Stories from others

Story posted on: 12-29-2008

My dad passed away in 1996 - and my mom and I immediately started getting "messages" from him. She would be watching a program on tv that they both had enjoyed - and the black and white photo of him that sat on her television would radiate out all kinds of color. I witnessed this and it was amazing.  Once I was shopping with her - which he loved to do - and when she paid - their song "Stardust" came over the store speaker - and we both knew he was happy for her.  Meantime, I noticed the number 13 started appearing in my life as soon as he died - I'd see it on the clock (12:13) - I'd sit in a theatre seat- 13 - it happened so often that my mom and I thought it was my dad letting me know he was there. My mom got Leukemia about 9 years after my dad died. We tried in the beginning to make light of it - humor and laughter were always a big part of our lives. I asked her - if she  does pass - would she continue this repeating the number thirteen in my life - as dad  was doing? She smiled and said ," I'll give you two thirteens in one day!" My mom died quickly from the Leukemia - and true to her word - even when I was going over her papers with my lawyer - it started - in conversation - two thirteens would come up. It still goes on - I'll be sitting on a train ready to leave - and the conductor will say - we have to go to track 13 - then someone will be sitting next to me and mention the number thirteen about something totally unrelated. I always thank both my parents for letting me know through songs on the radio, dreams, synchronicities (yes- the number 13 repeating) - that I know they are there. I've filled three journals so far with all of these messages - or what I refer to as calls from them. I'm sure most people get them - it's just that I pick up the receiver and listen - and then answer them with a" thank you"- and " I love you." Thanks for your wonderful book - so many of these postcards are out there from our loved ones if we can just stop be still and listen.  Ilene Fredd

Story posted by: Ilene Fredd

Story posted on: 12-24-2008

This past July 4th, my husband of 46 years died from a sudden intracranial hemorrhage. He survived a huge bladder tumor in 1968 and open heart surgery in 1979. He refused to take himself or his illnesses seriously. “People want to feel sorry for someone,” he would say, “let them go walk through St. Jude’s [Children’s Research Hospital for pediatric cancer patients].” Over the years, we laughed our way through both of his illnesses, a couple of mine, and many of the other stressors Life presents. After the heart surgery, I asked him, “Okay, are you done with the dramatics now?” He said, “Nope. Next time it will be the brain,” and we laughed. That morning, he had a bad headache. I asked him, as we often did each other, “Are you okay or are you beginning to die?” He answered quietly that he wasn't sure, which got my attention, so I asked if he wanted to go to the hospital to check out the headache, but he said, “No, why? What good would that do?” Instead, despite what must have been intense pain, he made very tender love to me that felt like a combination of “thank you” and “goodbye.” I guess it was in a way, because within a couple of hours, I had to call 911, and by midnight, only his brain stem was functioning, and a Gift of Life staff member was sitting with me at his bedside. I don’t think his death was a tragedy. I agree with him that a child suffering and dying is a tragedy. Never knowing Love is a tragedy. At our ages, death is simply Life moving on to its natural next stage. That said, it is five months later and I am still wondering if the fog will ever clear, if I will ever get through the agony of losing him and be able to function normally once again. I met him at 15, married him at 18 two days after graduating high school. We were able to end our marriage still in love, and we counted that a real blessing – one we’d worked hard for, but that still eludes many who fervently want such an outcome but cannot achieve it – including both of our sons. We were constantly together, each other’s best friend. Family and friends sometimes teased us about it, sometimes advised us of the danger of too much togetherness… but we thrived together. The downside of being so intertwined, I guess, is that now I have no clue how to function emotionally without him. This is a part of my life I will have to create from scratch, and that scares me… but it’s apparently what the script demands now. I’ve received a couple of postcards that I think are intended to help me with that task: Even with the last morning’s intimacy, we never got a chance to say goodbye knowing we were parting… until the night of August 11th when, through a dream that wasn’t a dream, we embraced for a long time – one of those hugs where when one of the two lessens their “grip” the other one pulls them back into the hug, and then vice versa… For a few moments, it was as if neither one of us wanted to let go and say goodbye, even temporarily. At that mystical meeting (he looked much younger, healthier, and glowingly happy, by the way!) we knew that we had to be apart for awhile now because I was still on a journey that we both believed important to complete... but knowing its necessity didn’t make us like having to be separated. So we held each other for a long time saying goodbye. The next morning I could still feel that hug. It has sustained me for months now. The other postcard came just a few days ago. I have not spent a Christmas without him since I was 15. Although both sons invited me to be with them, I need to be alone this year just to be able to “be” without having to meet anyone’s expectations of how I should be feeling or what I should be thinking or doing. I’ve always had a very high pain threshold, both on physical and emotional levels, and am not really much of a crier or a whiner – but I think my husband is aware of the huge gaping hole in my heart, of my feelings of desolation, as if the world\'s color has suddenly changed to an ugly, dingy gray. In this second twilight dream, I wakened just enough to feel his hand on mine, his palm laid across the back of my hand in a protective, comforting way. I could feel the weight of his hand, and its warmth. I don’t know why, but I did not open my eyes to look for him. I just lay very still trying to absorb the moment so that I will never forget how it felt. After about 20 seconds, his hand's weight on mine lessened. “Don’t go.” I murmured. He immediately spoke into my mind, “I’m here. I’m right here.” It felt like another postcard from Heaven delivered specifically to get me through these holidays… and I think it is working. I wish I could say that I’m not still in pain, but we knew one of us would have to walk this path. During our long marriage, we talked many many times about death. “What would I do if you go first?” I used to ask him. “How could I ever get through it?” His answer never varied: “You stand up each morning, and you put one foot in front of the other.” That’s what I’m doing…. but as I try to walk forward the way he would expect me to, I find myself clutching very tightly to my postcards from Heaven.

Story posted by: Pat

Story posted on: 12-07-2008

Your Postcards from Heaven was my postcard. I picked up the book while browsing at Barnes & Noble. I thought it might offer a bit of warmth. I thought I might voyeristicly comfort myself through someone else\'s story. I was looking for comfort because I am greiving the loss of my brother David. David passed away on 11/06/08. When I picked up the book I thought hey, cool. Maybe, someday, I will receive a post card from David...until then I can read something about someone else being comforted. The interesting thing was as the story unfolded there were such striking similarities that I felt that gentle nudge of \'this is too weird to be a coincidence\'. My David was diagnosed with lung cancer 4.5 years ago. It was treated and he responded incredibly well. Then in April of 08 the cancer returned with a vengence in David\'s brain. David\'s younger brother is named Danny and he felt much the same way as you did about your brother David. And there is an entire sub-story around David, my daughter Alexa, NYU and Zaki\'s film school in Sedona.I believe I was guided to pick up your book to receive my postcard from David letting me know he is safe, warm, and loved on the other side. And I have a sneaking hunch Alexa will be attending the Zaki Gordon Institute in Sedona.

Story posted by: Helen

Story posted on: 11-22-2008

Mr. Gordon, I jus finish your book “Postcards from Haven” and I would like to share my postcard with you. First of all, excuse my spelling. I’m a Jew from Mexico City but I being living in San Diego, California for 20 Years. This e-mail could be a little beta to long but please, read it all. My first born Passed away July 12th of 2008 (It was a Shabbat). Jessica, my precious 13 year old daughter, could not beat brain cancer. Jessica always had her own cell phone whit her. Ten days after Jessica passed away, I was sleeping. It was 2 or 3 a.m. when Jessica’s cell phone start ringing. It was an intermittent ringing, not a constant one. I did not wake up to look for the phone. I wait to the next morning and I asked my wife if she heard Jessica’s Cell phone ringing the other night. Her respond: You are crazy, I put that phone away, and I don’t even remember where I put it”. “No, I did not hear Jessica’s phone ringing”. So we start looking for the phone. We found it. Jessica’s phone did not show any incoming call for the night I hear the phone ringing. But I notice that the screen show a phone number that, neither me or my wife recognize. The call was made the night a hear Jessica’s phone ringing. So because I did not recognize the phone number where the call was made, I decide to dial that phone number. When I dial the number a voice mail answer my call. My call was answer by voice mail with the recording of the song “I am walking on Sunshine”. I got the Gus bumps every time I told this story but it is absolutely true. To me it is an amazing and true Postcard from Haven. Mr. Gordon please read what follow and please read the attachment I am sending you. As your re doing with the memory and spirit of your son Zaky, I am traing to do the same for Jessica, the most precious human being I ever met. P.S. Alexa 9 years, Jessica’s sister is pretty awesome to. Hi, my name is Abraham Nudelstejer and I’m sending this letter because I need your help On July 12th my daughter Jessica passed away. At 13 years old, she could not beat a brain cancer tumor. To preserve Jessica’s spirit I star the Jessica Nudelstejer Foundation. Please se de document attach so you can learn everything about this foundation. My goal is to raise enough money to give away 4 laptops to unprivileged kids on Jessica’s birthday, February 10. I am planning to do the same thing every single year. I wonder, after you read de attachment, if you can give me contacts or information about where to get laptops at a low price and also if you know anybody willing to give a contribution to Jessica’s Foundation. So far I being able to raise 1,200 dollars but still is not enough to meet our goal. Thank you for your time and I will be waiting for your kind response. Abraham Nudelstejer 619-421-2778 1740 Fernwood Road, Chula Vista, California, 91913 (Please open rtf named: carta una sola pagina)

Story posted by: abraham nudelstejer

Story posted on: 11-21-2008

I was born the day after my Mother’s birthday so celebrating together was a special part of our relationship. I lived with Mom, and took care of her, before she passed away 6 years ago but it is clear to me each day that her love and our relationship live on. Over the years there have been “postcards from heaven” to remind me of her presence in my life especially around our birthdays. Mom’s favorite flower is the calla lily. Mom & Dad's wedding picture with her holding a beautiful calla lily bouquet hangs on the wall of my home. Now two paintings of calla lilies decorate the walls-presents from Mom from the other side. The first one she sent me was in Peru where I was traveling on the first Mother’s Day without Mom or so I thought. Traveling through Peru I saw bouquets of calla lilies everywhere--in the hotels, restaurants and even on the street in a painting I bought from a young street vendor. The painting is of an older woman who is standing in a field of flowers picking calla lilies. The second bouquet was on my birthday two years ago. I was in NYC on business and walking down the street with two friends who were taking me out to dinner to celebrate. Walking under a scaffolding decorated by a local artist with his wares, I spotted a small painting in the dark, not yet on display, next to the artist’s folding chair: a vase of calla lilies on a blue background (the color of my French country kitchen). I bought the painting but it wasn’t until I looked at it in the light of the restaurant that I saw the small package wrapped with a bow next to the vase—a birthday present from my mother! A few days ago, I was celebrating my birthday in Sedona. I was visiting friends who gave me a gift of massage. Next to the massage table was a bouquet of calla lilies. Mom and I were celebrating together again, as always. ..

Story posted by: Ginny Weissman

Story posted on: 11-13-2008

Another postcard from Heaven to share In 1996 our daughter Jen was a junior at Colby College in Maine. As many juniors do, she spent a semester abroad. Her choice was Edinburgh, Scotland, where she studied English. She was to be there from January till June. Most families would have planned a trip there during that time, but our budget wouldn’t allow all three of us to go. Instead, we gave the trip to her younger brother, Matt, 15 at the time, as part of his Christmas present. It would be his first trip that included a plane ride. Originally, the plan was for Matt, a tall skinny dude of a basketball player, to visit Jen during his April break from school, so we assumed we had plenty of time to procure his passport and ticket, but Jen informed us that his trip would fit better into her schedule if he spent his February vacation with her instead of the spring break. This was now short notice for us, and we had a lot to get done in a hurry. Matt’s dad, John, took a day off after the first of the year and the two of them went into the Federal building in Boston to expedite the passport process. We had heard that if you waited in line all day you could get the passport that same day, which they did. Since it was Matt’s first flight and his sister wouldn’t be able to meet him at the airport, she had provided him with detailed information as to which bus he had to find when he landed at the Glascow airport which would take him to her location. At least the people where he was going would speak English in case he got lost, I comforted myself. Nervous mother that I am, I had practically turned Matt into a nervous wreck himself regarding keeping his passport safe (people would kill for an American passport, I told him), finding the correct bus, and not talking to strangers. The day of the trip, I was extremely nervous because Matt was flying on British Airways, and during this time, the IRA was setting off bombs in trash cans around London. Although his flight was not going to London, but Glasgow, I still could not shake off my worries for his safety. All the way to the airport I prayed to my childhood friend, Elaine, who had been a flight attendant for Delta Airlines until her death from Lymphoma at age 44. I asked her to watch over him and help him to arrive safely. Friends since 4th grade, Elaine and I were very close. I was the godmother to her daughter, Alicia, who was just 6 weeks older than Matt. When Elaine was in high school her dream was to be a flight attendant, and she would make us go with her on weekends to Logan airport in Boston to watch the planes depart and arrive. When she was going to her interview for the flight attendant job, we, her 3 best friends, prayed to St. Jude, the patron saint of hopeless causes, that she’d be hired. She was, and she loved her job. During our high school years a popular song of the day was ‘Sweet Talkin’ Guy’. We used to sing it together and enjoyed the ‘rounds’ of the verses. After Elaine died in 1992, I would think of her whenever the song came on the oldies station I listened to regularly. I felt it was our time to communicate. As the years went by, it was played less and less, but I noticed that the song seemed to come on the radio when I had something big happening in my life. For example, when I was diagnosed with early stage breast cancer, I had to decide whether to have radiation treatments following my lumpectomy (the doctors said I was borderline for needing it and that it was up to me). One day, I was driving home after the appointment at which the doctor had made the treatment recommendation. In order to think things through, I turned off the radio that was always tuned to the oldies station. I told myself that the doctors knew best and decided to follow their recommendation and have the treatment. That decision made, I put the radio back on. The song that was playing at that moment? ‘Sweet Talkin’ Guy’. I took that as a sign from Elaine that I had made the right decision. We got to Logan airport early for Matt’s flight and parted ways with him at the doors to the gate beyond which we could not go. I watched him, clad in his bulky Charlotte Hornet’s jacket, as he hugged his carry on bag to his chest, looking like a deer caught in headlights. He was tense, and I had made him that way. John and I turned from the glass doors to see that a long line of people had formed waiting to pass into the gated area. I happened to notice a middle aged man sporting a Colby College baseball cap. He was saying goodbye to a young woman, I assumed to be his daughter, who was preparing to go through glass doors. Thinking she might know my daughter Jen, I went over and asked her if she did. She had graduated from Colby the previous June, and knew Jen by name only. The girls name was Jennifer also, and she said she was going to Scotland to visit her boyfriend, still a student at Colby, spending his junior semester abroad in Edinburgh. Even though this girl was a complete stranger, I felt she was part of the Colby family and my motherly instinct took over. I pointed out Matthew, sitting in the gate area, and asked her to do me a favor. I explained that it was his first flight ever, and asked if she could befriend him, so that if anything happened on the trip (IRA in mind) he would feel a connection to another human being on that plane. She very graciously agreed, and now two sets of parents watched as she entered the gated area and introduced herself. I had to laugh to myself; I had told him over and over not to speak to strangers, and now I had just sent him one! I marveled at how his shoulders dropped in relief, and we waved as they boarded the plane together. I then turned to Jennifer’s parents and said to her dad, ‘I’m glad I’m not shy; I saw the Colby hat and just had to speak to you.” He laughed and said, “I actually just threw it on at the last moment as we were leaving the house.” Realizing that I had not even introduced myself or my husband, I introduced us and said where we lived. The man introduced himself and his wife and mentioned that they came from the city of Revere. “Oh,” I said, playing the name game, “I only know a couple of people in all of Revere. Do you know by any chance…” (and I mentioned the names of my deceased flight attendant friend Elaine and her husband ). “Know them” he said, “we summered with them every year at their place in Maine until she died.” I could not stop the tears of gratitude all the way home. There was no doubt in my mind that Elaine had sent this family to us that day. The odds against this happening were too great. First Matt was supposed to go to Scotland in April, and then at the last minute it was changed to February. The hat, the girl, the boyfriend in Scotland, were all too much. I finally composed myself in the car and retreated into my thoughts. My husband put the radio on, and the song that was playing was Sweet Talkin’ Guy…

Story posted by: Dorothy O\'Neill