Nobody’s Gone for Good

Those who follow this blog know that I do not believe in death. That doesn’t mean I don’t take it seriously. It doesn’t mean that when my husband died, I wasn’t brought to my knees in grief, or that I do not miss him every day of my life. That is why, this past week, when I learned that my friend’s husband had died, my heart broke for her. I feel her grief, just as surely as I felt my own, because death on this earthly plane is very real.

When I say I don’t believe in death, it’s true. I don’t. I believe the person I love who left his body still lives. The person. Not the body.

Over the years, I have felt the presence of those, like my son, like my husband, like my mother, who have “died.” I have experienced things beyond the human senses. I have had evidence, signals of their presence. Christmas ornaments falling from a shelf. A ring, long put away, suddenly appearing on the floor of the laundry room. The presence of a Spirit Guide, come to help me and teach me about life, and life, and life. I know the ones I love are here. They’re here when I am not feeling well, here when I see something extraordinarily beautiful, here when I think of them or call their names. Here when I dream of them.

But my husband’s eyes, the blue, blue eyes that looked at me with such love, are gone. We, my friend and I, have lost their eyes. We have lost their laughter, their wisdom, the gentle kindness with which they shared our hurts and fears. They loved us, and the loss of that present love is real, and painful, and lonely. There will be times when we will say that we “lost” our husbands, but it is not they who are lost. We are.

I’m still amazed at how my mind was working in those last days. As long as my husband was breathing, my mind kept death away from me, away from him, away in spite of all the odds, away, even as cancer progressed in the relentless pursuit of his life. My mind did that for me.We did not think about death. The body we loved still breathed. We were busy taking care of it. And that was enough.

My friend and I knew what it was like to care for the body. We talked about it. We knew what it was like to handle urine and feces, and all manner of bodily manifestations. Nothing was repugnant to us. Nothing. Because love was greater than anything the body could show us. And in my mind, as long as I could keep doing those things for the body, death did not exist. Until it did. And he no longer needed me. That was, perhaps, the deepest shock of grief, the moment when he no longer needed me. Or anything. Or anybody.

And so, my dear friend, I do acknowledge death, even as I give it no lasting power over the ones we love. I acknowledge our loss. It is as real as this earth, as real as time and space, and as the pain we feel. It is as real as the relief in knowing they no longer suffer. It is as real as our moments of anger at them for leaving us, as real as the clothes that still hang in the closet, the shoes that are worn in the shape of their feet, the faint scent of cologne on the shirt, the phone that we will throw away. The light that we must now leave on so that we will not come home to a dark house.

And there is something else that is real, and that is our love. It does not die. And that is where they live, my friend. They live in every memory, in every pain, in the dreams we have in which they are still with us.  They live in radiant, beautiful spirit. In another dimension, but here. Now. They come near to us and somehow we know it. We feel it, because their love, too, does not die. It is the language with they they speak to us and the energy with which they make themselves known. You will feel it. Perhaps you have already.

And you know, dear friend, or you will know, that Nobody’s Gone for Good.


Read The Messenger: The Improbable Story of a Grieving Mother and a Spirit Guide by Helen Delaney. Find it at or

The Messenger IMG_0416






It Begins Again

Here, in the land of the red rocks, I have begun my second book, the sequel to The Messenger. I suppose it would be more accurate to say that The Messenger II has begun because it is time, I am ready, and I am in the right place. I am merely the scribe, not the author. As it was with the first book, I am being impressed with the continuation of the story of Lukhamen, my Spirit Guide; that is, I see it in my mind’s eye. It is fascinating. I wish I could explain it.

I can tell you that this is how it happens: I sit before my computer and the story begins where it left off.  Always. No matter how much time there is between segments. And I see it unfolding in the present, even though the lives of the people I write about lived long ago. When the segment (for that is how it happens, in segments) is over, I am back in my own present. That may be confusing. Let me say it another way: When I am in the story, or when I am observing the story taking place, I see it as it is occurring. Not as it occurred. That is why I write it in the present tense.

Or how about this: When you are watching a movie, and unless there is a flashback, you are watching a story unfold in the present. It is happening now, in front of your eyes, even if you are watching a historical dramatization of past events. That is what it is like for me. I am watching a movie. I see a little of it at a time, and I write it down as it is happening. Afterwards, I go back to what I have written and edit it —make it into coherent sentences.  Chose the right word to describe what I saw on the “screen.”

I suppose you would call this channeling. The word for it is not important. The significance of this amazing occurrence is that it is a gift—a miraculous gift— that I can pass on. Not only is the story fascinating—who wouldn’t like to be a witness to the end of an era in Egyptian history—but it contains a message, a wonderful message, a message of hope, a message that saved my life when my son died.

I’m going to share with you now a little of the story as it begins again, a little preview of things to come:



The heat of the sun wakes him. He rises upon his arms, and notices that his hands are rough and bloody in places. From crawling? He turns on his hips to half-sit, to see his surroundings. He is in the desert, alone. A scorpion scuttles past him, causing him to start. He needs shade, water. A bush beckons to him, and he pulls himself through the rough sand toward it, dragging his legs. It takes all his strength to reach the sparse shade.  He is exhausted by the time he reaches it, and lies prostrate beneath its fragile shelter. He cannot remember how he got here.

He dimly remembers a boat, and a river. No, not a boat. A temple barge. The heat scorches his bloody hands and burns the scalp beneath his hair. I had a family. I had a god. The words will not form on his parched lips. They are in his mind, his poor, wretched mind, which does not know what brought him here to this place that must surely kill him with its heat, its searing sun, and its sere, bleak loneliness. He closes his eyes and waits for death. He does not see, nor does he feel the hands that lift him onto the makeshift carrier. He does not feel the wracking ride over the rough rises, nor is he aware of the horse that drags him or its rider.


Like you, I do not know what is going to happen. The other part of The Messenger II, as it was in the original Messenger, will be based on the memories I have of my husband Bill, who passed away seven years ago. I am guessing that most of my readers have read The Messenger, and understand already how the present and the past can come together in the most beautiful way. I suspect it will be the same with The Messenger II.

And so it begins again.


Read The Messenger: The Improbable Story of a Grieving Mother and a Spirit Guide by Helen Delaney. Find it at or

The Messenger IMG_0416