The Afterlife of Billy Fingers: How My Bad-Boy Brother Proved to Me There's Life After Death

by Annie Kagan

  I was surprised; Tex had never even hinted to me that she thought she had a problem. Months ago, when I'd told her what Billy's letter was about, she'd turned into an icicle. I hadn't said another word to her about it.

  “What do you think, Annie? Is it a good idea?”

  “A great idea.”

  I put the key, the heart, the pillbox, and the two AA coins in the drawer of my night table. I kept the journals in a basket by my living room couch. Like the box they came in, they reminded me of the old Billy, and I was afraid to read them. After a week, I picked a journal with a purple cover and opened it at random. It read:

  “As the garden grows inside you, water the flowers and don't forget that the sand of the spiritual work is only the sand in the oyster that makes a pearl. It's the irritant that makes the pearl.”

  No way! How could this be? I read on.

  “I thank you for this beautiful life you have given me with all the speed bumps, with all the sand. I am getting ready to write my book soon.”

  Sand? Irritant? Pearl? Book? This isn't possible.

  Slowly, over the next month, I deciphered Billy's almost illegible handwriting. I read about his struggles, his darker moments, his aspirations, and his intimacy with God:

  “I want desperately to get better, but that is actually second for me. God is first because no human alone could have gotten me out of Venezuela and helped me get well again. All of the good, all of this, was God's doing. I love you, God. Keep being there, please.”

  * * *

  “I would like to be a guide and help others polish their mirror to reflect their lives better. Use a few beautiful words that can play through their lives, hold them in God's love, and help them feel better in difficulty. I may be an addict but I am also sensitive, caring, intuitive, intelligent, and wise. Show me how to take these ideas into the world.”

  * * *

  “This is how I will help. I will be an author and write a book. The book won't be of an intellectual nature because life and its fulfillment are spiritual. Also, I want to bring laughter into the world. In my book I will only say things to help, not to sell people something that may or may not be true. My book will get done. I will do it. It's in your hands, God. Love, Billy.”

  * * *

  “Dear God. As time gets closer, I know it's really short. I am standing at the turning point and the only thing left is to surrender to your great wisdom and strength. I am too old to listen to anyone—oh yes—I could listen to them, but I won't because I know that the dreams and victories I have worked for in my lifetime are for the good, not the bad. The only one who gets to know about these things is you, God. And I think that must be all that matters. Love, Billy Fingers”

  Going through Billy's journals put me on an emotional rollercoaster. To cheer me up, Billy played a game of cosmic hide and seek. He would contact me telepathically, without words. When my surroundings became luminous and more alive, I knew he was nearby. I also began to call on him silently to see if he would respond. He didn't always, but that was part of the game, learning to recognize when he was there and when he wasn't.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Tex

  One blustery afternoon in mid-January, almost a year after Billy's death, while I was getting dressed, Billy visited.

  Tex will be going to rehab in a few days, and I know you've been thinking that when you say goodbye to her today you'll want to give her something meaningful.

  Truth is, I had my eye on Tex from the very beginning. She's one of your favorite people, and I can understand that. Tex is a rare gem, with a magical heart. When you met her, she was caring for her sick mother. That episode went on for years. Tex was always fond of scotch, but by the time her mother died she was drinking much more than anyone realized, including herself. Then she started washing some pills down along with her scotch before she went to bed. One morning—one morning that gratefully never came—Tex might not have woken up.

  It's no accident that Tex is a witness to the creation of this book and that many of the proofs involve her directly. I wanted her trust. You see, Tex began talking to me right after you first told her about my visits. She never imagined at that time what was in store for her. She never knew the special gift that was to come her way.

  The letter I sent to Tex—well, she read that letter although she never said anything to you about it. You might say that her brother Pat and I did an intervention from the world beyond. We kept whispering in her ear, pushing her to her strength, pushing her to take the cotton out of her ears and the blinders off her eyes. Tex is really great at saving others but not so good at saving herself.

  I think it's time to give Tex the coin I promised her, don't you? That would be the AA coin from White Deer Run that arrived in the Billy Box. It is now sitting in your drawer. You can also give her one of the pictures of me that came along with it.

  Almost a year ago, before the arrival of that coin in the Billy Box, before Tex admitted she had a problem, way back then, I told you I wanted to give Tex a coin and, lo and behold, the right coin has appeared at just the right moment.

  Will the influence from beyond and the coin change her life?

  Only Tex can answer that question.

  Tex and I met at Starbucks for a goodbye cup of coffee.

  “Billy finally told me which coin to give you,” I said. I put the White Deer Run coin in front of her on the table.

  Tex picked it up and examined it.

  “It's a twelve step coin from AA,” I said. “I found it when I opened the Billy Box. He didn't tell me it was for you until an hour ago.”

  Tex looked shocked. It was hard for her to speak. The coin made Tex's going to rehab seem fated, and Billy was part of that fate. When I gave her Billy's picture, she said, “I think I'm going to need him.”

  These days, Tex still smokes, still drinks black coffee, but she never has a drink in her hand.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The Grace Coin

  After giving Tex her coin, I woke up thinking about the words on the second coin I found in the Billy Box: “There but for the grace of God . . . go I.” If Tex's coin was important, I figured the other one must be too.

  I knew that phrase was supposed to express compassion. But didn't it also imply “Gee, I'm sorry that's happening to you, but I'm glad it isn't happening to me?” How's the person I'm saying that about supposed to feel? Does it mean that God loves me more? What kind of message was that for Billy to leave me?

  As I lay in bed philosophizing about the meaning of the phrase, Billy told me to look at the actual coin. I hadn't taken it out of my drawer since I first put it there.

  The words written on the coin were not what I had remembered. What was written was simply, But for the Grace of God.

  Words are words, and wisdom is beyond words, but people need words for their minds to hold onto and point the way beyond the words.

  Lo and behold, what is actually written on the coin? Simply, “But for the grace of God.” That's it, the whole thing. Leaving out three little words gives a completely different meaning. The saying you thought you remembered seeing, with the extra words added in, is a compelling but slightly troubling message.

  The message on the coin I left you, I'll call it the grace coin, is something else completely. The grace factor itself, the situation of how much more difficult life could be, but for grace, is a whole other matter. The coin is to give you an awareness of the grace factor.

  But for the Grace of God . . . what would I have, or feel, or do, or be?

  But for the grace of God . . . how much could befall us each and every moment of our lives?

  But for the grace of God . . . I would never be talking to you right now, Annie. I never would be able to say thanks—thanks for loving me so much.

  And why is it that some people seem to have more grace than others? Oops, you thought we could just skip over that very tough question.

  Here's another secret for you, my sister. You can never measure someone else'
s state of grace. You can try to put yourself in their shoes but it will never be the real thing, the true thing, the soul thing. The only life you can experience intimately is your own. Everything else is just hearsay. Never assume that anyone is fortunate or unfortunate because of the way things appear to be. Fortune or misfortune is just a human way of measuring. I can attest to that.

  People usually don't experience grace unless it hits them over the head with some big miracle. They aren't in tune with the constant little miracles weaving in and out of their lives every day; miracles like breathing and seeing and hearing and walking and talking and thinking and being able to feel. That's why so many spiritual paths promote the concept of gratitude. It helps you notice the grace in your life.

  I always found the act of saying “thank you” more useful than trying to be grateful. It's a lot easier to say a couple of words than to try and force yourself to feel something you may not be feeling.

  “Thank you” is a high message, possibly the most healing message of all. “Thank you” aligns you with the grace that comes from the Universe of soul.

  That evening, I was meeting my friend and music producer for dinner in the city. While I was in the taxi, Billy told me to expect some proof during the meal.

  During the main course, Billy whispered in my ear, Here it comes. My friend then mentioned that on his way to the restaurant he gave money to a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk. He added: “There but for the grace of God.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Stream of Life

  The silver grace coin was grimy and beat up. As I washed and polished it, I remembered how when I was six years old my father had given me a silver dollar every Friday night. I'd kept these treasures in a sparkly silver shoebox with a slit my father cut into the top. I was saving for a trip to Paris. When I was up to my one-hundred-twenty-ninth silver dollar, they all disappeared, along with Billy. I cried in my daddy's arms over lost coins, lost Paris, lost brother. The grace coin made me feel like Billy was returning my silver dollars in the form of blessings.

  Still, when the one-year anniversary of Billy's death arrived, I was surprised how sad I felt. Billy, however, was having a party.

  I've finished reviewing my Book of Life and I'm on to a new phase. I'm using the word “finished” for your sake. It's not really like that here. Here, each moment flows into the next so you wind up with that “eternity” feeling.

  As usual, I awoke from the pleasurable pastime of becoming the Universe to find myself back in my light body once again. By the way, I never confuse my body with my “self ’” the way people on earth do. I'm guessing this has something to do with how effortlessly I slip in and out of it.

  Anyway, when I woke up, I was sitting cross-legged next to a magical stream. This stream is so long it seems to go on forever. But because it's not very wide, maybe a few yards across, it was easy to see my dear Joseph sitting on the other side.

  This is not a stream in the usual sense of the word. It has nothing whatever to do with water. It's the flow I'm referring to here. This stream is made of rippling waves of brilliant lights: violet, red, yellow, orange, green, and blue. These colors really stand out because this stream is the only thing in this location, and all around the atmosphere is pitch black.

  The thing about this stream is, it moves with a flow of enchanted sound. If I had to make a comparison, I'd say it sounds like electric chimes mixed with the fading ring of a low-pitched gong. This description, however, leaves out the most critical part, the most important feature of this stream: its mystical effect.

  If you could hear the stream, my darling sister, even just for a second, you would probably never feel afraid or angry, or ever be upset again. Maybe that's why you can't hear it. The earth experience is meant to feature all kinds of emotions, and that's okay. That's as it should be.

  As I sat near the stream, I had no idea what was going to happen or what I was supposed to do. Again, Joseph didn't direct me, and that's great! I never liked people telling me what to do, especially since a lot of times they told me that what I was doing was wrong. By the way, you can't do anything wrong here. There is no such thing. Joseph is my guide, not my judge.

  At first, I sat there watching the vibrant colors wave up and down. Before long, though, I had to close my eyes, being overcome by the stream's supernatural sound. It drew me in deeper until nothing existed except that sound. Then, something happened that I will humbly attempt to convey.

  As the sound of the stream intensified, I became more and more intoxicated. Understand, in this dimension, my moment-to-moment feeling is already better than anything you can imagine. The Stream of Life was upping my natural ecstasy factor.

  Soon, my me-ness started dissolving. Like the stream, I myself became ripples of chiming rainbow colors flowing into eternity. To use an expression from my day, it was very psychedelic. Then, coming from some as-yetunknown vicinity inside myself, I began to hear this unbelievably stunning music. At first, I heard just a few notes at a time. These were no ordinary notes, though. They had the sweetness of what you would imagine angel voices to be, but they weren't voices. The tones were long and slow and blended into each other. Then the notes began stringing themselves together into these melodies, sacred melodies that had always been there, a secret my soul kept hidden from me up until that time.

  Then, completely unexpectedly, the experience became sensuous. I felt physical in a way I hadn't felt since my earth life. I again enjoyed that special kind of pleasure, the intimacy, the warmth of having a body, the body that was mine when I lived on earth. But if I took the absolute best feeling of being alive and multiplied it by infinity, as I sat by the Stream of Life I felt even better.

  This sensuality didn't make me miss being alive, though. Not at all. The mystery of life in the flesh, the particular satisfaction the soul enjoys when it's embodied, was being revealed. It's just for the delight, the delight of the differences, the different kinds of pleasures and even the pain.

  What is this Stream? I'm not sure. Maybe it's the breath of the Supreme Source. I can't really say. But what I will say, little darling, is that at some moment in the great ocean of being-ness, your own soul will sit in the presence of the Stream of Life and become one with it. And as you hear your own melodies, the ecstatic mystery that is life will also be revealed to you.

  Although I didn't hear any melodies while Billy was talking about the Stream of Life, my breath became sweet as honeysuckle and waves of pleasure moved through my spine. Savoring these sensations, but aware that they wouldn't last, I asked Billy for the secret to happiness.

  Like the Stream of Life increased my intoxication, pleasure can increase your joy. People spend lots of time on things that make them unhappy—too much focus on the sand in the oyster. To cultivate joy, pay attention to what you like.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sacred Scripture I

  I began trying out Billy's recipe for happiness. The things I liked weren't necessarily big things. I lingered over my morning cup of oolong tea, enjoying its warmth in my hand. I bought a bouquet of calla lilies when I passed a flower shop, played John Coltrane while making lunch, sang to myself while standing on line in a store, focused on what I liked most about people's faces.

  Paying attention to what I liked became a spiritual practice. The salty wind against my skin. The voices of seagulls. The taste of chocolate, French perfume, scarlet anemones, the purring of my cats. I became happier pretty quickly. My world was filled with things that gave me pleasure; I just hadn't been paying attention.

  Soon, Billy had more to say about pleasure.

  I am now receiving the greatest gift of my journey so far. I am receiving my Sacred Scripture. This scripture has nothing to do with the kinds of lessons people on earth think they're learning. It's not about who did what to who, or if you were “bad” or “good.” In fact, it has nothing to do with your actions at all.

  This scripture lets me reap the rewards of my life. We all receive rewards from
the life we lived. No matter how it seems on the surface, every single life is valuable in ways you cannot imagine or figure out while you're alive. Every single life is a gift. Notice I don't say “opportunity” because that means you can fail or succeed. Beyond the concept of failure or success, there's vibration.

  Vibration can't be told in words. It's the language of music. Scientists exploring string theory are on to something. The Sacred Scripture of one's life is a symphonic streaming from the unseen light of the paradisiacal Source, if you get my drift [laughs].

  Each person is an instrument of the Divine, composing cosmic symphonies while on earth. Some of the music is melodic, some discordant, some bright and upbeat, some slow and melancholy. No matter. Each piece will be part of your own serenade in the afterlife. All your efforts, your ups and downs, will be a mystical tune you didn't realize you were humming. Maybe, sharing what happens to me here in this world will help you feel your music.

  I meet Joseph inside a multi-colored dust cloud where stars are born. Astronomers studying the skies would never guess they're looking at places they will inhabit one day. They're not going to need telescopes or spacecraft or instruments, though. It will just happen naturally.

  Joseph and I float side by side through the stardust, as waves of colored lights descend from above. And, Annie, there's no way to accurately express what happens next, but I will try.

  As the lights touch me, they transform to melodies. These melodies are evocative; they bring something out from deep inside me. They bring out memories. Not earth-type memories. The music awakens a new kind of memory. The noise and static of the world are gone, and I remember only the soul of what took place while I was alive. I live inside the innocence and awe at the heart of life itself.

  The everyday has become the miraculous; the ordinary, extraordinary. For example, waking up. I experience all the changes that take place in me as I shift from dream world to waking life. I don't think I ever really felt the grandeur of waking up or falling asleep or taking a breath or laughing, crying, singing, dancing, or making love.