The Journey Home Read online

  “What if I told you that you might be able to have both?” asked the angel with a smile. “And that your wish for home is not selfish, but natural, and it is not in conflict with the desire to honor your purpose for being human.”

  “How? Please tell me how I can do this,” an excited Mike now verbalized.

  The angel had seen Mike’s heart, and now he honored him spiritually for the first time. “Michael Thomas of Pure Intent, in order to determine if this can be your quest, I must ask you one more question before I tell you more.” The angel moved away slightly. “What is it that you expect to gain by going home?”

  Mike thought this through. His silence would have been awkward during a normal human conversation, but the angel understood him completely, knowing that this was a sacred time for the soul of Michael Thomas. As time is measured on earth, Michael was still for ten minutes or more, but the angel never moved or said a word. No feeling of impatience or weariness was displayed. Mike was beginning to realize that this entity was indeed timeless, without feeling the impatience that humans would, whose only reality was that of linear time.

  “I want to be loved, and to be around love,” was Mike’s reply. “I want to feel peaceful in my existence.” He paused. “I don’t want to be subject to the concerns and trivial interactions of those around me. I don’t want to worry about money. I want to feel RELEASE! I’m tired of being alone. I want to mean something to other entities in the Universe. I want to know that I exist for a reason, and do my part in heaven—or whatever you call it—to be a correct and appropriate part of God’s plan. I don’t really want to be a human as I have been. I want to be like you!” He paused again. “That’s what going home is about for me.” The angel once again moved to the foot of the cot.

  “Then, Michael Thomas of Pure Intent, you indeed shall have what you strive for!” The angel seemed to be taking on still more light, if that were possible! He absolutely glowed with white, which was now starting to be mixed with a golden hue. “But you must follow a path that is predetermined, and you must do it voluntarily with intent and choice. Then, you will be rewarded with a trip home. Will you do this?”

  “I will,” replied Mike. He felt the beginnings of a wonderful feeling that could only be described as a wash of love. The air was starting to feel thick. The glow of the angel was starting to creep into the cot and surround Mike’s feet. Chills began to go up his spine, and he involuntarily started to shake with a fast vibration, the likes of which he had never felt before. It was almost a buzz; it was so fast. It traveled right up his body and into his head. His vision started changing, with momentary flashes of blue and violet showing up with great contrast against the intense white that he had been looking at since this had all started.

  “What is happening?” asked Mike fearfully.

  “Your intent is changing your reality.”

  “I don’t understand.” Mike was terrified.

  “I know,” replied the angel in a very compassionate tone. “Do not fear the integration of God into your being. It is a meld that you have requested, and it will suit your journey home.”

  The angel backed away from Mike’s narrow bed as if to give him room.

  “Please don’t leave yet!” exclaimed a still overwhelmed and fearful Mike.

  “I’m just adjusting myself to accommodate your new size,” said the angel in a slightly amused way. “I’ll leave only when we are complete.”

  “I still don’t understand, but I’m not afraid,” Mike lied. Again the angel laughed and filled the space with a resonance that surprised Mike with its wonderful mirth and intensity of love. Mike realized that there were no secrets here, so he continued to speak. He had to know what this feeling was. Then the angel laughed.

  “What is it that happens when you laugh? It affects me inside somehow, and it’s something I haven’t felt before.” The angel was pleased by the question.

  “What you hear and feel is an attribute that is purely from the God source,” said the angel. “Humor is one of the only qualities that passes untouched from our side to your side. Did you ever wonder why humans are the only biological entities on Earth that laugh? You might think the animals laugh, but they are responding only to stimulus. You are the only ones who have the real spark of spiritual awareness that supports this full property; the only ones who can create humor from an abstract thought or an idea. Therefore, your consciousness is the key. Believe me, it is sacred. That is why it is so healing, Michael Thomas of Pure Intent.”

  This was more explanation than the angel had provided up until this point. Mike felt that he might squeeze out some more gems of truth before this time passed. He eagerly tried.

  “What is your name?”

  “I don’t have one.” There was the silence again. A long pause. Oops, Mike thought. We are back to short answers.

  “How are you known?” Mike continued to probe.

  “I AM known by all, Michael Thomas—and THAT I AM known by all; therefore, I exist.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mike replied.

  “I know.” Again the angel mused, but not at the expense of Mike. It was an honoring of Mike’s naïveté in a situation where he was not expected to know more—the way in which a parent might indulge a child who asked probing questions about life. There was love in everything the angel did or said. Mike knew he had to stop pressing and get to the point.

  “What is the path you speak of, dear angel?” Mike felt uncomfortable for a moment with his salutation of “dear,” but somehow it fit the personality before him. The angel was parental, brotherly, sisterly, yet had the personal feeling of a lover all at the same time. This was a feeling Mike would not soon forget. He longed to stay in this energy, and he dreaded the thought that it might come to an end.

  “When you return to your reality, Michael, prepare your things for an adventure of many days. When you are ready, the beginning of the path will be shown to you. You will be required to journey to seven houses of Spirit, and in each house you will meet an entity somewhat like me, each with a different purpose. The path may contain surprises and even danger, but you can stop anytime you wish, and there will be no judgment about this. You will change along the way and learn many things. You will be required to study the attributes of God. If you traverse all seven houses, then the door will be shown for you to go home. And Michael Thomas of Pure Intent,” the angel paused and smiled, “there will be great celebration when you open that door.”

  Mike had no idea what to say. He felt a sense of release, but also a nervousness about journeying into the unknown. What would he find? Should he do this? Perhaps this was simply a dream that was all nonsense! What was real, anyway?

  “What you have before you now is real, Michael Thomas of Pure Intent,” said the angel, again reading Mike’s emotions. “What you will return to is a temporary reality built just for humans to learn within.”

  All Michael had to do was feel his doubt, and the angel knew it. Once again, Mike felt that he was in some way being violated by this new way of communicating, and in another way he was being honored! In a dream, Mike thought, you are in contact with your own brain. Therefore, there can be no secrets from yourself. Perhaps that is why it seemed appropriate to have such a conversation with this entity who knew what he was thinking. Besides, Mike was experiencing just what that angel said. He was beginning to feel quite comfortable in this “dream reality,” and he was not looking forward to going back to anything short of it.

  “What now?” asked Mike hesitantly.

  “You have given intent for the journey. So it is that you will return to your conscious human state. There are some points to remember along the way, however: Things will not always be as they seem, Michael. As you progress, you will become closer to the reality that you experience now with me. Therefore, you may have to develop a new way of being—perhaps a bit more...” The angel paused. “...CURRENT than what you are used to, as you approach the door to home.” Mike didn’t understand what the ang
el was talking about, but he listened intently, anyway.

  The angel continued. “There is another question that I must now ask you, Michael Thomas of Pure Intent.”

  “I’m ready,” replied Mike, feeling less than confident, but honestly ready to move ahead. “What is the question?” The angel moved closer to the end of the cot.

  “Michael Thomas of Pure Intent, do you love God?” Mike was startled by the question. Of course he did, he thought. Why was this being asked?

  Mike answered quickly. “As you can see my heart and know my feelings, you must know that I love God.” There was silence, and Mike could tell that the angel was pleased.

  “Indeed!” It was the last word that Mike heard from the hidden lips of this beautiful creature who obviously loved Mike a great deal. The angel reached out to Mike and moved his hand in such a fashion that it intersected Mike’s throat. How could he reach that far? Immediately, Mike felt as though hundreds of fireflies had flown into his neck and were altering his persona. Mike felt no pain, but suddenly he vomited.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Preparation

  (THE JOURNEY BEGINS)

  “Hold his head to the left next to the tray!” cried the nurse to the orderly. “He’s vomiting.”The emergency ward was crowded that night, as is often the case on a Friday. This time the full moon also complicated matters. Although they might not possess a shred of belief in astrology or anything metaphysical, most hospitals had a tendency to put more personnel in the ER at this time of the month. Things seem to occur that never happen at any other time. The nurse rushed out of the room to tend to another urgent matter.

  “Is he awake?” asked the neighbor who had accompanied Mike into the ward. The white-coated orderly bent down to closely examine Mike’s eyes.

  “Yeah. He’s coming out of it,” the orderly replied. “When you can speak to him, don’t let him up. He’s not only got a nasty head bump with a few stitches, but his jaw is going to be real sore for a while. The x-rays show that it was almost fractured. Good thing we were able to set the dislocation while he was out.”

  The orderly moved out of the cubicle, an area separated by a curtain on a semicircular rod. On the way out, he pulled the curtain so that Mike and his neighbor were again alone. The many sounds of the emergency ward were subtle, but the neighbor could hear people and activities in the cubicles on each side of the one he was in. There was a female stab-wound victim in the cubicle to the left; and to the right, an elderly man suffering from shortness of breath and a numb arm. They had been there almost as long as Mike had—about an hour and a half.

  Mike opened his eyes and felt a searing pain in his lower jaw. He knew immediately that he was awake. No more angel dreams, he thought, as the reality of the pain and the entire situation slowly became his reality. The fluorescent fixtures that bathed the emergency area in a bright, sterile light made Mike wince and close his eyes. The temperature in the room was cold, and Mike instantly felt the need for a blanket—none was offered.

  “You’ve been out for a while, buddy,” said the neighbor, feeling a bit embarrassed that he didn’t even know Mike’s name. “They dressed your head and set your jaw. Don’t try to talk.”

  Mike looked appreciatively at the man who was bending over him. Although still in a daze, he analyzed the features of the man’s face. Mike recognized him as the tenant in the unit adjacent to his. The man took a seat to the side of Mike, who fell into a very deep sleep.

  WHEN HE AWOKE next, Mike knew he was in a different area. It was still and quiet, and he was in a bed. As he opened his eyes and tried to clear his foggy mind, he realized he was still in the hospital, but this time he was in a private room. It was well appointed for a hospital, Mike thought. His dreary gaze took him to the pictures on the wall, and the ornate chair by the side of the bed. There was expensive sound-absorbent material on the ceiling, crisscrossing the room in small, elegant squares made slightly oblong by Mike’s fuzziness. The fluorescent fixtures were still there, but turned off and semi-hidden within the pattern of the soft design. Most of the light was coming from a bay-view window and a couple of incandescent lamps within the room. Instead of a bare shelf on the facing wall holding up a tele- vision set, as in most hospital rooms, there was a finely finished armoire. The doors of the exquisite cabinet were closed now. The lamps had shades, much like in a fine hotel, and the shades matched the wallpaper! What kind of place was this? A private residence? Further examination with his eyes only, however, revealed the standard hospital air, gas, and electrical outlets available at various points in the room. Mike could also tell that there were a number of diagnostic tools behind him—one that was attached to his arm with some medical tape. It was beeping softly every few moments.

  With no one apparently around him, Mike started to analyze what had happened. Did they operate on his throat? Could he talk? Slowly, he brought his hand up to his throat, expecting to find massive bandages or even a plaster cast. Instead, Mike found smooth skin! He moved his fingers all over his neck, only to discover that all was as it should be. Mike gradually tried to clear his throat and was surprised to find his voice immediately. It was when he opened his mouth, however, that he realized where the problem was. Stinging red pain, enough to cause nausea, instantly stabbed Mike down behind his mouth and below his ears. That’s pain you can hear, thought Mike as he mentally made a note not to open his mouth so fast again.

  “Oh, we’re awake I see. We can give you anything you need for the pain, Mr. Thomas,” said a whining but kindly female voice from the doorway of the room. “But you will recover faster if you find your own level of tolerance without the pills. Nothing is broken, you know. Your jaw just needs to be exercised back to normal.” The nurse, wearing what could only be called a designer nurse’s outfit, approached the bed. Not only was her outfit pressed and perfect, but it was obvious that she was very experienced. Above her pocket were several awards and experience badges. Mike spoke carefully through his clenched teeth, moving his jaw only slightly with each word.

  “Where am I?” he mumbled.

  “You’re at a private hospital in Beverly Hills, Mr. Thomas.” The nurse moved next to him. “You spent the night here after they brought you over from the emergency room recovery area. You are also scheduled to leave shortly, you know.” Mike’s eyes opened wide, and his face wrinkled with worry. He had heard stories of two- and three thousand-dollar-a-day bills for a stay in a place such as this. His heart began to race as he wondered how he’d pay for it all.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Thomas,” the nurse said reassuringly, reading Mike’s expression. “It’s all taken care of. Your father made all the arrangements, you know. Oh, yeah, he paid for it all.”

  Mike was quiet for a moment, contemplating how his dead father could have made any arrangements. Perhaps she only assumed it was his father, and it was really his neighbor? Mike mustered up the strength to speak through his barely moving mouth.

  “Did you see him?” Mike grunted.

  “See him? Oh, yeah! Some looker, your dad! Tall and blond like you, with the voice of a saint. Had all the nurses a-twitter, you know.”

  Just listening to the nurse, Mike knew she was from his home state in Minnesota. They all seemed to talk backwards there, often placing the subject of the sentence last—an odd thing that he had overcome shortly after moving to California. It made them sound like the character Yoda from Star Wars.

  She continued. “Paid for everything, he did, in cash no less. Don’t you worry now, Mr. Thomas—and, oh yes—he left a message for you, you know.”

  Mike felt his heart leap even though he suspected that the so-called father was just his neighbor; the nurse’s description didn’t fit either one. The nurse had left the room to fetch the message. Not more than five minutes went by before she returned with a piece of paper that obviously had a typewritten message on it.

  “Dictated it, you know,” said the nurse, as she took a piece of folded paper out of a hospital envelope. “Said that his
handwriting wasn’t very good, so we typed it at the desk for you. Kind of hard to understand, if you ask me. Did he used to call you Opee when you were a kid?” The nurse handed the paper to Mike, and he read it.

  Dear Michael-Opi,

  Not everything is as it seems. Your quest begins now. Heal quickly and prepare your things for the journey. I have prepared the way home. Accept this gift and move forward. You will be shown the way.

  Mike felt chills run up and down his spine. He looked at the nurse with grateful eyes and held the paper to his chest. He then closed his eyes as if asking to be left alone. The nurse got the point and left the room.

  Mike’s mind raced with possibilities. “Not everything is as it seems,” the note said. That’s an understatement! He knew that his throat had been mangled and stomped on yesterday by a criminal who almost did him in on the floor of his apartment. He had felt every bone-crunching second of that horrible event! Yet, now there was no injury except a badly dislocated and reset jaw to contend with, along with some cuts and bruises on his face and head. These things would be sore for a while, but they were not incapacitating. Was this the gift?

  The idea that the angel vision could have been an actual event was not part of Mike’s reality until he had read the note. If this wasn’t the angel, then who? He simply didn’t know anyone who had the money or who knew him well enough to give him anything, much less pay his substantial medical bill. Who else could know of the journey he promised to take? His body was vibrating with questions, and he was still reeling with doubt over the note and what it meant, when he received the final validation and smiled.

  The nurse had asked about being called Opee? On the note it was spelled Opi, like a name—undoubtedly dictated letter by letter by the “angel” who had paid his bill. It wasn’t a nickname. The letters were initials! O-P-I—Of Pure Intent! Therefore, the salutation was, Dear Michael of Pure Intent. Mike’s smile turned into a laugh. It hurt a lot, but he continued to laugh, and his whole body shook with the mirth of the moment, until he was quiet and let the tears of joy also come. He was going home!