Marilyn Kapp - Love Is Greater Than Pain: Secrets from the Universe for Healing After Loss

It is 1958. Im two and a half years old, barely tall enough to see over the top of the bed, but that doesnt stop me from watching my grandfather rise up out of his body. He got up that morning, shaved, and dressed as he always did. Then he did something unusual. After his morning ablutions, he went back to his bed and lay down. I followed and stood next to his bed. Thats when it happens. As he floats up, I can see that he looks the same as the body he is leaving behind. Im not frightened. Theres nothing scary about it.

In my next memory, a moment later, I am outside, standing on the front step of our house. The sky is blue with a few cottony clouds. I look up and see my grandfather rising higher and higher. He turns to me and waves, and I hear his voice assuring me that he will be back. As I watch him disappear into the sky, I am not sad. He said he would be back and I have no reason to doubt him.

He did come back, Im not sure when, but before I have a chance to miss him. My grandfather continues to be a presence in my life. I sometimes see him sitting in the kitchen, in his usual spot. He smiles and I am happy.

A S THE years go by, I start to realize that others do not share my perception. My mother wonders what her father might think about something, and I am puzzled. Why doesnt she just ask him? In an effort to be helpful, I offer to ask him, which I do. I feel happy to be the intermediary, as my grandfather is smiling and seems pleased when I ask him her questions. This type of conversation between my mother, grandfather, and me happens periodically, and my mother begins to sense my confusion. She explains that she can feel her fathers presence and has always known that the loved ones who have passed are near and watching over us. I am happy to hear this because I cant even imagine how hard it must have been for my mother. Her mother passed when she was just nineteen. Im surprised at what my mother says next. She tells me she cannot see or hear these loved ones, but she is happy that I can. Different people can do different things, she says, and she assures me that my ability is a good one.

I am determined to be the connection, the bridge, when my mother seeks her fathers counsel.

My grandfather was almost blind in his later years. My brother, Mark, who is two years older than I, would take his hand and help him navigate. Mark offered his vision while my grandfather was in his physical body. Now that my grandfather has passed, I can offer my voice.

O NE DAY, when I am around seven or eight years old, I start to cry while playing cards with my father. He asks what is wrong. I dont want to tell him because things arent making sense to me. My dad persists. I blurt out, I miss Grandpa! He hugs me and assures me that we all do. I dont know what to make of my feelings. How can I miss him while he is right here?

Over time, I come to realize that I miss his physical, in-body presence, the one who takes my hand and tells me stories. It helps that I still see him, though he is not appearing as often now. He seems to know when my mother or I have a question, and then he is right there, ready to communicate.

W HEN I am thirteen, my parents, my brother, Mark, and I have a family meeting. We are considering moving to a new home that is one town away. The biggest reason for the move is my unhappiness. I am bullied in school and in our neighborhood. Other kids dont know what to make of me, and Im pretty uncomfortable in their presence. Im distracted when I see or hear things going on around them. Though I know instinctively that I shouldnt share my reality, it doesnt stop the cruelty as the kids around me shut me out. Moving means I can start fresh and maybe figure out how to maneuver around people who dont already label me as weird.

There is another factor contributing to my familys decision to move. Both my brother and I were born with eyes that looked in completely different directions. When we were ten and twelve, we had corrective surgery, but that didnt stop the teasing. I never questioned why Mark and I had this affliction. To me, it just supported my developing realization that one eye can be focused on this world, and the other can be seeing something else entirely. Though I know that this is not literally the case, I found it reassuring that my physicality represented who I am. I am still happy to have had the surgery; anything to appear less weird is welcome. If we move, the new kids wont already have this physical anomaly in their arsenal of things to be mean about.

My mother wants me to ask my grandfather if he will come with us. I love that this is a true consideration. My grandfather hears my mother, so I dont really have to ask. I laugh, along with my grandfather, as he explains that he is attached to the people he loves, not the place where he passed. My family is pleased and we make the move.

By now, Im pretty clear that while my perception is considered normal at home, it is quite another story out there in my expanding world. I feel I have an opportunity to fit in, or at least try, and that means hiding a big piece of myself. I learn to be cautious. That doesnt stop the strange things I feel, see, and hear. I just know I shouldnt talk about it.