In late June of 1981, I met my father for lunch one day. At the time I was upset with him and having a difficult time letting go and forgiving him for something deeply hurtful he had done. He was trying hard to apologize, but I wasn't ready. After lunch we said goodbye at the bus stop, and I remember that when he went to kiss my cheek, I turned my face away. The bus pulled from the curb, and I saw him through the window, walking slowly up the hill.

At that instant, I felt the inside of my stomach being kicked hard, and I heard the words, "Get off the bus, run up the hill and tell him you love him." But my brain answered, "No, I'm not ready to forgive him. That would make it too easy for him." I'd never been one to hold grudges, and my response surprised even me. 

At dinner with a friend later that week, I remember saying I felt a black cloud hanging over me. I sensed something awful was going to happen, but what? I just knew there was this heaviness, this darkness. Unable to sleep that night, I walked back and forth wondering what to do. 

Two or three days later I received a phone call that shocked me. My father had passed away. I made my way to his apartment building in disbelief. While I waited for his wife to meet me, I paced up and down the lobby, asking myself why I hadn't listened to my own inner guidance, and praying my Dad knew that I loved him in spite of everything.

I spent the whole following year beating myself up. And then, finally, I began to seek ways of healing and of dealing with all my unresolved issues and conflicts with my father--even though he was no longer with me in human form. Understanding and forgiveness did finally come for us; but it required many years of tireless effort, as well as countless tears. And I was soon to discover that resolving unfinished business while a person is here on earth is much easier--and a lot less painful--than after they've passed on.

A few months after my father's funeral, I got another very strong feeling: that I should make plans to go to Florida to see my Nana. I spoke with her and her health hadn't changed, but my inner wisdom said, "Make your plans now."

This time I listened! I let my boss know I'd be taking a few days off the following week and then booked my flight. I called Nana and told her I was coming to visit. She was pleasantly surprised, and I could hear the excitement in her voice. She said she'd make something special that I could take home with me.

We spent four wonderful days together, laughing and sharing. I somehow knew this would be the last time I'd see her in this life. As I packed up to head home with Nana's turkey sandwich and her "liquid gold"--her chicken soup--tucked in a little bag, I was enormously happy I'd listened to the wisdom I'd received. When I got to the airport I called my uncle, and everyone else I could think of, and told them this was going to be the last time I'd see Nana. I said they should come visit, too, or at least call her. They kept asking me if her health had changed. No, her health was the same. But I knew I'd been given a gift of completeness, a gift I wanted all of us to have.

A few weeks later, Nana passed away. I was sad, of course, but this time it was different. I knew there was nothing left unsaid. Our relationship was complete, and filled with love.

It was through these two opposite experiences--one opportunity missed, the other taken-that I learned that listening to our inner wisdom will always lead us on the path to rediscovering our truest, loving selves. Both experiences are gifts that have taught me valuable lessons, and that I still carry with me as I continue on my path of awakening. And I bear in mind, too, what Charles R. Swindoll has said: "We are all faced with a series of great opportunities brilliantly disguised as impossible situations."

With love, grace and gratitude,

Randi