by John Edward
The interviewer chuckled condescendingly. “Really, Fraulein St. John? When you subtract your fee, the cost of production, and all other attendant expenses, do you actually think that there will be enough money to amount to anything?”
“I will take no fee,” Charlene said. “And I will personally pay for all expenses, so that every dollar raised will go to help those who survived these horrendous earthquakes. And,” she added, “I will match whatever is raised, dollar for dollar.”
“I do believe you have gone insane,” Paul said after the journalist left. “Once the world hears that, tickets are going to sell like salted peanuts. And you not only say that you aren’t taking your fee, but you are matching the money raised?”
Charlene laughed. “Don’t worry Paul, when I say I am paying all expenses, that includes your commission.”
“Now you’re hurting my feelings,” Paul said. “I get it. I can go without MY commission. I also get that you’re so charitable; it’s who you are. But somebody around here has to pay our bills, and that somebody happens to be me!”
But in the end, Charlene decided to cover all their bills and expenses from her own pocket. So the staff would get paid, anyway. She wouldn’t tell them that, though, until the event had concluded. It would be her secret—and the Lady’s.
Paul had no idea how prophetic his comment was about her “insanity” being contagious. The entire production staff at the show venue announced that they would be donating their salaries, and the theater waived the charges.
At the first rehearsal, Charlene sang the new song she had written. The backup musicians did not need to go through it more than once, because it had been written to the same tune and rhythm as “Someone, Somewhere.” It was stunning, and all of the stagehands and event personnel who were present gathered around to listen. When she finished, there were tears in the eyes of many, and nearly all crossed themselves.
Paul had the song recorded that very afternoon, and it was released almost immediately. Within three days of its release, the song had gone viral over the Internet, raising over $5 million.
On the day before the show, Charlene was doing her last rehearsal when a couple of Mexican police officers came to present her with a letter of appreciation.
“Thanks to you, Miss St. John, and the photograph that was taken of you kissing the cheek of one of those thugs who attempted to kidnap you, we have captured the six most notorious outlaws in Mexico. They are members of the most evil cartel of drug and human trafficking, responsible for hundreds of murders.”
The policeman showed her some of the photos that people in the gathered crowd had taken of her that night, including the one of her kissing the cheek of the outlaw.
“You see here,” one of the policemen pointed out, “the words Viva Domingo. That was what gave us the clue as to who these men were.”
Behind the words VIVA DOMINGO, Charlene saw a graffiti sketch in the alley of the same iconic figure of Our Lady of Guadalupe she had seen in the Basilica.
“That’s funny,” she said, pointing to the photo. “I remember seeing the words Viva Domingo, but I don’t remember seeing this sketch behind the words.”
“What sketch?” Paul asked.
“This one,” Charlene said. “Are you telling me you don’t see the drawing of a woman in robes behind the words?”
“I don’t see anything but the words,” Paul said.
“Do you see it?” Charlene asked one of the policemen.
“I have been there several times in the last few days, Señora McAvoy,” the policeman said. “There is nothing there but the words.”
“How very strange that I see it, and none of you do,” Charlene said. She reached for the picture so she could point it out—but this time she saw nothing but the words. She did see, however, rejoicing in the crowd, the same woman she had seen in the church. But that did not seem possible to her. But something about the woman felt so right. Charlene felt as if a great weight was being lifted from her chest when she looked at the woman and she also felt an overwhelming need to do something positive, an aching to do good came over her. Charlene wondered what this meant and if there was anything she needed to do.
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As Charlene made her way to the rehearsal, she reflected upon the strangeness of the last few days. Meeting Mr. Rojas, and experiencing his unwavering faith, had opened her mind and heart to matters that had been closed for so long. The attempted kidnapping had rattled her and the encounter with the woman in black in the Basilica hadn’t helped. And then suddenly seeing the same woman in the photo sent a powerful chill up her spine.
Paul had to stay behind at the hotel to arrange for some last-minute details with regard to the concert, so there were just Charlene and her driver in the car. Charlene was sitting in the backseat, humming a little song to herself, when she saw another car come up beside them. They were on the road near the Pyramid of the Sun and the Calle de los Muertos, or “Street of the Dead.” The back window of the adjacent car was rolled down, and because the SUV she was riding in did not have tinted windows, the backseat passenger was able to see her. Charlene was stunned by the expression on his face. She was looking into the face of pure evil. She cringed at this image … and suddenly the world went black.
When she woke up, she was surprised to see Paul and several others standing around her bed. What were all these people doing in her bedroom? Wait, this wasn’t her bedroom.
“Paul, what is this place? Where am I? What has happened?”
“You don’t know? You don’t remember?” Paul asked.
“No, the last thing I remember is sitting in the car, going to the rehearsal. Oh, the other car. Was I in an accident?”
“It was no accident,” Paul said. “The people in the other car were part of the cartel you helped bring down. They ran your car off the road.”
“The driver?” Charlene said. “What happened to the man who was driving me?”
“He wasn’t hurt.”
“Thank God for that,” Charlene said.
Paul smiled. “You can thank God for something else as well,” he said.
“What?”
“During the x-rays to make certain there were no internal injuries, the doctors made a discovery. At first they weren’t sure, so they redid the test four times.”
“A discovery of what?” Charlene said.
“Your cancer,” Paul said. “Charlene, it is gone. Completely gone!”
“What? How?”
“The doctor says it was a spontaneous healing; a milagro, I think he called it.”
“A miracle,” Charlene interpreted.
“Yes, well, you did tell me this is the place of miracles, didn’t you?”
“I did, yes,” Charlene said, realizing even as she spoke that the real miracle was not in her spontaneous healing, but in her search for something to explain or perhaps assuage the pain and sadness that she had been feeling so intensely. She knew that not only would she get out of that hospital in time for her concert—it may or may not be her farewell concert, after all—but it was clear to her that she was embarking on a journey that she never would have imagined.
CHAPTER
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Charlene St. John walked onstage in Mexico City to open her concert on a picture-perfect night. She mixed a bit of Spanish with English as she greeted her fans, some sixty thousand who had packed the outdoor arena that had just been converted from the Olympic Stadium into a state-of-the-art contemporary performance space. Hers was the first musical event to be held there, and she was the first artist to test the marvelous sound system that reached every seat in the house. In this way, she felt she could touch—and be touched by—each and every person in attendance. They had come out to see her perform and to hear her world-famous voice, but she had come to this place with a purpose as well: to put herself in the presence of what she had come to think of as her special guide.
For now Charlene was obsessed, or perhaps consumed was a
better word, by Our Lady of Guadalupe. The image of the woman on the cloth haunted her, and the appearance of the same woman in different guises over the last few days unsettled and yet comforted her at the same time. But no longer did she have any doubt that she had been summoned here to receive a message, or perhaps to face the end of her life, if that was the will of the Almighty. She no longer cared. She just wanted to show up where she was supposed to and to open her ears and her mind and her heart to the word she was supposed to receive.
The sound of her own voice startled her as she began the first number of the first set. The orchestra, with whom she had rehearsed diligently over the past few days, followed the tempo they had established and blended with and amplified her astounding vocal range as if every instrument were one voice—her voice. Soon she forgot everything else that had been in her mind and was, simply, the song. One number, then another, then another.
The audience was entranced. They applauded and stomped and cheered during and after each song. It was clear that they loved this slight woman who entertained them so expertly and moved their hearts with each word that she sang. A wave of love swam back and forth between the performer and the audience. Charlene’s backup singers, five beautiful voices who probably could have been superstars in their own right, stood in awe between the orchestra and the main act and felt it all come together in a totally unique way.
For a full hour, Charlene St. John sang her heart out. Seven big numbers. It passed for her in the blink of an eye, and then it was time for a break between sets.
She usually did three sets—one long one to begin, then two shorter ones—over a period of three hours. But now she felt so energized and inspired that she did not want to break. She said to the audience, “What if I just continue for a little longer before we take our first break?”
Sixty thousand fans roared their approval. Even the musicians were caught up in the excitement of the moment and wanted to play on. Charlene bowed, then turned around to her supporting groups—the orchestra, backup singers, and crew—and folded her hands as if in prayer, bowed to them, and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
As Charlene sang the next song, she looked out over the audience, visible only as dim faces in the darkness, except for one person. She almost gasped as she saw her. It was the same grieving woman she had seen in the church, no longer in black, but wearing an all-white, two-piece business suit.
No longer weeping, the woman looked relaxed, radiant, and, Charlene had not noticed this before, beautiful—beautiful beyond description.
Charlene could not tell whether the audience saw the same thing she did, nor did she know whether she was supposed to share her vision with them, or with anyone, for that matter. Instead of being startled or confused, Charlene felt a remarkable sense of peace. And she heard the woman speaking to her, not in words that were audible to her ears, but words that resonated in her heart.
Her mind—and her spirit—refocused.
“My Lady, it’s you!” She felt the warmth of the unearthly light that emanated from the woman, who suddenly disappeared from the audience and now stood beside her.
“My child,” the Lady said, as if continuing a conversation over tea. The voice filled and surrounded Charlene St. John, and she wondered what was happening in the real world. Was she still singing? Was the audience seeing this amazing vision?
“You have been given life by the Creator that you may do good and serve others. This you have done with great love in your heart, and you continue to touch so many people.” She extended her arm, pointing to the audience.
Charlene answered with humility. “But how can I sing for the entire world? Does it really matter all that much? My voice is not that great.”
“Oh, my beautiful one, when the Almighty desires the word to be proclaimed to all the people, He can give voice to the voiceless and sight to the blind. To you He has given the ability to achieve such a task.” Charlene felt her other self singing to the audience while conversing with the Lady.
Do you see the light
Of all creation: the day, the night?
A universe of peace and love
Of goodness that comes down from above
Take his hand
And you will understand
That we are one
We are one
We are one
“You are a child of God, in whom He is very pleased. You have accomplished the mission He has set out for you. We are one.”
The mysterious lady said the words “we are one,” just as Charlene sang the last line of “Someone, Somewhere”—We are one—her voice lifting to Heaven in the highest, purest, and most powerful note, causing even the angels to sing in concert with her.
As Charlene held the last note of the song, the mysterious woman rose, ascending high into the heavens. She became more radiant, her light filling the arena, and Charlene realized that she was the only one who could see her.
The pure white two-piece business suit suddenly burst into all the robes and colors of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and in her heart, Charlene heard her say, “Remember I told you—I lost my son.”
Never had Charlene sung more beautifully, and there was thunderous applause for her from everyone in the auditorium. Just before Charlene left the stage, Paul brought her a note. She read it and smiled.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “The world has been most generous in response to the recent tragedies that have ravaged our world. In sales to this concert, and in sales of the recording, we have raised almost fifteen million dollars. I am going to match that amount, as are three of the world’s richest men. As a result, including many other generous individual donations, more than one hundred million dollars for the relief efforts have been raised this very night.
“I am told that $305 million was raised for relief in Haiti after the disastrous earthquake in January 2010, and I feel certain that generous people will surpass that. God bless you all, thank you, and good night!”
* * *
“I knew my lassie could do it. Just think how much your love has touched the world!” Ian’s voice was as strong and immediate in her heart as if he were standing beside her. And she was sure now that he was.
“I know, Daddy, and I know that you will be with me for every step on my journey now,” she answered from within the dream.
The anger and grief she had felt ever since her diagnosis, her desperate loss of hope for life, seemed to be receding to more distant parts of her soul, to shores of consciousness that were far away from this place and this time. How could this be? Her father’s touch … the intercession of Our Lady … the overwhelming light that had enveloped her in those moments when she had sung her heart out for the people—and their love for her in return. Something that could only be called miraculous had occurred in the here and now of Charlene’s life. Something that had transformed her.
She awoke and said a little prayer to ask for some understanding and wisdom from the blessed Lady who had lost a son and gained a new daughter.
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Ever since the trip to New York and the encounter with Charlene St. John—followed by the tragic events playing out in the world—Tyler Michaels had felt more emotionally raw than he had ever felt in his life. And through it all, the loss of Karen and Jeremy pierced him like a warrior’s lance, penetrating his body and soul. He knew intellectually that he was not the only person in the world who had suffered such grievous personal losses. Around the world, every day, families were torn apart, parents, husbands and wives, children, dearest friends were taken from those who loved them … But the hurt was real nonetheless, and the surgeon who had lived for so long on the fastest of fast tracks now felt completely derailed.
What is my purpose? Saving lives? I saved many lives before Charlene St. John, but none since. I am without a destination.
The Swedish-inflected voice returned occasionally to advise him—or haunt him—and he began to listen to it in a different way, trying to un
derstand the messages rather than critique them.
He was expecting Nurse Rae Loona to stop by his home for dinner after the conclusion of the worldwide broadcast of the President’s funeral. He didn’t necessarily feel up for it, but neither was he going to try to stop her. Never stand between Rae Loona and her need to express love and friendship.
He tried to read a magazine, sitting in his living room with a small fire burning in the fireplace. His heart had never been heavier, yet he was sick of feeling sorry for himself. It was very difficult for Tyler to concentrate on what he was reading or to keep a coherent thought in his head for more than a minute at a time … so he sometimes wondered if the messages he heard were coming from some long-ago memories, perhaps university or medical school lectures that he had heard while half-asleep twenty years ago. Who knew?
It was not a particular surprise that he suddenly found himself confronted with a fair-skinned man in a dark blue coat with bright brass buttons and a starched, ruffled white shirt with long, flowing white sleeves poking through at his coat cuffs. His fingers were long and tapered and seemed, oddly, to be ink stained. How could a spirit—if that’s what he was—have ink stains on his hands?
“You are seeking, my friend, just as I sought for a lifetime to touch the truth of existence, to understand the very point of creation and all subsequent existence of all creatures great and small, of our human enterprise in this vale of tears. I understand.”
“Well, I’m glad you do,” Tyler offered, “because I am having a hell of a time understanding what is happening to me—and what is happening to the world. I thought I was so educated, that I was ‘in charge’ of my own life. That is certainly not the case. Not happenin’, as they say.”