I discovered the following essay in my grandmother Lillie’s journal, written in the back of a small memo book, otherwise filled with day-to-day incidentals.

<<Lillie was born in 1875. This was written in 1913 or ’14, before my mom was born; she mentions her three older children elsewhere. She had very few erasures or edits, and I typed what was there, with some punctuation added, and paragraph breaks.>>

Spiritualism and mediums afford almost as fertile a field for the jokes of the multitude as does a certain popular auto mobile, yet the mysteries of the Great Beyond will always be of vital interest. Those who in moments joke lightly of ghosts and ouija boards do, at other times, yearn, always while Death chooses relentlessly here and there. Those who are here today, tomorrow vanish into the silence.

Many, just before the gates close, speak a few last words, leaving with the grief watchers a hope that all is well with the vanished traveler. These last indeed are treasured in the heart, are told amid tears to friends, are repeated far and wide, and those who never avail themselves of the orthodox way of acquiring…

<<Stops writing here.>>

Few have not experienced or heard from friends some of these deathbed scenes, some hint of the reality of the continuance of life. No one is wise enough to draw the line, to say with finality, this vision was real, this was the imaging of a desperate mind.

A man lay near death’s door after weeks of suffering, wife and daughter by his side, ‘I can see,’ he said, ‘into a place where all is harmony, all is harmony.’ ‘He must be dreaming,’ remarked the daughter to her mother. ‘Dreaming, indeed I am not dreaming,’ he objected emphatically.

‘Mother, if you could see where I am going, you would not need to grieve for me,’ said a daughter in her last conscious hours.

Everyone knows of similar cases, and the assurance that these visions are real builds up faith and sustains.

One of my earliest childhood memories is of myself sitting under a gooseberry bush by an open window, filling up on gooseberries, and overhearing my mother and a caller discussing the death of a child in the neighborhood. It was stated that the silent watchers in the death chamber had heard footsteps and rustling in the room, as the soul of the child passed on. My child’s mind was filled with the wonder, awe, and mystery of it. And I think, from that day on, my mind was always reaching out, searching, questioning to know more of this mystery.

My parents were of the very strict, orthodox church type of Christianity years ago, and during my growing years, I had little opportunity.

I had heard more or less arguments against spiritualism, and stories of exposed mediums, and the adult conversation I heard, and the orthodox books and papers I had access to, stressed the assurance that spiritualism, or any other -ism not authorized by the church, was unquestioningly the work of the devil.

I was always a silent child, and while I listened eagerly, I never disclosed my interest. Always I questioned silently and wonderingly. Is there any truth in it? Mightn’t there be a tiny bit? And why are church members so positive that the very things they try to teach can never be proved but must forever be taken on faith.

After an interminable number of wondering years, I grew up, as children have a habit of doing, and left home to earn my own living. The old ties of church restraint were too strong to allow me to actively try to gain authentic knowledge of spiritualism, but every newspaper or magazine article on the subject I always read eagerly, searching, sifting to find the grain of truth.

Then one day, I read about J. Savage’s book, Life Beyond Death. It brought me a sense of quiet calm and relief to know that others within the church, even a minister, found orthodoxy insufficient.

At that time, there were but few friends or relatives of my own who had passed over. My sister Lena had left us at the age of eleven. I was seven at the time, and only a few pictures of her remained in my mind. It seemed a beautiful and mystical thing to again become acquainted through these meetings. If Death had not stepped in and taken her from the family in childhood, her personality would have been as familiar to me as that of my other sisters. And now, after twenty silent years, she again became a real sister. That tho for silent years she had been to me but a name and a faint memory, in reality she had been with us often.

I had fearfully enjoyed a number of seances before. Single Eye, lights, flowers, music, raps, double, a noble life, guides, regrets.

<<Single Eye was an individual said to have communicated with the family through a medium, Mrs. Philena Owen, known to the family as “Auntie Fid.”>>

Besides the friends who demonstrated their presence at every meeting, there were the crowds who stood back. All these friends and relatives of my husband’s family, whom I had never seen, became nearly as well known as those here.

<<Pages cut out of the journal.>>

No longer does the thought of heaven suggest only hazy angels playing harps. But I love to picture real people living, progressing, learning, enjoying, possessing a fullness of life and joy never possible on this old earth.

<<That’s it. Just these few paragraphs revealed more about the grandma who died before my time.
In fact, I was born eight years later on the anniversary of her death, and my mother’s sister Marion always said that their mother had arranged that, so the family would no longer think of that date as a sad day.
The rest of this memorandum book is filled with shopping lists, items she bought for her children, household budgets and accounts, etc.>>