FOUR weeks before I lose my mother, my hard drive crashes. There were signs it was coming. But I ignored them.
My mother was a believer—of God, of spirits, of sixth sense, the after-life and signs. My father, on the other hand, scoffs at everything that defies logic. I am a lot like my father but I changed the day I personally witnessed my dying aunt’s prophecy of events following her death.
I began to believe that, perhaps, a world beyond this one, truly exists. And that on the brink of death—as we straddle both worlds, we receive the immense powers of both realms right before we cross over.
My mother spoke in tongues before she passed. Like my aunt, she spoke in plain language but the words did not make sense—that is, not until she passed and the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.
Eight months after my mother passes, I finally dream of her. She doesn’t speak to me but she looks well. This brings me peace. Thereafter, I dream of Mama a few more times and she’s always happy in my dreams.
But one night a few weeks ago, I dream of Mama looking very worried. She’s in a large room in the hospital. An operating theater, I realize later. The nurse says, “There’s so much blood.”
Twelve hours later, I learn that my sister in the US had a vehicular accident and is scheduled for surgery in a few days. I tell my sister to tell her doctors about her history of blood-clotting problems. My sister currently recuperates.
In early August, my father falls very ill. Out of the blue, a cousin asks how my father is. He is shocked to learn of Papa’s illness. He tells me he dreamt of my mother, extremely upset—crying and hugging my father. After eight, long weeks, my father recovers.
My mother is no longer with us and yet, she always finds a way to communicate to us. How can I continue to disbelieve?
My mother loved gardening. And her plants were her pride and joy. In the last few years of her life, however, the garden fell into disrepair. On a lark 10 weeks ago, I decide to clean up and try to restore the garden to its former glory. It’s a work in progress.
Two weeks later, a butterfly appears. I ask the house help whose quarters sit right next to the garden if they’ve ever seen butterflies in the garden before. “Never,” they say. In the 37 years I’ve lived in this house, I’ve never seen one either.
The loss of my precious files was a portent of a much greater loss coming. Though hardly comparable to the loss of my mother, God still found a way to teach me one of the most important lessons in life—to learn to let go and live on.
I’m a skeptic at heart. I don’t want to believe in signs. But God, I think, works extra hard to find a way to turn the hardest of hearts.