What Will People Think?


When I finished my book, The Messenger, a part of me was afraid to let it go out into the world. What will people think? I worried. No, I did not write an expose, or a provocative tell-all. I wrote about a spirit guide. But my ego kept interrupting, kept nagging me with its insistent question: Really? A Spirit Guide? What will people think?

Imagine this: You have been given the most beautiful gift, a gift of love, and hope, a glimpse into another lifetime, and your ego whispers that into your ear.

There is a place in the book where I talk about withholding this information from Bill, the sweetheart who was to become my husband. It was relatively early in our relationship, and I didn’t know if disclosing my foray into the world of metaphysics would end it all between us. And here is the ego part – I didn’t want to be ridiculed. Oh, but I underestimated him. Bill did not ridicule me. He did not laugh at me. He believed me. Imagine being married to someone like that, someone who believes you. Someone who believes in you, no matter what.

When it came time to make the book public, Bill was gone. He had read several versions, helped edit it, and encouraged me every step of the way. When he died, I lost a lot of confidence, a state the ego is always waiting for. I wanted to appear as if I were in control of myself, in control of things. I didn’t want my colleagues and friends to think that I had gone round the bend, or was an aging hippie. (A house inspector who overheard me talking about the book actually called me that.) I was afraid people would think that I was just a little…strange. As a matter of fact, when I started receiving my guide’s story, the thought had crossed my mind that I might be losing touch with reality. There is a line in my book to that effect:

“I just do what keeps me alive. I ‘tune in.’ If I’m insane, I don’t care.”

If you’ve been reading my blog long enough, you know that I am capable of getting off track. But I always find my way back. This time, I’ve had help from my friends, who have been sending me emails as they’ve been reading the book – sweet, heartfelt, touching notes. I talked to a friend on the phone yesterday, who told me that when her husband was rushed to the ER and had stopped breathing, she had my book with her. It kept her company through those lonely hours. Thank God, he came through okay. I’m glad it was with you, Peggy.

THAT’S why I sent it out into the world. If it can comfort someone, if it can offer them hope, or if it can just help them get through a few lonely, frightening hours, then the book will be doing what it is supposed to do. This isn’t my book. It is Lukhamen’s. My spirit guide. It is Eddie’s. My son. They gave me this book, and it has a purpose. It is here to comfort. It is to hold out hope to those who need it. It is for those who are in pain and mourning. It isn’t about me. I’ve made that journey.

The ego is clever. It says, You are the author. You created this. And then it blames you for it. Your friends are not going to understand. You can always tell when the ego is around, because it makes you feel bad. It makes you feel wrong, or afraid.

But here’s the other thing about the ego; it is a coward. It will back off as soon as you recognize it. It will fade away as you pray for peace. I have to live with my ego, just like everybody else. But I have learned when to tell it to…bugger off.


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Look for The Messenger: The Improbable Story of a Grieving Mother and a Spirit Guide by Helen Delaney on http://www.Amazon.com


Gifts from The Universe


They come when I least expect them, like this quote from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone:

“After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next adventure.” – Albus Dumbledore

The first time I can remember a gift like this was right after my son died. I was in a book store in the 30th Street Station in Philadelphia, waiting for the train to take me home to Washington, D.C.  I was a lost soul, desperately searching for a reason to live. I was walking aimlessly through the aisles, when a little book caught my eye. I reached for it, and it fell into my hand. It was a set of instructions on how to connect with a Spirit Guide.

To paraphrase Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart (who was stuck trying to define pornography), I may not be able to define a gift, but I know it when I see it.

But getting back to the book that fell into my hand…As I started to read it, I felt something like an electric shock pass through my body. Later, someone told me that it was probably a rush of energy. Whatever it was, I knew that what I was holding in my hand had been given to me. As it happened, it saved my life.

I have learned to look for these gifts, to be aware, to be awake for them, so that when they come, I can accept them and smile, knowing that they stem from Love. I believe they exist for everyone, and that they are lovingly tailor-made from the same Universal Truth, suited to our capacity for understanding and faith, and timed to be given when we need them or are ready for them.

Sometimes, the gifts come in the lyrics of a song, or the song of a bird, from the words of a friend, or from Albus Dumbledore. Sometimes they come from the still, small voice that is inside all of us. They may be little messages like, Wait, or Watch your step, or Call your friend. I believe everybody has heard them. If you were to ask me, I’d say, Listen, say Thank you, and smile.


Look for The Messenger: The Improbable Story of a Grieving Mother and a Spirit Guide by Helen Delaney at http://www.amazon.com/


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Saving Grace

When I was writing my book, The Messenger, I never knew where it was going to go, or where it was going to take me. I just followed it. And that was my saving grace.

It began like this: A child died on my watch. I need to die too. I believed that all in life that was good was lost, and I looked to death to release me from it.

But The Messenger unfolded, and I came to understand aspects of life and death that were outside the province of everything I knew. A story opened my mind to the possibility that no one was lost. Not even me. Eventually, I realized that The story was not to distract me from suicide as I originally thought; it was to show me the futility of it. When my father died, I was able to be happy for him, and say to myself: Death is not what it used to be. Writing the book was a journey of discovery. It was a privilege. A gift.

What I know now is that every day has a story within it. It is for me to go where it leads, and let it be my saving grace. It is so much easier to walk with the wind at your back. And know that the way is good.

I’m not always prepared for surrender. When the buyer of my house walked away (We were so close to a deal that I was checking airlines for a trip to Sedona, the place that is calling me.), I had to remember to stop suffering, to stop trying to control the story. It has its outcome. Something was happening for my good, and for somebody’s else’s good. I’ll know what it is, eventually. I was beginning to feel accepting and peaceful, when water starting sprouting from a faucet in the kitchen. Oh, Lord, what’s next? I wailed, undone again.

But that’s life. People lose their nerve, and corrosion happens, and there are plumbers, and there is somebody somewhere whose house this is, and all is well. And I have a cool, new faucet.

I am human and my faith is imperfect. Even with all that has happened, even with all I have been shown, there are times when I falter. But never, ever, do I think that anything or anyone is lost. And always, always, peace returns.


The Messenger IMG_0416 Look for The Messenger: The Improbable Story of a Grieving Mother and a Spirit Guide by Helen Delaney on http://www.Amazon.com.




Happy Mother’s Day, Mama

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This beautiful lady is my mother. She gave me her whole heart, and the better part of her life.

Thank you, Mama,

For sitting next to me at my son’s funeral, and never letting go of my hand. You were grieving, too, but I fainted, and you forgot everything but me. You held me up. Thank you for always, always holding me up.

At the end of your life, and in the deepest throes of Alzheimer’s, for never forgetting my name. For showing me that love is greater than any disease.

For tending me round the clock when, newly arrived from Germany, I came to you sick with pneumonia. For taking care of a six-month old baby and three active young children, while I recuperated. For climbing stairs all during the day to bring me medicine and meals. For coming into my room in the middle of the night and adding a blanket to my bed.

For taking care of my children when I went to work, too poor for child care because my husband was in law school. For when, in your sixties, you fed them, cared for them, kept them safe and loved. For never making me feel guilty.

For, when I got divorced, never saying, “I told you so.” For never judging me. For showing me how to let someone make their own mistakes, and learn from them.

For marching me down to the Philadelphia Board of Education and demanding that I be admitted to a high school that was known for its high academic standards.

For defying the principal of my junior high school when he tried to convince you that it would “damage” me to send me to school with more privileged, better educated children. For saying, “We’ll take the risk.” For teaching me to be brave, and to never listen to anyone who tells me I cannot fight for my dreams.

For scrimping and saving for piano lessons. For giving me a love of music. For teaching me that money, or the lack of it, cannot keep you from feeding your soul.

For never successfully teaching me – no matter how hard I tried – to make your fried chicken. For teaching me that some things can’t be duplicated.

For ignoring my anger when you made me wear leggings to school on cold, snowy mornings. For making me eat a hot breakfast every morning. Yes, and for making me swallow castor oil! For teaching me that sometimes somebody knows better than we do.

For making a fire in the furnace before I got up every morning. For washing my clothes in the tub. For walking me to school on icy mornings. For teaching me that sometimes loving somebody is hard, daily work.

For never criticizing me. Ever. For knowing how harmful that can be to a person’s soul.

For how your hand felt on my brow when I was sick. For teaching me that love is healing.

For going to work when I was in high school. For bringing your paycheck home in bags for me so that I’d dress as well as the more affluent girls, the girls whose fathers were doctors and lawyers. For always making me feel proud of my father, who was a policeman. For that enormously expensive graduation dress. For teaching me to study hard, that how I presented myself to the world was important, and to never, ever apologize for who I was.

For never doubting that I would go to college. For forgiving me when I dropped out to get married. For cheering me on when I went back.

For giving up your career as a teacher to be my mother twenty-four hours a day. For never looking back. For teaching me that when the choice is yours, not to resent it.

For knowing that love is the great healer of every scraped knee, every broken heart, every disappointment, and every failure.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama.


Thank you, dear friends, for the lovely comments about The Messenger. There is a chapter in it about my mother and a special gift she gave me. I hope you will enjoy it. By the way, her name was – is – Precious.

Look for The Messenger by Helen Delaney on Amazon.com








The Messenger is Here

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Dear Readers:

Those of you who have been following this blog know that I have been waiting to announce the release of my book, The Messenger. With a very grateful heart, I thank all who waited with me with love and encouragement. It is now available on Amazon.com. (The link is below, or you can get there by inserting my name.) Following is the back cover text:


Helen Delaney is in a railway book store, inconsolable and suicidal after the death of her son. A book at eye level catches her attention. She touches it, and it falls off the shelf, into her hand. It is a set of instructions on how to connect with a spirit guide. Thus begins The Messenger, the true, intimate story of a grieving mother, a gifted medium, and the spirit guide, Lukhamen, who keeps her alive by recounting the story of his life.

It is 214 AD, and the Egyptian city of Luxor is ruled by Rome. The last vestiges of Egypt’s glorious past are discernible in the deteriorating temple dedicated to the god Amon, and its high priest, Lukhamen’s father. A Roman centurion, hopelessly in love with the wife of the high priest, becomes governor. A sadistic Roman underling seeks to survive in this unprecedented account of the end of an era. Above it all, and against the tide of history, Lukhamen, nine years old when the story begins, is expected to be the next high priest, and a light unto his people.

The author duly records Lukhamen’s memories, barely noticing that a healing has begun. By chance, she is sent to Cairo on business. From there, it is a short trip to Luxor, where an internal, unerring compass leads her to the places Lukhamen has imprinted upon her consciousness: the river road, the temple of Amon, a garden two thousand years old, and a Christian church, hidden by time. There, in the ancient city of Luxor, flooded with memories and emotion, one thing becomes clear: she has been there before.