Everything happens with purpose

There are times when I feel like I've failed.

This failure, though, is not a Mommy Fail or even from the "I didn't bother to vacuum and the dog is shedding" aspect of my life.

This is about failing to listen to instinct, pushing aside the nagging sixth sense and then wondering why the hell I did because it's made it harder to handle the punch to the gut reaction when the bad news filters in. It's also about knowing there's nothing I could have done, because when your time here is up and you've been called home, the only thing left to do is pray you arrive safely where you're supposed to go and are held tightly until your soul is selected to come back here again. I guess, in all, the failure to listen is also the success of accepting those things I cannot change. But it still hurts.

Let me just speak plainly, the way you all have come to know I will: It fucking sucks.

I talked quite some time ago about getting these "feelings" and my whole breakdown with hearing people talking and not seeing anyone ... or seeing people walk past the doors and windows in my house and there being no one there.

Just like before, let me get the denial out of the way: No, I haven't lost my mind. No, I'm not certifiable. No, I'm not making this up.

And no, I'm definitely not here to rehash the previous paranormal events of my life or discuss how my neat freak tendencies have followed me through several lifetimes. But I will tell you about nausea and feeling lightheaded, because that's how it always happens

Last week I thought for sure I would be taking a home pregnancy test this week and having it turn 99 shades of Oh.My.God. I was nauseous and lightheaded; there were some floaters in my vision. I had every reason to believe I was with child because these same things happened when I was in the early stages of pregnancy with the girls.

I was so hopeful we'd be planning for an early fall arrival that I missed the tell tale signs of that knowing I've come to know so well, the feeling of something happening out of my control. It's a feeling that hits suddenly and violently ... to the point that in the past I have had to hang onto the edge of the counter in my parent's kitchen to try to get my bearings. On that day, minutes later, my dad walked through the door with blood dripping down his hand. He'd gone to feed and put the neighbor's dog out while they were away for the weekend and was instead attacked.

Thursday night, Friday most of the day, Saturday all day, Sunday again, Monday still ... and Tuesday. Tuesday, right up until I heard a family friend had been killed in a car accident last Thursday evening. That's how long I fought the waves of nausea. The random bouts of being lightheaded.

And then Wednesday morning I woke to much of the same, only to hear a friend's baby brother had been in a serious crash back home and Mercy Flighted to a major hospital in the next county over. An accident on the rural road I grew up on in the tight knit little community we all were raised. An accident that ultimately took this young man's life. Nausea. Wednesday I knew it couldn't have been anything but bad.

The flashes of what looked like white mist going past the window that I passed off as a car passing, the kids playing with their flashlights or just me standing up too fast while picking up toys. A shadow that couldn't possibly be standing by the window because there was no source of light to cast a shadow there. This really has become a norm for me, a norm my husband just has to faithfully say his, "Um, OK" to because otherwise he'll try to explain it away and I'll just get mad at him and go clean something. He's stopped trying to find the coincidence in these instances.

After all, I don't believe in coincidence. I haven't for a very long time. Everything happens with purpose. It has to. That's the way things are designed, no matter what deity your beliefs lie with.

I wish I could take away the pain and hurt, but the soothing words I have right now are meaningless because they are still gone and the grief too strong. I deeply believe in rising to a different plane of existence after leaving here. I've heard or seen too much to not believe there's something after this, the physical. And, likewise, we all come back eventually. I've never been a skeptic because to me it was always this way.

My words - she's around you, she'll let you know she's here in the littlest ways only you will notice, he may have left this world but he's left behind a legacy, he's gone on to serve a much bigger purpose - those words aren't for my benefit. Though they may hold very little solace now, they have been, in the past, what got me through tougher times because I needed to latch onto something tangible. Believing someone will make their presence known is tangible - if you believe in it strongly enough you can reach out and touch the very hope you cling to and pray you won't wake up from that dream. The reality they are gone is too devastating, but to have faith they'll find their way back to let you know they're OK? It's peaceful. It's tangible.

A scent. A song. A season. They're tangible. You can grasp them when a loved one leaves and goes home. You can hold onto a favored piece of clothing and inhale the scent of their existence. It's easy to hold onto that, the memories.


And we question why, because death does not happen without leaving questions unanswered.We want to blame and scream and weep. If only that deer hadn't run out in the road. If only that patch of black ice hadn't been there. Why would God take them away? He was too young and had so much still to live for. She still had things she wanted to do, places she wanted to see.

It's the questioning that will help us all. The asking why and trying to place blame will help us cope in these first few weeks, maybe even months, but I truly believe you aren't taken from this earth unless there's a reason. He won't call you home without a reason, without it being purposeful. The problem is, those of us left here are left wondering what that reason is and why He couldn't have called someone else up to join the Holy choir of angels. So we question. It's human nature to question the unknown.

And that's OK. We're supposed to. We are meant to ask "why?" and scream and cry at the heavens and blame. His shoulders are big enough. If God couldn't handle all the blaming we do in His name, who could? He's here to lift us up in our moments of weakness and carry us through the tough times until we can find peace.

All I ask of you, the friends I've made, the family who take pity enough on me to read this, is that you say a prayer for my friends and family who have lost this week - who have lost a son, a brother, a best friend; a mother, a sister, a confidant.

You will remain forever in our hearts
Paul V. Lauricella
b. Sept. 20, 1989
d. Jan. 15, 2014

Karen Boyce
b.
d. Jan. 9, 2014