Months ago I began reading My Search for Christopher on the Other Side by Joe McQuillen about the loss of his 21 year old son in a small boat accident two years earlier. It unexpectedly heaved me into the recollection of my son Guy’s drowning, surprising me with that pain and deep sorrow that lay just below the surface. I thought I had mourned him (privately) and put the tragedy to bed.
I am usually a fast reader and at times a speed reader absorbing an entire page in one glance. Not so with this book. I had to put it down after just a few pages. I started to come unglued.
Christopher went into a boat with three buddies; my son Guy went with one buddy. Alcohol and/or drugs were probably involved with Christopher, surprisingly, they weren’t with my son. For Christopher it was in the middle of the night, with Guy it was the middle of a sunny Sunday afternoon. They both drowned. Guy was 24 and it was more than thirty years ago.
Comparing, I thought. Is that what I’m going to do through all 244 pages? I put the book down for a second time after reading only one more chapter. Jeez, what is going on with me? I thought while I sobbed, glad no one could see me. It’s unusual for me to be so emotional. Cool control is my mantra. I have not shed tears about this since I put Guy’s ashes to rest on the bookshelf. It helped that since my 24 year old son Kenny died in an auto accident six years previous to Guy, I had read and learned about life after life. I was happy to believe that he didn’t die, only left his body behind and that sat in plain view where I could see him. To further healing my sorrow, Guy came to me several times flicking the hair that curled just behind my right ear. It wasn’t my imagination. A woman coming into my book/gift shop one day saw him, blurted it out before she could even consider not telling me. Of course she was a psychic and saw him clearly.
I was content with that. He had fulfilled his journey for this lifetime, including my part in it and we would be sharing other lifetimes in the future. He comforted me with his appearances even though I didn’t see him.
Photos of him from babyhood throughout his life until he became the union stone mason (he gave me the first dollar he earned as a stone mason) popped into my mind from time to time. That was good. I carried him with me as I carried the others I loved who had passed on. They are always with me.
So what is going on with this reading of Joe McQuillen’s book?