Abby's journal



July 6, 2018


Steve is fine-tuning his latest journal entry, this morning, and I am gently nudging him that he might want to channel one for me...

Deep down, after doing this for so many years, Steve still can't quite shake the feeling that he might be writing these, all by himself. Of course he is writing them, physically, trying to stay out of the way as much as he can, and writing in my "voice." So if he doesn't feel particularly inspired, before he starts, he worries that my readers will lose interest, and all of that. My journal, these days, is read about half as much as his is read, and that isn't very much.

Oh, Steve saw an ad on Youtube (he has made Youtube his television channel, now), where a young man tells you how he has learned to build popular "channels" which get as many as half a million viewers! And what are those people doing? Eating bugs, or something like that. Being clowns, in other words. There is a huge audience for frivolity, just as there was, in my day. But then, you would go to the carnival and pay to gawk at unfortunates, or see slap-stick comedy. The world hasn't changed so much, except that the power of media has given these things a wider audience. And worse.

By contrast, I get a handful of people, here, who understand that this is real, and yet, who haven't been so offended that they stopped reading me. Steve can't translate the feeling of gratitude he feels from me, and loyalty. It just sort of washed over him, untranslatable.

Because friends like this are friends indeed; and will meet, someday. I am giving Steve the feeling of what is important here, as opposed to what is important, there. What is truly important, if it finds a toe-hold on earth, will be magnified and recognized here, in heaven. What seems so important on earth, when you have a physical body, will seem trivial when you get here--and vice versa. What you see is really important, here, gets lost in all the hub-bub and ignorance there on earth. A million people want to see someone eat something weird; a handful want to have tea, with me. But that is a shining handful of people!

No-one is to be blamed--it is how the world works. It is a proving ground, and a giant sieve. You find out a person's true mettle in the physical life, and you see what still needs to be learnt. Thus we progress.

But I'm not saying anything, here, that you don't already know. Steve saw a near-death experience account on YouTube that I nudged him to watch, and again, he wonders about something. The mediums say that when you cross over, you are still the same person. But these people, some of them, report experiencing a state where they lose their individuality, experiencing being one with everything and connected with everything and everyone; where they have immediate answers to all their questions, and so-on. Again, the mediums say you remain the same person, but you are sort of "at your best"; and where people were jealous before, or resentful, or selfish, they aren't so much, now. To the point that former spouses are glad you are remarrying, and all of that. Steve wonders, "Which is it?"

Well, suppose you are a child, and you have a trust fund, or an inheritance, shall we say. You are orphaned, and you don't know anything about it. But one day, you discover your family origins, and you gain access to that fund. You were a pauper, and now, suddenly you are wealthy. It's sort of like that. When you first cross over, you inherit what's rightfully yours, meaning, what's natively yours. And you are sort of shown the whole thing, at first--the whole "pile." But you don't get to glory in that, necessarily, when you live here. You are shown who you really are, but then you settle down to live life here. We don't fly around in that state all the time, is what I'm trying to convey to Steve. We are at our best, compared to when we were in a physical body, no doubt. But we are not gods, or angels. We still learn, we still work, we still perfect ourselves in the arts, we still try to improve ourselves, we still serve. And when we are called upon to love enough to overcome jealousy, we do that. We look back at our lives on earth, and we see where we still need improvement. We feel our connection to other people far more keenly, here, but we are still individual persons. There is more that Steve isn't getting--he sort of "ran out of steam" on me.

I hope that clarifies things a bit. Oh, mediums do have a team that is helping them. They may or may not acknowledge it. But when the medium says, "They are showing me," who, exactly, is "they"? The family members? No, usually it's the team of helpers. The medium has his or her own personal symbols. Well, who has established this "language" with the medium? Does each new person coming through, know all of that mediums personal symbols? Of course not. It's his regular team.

That doesn't mean your loved one isn't coming through personally--it means there are helpers who translate. I am telling Steve, they amplify the signal, with group concentration. Much of mediumship happens here on this side. Steve and I have no such team. We communicate as we do, because we are soul-mates.

At one of the assisted care facilities Steve works in, they have a movie almost every night for the residents. Last night, the activities director had to change the offering at the last minute, because the one he had chosen was in Swedish. So he had substituted "The Lake House." :-) This was one of the films that I had nudged Steve to watch when we first got back together. I wanted him to see it, again. The handful of residents were quite bored! But Steve watched it carefully. Whoever wrote this, must have been experiencing what we are experiencing, today; but this was as close as they dared portray it.

Here is a poem that Steve found, while going through his stockpile of old newspapers. Perhaps I will leave you with this. It seems, to Steve, that as Mathew, in 1854, he may have been freelancing as an editor for this particular issue. It contains two of his own pieces, and others he might have chosen for inclusion. And it also includes this poem.

Soulmates are just a different bird. The couple in "The Lake House" were soulmates. It's a sacred relationship. What does "sacred" mean? It is so easily lost, on earth, or mis-identified with dogma, or cheapened through imitation and mis-use. Steve is struggling, here, to get my meaning. If you know what sacred really is, you don't have to say anything about it--in fact, you would prefer not to say anything about it. If you don't know what sacred is, no amount of explaining will help. Here is what I just told Steve, directly--the sacred in your heart will tell you, by resonance, what is sacred in the world. You will be able to pick it out. If your heart is covered by worldliness, imitate as you may, it will be invisible to you. You will inadvertently step all over it.

The soulmate relationship is sacred, profoundly sacred. In our century, in the early 19th century, enough people understood this. Profane scholars have dubbed it the "Romantic Era," as though they were artificially trying to invent something out of practical marriages. But practical marriages were a distortion, a trivialization of the sacred. We were reinstating the sacred, not "inventing" something that had never been imagined before. Sigh...such a sea of ignorance, there in your world. Try not to let it pull you in. Keep your heart pure, and you can see your way, there. Let your guides help you. You can find your way through the dark physical world, and come bursting into the light, here, triumphant! We knew this in the 19th century--you, as a culture, have all but lost this wisdom. But now Steve doesn't want to take over and write an essay of his own! So as he is tired, we will close with the poem.


Elfrid was a village maiden,
 In the good old Father-land;
Fair e'en as the holy Aldenn,
 Fresh from the Creator's hand.

Many suitors came to woo her,
 Rich and handsome—noble even,
But 't was all in vain to sue her,
 She but said, "My heart is given."

So the suitors all departed,
 Cursed their fortune—blessed her face—
And some few, crushed, broken-hearted,
 Sought the grave, a resting place.

Years move on, and Elfrid pining
 As a flower shut from the sun,
Sat before her cottage, twining
 Myrtles for an absent one.

'T was at evening and the sinking
 Sun cast soft and lingering beams
On poor Elfrid, sitting, thinking—
 There was sunlight in her dreams!

From the dim Past she was calling
 Happy hours, joyous words
On her ear his tones were falling,
 In the heart-songs of the birds.

Of the birds, which, gathering near her,
 Sang their sweetest, clearest strain,
Seeming messengers to cheer her
 From one she 'd ne'er see again.

Still she sat there—not now twining
 Myrtles for the absent one;
But her lovely head reclining
 On her breast—the wreath was done.

Yes, her spirit had ascended
 To the land of bliss above,
And perhaps e'en now is blended
 Forever with its absent love!   L.


Love to each and all,