Life Is No Coincidence: The life and afterlife connection

By Sheryl Glick

I am very ill. I sense my deceased grandfather's presence. He is trying to tell me something. Am I about to die? Has he come for me?

I shout into the dark, "I cannot hear you!" He tells me I must write something for my father. Thirty-six hours later, I learn my father just passed away. I am to write his eulogy.

That visitation opened wide swaths of understanding for author, Sheryl Glick. She ultimately learned we all have the ability to communicate with our guides spirits of loved ones, guardian angels, saints, or just "coincidences" that show us the way.

Life Is No Coincidence relates that journey-you will find it similar to your own.

"Sheryl Glick's book will inspire you to go beyond coincidences of your daily life and see the bigger picture of why we all are here."
-Dr. Carmen Harra

"A generous and healing Spirit herself, Sheryl now shares her journey with all who read this book."
-Rev. Robert Brown

"Sheryl Glick opens her heart and soul to an extraordinary dimension and enlightens us how every encounter guides us from the start of this life to passing to the next."
-Dr. Bea Carson

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 6, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595817214

Sheryl Glick

Sheryl Glick, an accredited Reiki Master practitioner and medium, offers healing sessions and teaches intuitive psychic development. She is a member of the International Spiritual Federation, and is a Hospice volunteer. Previously, Sheryl Glick (MS and BA, Education/Literature) taught elementary and special needs children, in New York City. www.SherylGlick.com

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Copyright © 2006 by Sheryl Glick

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ISBN-13: 978-0-595-37323-9 (pbk)

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Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

Afterword

Suggested Reading List

to my beloved grandfather, William and

to all who have traveled time and space with me on our journey of love and transformation.

God bless us, every one¹.

Acknowledgements 

This book evolved. Nurtured by varied coincidences, it intertwined an ever-expanding circle of family, friends, mentors and editors.

For physically making it happen, much gratitude to Jane Dystel, Miriam Goderich, Michael Bourret, and Stacey Glick for their professional guidance and encouragement; to Dr. Brian J. Katz for his creative advice; and to Marilyn Chi-aramonte for introducing me to my editorial aide, Mary Carson.

For emotional latitude, many thanks to my family: David, my husband; Stacey, my daughter; Gregg, my son; Ceil, my mother; Myron, my father; Rodelle and Suelle, my sisters; and to all the other members of my extended family, friends and colleagues. Each has contributed to my becoming who I am.

For intellectual stimulation: deep appreciation to the more experienced resources whose abilities inspired me, whose writings broadened my thinking, whose mentoring encouraged me, whose friendship enriched me. In alphabetical order: Rabbi Berg; Karen Berg; Dan Brown; Rev. Robert Brown; Carlos Cas-taneda; Edgar Cayce; Deepak Chopra; Laura Day; Florinda Donner; John Edward; Barbara Furlani; Dr. Jane Greer; Robert Hanson; Dr. Carmen Harra; Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, M.D.; Caroline Myss; Judith Orloff, M.D., Shelly Peck; James Redfield; James Van Praagh; Neal Donald Walsh; Marianne Williamson; Gary Zukor.

How much better life becomes when we contribute. We give to each other, and the gifts from these advisors have made it possible for me to give back to the community.

Thank you.

Introduction 

Parents hand down their beliefs to their children. In the name of love, my parents portrayed images of what could happen if I explored this dangerous world without sufficient self-control and boundaries. Thus, my childhood was constrained by fears, some real, others imaginary. Thinking about it as an adult, I believe that in actuality, they hoped to preserve themselves, as well as me, from their deepest dreaded fear, the ultimate catastrophe—death. Fear of mortality imposed a limited life.

Apparently, I did not totally assimilate all their teaching for I was still experiencing happiness. Being young, I certainly never thought that the grim reaper was lurking anywhere near me. I felt sorry for others dealing with sickness, injury or death, but I felt insulated from those concerns.

Then, one night in 1993, I had a dream. Or, was it an apparition? I did not understand it, but I knew it was real. My grandfather had been dead for thirty years, yet he was there in my bedroom. I felt him standing at my side. I knew he was telling me, You have to write something for your father. The day after this happened, my father passed away. No childhood fantasy, this life changing experience happened when I was an adult. Since I had been taught there was no afterlife, nothing in my background offered any help in comprehending how it was possible. But it haunted me.

I never fully understood how I felt about the visit from my grandfather, but years later I was led to a book, One Last Time, written by John Edward. I learned there is no death, only a transition to another dimension of reality. Physical death does not destroy the essence of who we are: the soul and spirit, the memories and connections to those on the earth-plane. I was relieved, but felt sadness for my parents who had endured an enormous fear of death.

John Edward was a medium. He helped people who suffered the loss of a loved one by offering them information he garnered from the energy that surrounds us. He was sensitive to the messages from that invisible world, that spiritual part of our existence. I still questioned where was that place where spirit resided: was that where my grandfather, Papa, came from? How was a medium like John Edward able to receive accurate information? I knew I needed to meet John Edward.

I never had a psychic reading. I didn’t know the difference between a psychic, a medium, a tarot card reader, or a fortuneteller. My skeptical parents, my husband, even my entire family would never had entertained the idea that anyone could get a message from the dead. In fact, before Papa’s visit, I would not have believed.

My entire life and education had prepared me to have proof for any statement of decisive thought that I shared with another. What if these mediums were charlatans or scam artists?

I knew my grandfather, William, had spoken to me. He gently had tried to soften the pain I would experience upon hearing of my father’s passing. He knew me as the sensitive, loving grandchild he had held high in the air and spun around with complete abandon. I always loved seeing him, listening to his husky Russian accent; I was one of his favorite little grandchildren.

Papa, was there in the still darkness of that night to reassure me, with love, that he was all right and that my Dad would be all right also.

If he had survived death and could bring me knowledge of an event that would happen in the future, the death of my father, then where was Papa and how could I communicate with him again? That small moment in time, that dream or visit from my Grandpa was enough to set me off on a quest, a journey to discover who could help me find answers to newfound questions. I wanted to believe.

Even though I was not always fully aware of what was happening along the way, synchronicities and coincidences, on a daily basis, guided me one step at a time. I accidentally met people, by chance I learned of things I needed to do, unexpectedly signposts were there.

This search to comprehend spiritual communication was also a search for self-awareness, life purpose, and understanding of love and personal interrelations in a more emotionally mature context.

I sent a letter to John Edward. Months passed. There was no response.

I postponed my search when I began to sense my mother’s time to pass was rapidly advancing. Soon she was physically more fragile; nevertheless, I wanted to share with her my Grandfather’s spiritual visit. I needed her to know that the big fear that our family had regarding death was false. Death was not an ending…just a new beginning.

She listened intently as I spoke. She was not as resistant as I had anticipated. Now past the first barrier, I also told her John Edward had received a message from his mother who was already on the other side. Therefore, she and I needed to make a pact; whoever died first must get a message to the other left behind. Days later, she told me she would send three doves.

Through her final illness, and over the course of the next three months, one coincidence after another supported my newfound belief that guides, teachers and loved ones interacted with us from that other dimension.

A nurse’s aide, Timothy, appeared on numerous occasions during my mother’s hospital stay and offered spiritual support and physical comfort. After my mother’s passing, there were many Timothy’s continuing to bring me messages, guidance and help to learn the truth about communication with spiritual realms.

Weeks after my mother passed, a dental hygienist whom I had known for years felt saddened by her loss and mine. She had been very young when her mom had passed years earlier. Thinking it might help her, I told her about John Edward’s book. With a quick reversal, she was helping me. She had known John for years, had grown up with him in Glen Cove and had had many readings with him. Without another word, she wrote a phone number and told me how I could reach him. Divine intervention or coincidence?

Two weeks later, at a spa in Glen Cove, I received my first reading by a psychic, a gift from the owner of the spa. I was on guard, but Sonia seemed rather normal. She told me I would utilize holistic healing, spiritualism and yoga. Also, I would take a trip in May, with another woman. I didn’t think a trip was in the immediate future.

Several weeks later, John Edward’s newsletter arrived. He was having his first Psychic Spiritual Development Week in Barbados, May 1st—May 7th.

I had no hint of hesitation. I had to make this trip

At the Barbados retreat I was unable to get a personal reading with John Edward; he was completely booked. However, I did have a reading with Rev. Robert Brown, from England. A most incredible session, with messages from my parents and other relatives, he offered information, which could only be known, to people who knew me intimately. I already understood that the essence of a human being survived physical death, but this substantial proof from Robert Brown, and the three other mediums who gave me information, was indisputable fact.

I asked Robert Brown what I was supposed to do with the knowledge that there is no death—to me the greatest piece of knowledge that anyone could have. I felt I had to share it with everyone.

Knowing there is a spiritual afterlife could make physical life more joyful and exciting. Difficult times could be endured with courage, fortitude and love. God, his helpers and our loved ones would help us as much as they could but they could not alter the course of our destiny or the necessary experiences programmed into each individual life.

I discovered we are energy and love; we are interconnected to all who participate in our lives. In my opinion, no interaction is random. There is a grand plan, a blueprint to each person’s life.

In response to my question, What should I do? Robert Brown had said, Follow me to events.

I attended his lectures, seminars and workshops in Canada, Greece, Croatia, Italy, as well as California.

Everywhere I went I found another coincidence connecting each experience to the last, another person with a similar name, significant date, or a story similar to my own. They were new friends of all nationalities, races, and religions, but we had a bond of knowing that there was something more than just this life, and needed to share that story.

These experiences assured me that we are not alone on this journey of life. We are connected to loved ones, here as well as from that other dimension. We all are psychic, and can harness this sixth sense to give us more joy in this physical life. We can learn the meaning of true love and the connection to all the soul mates and soul connections in our circle of family, friends, and business associates.

When we truly understand our spiritual connection to the other dimension, we can become who we were meant to be.

My story is the road I followed—from knowing, as a child, that there was no afterlife, to my adulthood where I learned to hear those living in the afterlife. My path was strewn with clues to bring me to the people and places where the puzzle pieces could be connected and pave a well-trodden path to lead me to eternal truths about psychic ability and spiritual communication.

You can rid your life of fear, distrust, and skepticism and manifest a better world for yourself and others. You may find love and greater peace in this modern world that, at this time, is sadly laden with unfathomable chaos and calamity.

When you read my stories of coincidence and synchronicity I hope you will become aware of the similarities in your own life and you will answer age-old questions for yourself.

Who am I? Where do I come from? What do I need to fulfill my life purpose? How can I make life better and find love within myself, so I can honor myself—and then truly honor others? Where can I make this world better? When will I start?

Share this journey with me; meet my wonderful friends, my companions in this life and on the other side.

Learn for yourself the greatest truth since the beginning of time.

We each have a soul. We each have a part of God within us.

Just listen to it. We need to believe that Spirits can communicate with us.

Yes, we are that important!

1

Life Connecting With Afterlife

Collectibles interested me, so I had been attending tag sales for only a short time when I discovered I had some natural skills in assessing, marketing and managing. Hoping for a career that would work from home, I gradually developed a business running liquidations; generally, they were at expensive homes or estates, which had two benefits for me. They did not physically intrude on my home space and the return was enough to be worth the effort. In addition to being a good business, it let me indulge my hobby.

Dealers from antique shops and owners of high-end furniture stores knew me and respected my skill. Even though many of them dealt primarily in new furniture, they frequented the tag sales and some of them brokered the better pieces.

This led to a job offer from a furniture store specializing in luxurious leather, with a showroom on Old Country Road, in Carle Place. It seemed a natural melding of talent and experience. Having already earned my certificate as an interior designer, I managed the Philip Engel showroom for ten years.

One of my responsibilities was to interview new employees. We had an opening for a salesperson; I had been seeing applicants who did not have adequate qualifications. Discouraged, I did not want to go the tedious route of more interviews, topped by the difficulty of training. However, there was one more candidate; I reluctantly agreed to see her. From the moment I met the young lady I knew I would hire her. Her classic good looks appealed to me, just for the contrast at the shop. It seemed everyone else was small and had that stereotypical Madison Avenue look. Gina Semiday was tall and comely, possibly 5’10", big boned, with black curly hair and brown eyes. Although she generally was somewhat reserved, she was sensitive, and kind, with a warmth that reminded me of my daughter, Stacey. We all became friends, and occasionally the three of us went to a Broadway show together.

On one occasion, Gina and I were delayed in traffic going to the city from Long Island, and we barely made it to our seats before curtain time. Having run from the car to the theater, we were still breathless as we slid in alongside Stacey, with no time for pre-performance conversation.

I love going to Manhattan with Stacey. She is outgoing and adventurous, an absolute delight. Young, tiny and vivacious; her bright blue eyes enliven her smile. I find some of who I am in Stacey, a gratifying feeling for a mother. Whenever I am with her, she fosters a positive energy within me. Her job as a literary agent in Manhattan makes her available to sometimes do city things together.

At intermission, Stacey was talking about her work at the agency. After a brief unloading of the burdensome parts of the day, she gave us a glowing report about a new book that was doing very well: One Last Time, by John Edward, a young man who was an accomplished psychic medium.

Gina interjected, I grew up with him in Glen Cove! My aunt is friendly with his family; she’s even mentioned in the book. He used to play with me in the backyard.

She thought for a moment, then observed, He was a very different kind of boy.

A strong, unequivocal order marched through my head, Read that book! Contrary to many good intentions, I did, and that book clarified an experience I had had a long time ago.

Seven years earlier, I had been sick, not life threatening, just a horrendous attack of the flu. I had been out of work five days, totally drained and exhausted. Even the weather was horrible. Gray and raw all week, it was too cold for mid-March on Long Island. By Friday, the weather predictions were bad. In the early evening, I looked out my window. The storm had driven hard for hours. The Tudor-style neighborhood was plastered with wet snow; it clung to the house beams and filled the valleys of the roofs. The trees were heavily hung with thick mounds glued to every branch. House lights shining through stained-glass windows cast a theatrical glow, making everything look like a Dickens Christmas village.

At another time, I would have felt joy and awe. Instead, a penetrating chill froze the marrow of my bones. I was so cold, so ill, that I thought I was going to cry. I made my way to the stairs and, hand over hand up the railing, dragged my aching body to bed. Although I was shivering, I realized my hair, just recently done long, blonde hair, was plastered with perspiration. It was soaked, clinging to my forehead, my temples, and my ears, clinging all the way down the back of my neck.

Although exhausted, I was unable to sleep. The frozen windows shuddered with the gusting wind, a wind that moaned an appropriate lullaby for me. I repeatedly dozed and woke again, still aching. At last, completely drained, I fell into a fitful sleep.

My grandfather, William, had died thirty years earlier. I had loved Papa, and thought of him occasionally, always with comforting memories. I awoke suddenly, certain I was not dreaming. I sensed that my grandfather was near me. I wondered if I was about to die and he had come for me. But, that could not be. He was dead. My Jewish training said death was the end. He could not be here if there is no afterlife. Yet, I could feel his presence. I could not quite see him. I did not understand his words, yet I knew he was there, trying to tell me something.

Now fully awake and in a sweat, I shouted into the dark, I cannot hear you!

Unable to regain sleep, I went to the kitchen and told my housekeeper what had happened. In relating the incident, it became clearer. I knew my grandfather had told me that I must write something for my father, but I did not understand what he meant.

Thirty-six hours later, on Sunday morning, I had a phone call from my sister, Rodelle. My father had just passed away. I began to sob; my knees buckled and I fell to the dining-room floor. Not knowing what to do to help me, my husband, David, and Gregg, our son, stood quietly offering compassion and sympathy by their patience and presence. Doubly saddened, they felt both their own loss of my father, and their concern for me.

Soon my overpowering grief spent itself; the chest heaving weeping ebbed to become just sniffles and tears. The lightheadedness drifted away, filling me instead with the responsibility of what I had to do. Rodelle and I had sometimes discussed how we would manage in the event of a death in the family. She decided I was the most sensitive and involved; therefore, I should select a coffin and make the arrangements.

Having accepted that responsibility, I dressed, washed my face with cold water until the tears stopped, and went to my mother, in Brooklyn. After an exchange of shared grief, I told her about Rodelle’s thought: .. .you go with Mom to make the arrangements. My mother went with me to the mortuary and I selected a handsome dark mahogany coffin that seemed appropriate for him. Then I went home and wrote his eulogy.

Things were happening to me as if they had a life apart, a life of their own, yet they intertwined my life, infusing my thinking, molding my decisions.

I was perplexed. Just two nights ago, my grandfather seemed to be there with me, his spirit, perhaps, but I did not understand it. Maybe he had come to warn me he was taking my father. As I wrote my father’s eulogy, I hoped I was begin-

ning a trace of comprehension. Yet, at that time, his visit primarily carried an overwhelming sense of responsibility for me.

Oh, maybe it really was all just a dream.

Nevertheless, I still felt compelled to write my father’s eulogy as Papa had instructed. He had to have spoken to me. If I felt this sense of responsibility, this sense of urgency, it had to be real.

The effect of my grandfather’s visit had revitalized the feelings buried for years in my subconscious, suppressed since childhood, the questions, the uneasiness, and the sense that there was more than just this life. Suddenly, I was keenly aware of the immortality of the spirit. My grandfather’s body died, but his spirit was certainly alive. Was it eternal? That opened my mind to the possibility of reincarnation and past lives.

At my father’s funeral, I spoke of a man having many different faces as perceived by the different people who frequented his life. To myself, I wondered whom he had been in other lifetimes, but then forced myself to focus on what he meant to the many mourners attending, to the family, relatives, friends and patients who were part of him in this lifetime.

He was a son, a brother, a father, a husband, and a professional. My father was a podiatrist, which also made him a colleague, a friend of so many friends who had been comforted, had been touched by their memories of him. So many patients had been healed by his golden hands.

However, his most important role was that of a soul housed in a human body who had to balance his life forces with his earthly personality and arrive at the knowledge, toward the end of his journey on earth, that he was, more than anything, a spirit of life, love and eternal unconquerable energy.

Reading One Last Time had clarified my thinking: that visitation from my grandfather, seven years earlier, was clearly explained by John Edward. He said that his mother came to him in a dream. "Dreams are spirits’ way of communicating with us directly. Not every dream of a dead relative is a visit; many dreams are our way of dealing with the loss.

John Edwards’ explanation continued: However, a fairly simple way to distinguish between a dream that is a visit from someone on the other side, and a dream that is just a dream is this: a visit is profound, a gift. It feels incredibly vivid and real and stays with us much longer than a standard dream. While the details of most dreams dissolve from memory within a few hours, a visit will be remembered clearly years later.

This was how my Grandpa’s visit was for me! Finally, I was able to understand the visitation from Papa’s spirit. It was his way of communicating with me.

Others have told me that they have long-term vivid memories of dreams; but also, when you have