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Authors: Chantel Lysette
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archangel instructed during one of my visitations to the Realm of Spirit through meditation. “What do you see?”
“The stars,” I said, gazing up into the darkness of space. But I knew there was something very different about the sky in the Realm of Spirit from the sky I was so used to gazing at in my waking hours. Unlike in the human world, the stars weren’t sparse against a sea of black. Instead, there were many clustered together in a grid-like formation.
Gabriel took my hand and led me upward to get a closer look. The closer we came to the grid, the more I realized what I was seeing: human souls, countless human souls. They were all orbs of various colors—white, blue, purple, green, gold—and they were all connected by what looked like a colorful stream of plasma. It seemed that this grid went on into eternity.
“Everyone is sleeping,” the angel whispered. What was more beautiful than the sight I beheld were all the angels weaving between the souls. Some angels were leading souls to the place where they would be resting during their stay in the human world. Other angels were escorting souls (that had just awoken from their experience) out of the grid and back to the bustling metropolis of Heaven that I had previously visited during another meditation.
And here I ask myself again, Why did I leave? Why did I leave there to come here? Uriel says we’re slow. Michael says we’re brave.
I say we’re gluttons for punishment.
So after you connect with your angels, write your script, get it approved, and tuck yourself into bed with your favorite teddy bear. You’re ready to embark on the journey of a lifetime—literally.
Good luck.
[contents]
chapter three
WELCOME TO THE HUMAN EXPERIENCE— ENJOY YOUR STAY!
“You are a walking miracle,” Archangel Michael said to me one afternoon as I sat in the confines of a small, dark, and stifling hot room. It was going on a decade, and that one single room had been my hell. My prison. In the beginning, when I took ill, that upstairs room had been a blessing. After all, had it not been for the landlord’s willingness to allow me to live there for nothing more than what I offered in gratitude for the shelter, I’d have been on the streets.
There were some days, however, when I wondered if begging on a corner was a bad thing when compared with those circumstances. With a broken body and more progressive illnesses than I could count, walking up and down stairs became more and more difficult. My favorite pastime, cooking, became less of an occurrence because I wasn’t able to stand very long in a kitchen. And because it was not my kitchen and rather that of someone who had no respect for the art of cooking or the basic sanitary housekeeping that was necessary with my compromised immune system, I spent more time cleaning it than cooking in it.
After a while, cooking ceased altogether and my meals quickly went from hot but inexpensive and nutritionally empty dinners every night to canned goods that were barely warmed on a sixty-watt light bulb. Depending on the density of the canned food, cooking on a light bulb took hours, and hence, I often ate canned pasta and soups cold. It was just as much of a risk to my health, with the way food is recalled these days, but I could no longer physically clean and cook, nor could I psychologically endure the hell of disdainful gazes or culturally ignorant tirades. Not to mention, being downstairs meant having to listen to consistently loud and grating verbal bashing by those who seemed to think themselves far better than any and everyone who flickered across a television screen. It was the endless, mindless chatter of those who could barely read the newspaper, much less pick up a book.
I went from doing laundry once a month to every six. I went from venturing out of the house with a friend or to write at a café three times a week to once every three months. It seemed that the harder I fought to get back on my feet, the more
“The stars,” I said, gazing up into the darkness of space. But I knew there was something very different about the sky in the Realm of Spirit from the sky I was so used to gazing at in my waking hours. Unlike in the human world, the stars weren’t sparse against a sea of black. Instead, there were many clustered together in a grid-like formation.
Gabriel took my hand and led me upward to get a closer look. The closer we came to the grid, the more I realized what I was seeing: human souls, countless human souls. They were all orbs of various colors—white, blue, purple, green, gold—and they were all connected by what looked like a colorful stream of plasma. It seemed that this grid went on into eternity.
“Everyone is sleeping,” the angel whispered. What was more beautiful than the sight I beheld were all the angels weaving between the souls. Some angels were leading souls to the place where they would be resting during their stay in the human world. Other angels were escorting souls (that had just awoken from their experience) out of the grid and back to the bustling metropolis of Heaven that I had previously visited during another meditation.
And here I ask myself again, Why did I leave? Why did I leave there to come here? Uriel says we’re slow. Michael says we’re brave.
I say we’re gluttons for punishment.
So after you connect with your angels, write your script, get it approved, and tuck yourself into bed with your favorite teddy bear. You’re ready to embark on the journey of a lifetime—literally.
Good luck.
[contents]
chapter three
WELCOME TO THE HUMAN EXPERIENCE— ENJOY YOUR STAY!
“You are a walking miracle,” Archangel Michael said to me one afternoon as I sat in the confines of a small, dark, and stifling hot room. It was going on a decade, and that one single room had been my hell. My prison. In the beginning, when I took ill, that upstairs room had been a blessing. After all, had it not been for the landlord’s willingness to allow me to live there for nothing more than what I offered in gratitude for the shelter, I’d have been on the streets.
There were some days, however, when I wondered if begging on a corner was a bad thing when compared with those circumstances. With a broken body and more progressive illnesses than I could count, walking up and down stairs became more and more difficult. My favorite pastime, cooking, became less of an occurrence because I wasn’t able to stand very long in a kitchen. And because it was not my kitchen and rather that of someone who had no respect for the art of cooking or the basic sanitary housekeeping that was necessary with my compromised immune system, I spent more time cleaning it than cooking in it.
After a while, cooking ceased altogether and my meals quickly went from hot but inexpensive and nutritionally empty dinners every night to canned goods that were barely warmed on a sixty-watt light bulb. Depending on the density of the canned food, cooking on a light bulb took hours, and hence, I often ate canned pasta and soups cold. It was just as much of a risk to my health, with the way food is recalled these days, but I could no longer physically clean and cook, nor could I psychologically endure the hell of disdainful gazes or culturally ignorant tirades. Not to mention, being downstairs meant having to listen to consistently loud and grating verbal bashing by those who seemed to think themselves far better than any and everyone who flickered across a television screen. It was the endless, mindless chatter of those who could barely read the newspaper, much less pick up a book.
I went from doing laundry once a month to every six. I went from venturing out of the house with a friend or to write at a café three times a week to once every three months. It seemed that the harder I fought to get back on my feet, the more
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