I stare quietly at Charlie listening to his every word. Charlie is standing in front of over 100 of his friends and co-workers saying good-bye. No, Charlie is not retiring, changing jobs or moving .... Charlie is dying of AIDS. Over the last two years, I have watched Charlie who is the same age as I am get thinner and thinner. He now wears a hearing aid. He jokes constantly about his "plumbing problems" and the fact that he no longer has an ass.

"Look, Carol, it's gone! There's nothing to hold on to anymore." I smile to myself. That's Charlie, always joking.

My eyes fill with tears as he calls his daughter and son to his side. They aren't little anymore ... thank goodness. But they are still too young to be losing their dad. He shares with us his deepest feelings and how much he loves his children. The three of them embrace one another as he speaks. He tells us that he wants to say good-bye while he can still stand unattended. He doesn't want to talk to us from a semi-electric bed with his mind medicated and confused. Charlie tells us that God is with him and will be with him until the end. Charlie knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that God will embrace him as he crosses over.

As I watch people hugging Charlie and saying their good-byes, I think to myself, "How can Charlie have so much faith that God is with him through this dying process. Where does this faith come from? Do I have such faith?"

I do not have to think very hard. No, I do not have the faith that comforts and sustains Charlie. Charlie's faith is stronger than his fears. My fears overpower my faith. Though I appear to function well in everyday life, there are always two words present in my mind .... What if? What if?

These words came to life after the birth of my first child, Katie. I had never experienced such love within me. And with this love came fear. What if Katie died? How could I go on without her. Though I had never contemplated the idea of suicide, I seriously thought if Katie died, I would also have to die. The idea of living my life without her seemed unbearable. Why did I feel this way? I did not have these same fears when my mother died.

When Patrick, my second child was born, my fears intensified. What if I lost both children? Or what if I lost just one and had to stick around for the other? The dilemma becomes greater .... now add Lauren, my third child! What if? What if?

About four years ago, I did a past life regression. I was taking a spiritual workshop and this exercise was part of the program. My experience was quite unnerving. I saw two little girls outside in the woods. There were many logs around them and the daytime sky was dark. I had the feeling it was Alaska and I was seeing a logging camp. I felt great sadness as I watched the girls. I began to cry. These girls were my daughters and they were alone. I had died.

To be honest, I really don't have a strong interest in past life regression but I did find this vision intriguing considering my fear around the loss of my children. Perhaps my soul feels the weight of loss and this heaviness brings with it a deep sadness that engulfs me with fear. I know this sadness. It is an albatross around my neck. Is this fear a karmic preparation of what is to occur again? Or is this fear providing a karmic opportunity to look more closely at pain and suffering in my life rather than avoiding it. Is this where my karmic growth lies?

If I could take this what if fear out of my life, I would certainly feel more at peace. Some people just choose not to think about what if. Last night, my husband, Bob, and I went out for a quick dinner. As I sat sipping on my Chardonnay, I asked Bob, "How can this not concern you? Don't you ever worry about the children's safety?" Bob's response was simple. "I just don't think about it. I choose not to think about it."

I recalled a conversation similar to this one several years ago. I asked Bob if he would consider killing himself if all our children died in a freak accident. I expected him to take his time and think deeply about this question. Amazingly, he answered in what seemed no time at all.

"No, Carol. I would never kill myself." I stared at him for a long time. Several thoughts came to my mind at once.

"Well, no. I wouldn't kill myself either but this is different. How could you go on living without your children? How could you be so selfish? What a terrible father you are." Bob went on eating and I sat angry and perplexed.

How does someone say, "I just don't think about it." When it comes to the safety of my children, I feel I think about everything! Always wear your seatbelt. Never go to the bathroom alone. (I just dropped Lauren, my nine year old, at the show with her two friends. I made them recite the "alone rules" before they jumped out of the car.) Never eat a hot dog when you're home alone. Wear your helmet. The list goes on and on. Maybe it's the forever flight attendant in me or maybe, just maybe, I want control over the destiny of my childrens' lives.

It is so easy for me to say to my guides, "OK. I'm leaving this decision to you. Whatever you decide will be for the best anyway." But this decision better not concern my children. I CONTROL THIS AREA. The condition of my life depends on it. It could never be for the best that I lose my child.

About a week ago, I ran into a woman I know at the pool. Colleen lost a young son several years ago to a terminal disease. As I sat talking with her, I kept thinking, here sits a woman who experienced my greatest fear in life. How did she get through it? Does she still mourn her short time with him?

When her son died, she had the responsibility of caring for a younger son. Along with caring for her son during this bereavement period, Colleen also volunteered her time to an organization that assisted her family during her son's illness. Colleen said helping this organization was something good that came from her son's death but having her son back would be more important than any good she could ever do.

Everything I read about reincarnation says we choose our time to die. We come into this world knowing what lies ahead. Sure, we can make a few changes along the way, but for the most part, we know. Now, imagine me saying to Colleen,

"Your son chose his way to die. He knew his life would be short. Perhaps he chose to do this to help you and your husband in your spiritual journey." And if I really believe and have faith that this is true, I must also apply this truth to my children. How would I react to someone saying,

"Carol, your children chose to burn to death in the daycare center bombing in Oklahoma City." Can you imagine saying this to a parent who just lost his/her child in that terrible tragedy. Of course not. Yet when I read my books, it seems to make sense that we choose our way in life. I just can't apply this thinking to babies dying or what seem senseless tragedies.

After I spoke with Colleen, I bought the book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, by Rabbi Kushner. For Colleen, this book offered a possible explanation to why terrible things happen in the world. The author believes that God is a merciful God, not a God that causes people to suffer. He believes that God made humans in His image, equipped with the power of knowledge and a will of their own. An individual's will determines whether that person is productive with this knowledge, or destructive. When this knowledge produces cures for children with leukemia, God should not get the credit anymore than He should assume the responsibility for knowledge used to make a bomb that kills thousands of people. Rabbi Kushner also believes that some things happen for no reason, that there is randomness in the universe. This idea can be frightening to people; people like myself, who think, "If I'm not in control and God doesn't get involved than anything can happen!"

Rabbi Kushner believes God is not responsible for making or stopping things from happening. However, God is here for all of us. He listens and provides comfort and strength to those who seek His guidance.

Perhaps Rabbi Kushner's book would have helped me better understand my anger when my mother died several years ago. Here is a quote from my paper on exceptional human experiences.

"I never stopped believing in God, I just didn't want Him interfering in my life. But, of course, He didn't listen. He knew that I needed help even though I refused to ask Him for it. He began by making sure I had a strong support system to carry me through the grieving process -- bringing new people into my life while letting others drift away. He made sure that a book on reincarnation came my way, a book that offered a new perspective on life and death and provided possible explanations for my mother's suffering."

My anger toward God tells me that I saw God in a more controlling role than Rabbi Kushner describes Him. Though I didn't believe God killed my mother, I felt that God allowed it to happen. As indicated by my quote, I also identified with God's guidance, support and comfort that Rabbi Kushner talks about in his book.

"So what do I think? What are by beliefs? It's like I'll take a little of this belief and a little of that belief depending on the situation and circumstances. Any life preserver will do as long as my body remains afloat. The chance of experiencing the depths of suffering or a feeling of complete loss of control keeps me grasping for a life devoid of pain. A life where I no longer feel the anxiety and fear of losing my loved ones. A life where I know whatever is to occur will be the best for all. A life of total acceptance.

I know this place exists because I have been there in a dream. Here is a quote from My Exceptional Human Experiences,

"As I stood in the middle of my street, I began to feel a part of this whole scene. I wasn't just looking at the sky, I was the sky. A familiar feeling of love, knowing and acceptance unlike any feeling I have had in this life was inside me and coming together with all that surrounded me. I knew that I had been in this place before. I kept thinking, "I can't believe how wonderful this feeling is." Yet from deep within, I knew I belonged there. This was home."

I feel there are two parts of me that can't seem to get it together. How do I integrate the levels of my being so that I feel less anxious and fearful and more accepting of life's offerings? Achaan Chah, a Buddhist teacher said, "Even the extraordinary experiences are of no use, only something to let go of, unless they are connected with this moment here and now." Yes, I have had several extraordinary experiences including the above dream, but these spiritually awakening experiences do not take away my fears concerning the death of my children. They do not provide compassionate answers to the everyday destruction all over the world. Living a life filled with meditating, going on spiritual retreats, reading books on psychic abilities, talking to my guides only sustains me and brings me joy because my life is painless right now. But what if, what if.

I remember years ago when Father Johnson, the priest at my church, told me about his brother's tragic and unexpected death. His brother was only in his thirties when he accidently fell on a sharp knife. It punctured his heart. Both he and his young wife were devout Catholics. In fact, among the many religious wall hangings in their home was a certificate signed by the Pope blessing their marriage. When the wife buried her husband, she also buried with him her faith in God. How could God do this to her? She removed everything from her home that signified a relationship with Him. She no longer believed in God's mercy.

Father Johnson was very angry with his sister-in-law. He called her a hypocrite. If she could forsake God at a time when she needed him so deeply then perhaps she never really had faith in God. When her faith was really put to the test, she failed. I remember listening to Father Johnson and thinking,

"I can see her side." Later, I too, turned away from God when my mother died. I didn't stop believing in God, I just wanted God to leave me alone. Does this mean I'm really not a person of faith?

Several years ago when I returned to school to get my undergraduate degree, I enrolled in a psychology class called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I became emotionally distraught by the sensitive, sad and painful issues this class addressed. Though my best writing piece was on the effects of the Holocaust on the children of survivors, I refused to watch the Holocaust films which showed children dying at the hands of the Nazis. As the lights dimmed, I would gather my books and quietly leave the room. Once in the hall, the tears would come and I would seek out a friend to have coffee with until the movie was over and I could return to class.

This class fueled my fears concerning loss and with this fear came anger. I became angry with people who chose not to look at the darker side of life. But who was I to judge what other people should and shouldn't be sensitive to in life? Especially when I was exercising my right to pick and choose not only the subject matter, but also to what degree I wished to research class material. When the traumatic experiences I read about touched a nerve too deeply, I pulled back.

"Did I really need to know the graphic details of how horrible humans can be to one another? Or how horrific even the accidental tragedies can be? Am I supposed to accept this as a part of life?"

So what do I do with all of my exceptional experiences which keep me focused on a spiritual journey and fascinated by the mysteries of life? As Achaan Chah says, I must bring them to the moment. But how can I integrate these experiences with my everyday fear of what if, what if?

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that I live in a more than existence. My guides extend their energies whenever I ask for their assistance. I find comfort in knowing that they assist me through difficult situations. A recent example is in a skiing trip this year. Unknowingly, I attempted a ski run above my beginners level. I realized this when there was no turning back. I planted my skis as best I could into the incline. As I stared down the hill, my eyes filled with tears, my knees began to shake and my stomach felt in knots.

"I hate skiing! Why do I continue to think that I will like it someday? I won't!" I was angry at myself for being in this frightening situation. Finally, I realized what I needed to do. I closed my eyes and asked my guides for their help. Immediately, I felt the rush that comes with their entrance. They surrounded me with their energy. I said to all three of them with mind words, "I am totally in your care. Whatever happens is for the best." The moment I placed myself into their care, my body relaxed and I could feel a surge of confidence running like blood through my veins. I took a deep breath, planted my poles into the icy snow and pushed downward. I talked out loud to my guides all the way down the hill and I actually got the feeling that they were enjoying themselves!! I arrived safely at the bottom without even a slip. I took a moment of silence to thank them and as quickly as they had arrived, they were gone. I could feel their protective energy dissipate around me.

Interestingly, I have never felt a need to prove that my experiences are real. Though I'm certainly one to argue a viewpoint, I have never needed to validate my more than feelings to others. They just are. Even though my children have not developed a strong belief in a more than existence, they too share an interest in my guides. Just the other day, Patrick, my 11 year old son, and I were in a hurry to leave the house. He was unable to find his hand-held fan which he wanted to take along. I said we had to leave without it. He quickly responded, "Mom, please ask your guides where my fan might be." And so I did. Though I had last seen the fan downstairs, my guides took me upstairs into Patrick's room. Patrick said that he had already checked his room thoroughly. I knowingly walked over to his dresser and looked in his underwear drawer. Nothing. I lifted a T-shirt and under it was his fan. As I handed it to Patrick, we gave one another the "look".

The other day, Patrick made an enlightening comment. While we were in the car driving, he said, "Mom, I'm beginning to think there is a heaven and hell. I think some people don't believe in it because it's so different from the environment we live in and we aren't used to it." I loved what Patrick said. What I felt most strongly about was that he came up with this himself. It came from his heart, not from being told what to believe. He is acknowledging that there can be an existence even though we aren't living in it and seeing it everyday. Patrick, whom I consider to have a logical mind, is saying he doesn't need proof. He just feels it.

In my first paper when I spoke about my mother dying, I said, "Because my belief in God was so strong, my anger became stronger." Right now, my belief that I am connected to a more than identity giving me a transpersonal identity is so strong that my fear becomes stronger. Though I know that more than is coming from a good place, it doesn't mean that only what I perceive as good will occur. Perhaps grief and suffering is waiting just around the corner, ready to strike for the good of my spiritual journey. What if my interest in transpersonal psychology, meditation, NDEs, EHEs is a preparation for what tragedy is to occur? Not surprisingly, I logically rebut this by saying to myself, "Carol, your life so far has been blessed with much love and happiness. Why should this pattern change?" I do not know the answer to this question.

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"We need to learn how to honor and use a practice for as long as it serves us--which in most cases is a very long time--but to look at it as just that, a vehicle, a raft to help us cross through the waters of doubt, confusion, desire and fear. We can be thankful for the raft that supports our journey, and still realize that though we benefit, not everyone will take the same raft." (A Path with Heart)

I visualize myself with one foot in a yellow raft and the other foot planted firmly on a stepping stone a few hundred feet from the ocean's shore. Through the years I have ventured farther out into the sea taking one step at a time. I now balance my body on the final stone. I will not turn around and go back, for the path of stones behind me is now covered with water signifying that meaning and purpose lie ahead. I must make a choice. Do I remain indecisive, fearful and confused balancing my weight between a raft that waits patiently for me to board and a stepping stone that moves ever so slightly when the waters are rough. I know this stone will remain dry and uncovered for years to come. It is set firmly enough to hold all of my weight during this lifetime; however, I choose to keep one foot in the raft.

It was several years ago when I placed my one foot onto the floor of this raft. Prior to this time, I had noticed the raft hanging around my area. The wind seemed to deliberately bring it closer to the stepping stones. The day that I stepped confidently on the final stone, the raft appeared to anchor itself permanently within my view. I couldn't help but stare at it. And when I did, it stared back. It was like it knew me.

One day I accidently slipped on the stone and fell into the cold, dark water. It was during a storm and the waves were terribly rough. The water felt heavy against my shivering skin. As I blindly reached toward the rock to pull myself up, I felt something bounce off my forearm. I turned my head quickly. There next to me was the raft. I grabbed onto its side rope. It was very taught and firm unlike the ropes of other rafts I had boarded in the past. I looked more closely.

"No wonder it bounced off my arm so quickly", I thought. It had twice the rubber insulation as the other rafts. I had little time to think about what to do next. Holding tightly to the ropes, I hoisted myself up and rolled clumsily onto the floor of the raft. As I sat on the dry rubber floor holding my knees to my chest, I looked around me. The raft was balanced by several white oblong weights hanging into the raft making it impossible to see them from a distance. In one quick glance, I saw that each weight had bright red letters painted vertically along the side. I began slowly reading each word as my eyes moved from weight to weight,

I had seen enough. I quickly leaned over the side of the raft and reached toward my stepping stone. With both hands holding onto a protruding part of the rock, I was able to float the raft toward the rock using my body weight. With the raft now touching the rock, I stood up placing one foot on the stone. As I was about to bring my other foot to rest evenly on the rock, I heard a voice from within. "Know that this is the way. We will wait for you." I looked down at my foot still resting on the floor of the raft. It felt like the weight of an anchor resting on the floor of the sea. It would not budge.

So now I continue to stand precariously balancing my weight between the stepping stone, where I feel somewhat in control, and the raft, where I know in my heart I belong but what if, what if.

The other day, I noticed a large piece of paper that was secured by the two oblong weights marked Joy and Sorrow. (It's crazy how things just seem to appear now and then in this raft.) I reached down and slid the paper out between the weights. I opened the paper to find this special message:

And remember, Carol .....

I say a silent thank you. But as I stare longingly at the raft, I am still unable to board.....

What if, What if?

*The Prophet, Kahill Gibran