Dear Friends of Dr. Peebles,
Due to the passing of my beautiful mother, Lisa Ann Bacon, the July Open Session has been cancelled. We will resume our Open Sessions on Saturday, August 11, 2012.
My Mom began her journey as an unwanted infant who was passed through a car window to her adopted parents on a dark and stormy night in Chagrin Falls, Ohio. Her new parents loved her dearly, and nurtured her naturally creative spirit. My Mom grew to become a model, a singer, and an artist of extraordinary abilities. She was also simply a great mom who could delight in the colors that danced inside a slice of tomato as she held it to the sunlight.
On June 19, 2012 just six days after entering hospice, my Mom was clearly preparing to make her transition. I snuggled next to her, savoring her warmth. As she rested, I began to drift into a semi-conscious slumber. In that moment, Dr. Peebles suddenly appeared to me. Although he has spoken loudly to me on many occasions, I have never seen him in motion before. He was dressed in a very elegant brown tweed suit, and a light shined brightly around him. He said, "Don't worry, Summer. I will escort your mother across [to the other side]." Then he put his arm out, and I saw my mother, youthful and beautiful, joining him at his side.
I awakened from this vision, and found that my Dad and my daughter were also sitting in the room with me. I said, "I just saw Dr. Peebles." My Mom, who had been seemingly incoherent up until that moment, suddenly popped awake, her blue eyes twinkling as her gaze found mine, "You did?" she said joyfully, "I've been waiting for him!" Then she closed her eyes dreamily and said, "He looks different, doesn't he?" I said, "Yes, Mommy. He looks younger and is VERY handsome." She smiled and nodded.
Later that day, her eyes popped open again, shortly after my daughter, Emily, commented in a whisper, "The room is full of spirits. Do you feel it?"
Once again my Mom's gaze met mine. "My Mommy is here," she said in a childlike voice.
"She is? Grandma is here?" I asked, for verification.
"Yes," she said, looking around the room in wonderment.
"Are there others here, too?" Emily asked.
"Oh, yes," my Mom said softly, her face radiating so much love as she gazed at the many beings who were there with her. She then mouthed silently to each one of them, "I am ready. Yes, I am ready."
"I'll bet all of the birdies that you love so much will be there to greet you, Grammy," my daughter said.
My Mom smiled gently and nodded. She had saved hundreds of birds in her 23 years of living in Sedona. Birds often crashed into the windows of her house, and she would dash to the patio, pick them up, and breathe ever-so-carefully into their beaks until they could catch their breath and fly away. In all those years, only a couple of birds were unable to survive.
Shortly after this conversation, Emily and I retired to the front patio to let my Mom rest alone with spirit.
"Wow. If I ever doubted the afterlife," Emily said, "I don't now." It was so obvious that my Grandmother's appearance to my Mom was no hallucination.
As we sat down, to our amazement, an estimated 200+ finches descended upon the trees in front of my parents' home. They flitted here and there, chirping up a storm in joyful celebration. I have never, ever seen anything like it. It was as if they were there to say, "Thank you, Lisa!"
I called my Dad to the porch, and he stood in stunned silence at the awe-inspiring sight.
I'll skip the difficult details of the approaching night, and fast-forward to more miracles. At approximately 6:30am, on June 20, after a full night of fitful sleep, my Mom very suddenly popped awake once again. She looked at Emily and touched her hair.
"You've cut your hair," she said, sadly.
"No, Grammy, I just have it pulled back. I'm growing it out," Emily replied.
"Yes, grow it long. Grow it very long," my Mom smiled at her in relief.
Then in a moment that was so magical, it still takes my breath away, my Mom sat up. She showed no signs of exhaustion from the struggle from the night before. Despite the fact that she had very little hair left from the chemo, I could only see her in this moment as young and beautiful, with her incredible naturally curly brown hair cascading around her neck.
She looked at me with a twinkle in her eye and said, "Water, in a pretty glass."
"You want water in a pretty glass?" I said, racing to the kitchen. I prayed that the "pretty glass" would jump off the shelf at me. I chose a small etched glass from which my Mom and I had shared a sip of champagne a day earlier. I filled it with water.
"Here you go, Mommy. Water, in a pretty glass," I said, holding it out to her. She took it with both hands.
"Is that okay, Grammy?" Emily asked.
My Mom smiled a full-lipped smile, and looked youthful and beautiful as she raised the glass to her lips. "Yup, yup," she said sweetly. She drank from the glass, then held it out to me and said, "Hooray!"
This was the last word she ever spoke. She passed away an hour and half later, at 7:50am, with my father, daughter, and me at her side, after awakening briefly to take a quick glance at her beloved birdies and the petunias that adorned her back porch.
Later Dr. Peebles would speak through me about her transition, "Her transition was very gentle, really. Not to the eyes upon the earth necessarily, but her transition for her was quite gentle and she really had an extraordinary experience. She felt like she was floating on the air and then suddenly she says the sky just opened up and seemingly swallowed her. But, she said it was very much like a reverse birthing; she says it was like leaving the womb and once again entering into a new reality. So she loved it very much, she said it was an exciting excursion. She decided the only thing to do was to surrender, and told herself, "Everything's in right order, so just go for it, Lisa!"
That's my Mom. If you had a dream, "Just go for it!" she would say encouragingly.
Yes, I miss my Mommy terribly, but I cannot fathom the pain I would be feeling right now if I did not believe in God and Spirit and the afterlife as I do. I am so deeply grateful to have this understanding. And, as suspected, my Mom has already been making her presence known to us.
Lisa Ann Bacon passed away on the Summer Solstice 2012. At first, I thought this was sweetly significant. Then, I realized the depth of the gift she had given to me. Every year on the Summer Solstice, my Mom would call me and sing, "Happy Summer Solstice to you!"
I love you, my Mommy.