The Wright Perspective℠
Social Commentary from the C-Suite to Main Street℠
A Blog by Gary Wright II
Chip Coffey news and his story And Then The Flower Grew
Sunday, August 3rd, 2008
Here is some news about my favorite psychic / medium Chip Coffey:
Chip's show Psychic Kids: Children of the Paranormal has wrapped up this season, but you can still catch reruns on A&E.
Chip appears on many episodes of A&E's Paranormal State and he will be in two episodes on Monday August 4th at 10 and 10:30PM EST.
Hopefully, he will be appearing soon on an episode of the Tyra Banks Show
The gallery reading at J. Christopher's and the Roswell Ghost tour is being rescheduled.
Some more Radio and TV appearances coming soon!
Chip posted a very inspirational story on his blog today called "And Then The Flower Grew" which is a tribute to his mother. If you like it, please visit his profile and comment on this entry of his blog.
And Then The Flower Grew by Chip Coffey:
And Then the Flower Grew - a tribute to my Mother
On August 12, it will have been 10 years since my mother passed away. In her honor, I want to share with everyone a story that I wrote about an experience I had shortly after her death. (Some of you may have read the story already. If so, I apologize for the "replay.")
It is important to remember that love never dies. It may change, but if we ever truly loved someone, the love that we felt will always be a part us. Death alters relationships, but it does not end them.
If you are grieving the passing of someone you love, I urge you to purchase and read a book called How To Go On Living When Someone You Love Dies by Dr. Therese Rando. I discovered the book a few weeks after my mother died; it literally saved my sanity and brought me so much comfort and healing.
I hope that, perhaps, my story (below) will bring some measure of peace to those who read it.
And then the Flower Grew
Sometimes in life, it's hard to have faith and keep believing when fate pummels us with heartache, pain, confusion and uncertainty. When my precious mother died in 1998, I found myself wondering why God would dump so much pain and grief on me. I was bitter and angry and I didn't know if I believed in anything anymore.
And then the flower grew.
My mother loved gardenias, those delicate white blossoms that permeate the early summer air with their sweet fragrance. I remember buying her Jungle Gardenia cologne when I was a small child, just because it had the word "gardenia" on the bottle. The scent was rather pungent and a bit overpowering, but she loved it. Or at least she pretended to, because it was a gift from me.
Once, many years ago, during a surprisingly lighthearted conversation about death and dying, Mother informed me "I want to be buried in a black dress, holding a rosary and a single white gardenia in my hands."
I smiled and told her she'd better plan to "kick the bucket" during "gardenia season," that short span of time when the flowers bloom, before the heat and humidity of late summer make it impossible for the fragile blossoms to survive. "I don't want to have to go on a horticultural treasure hunt when I'm ass deep in grief!" I told her. And we both laughed heartily.
In 1995, I bought a lovely home in the northeast Atlanta suburbs for Mother and me. We moved in during the wintertime and much to our delight, when spring arrived, we discovered that there were two beautiful gardenia bushes located in the side yard of our new home. Sadly, Mother lived only long enough to enjoy the flowers from those bushes for three growing seasons.
Mother's health continued to get worse in a slow, but steady decline. Finally, when she wasn't able to leave the house, I'd pick blossoms from the gardenia bushes, put them in a vase and sit them by her bedside. The sight and smell of them never failed to bring a smile to her face and elicit sighs of pure delight.
As so often happens in life, plans change. Mother never wore that black dress, with a rosary and gardenia clutched in her lifeless hands. Later in life, we both decided that we wanted to be cremated when our earthly days were over. And indeed Mother was cremated after she passed away on August 12, 1998.
I was devastated by her death. No matter how intellectually prepared I might have been, I was completely unprepared for the emotional shock of losing her. I felt like a part of my soul had been cruelly ripped away from me.
Mercifully, a sense of numbness overtakes us when someone we love dies and we muddle through life on "autopilot" for days, weeks, sometimes even months after the tragic event. Even though I have always been a firm believer in the afterlife, I found myself wondering where my mother was. Was she in a safe, peaceful, happy place? A place free from sickness and pain? I prayed for a sign, something unmistakable, that would show me that even though her body had died, her soul lived on.
And then the flower grew.
Late one afternoon in mid-September, just as the sun was setting, my dog, Bo, began to prance around, letting me know that he needed to go out. No matter how I tried to persuade him to go into "his" huge fenced back yard, Bo flatly refused to do so. He kept looking at his leash, hanging on the newel post of the stairs in the foyer, as he always does when he wants to take a walk.
Finally, I surrendered to his demands and took him for a walk in the front yard. After sniffing around a bit and "watering" several bushes, I figured he was ready to go back inside, but he most assuredly was not. I tried to coax him into following me, but he adamantly refused. Again, I acquiesced and tugging at his leash, Bo led me into the side yard and straight to the gardenia bushes.
In the fading light of that September day, what I saw literally took my breath away. One perfect white blossom was growing in the center of the bushes! I immediately tried to explain it all away, but logic told me that gardenias simply do not bloom during September in the state of Georgia. And why would there be just one blossom? One perfect blossom.
My prayers had been answered. I had been given a sign, one so personal and so profound that I knew it came from beyond. Someplace safe and peaceful and happy.
We expect miracles to happen on a grand scale, but often times they occur so very simply. Like when a special song suddenly plays on the radio. Or when a rainbow magically appears in the sky. Or when someone we pass on the street smiles at us when we are feeling sad and lost and alone.
I never really expected a miracle.
And then the flower grew.