re here is to develop by own reason and intellect and not by someone else’s.

However, through these real and everyday stories, this book hopes to show the following:

Our lives aren’t a series of random events.

I find it difficult to understand how anyone, regardless of his or her religious or philosophical beliefs, can believe that.

If, as some religions teach, there’s only one life, how come some have a head start?

Why are some born rich while others struggle simply to survive? Why do some come into the world with beautiful, healthy bodies and minds but others are born twisted and deformed? Why do some live in privilege, while others journey in despair?

This book will show our lives are exactly what they’re supposed to be: choices, lessons and learning, where today is shaped by the past and the future molded by the present.

I also hope I bring comfort and hope to the life we’re living now. That’s the ultimate purpose of this and all my books.

Who knows? Maybe after reading this book some of those big Ifs might be possible.

The first story in this book is a short one. It concerns a slice of my own life, which will live with me until the day I leave this earth. As always, it has to do with my brother Joe.

CHAPTER TWO

A LESSON FOR ME: A SHORT SLICE OF MY LIFE

Mothers are special. They remember things we’ve long ago forgotten. What sometimes seems insignificant or trivial to us lives in their hearts and memories long after its been forgotten by ours.

My mother is no different.

I was talking to her about my books and my brother Joe came into the conversation.

You know, she unexpectedly blurted out, I think his death had something to do with you.

I thought I had heard wrong.

After all, we were on two different continents; she in Jessup, Pennsylvania in the United States and I in Sao Paulo, Brazil.

The only answer I could come up with was a Huh…

From Jessup, I could hear my mother laugh and she said she’d explain.

As I write this, my mother is seventy-five years old, in pretty good health, both mentally and physically. But, she does have a tendency to ramble and tell the same story over, over and over again. (She’s been like this ever since I’ve known her so its not old age, it’s simply the way she is.)

So, when she said, I’ll explain, I got ready for one of her never ending stories which I’d probably heard ten or twenty times.

When your brother was born, she began, I used to sing him songs, like I did to all of you.

Here we go, I thought to myself, we’re starting off in 1958. This is going to be a long one.

I prepared myself for a nice fat Brazil-U.S.A. phone bill. But, as we all know, you can’t hang up on Mom.

There was one song called Happiness is Just a Thing Called Joe. Every time I’d sing it, he’d cry. He was only six weeks old and when I sang that song, his lips would quiver and he’d start to cry.

Maybe it was your singing, I teased. But, I was intrigued; finally, here was a story I hadn’t heard before.

Shut up and listen. I’ll get to the point, she snapped and continued, I even called Jenny Bellino over to show her. (Jenny Bellino was our neighbor in Frankfort, New York where we lived when Joe was born.)

My mother now began to describe, in the most meticulous detail, how holding the baby in her arms, she’d gently rock him back and forth going through her repertoire of songs. With her friend Jenny looking on, they both saw the infant laugh and smile hearing his mother’s voice.

Then, she said, I sang Happiness is Just a Thing Called Joe. She remembered how the baby screwed up its face, squirmed in her arms and begin to bawl. Jenny was amazed and neither one of them could figure out what was going on.

What does this have to do with me, I pushed.

I looked at my watch: over fifteen minutes since the call began. We were still in 1958. This was going to be one expensive call.

Don’t you remember what Mrs. Tice said? she pointedly asked. Margaret Tice was the medium in Syracuse, New York through whom my brother contacted us a few months after he died.

Well, at least we’re up to 1971. Progress! I thought.

Mrs. Tice said a lot of things, I answered but my mother had tweaked my curiosity.

The last time I went there, she coached, referring to the week before the family moved from Syracuse, New York to Pennsylvania. I stayed on in Syracuse for another three years to finish college.

Remember how Mrs. Tice said she finally understood everything? she prodded.

I remembered.

But, right then and there, my mind wandered back to our first visit to the First Spiritualist Church of Syracuse, New York. It was a cold, freezing winter Wednesday evening in January 1971, around three months after Joe was killed in a car accident.

The memory of that night still lives in my mind. One of the many things I remember Joe stressing, through the medium, was that his death was meant to be.

He keeps telling me to tell you that his death was meant to be; nothing on this earth could have changed it, the medium kept repeating. He wants me to make sure you understand this.

My mother and I thought we he was talking about destiny and fate.

Over the following weeks and months, we frequently visited the church. And every time we went, Joe spoke through Mrs. Tice.

She told us he’d make his presence known in our home so my mother would know that his spirit, like all of ours, continues after death.

He did.

Another time, he ruined a letter my mother was writing to a friend of hers about his death and funeral. Mrs. Tice explained he did this to show my mother she had to let go of her sorrow because she was holding on to him in a negative way.

The medium told my mother, He has a life to lead, even on the spirit side and when you think of him in sadness, you hold him to you.

Every Wednesday night, for over a year, my mother and I went to the church. My brother would always be there. But there was one thing Mrs. Tice never told us.

She never said she was confused.

Until that night my mother went to the Church for the last time. Now, thirty some odd years later and a continent away, my mother remembered.

It all makes sense now, my mother remembered Mrs. Tice saying. I could never understand how a spirit who passed over so recently could communicate so quickly, clearly and strongly

I too began to remember what the medium had reported that night.

Until now, Mrs. Tice continued, I haven’t seen him. I only heard and sensed him; his presence was always strong and vibrant. But now, she said, nodding over my right shoulder, I can make him out.

I recalled looking over my shoulder trying to catch a glimpse of Joe. I saw nothing. But, I heard the medium’s voice describing him.

He is dressed in a crimson robe, like a Buddhist monk. The robe has white piping running up and down. He is a spirit of the highest degree, next to the creator, she related and went on to say, He didn’t have to come back. He volunteered for a mission, to live for twelve years on this earth and then return to spirit.

The medium finished by saying, I don’t know what that mission is but it will be revealed someday.

I think I know the mission was, my mother, half a world away and thirty years later, declared. Tingling shivers ran up and down my arms. I had an idea. But, I decided to let her finish.

I was thinking about this the other day, she said. About how he used to cry when I sang Happiness is Just a Thing Called Joe. I think he knew he wouldn’t be bringing me happiness. I think he knew, she sighed, he was going to bring me tears.

She paused for a second or two. I thought she was going to cry. But she got hold of herself and said:

But he does bring happiness to others, through your books. He died, she spoke in a whisper, to push you to do what you do. That was his mission; the one Mrs. Tice spoke about. Because of your books, people know there is a life after this one.

Joe’s death, his communications through the medium Mrs. Tice and the phenomena he was responsible for (hand writing on the wall on our home in Syracuse) drove me to look for an explanation for the unexplained. That curiosity became an obsession. The obsession has turned into a mission and today I’m positive he has brought me to where I am.

However, my mother is only partially right.

He does bring happiness through my books. He helps those who have suffered a loss find reassurance, comfort and hope. But, there’s more.

I think my brother helps me write so we can make sense of the lives we are living right now, here on earth. I remember one evening, back at that little church in Syracuse, Mrs. Tice admonishing a woman not to come again.

You come here to ask the spirits how to live your life. This is wrong. You’re meant to life your life here and now and not through those in spirit. You can ask for guidance, comfort and advice but we can’t live our lives through them. We’re here to learn and evolve and no one can do that for us. We’ve got to do it on our own.

Mrs. Tice was absolutely right; our progress and evolution depends on us and only on us. There is help and guidance along the way. We are never alone.

My brother helps me write to give hope not only about the continuation of life but to give comfort and reassurance about the one we’re living now.

His death was meant to be… His death was meant to be. The medium’s words still, after all these years, ring in my mind.

In the following pages you will read Joe’s words and I hope his words will ring in your ears, too.

CHAPTER THREE

FIVE DAYS AFTER THE TEACHER’S CROSSING

All of us cross the unseen line between life on earth and life in spirit in different ways.

Some are greeted by passed over relatives: mothers, fathers, sisters, lovers and sometimes-even pets meet us to help make the transition from earth life to spirit life easier.

Others see flashing lights and float through a long tunnel where a guide or mentor waits. And still others live whatever illusions their beliefs create; some walk with Jesus while some dine with Allah. Some climb the mountain with Moses while others mediate with Buddha; each crossing is special because each spirit carries their own expectations and each of us have led different lives.

And since each passage from earth back to spirit can be different, the type of crossing can tell a lot about the spirit.

For those who are attached to earth, there can be confusion and even fear; or that attachment can make the spirit want to return as quickly as possible.

For spirits who’ve flirted with evil, there can be darkness and despair because life on the astral side is simply a continuation of the way we’ve lead our life on earth.

None of us turn into overnight saints; none of us become any wiser. Hopefully, though, we will see our lives from a different perspective.

When the young boy died his passage wasn’t any different; in other words it was unique. As a matter of fact his crossing was so unique it could be called odd.

There were no relatives, friends or pets meeting him. He didn’t follow a whirling and strobing light at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

He simply woke up, without knowing he was asleep, in a rich, emerald green valley set in the middle of high, forested hills.

He found himself lying on a thick mat of grass but he couldn’t remember how he got there.

The boy looked around. He was by himself but instinct told him he wasn’t alone.

Where am I, he asked out loud. What is this place? How did I get here?

There weren’t any answers.

The boy should have been afraid. After all, he was only a twelve year old alone in a strange but familiar land.

But, he wasn’t.

Something deep inside comforted and reassured him, telling him everything was exactly the way it should be.

The boy notices a small stream slowly making its way through the valley. He sighs and walks over to its sandy banks and sees, reflecting in the clear water, the face of a young boy with straight black hair and dark brown eyes.

The image stirs a memory. He hears a teasing voice, calling him chocolate eyes. The voice belongs to his older brother.

Other memories float by: a mother, a father, a sister and another brother.

An empty melancholy wraps around him.

They aren’t here. They’re somewhere else; he’s left them behind.

Where am I, he asks again.

Still, no answer.

The boy notices how the greens of the grass and trees are more intense than the greens that live in his memory and the blue of the sky deeper, infinite and subtler than the sky he’s used to seeing.

Where am I, he wants to know.

He knows but doesn’t know.

How did I get here, he wonders out loud.

He knows but doesn’t know.

Moments ago the boy knew he’d been somewhere else, doing something else. But he can’t quite place the somewhere else and he can’t remember the something else. He can’t see beyond the veil; the curtain clouding the view of all spirits when they dis-incarnate from earth. The lifting of the veil can be easy and quick or it can be painful and long. Once again there are no rules. It all depends on the spirit; we’re all different.

An old man appears at the young boy’s side.

The boy didn’t know where the old man came from but at the same time, he knows the thin, balding man isn’t a stranger. They know each other from another place and a different time. But, the veil is in his way, clouding his vision and at least for now that other place and time, like other places and times, would remain unknown.

I’ll deal with these riddles later, the child reassures himself, smiling and nodding at the short, thin balding man.

The smile and nod are returned as the old man points to a baseball cap, glove and ball lying at the boy’s feet. The chocolate eyes open wide in disbelief; he was sure they hadn’t been there before.

Put them on, the man encourages with a grin.

Chocolate eyes slips the leather glove onto his left hand and perches the cap on top of his straight, jet-black hair. The cap has the white, intertwined NY of the New York Yankees baseball team stitched on the front.

The baseball isn’t new. It’s scuffed and dirty but feels good in his hand. He throws the ball into the glove and the smack of leather on leather is familiar and comfortable. The boy tosses the ball higher and higher into the air, each time trapping the ball in his glove before it hits the ground.

As the man watches, a sly and impish smile creases his lips. He points a bony finger at the steep hill to the boy’s right. Instinctively the kid knows what the old man wants. It makes no sense but, with all his might, he throws the ball at the far away hill.

The hard, small, scruffy white ball soars through the air, arching into the trees on the hillside. Both the man and the boy hear it ruffle through the leaves as it disappears.

Now, I’ll have to go look for the ball, the boy complains.

The man shakes his head, chuckles and points into the air. There’s the ball, lazily lobbing its way back.

This is freaky, the boy laughs out loud as he catches the ball, throwing it back at the hill. Again the ball dives into the thick woods, falls through the leaves and in a moment or two comes flying back.

I’m playing catch with a hill, Chocolate eyes jokes and forgets the many questions and contradictions swirling around him.

Throw the ball. Catch it.

Throw the ball. Catch it.

The child loses himself and his thoughts in this strange, eerie game of catch.

The old man is gone. The boy has no idea where he went.

Throw the ball. Catch it.

Throw the ball. Catch it.

The baseball is always be returned by the hill, spinning its way through the air to be caught in the boy’s leather glove.

Throw the ball. Catch it.

Throw the ball. Catch it.

The twelve year old is caught up in the game’s slow, steady, rhythm and it dawns on him this is the way it’s supposed to be.

Until I’m ready to understand what the heck I’m doing here, he mumbles out loud to no one.

Throw the ball. Catch it.

Throw the ball. Catch it.

The quiet, repetitive motion hypnotizes him.

But, game’s spell is broken. The old man is back. Except, this time he’s not alone. There’s a twenty-year-old male hesitantly walking a few steps behind him. The young man looks confused and more than a bit frightened. He’s the boy’s brother, the one who called him chocolate eyes.

The twelve year old is surprised to see his older brother in the long, green valley.

He stops the game of catch. Holding the ball in his hand he asks his brother what’s going on, You’re not supposed to be here, the younger brother, without words, blurts out. What are you doing here? he insists, still holding the ball in his hand.

He brought me, the older brother timidly nods at the old man, he said: ‘I’m going to take you to see your brother.’

The older brother’s eyes, after scanning the dense, green valley, rest on his smiling little brother, dressed in a checked shirt, blue jeans and a NY Yankee baseball cap. The twenty year old is uncomfortable and has difficulty getting his next words out: He wanted me to know you were okay. We’re going to bury you tomorrow.

The smile quickly left the young boy’s face. The words "we’re going