The Story of Two Friends (by Nannci)

It may be unusual, but I am talking about his death first. This is the tribute to honor Kem after his passing in October 2012. As a sensitive, I did not want to blubber and sob through my tribute, so I prayed very hard that I would deliver this with no tears. It is a miracle, but that’s exactly what happened.)

My Eulogy at Kem’s Celebration of Life

Kem.  To know him is to love him.  He was one-of-a-kind.  Am I right? 

Cherished by his wife, his daughter, and his mother.  All of whom had mutual feelings for them by him.  What an amazing family.  How lucky his mom was to be taken care of by the three of them [before her passing]. How they served her by providing her a most special place in the family home.  That, in itself, is a glimpse into Kem’s kind of caring and what a son, husband, father, and great individual Kem was.

What a heart he had for his daughter.  SOOOO proud of her.  Rightly so!  I remember several years ago, he and I talked after she had graduated from high school.  He then put her on the phone. 

(Spoke to her in the audience):

You mentioned in that conversation that you were really different from how I would probably remember you—more timid and shy.  You made no bones about what you wanted to do, and you were going after it.  After we talked, I spoke again to your dad and told him how grown-up, mature, and confident you sounded.  I believe both of your parents invested amazing love into you, but at that moment, I could practically hear the buttons of his shirt pop off; he sounded glowing!

(Spoke to his wife in the audience):

You were his light. And love. Not to mention his incredibly smart partner in adventures of business.  

She loved him and treasured ALL the parts of Kem.  Even the funnies that she might not have understood.  Whenever he felt darkness, she shone the beam of her unconditional love into his clouds or cleared away his cobwebs by reminding him of her delight in sharing life with him.  From the cute little townhouse 15 or 20 years ago to the house where we could just hang out and drink coffee together on their screened-in porch. I was struck by just how much their love had grown.  His for her.  Hers for him.  It was inspiring. It IS inspiring. 

But there was another woman who admired Kem.  Me.  A lot of people knew that I had a connection to him, and many of them thought, erroneously, that I was his faith mother—maybe because he laughed and joked all the time and I appeared to be the more serious one.  Hmm.  Truth be told, he was my faith father—and I loved him as my friend for 39 years before he passed.  

I can tell you he was one of my best friends. Ever!  But it went beyond that.  How or why, I don’t think either of us knows.  It just was.  We shared an unshakable bond that was so palpable he considered me the sister he never had, as I considered him my true brother. Like an actual brother and sister, we talked straight to each other. We were brutally honest sometimes.  And we cried with one another, sometimes for one another.  And because of one another! But, somehow, even if our words were tough love-ish, it was okay. I trusted his love.  I believe he trusted mine.  Being in his presence—whether physically, on the phone, or through email—I was comforted by this man of goodness. 

After all, he introduced me to a deeper knowledge of God and opened my heart even more to love the world.  He intensely loved God and truth.  And that longing for grace was contagious. 

If you have seen the musical Wicked or heard the soundtrack, you might know an amazing song sung as a duet called “For Good.”  I need to paraphrase a few lyrics, for these words express what I feel about knowing Kem:

I've heard it said

That people come into our lives for a reason

Bringing something we must learn

And we are led

To those who help us most to grow

If we let them

And we help them in return.

Well, I do believe that’s true

For I know I’m who I am today

Because I knew you—

Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better?

But because I knew you

I have been changed for good.

It is so true

That we will never meet again

In this lifetime

So let me say from my true heart

So much of me is made from what I learned from you.

You’ll be with me

Like a handprint on my heart

And now, whatever ways our stories end

I know you have re-written mine

By being my friend.

Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better?

Because I knew you.

I have been changed for good.

It always astounded me that he didn’t recognize his greatness. That he overlooked the treasures of his own character, his own nature. But he always pointed out things he loved about the people who had come into his life.  He was a loyal and true friend.  He defended his faith and grew his faith in and love for God with his whole being.    

I had the privilege of meeting Kem 39 years ago.  We lived in the same flat for a few months. It was small, and the carpets began to stink.  We laughed as we shampooed them over and over.  We had no confidence to invite anyone over, but oh well--as we dealt with the stinky carpets and no furniture except a kitchen table with two chairs, he taught me his mama’s cooking (her ancestry was part Mexican) and how to make tostadas.  We laughed, but we talked deeply.  And we prayed.  I got to see first-hand what a prayerful person was.  And someone who loved God.

It was there that we found out each other’s middle names, and we often used them.  Wilbur and Norma.  Whatta combination.   It was there he encouraged me (well, with the (invisible) whip, of course) to study the Bible.  One day, in typical Kem fashion, he encouraged—well, TOLD me--to study while he was going out to talk to others.  He was specific:  study about the spiritual world, he said.  Okay.  And I did.  Several hours.  I was so into it that I literally freaked out and wondered if I was hallucinating or having spiritual experiences when I saw flashes of light coming into the house—in fact, in the very room in which I was studying.  I got so freaked out, and I thought I should go outside because whatever was happening here was something I hadn’t studied about.  Were “they” coming to get me? So I grabbed my purse and ran down the stairs of the apartment to escape.

Guess what I found?  Kem was just coming into the house (we lived on the second floor), laughing his head off when he saw my ashen face—for guess what else I found?  He had been standing in front of the building of our flat, and on the sidewalk, he had a piece of broken mirror that he shined into the windows.  Even back then, he encouraged me to pray and hopefully have spiritual experiences. (I did, but that’s not what I had in mind. He, on the other hand, laughed till his sides hurt.)

Who could forget his humor and puns? When he rattled off pun after pun with a straight face until he couldn’t stand it and burst out laughing. Once, he told me about meeting a Japanese woman in Hawaii (he grew up there).  When he asked her name, she replied, “Lobean.”  And you know his facial expressions—he would cock his head and knit his eyebrows—“Lobean?” he repeated.  He mimicked her slowly, repeating, “Lowden.”  She nodded. Of course, this is him telling the story.  But she repeated.  “Lobean.  You know, like in spring!”  He repeated her words, “Lowwwbeeean— like in spling?”  She sweetly insisted, “Yes, Lobean, the first spling burd—“  Okay.  You know where this going.  He howled and could hardly get to the punchline when he blurted out that she meant “Robin.” 

Who didn’t love his stories and his humor?  No one that I know.  Well, except maybe at the beginning of their marriage, his wife might have struggled just a little bit with his puns.

But then Kem = Puns. 

Almost a thesaurus definition, wouldn’t you say?  I remember when he would be on a pun roll—six, seven, eight, ten—as they stirred ‘round in his brain and then smoothly rolled off his tongue.  And he would be laughing so hard, she would be trying to catch the English (she is a native French speaker) and then may not have understood an idiom, for example.  She would turn to me or someone else and say in her cute French accent, “What did he say?  What did he say?”  He was so out of control laughing that he couldn’t answer her, so she would say, “I don’t care.  I don’t care.”  But I am sure in their quiet moments, he would let her in on those punny things he was saying.  And she became wise and mastered English to end his pun torture. 

So diligent in studying words that brought him life and knowledge, he was a scholar who thirsted for more.  The first months that I was with him, I almost always saw him with a book in his hands.  He scouted for time to study, getting up early and staying up later.  For all his humor, Kem was a relentless seeker of truth and wanted to absorb as much knowledge as possible. When other people got entertained, he was working—or studying something.  He could be tough, too.  But always, around the corner was his incredible laughter and humor.  Those of us fortunate enough to know his delightful mother could understand a bit where he got it from.  She was hilarious, too! 

Kem walked up to me at a streetlight in early June 1973 at an intersection at which pedestrians had to stop for the red light.  He felt someone from the spirit world loudly tell him, “Open your mouth and talk to her.”  In typical Kem fashion, he did!  He said something incredibly profound.  Want to know what it was?  He said, “Boy, is it always so hot here?”  Now people in my city just didn’t make casual conversation like that on street corners.  But he looked harmless enough.  When the light turned green, and we could cross the street, I went along with it because some voice in my head kept saying, “Answer him.  Just talk!”  So I said something profound back, “Well, in the summer it is.  And this is summer…   You’re not from around here, are you?”

That day, we walked around the area near the university campus, and he told me stories about being in the army in Korea and how he was amazed at how many Korean people lived.  With simplicity and humility.  His words struck me, and I was intrigued by what he was saying.  He asked me to come to his kind-of-like-a-coop (something not uncommon in our university community) the next day to an Open House.  I agreed.  As I remember, he made me promise to come.  I even gave him a ride back to the house, something I never did.  The next day, I thought he wouldn’t even miss me or probably wouldn’t remember my name.  How wrong I was.  Something convinced me to shake off the jitters about going, and I did go that next day.  The rest is history.  From that day, I felt his care and prayer for me.  Someone cared about me.  I know he never stopped—not all these years.

I heard him talk about many people in caring and loving terms. I think he prayed for a lot of people and their situations. 

Even though we didn’t spend much of the last ten years in each other’s presence, we have had long and intense and fun and loving conversations that lasted hours, every few months.  Deep, meaningful talks about God, about self, about finding self.  My brother and me.  My Friend!

I am like you—incredulous that he is not here.  What?  Kem?  Sick?  Gone?  No.  No!  NOOOO!  We feel empty.  And like the wise man he is, he left quickly and did not prolong the agony—for himself or us.

After hearing his diagnosis, I stayed up for hours writing a letter to Kem—sobbing most of the night as I composed it.  I wanted him to know what an amazing being he was to me and will continue to be for the rest of my life.  I wanted so much to come and be by his side, by his wife and daughter’s sides.  It was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do, but I honored his wishes and did not see or speak to him for the last weeks of his life. 

Not new to spiritual experiences, even ones that a brother/spiritual father might inflict on his unsuspecting sister/spiritual daughter, I saw him on Sunday morning, October 8th.  Much like he looked when I first met him, he had a book in his hand.  I asked, “What is that book?”  He replied, “Oh.  This is the book of my (his) life.”  He was radiant.  He looked so peaceful and calm and eager to study that and much more.

In this spiritual experience, I saw no flashes of light.  But felt him truly next to me.  I said, “How can you come now?”  He answered, “I can come.  It’s been three days.”  I said, “Man, I don’t want to be making this up.”  He said, “You’re not making this up.”  He gave a private message which was concerning something to do with my own health and he looked to be about Andrea’s age—like he was when we first met. 

Nannci?  Kem, here.  That’s how I remember him starting most every phone conversation. 

Today, I say, Kem’s here.  And also and most especially Kem—hear!!!  Hear our love for you.  Be strengthened in how much joy you brought to our lives.  Know that without a doubt, we honor your sonship, husband and fathership, and friendships, and for once—please recognize the amazing man WE know you were on earth and surely are today.  God’s grace has always been with you.  So, my brother—my friend, face this piece of mirror [I whipped out a pocket mirror and did to him what he did to me 39 years ago—shined it against the neon lights in the chapel] as it shines and flashes across the sky to show you who you are—this time from earth world to your new home.

Until I show up there and say:

Kem,  Nannci here.  Won’t you please show me around, my big brother?  My wise friend?

Kem, hear! How much I—we—love you! 

From the kiddo--

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Born of us were born in 1950. He in March, I in July. According to Chinese horoscopes we were Metal Tigers. I think each of us had times when we paced in our “cages”—which were sometimes mental, sometimes physical, and sometimes spiritual.

We both married and each family had a daughter.

We shared thirty-nine years of friendship before his passing in 2012. We met when I was 22 and 11 months old, and he was 23.

I had taken this day off. Friday, June 8, 1973. I thought about doing some shopping and having a sit-down leisurely lunch at the deli sans anyone else. I did just that. I had on a new dress (midi length) with faint bluebells and greenery silk-screened onto a rough cotton, which was comfortable and durable. An almost guilty pleasure to have a day off to do what I wanted. We met on campus, not far from the authentic kosher deli (across the street from my work), normally mobbed at noontime by patrons working for the university. Patrons scurried to pick up and then sprint back to our cubicles with a “tongue on rye” or “Reuben” sandwich, hold (or not) the creamy cole slaw with caraway seeds. Our delights were always accompanied by a look-alike schnoz garlic dill pickle. Plenty (me, among them) also, on rare occasions, ordered their plumped-raisin Noodle Kugel made with cream and topped with crunchy brown butter breadcrumbs and a smattering of cornflakes.

When I was about to leave the restaurant, I literally fell off my chair and landed on the floor on my bum. More than sore butt cheeks, I was mortified and humiliated. Couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Shaking, I got up. I must have paid my bill while staring at and trying to count the black and white tiles on the floor from which I had almost stood upright and then made a beeline out of there. Once on the sidewalk, I was still trembling. I knew tears were close, just millimeters between my eyes and eyelids. Tears were an all too common feature of my on-the-verge of fear or shame emotions. I just did not want them to spill and splotch. Reaching down to my bootstraps, I attempted to pull up as much inner dignity as I could, and I walked in the direction of my car. I got mad at myself for literally abandoning my well-thought-out and brilliant plan of the day that got “up-ended.” Sometimes, when we fall flat (even literally), something quite amazing that we were not expecting at all pops up in front of us.

(At this juncture in my life, I had not yet received the title of my future work, It’s Hard to Hear the Rainbirds in NYC (a poem in the Poetry section); this definitely was a time the “rainbirds” tried to alert me to pay attention.)

But I digress. That was pre- Our Meeting.

We met at a street corner, waiting for a traffic light to signal it was safe to walk across the street; I heard a voice that I was not sure was talking to me.  My train of thought was—are you talkin’ ta me? Me?  Are you sure?  There are tons of cute girls all around.  And what are you doing, talking to someone? At least in my town, it was not a usual thing to strike up a conversation at a stoplight.  This was, after all, a cool and hip university town. And yet a radical place in which there had been a bombing in the middle of the night that killed someone, and then a tear-gassing on the campus, just outside the windows of the university department where I worked.  People just didn’t start a casual (or other) kind of conversation. People normally met at the campus bars, the university terrace on the lake, and the coffee shop that encouraged poetry readings and served delicious orange-spicey-tasting Russian tea.

His comment was innocuous enough.  “Boy, it’s hot!”

“Yes,” I responded with reticence.

“Is it always this hot?” For some reason, he seemed eager to keep the conversation going.

“Well, it is getting close to summer.  So, yes. In the summer, it can get pretty hot.” 

Though the light turned at some point, he kept walking next to me and kept right on talking. 

People normally met at the campus bars, the university terrace on the lake, and the coffee shop that encouraged poetry readings and served delicious Russian tea.  On a whim, I turned around and walked back in the direction of the shops. It was the early 1970s, and generally, it wasn’t the era in my town to strike up random conversations on street corners. Well, except for Kem. No surprise, what did he start with? Predictably, The Weather! I heard a voice almost apologetic for interrupting my crossing of the street. He asked, “Does it always get this hot here?” I made a side glance—retorting not a full sneer but close to it. “Well, yes. It IS summer.” He, anxious to keep the chat going, walked alongside me as we crossed that street of heavy noon-time traffic. Horns honking, we talked in shouts for a few minutes as we dodged cars with drivers who thought “right of way” was simply their right. An auspicious moment of meet-and-greet, which turned into a very long friendship. (Read the last letter in 2023 in the

Sometimes, we are surprised by the immense fortune right in front of us (or to either side). But something might have drilled down into our self-doubt coffers and struck gold. Because I had just fallen on my butt right in the middle of a restaurant’s lunchtime rush, I felt depleted and didn’t want to talk to or face anyone. I felt as minuscule and insignificant as a snowflake, albeit unique, which at some point just melts, unable to be seen for the creation they are.

And that’s how we met.

Luckily, he was not in that restaurant. But one thing Kem came to notice about me as our friendship developed is how, well, how klutzy I am. He thought it was hilarious. I realized how observant he was. If I dropped anything or whenever I took a misstep and nearly fell over my feet (sometimes landing on a sidewalk with torn pants and banged-up knees). As I recall, he was no prince charming who would gallantly pick up the something I dropped. Did he help me up? Not that I recall. No! No. He was too busy laughing hysterically and slapping his knee or pounding on his chest as he giggled until he cried. Such was our relationship. These were the funny parts of it (to him), so I learned to wear humiliation as well as I could. To him, I am ever Miss Klutz. Oh well. (Truth be told, I began to laugh at myself because as he laughed, I could see a bit past the embarrassment and more at the humor.

The day we met, there was a feeling between us. Like we had known each other before. Something about him captured my attention. I was intrigued by him as a person. As I said, he started talking about the weather, and I answered him. I probably wouldn’t have done that with almost anyone else. But I didn’t know what to make of this. Of him. Because I learned he was no simple man. I came to discover he was a deep thinker. And that got my head out of some clouds because our talks would challenge me. Something intrinsic clicked. And something uplifted my spirit (after feeling so humiliated from falling down).

That first day, I heard a voice (and not a physical one) chide me, “Keep talking. Keep listening.” I did. And I am glad I did.

He told me he was new in town and was staying in a kind of coop. That was a rather typical thing in my university town in the early 1970s. But as we talked and walked, I did something out of the ordinary. I can’t explain why, but I asked him if he wanted a ride back to the coop. I never did that. I was usually super careful and almost suspicious about people I just met, but something about him made me feel, well, safe. Odd, but pleasantly so. We walked the six to eight blocks to my car, and he started to tell me a little about his life. That he was born in the South, but his Dad was in the service, and he grew up in places like Japan and Hawaii. He told me that he had been in the Army and wasn’t sent to Vietnam like most men who were drafted. He had served in Korea. He talked softly and with compassion about how the people there were so grateful for the smallest things. At that time, Korea’s economy was quite poor and considered Third World. He said how moved he was that when he saw them happen to spill some rice, they picked it up and used it because food was scarce.

I was fascinated by these stories. His stories. When he invited me to come to the co-op the next day, I said I would come. But I lost sleep over whether or not I should go. I figured he probably wouldn’t even remember my name. But I mustered up courage and went. (I am glad I did.) Our friendship formed slowly but solidly. I knew he had a great deal of care about me when he told me he was praying for me.

________________________

Kem. One of my best friends. Ever! But it went beyond that. How or why, I don't think either of us understood fully. It just was. We shared an unshakable bond that was so palpable he considered me the sister he never had, and I felt he was truly my brother! Like a brother and sister, we talked straight to each other. We were brutally honest sometimes. Well, oftentimes. And we cried with one another, sometimes for one another, or even because of one another. But, somehow, even if our words were tough love-ish, it was okay. I trusted his care and love for me. I believe he trusted mine. Over the years, being in his presence—physically, on the phone, or through email—I was comforted by this man of goodness.  (Even, and perhaps most especially, when he didn’t think he was “good enough,” let alone would ever recognize just what a man of goodness he was.)

Even though we didn't spend much of the last ten years of his life in each other's presence (he and his family moved to another area of the country), at least half a dozen times a year, we had long and intense, often fun (he was an avid punster and sometimes prankster who loved laughing at himself and at how clever those puns and pranks were), but always loving conversations that lasted hours. Deep, philosophical, religious-spiritual, and meaningful talks about God, self, and finding Self. Yes, this was my friend, my "brother."

As a matter of fact, that summer we met we made—

Our Pact (this is my recollection!)

A warm summer evening. Dusky skies and the drip-a-lot humidity of August’s clenches. Cruzin' round the bright lights of a mid-sized Midwest town—two (by then) 23-year-olds on the prowl. Me, for a banana split or some Baskin-Robbin creation I insisted needed hot fudge, not chocolate syrup. (And whipped cream, nuts, and the cherry, thank you.) He, for much loftier mind-game pursuits. He wanted to talk about the moon and the stars. Why we are here. Carl Sagan. (Me: “Carl who?”) About the purpose of life and much, much more. There was a "something" in the air charged with sizzle that night—an announcement of some kind of inner awakening he did not want to miss. But I didn't necessarily want to talk as much as indulge my very long sweet tooth. It was summer; ice cream sounded just right/pretty perfect.  

My old, drab olive green Maverick with its menacing bulldog face probably lurched a bit on the road. It always needed oil. I considered it an oil-aholic. But I was never 100% sure it would take me where I wanted to go. Sometimes the engine overheated and that bag of bolts definitely needed some serious tending. Whether we stopped so Lil' Mav could guzzle a quart or more, I have long since forgotten. But when we stopped at a stoplight, and the oil light blinked bright, we started to discuss what to do about the oil, the ice cream, and the purpose of creation and life itself when he turned to me and proclaimed, "I don't want to die yet. I have so much to learn and study about. So much I want to accomplish." I glanced sideways, this time with no hint of a sneer. The need for ice cream instantly dissolved/melted/liquified. I blinked back, perhaps not as brightly as the oil light, "I feel the same. We're young. Too young to die. At least I hope we have a lot more time."  I meant what I said. And I knew what I was talking about. My appendix had ruptured the year before. Poison squished through crevices and looped around organs. In fact, I had two surgeries. Surgery #1, to ostensibly remove the appendix (mine ruptured while I was waiting for an operating room to be free. But then surgery #2 became necessary to suction out the poison. I was darn close to death but encouraged to live (see the My Life section). And from that experience, even the nauseatingly repeating smell of nitrous oxide swept over me. I very much wanted to live!

I distinctly remember he gulped a giant lung full of air, a very characteristic move when he was in a deep-think and preparing to launch into talking about something akin to the ocean’s incredible depth. I responded, my heart beating fast, then slow, and then inconsistently, "I know what you mean. I wonder what Heaven is like. Or the other place.” I paused, but some wheels inside were turning. Then I asked, trying to breathe deeply in the stifling summer air, “What if we make a pact?—Let's agree that whoever dies first works really hard to find the other and tell what we found. Tell what life is really like."

"Okkaay," he said slowly, with one of his serious looks where I could almost see the gears in his mind working. "Yeah. Let's do it."

Understand, these were my pre-channeling days. I had little knowledge of the spirit world and zero knowledge of communicating with it. I had no inkling of how that could happen. I wondered if it simply was to send a signal of some kind. Like the OKAY sign or a thumbs up to signify all was well. Or maybe a couple of sentences. (I was unprepared that when it happened and he was the one telling his story about life in the spirit world, it exceeded four hundred pages!)

Each of us was serious, making quite a solemn oath but not necessarily calling it that. More than a pinkie-swear. More than a sworn loyalty as a non-blood/non-biological brother and sister. It was a fervent declaration of heart companion friendship. A declaration each of us has followed through on.

________________

This story wants to get to the ending quickly, because the stuff just be pretty unlike anything else you might have read. True story, but not a romance.   It is a love story of sorts—but to find out why, you’ll need to “stay tuned.”

He passed on October 4, 2012.  There was the time of mourning, and in that interim, he gave what he coined “KeyMails”—from the spirit side to the earth as he learned to channel through me.  The contents were very personal.  Very in the moment with life here. 

But with a bit of foreshadowing in January, 2014, I had no idea that there would be so much of an onslaught.

And, then, he came in a whirlwind.   

The Near Ending

The last time we met, we were both 62 years old. Our families met a few weeks after Kem and his wife returned to their home after living on the other side of the country for a decade. I thought he looked incredibly ethereal that day—almost translucent. More like transcendent. Light shone through him that made him look so different from how he usually did. We all talked over a breakfast buffet spread, which lasted over four hours. The waitress must have brought the coffeepot about ten times while we munched on sweet morsel pastries, egg and sausage burritos, and a lot more. The husbands talked together. The wives talked together. Our daughters talked together. I had wanted to speak with him myself, but our time that day was limited, so we all agreed to meet at our house a few weeks later. In the meantime, Kem finally went to a doctor for his extreme back pain, only to discover he had stage four pancreatic cancer. Doctors told him he had four months; he died in under four weeks.

After hearing his diagnosis, I stayed up for hours writing a letter to him—sobbing as I composed it. I wanted him to know what an amazing friend he was to me and that I would continue with that memory for the rest of my life. I wanted so much to go and be by his side and be there for his wife and daughter. He relayed the message through his wife: No. That was his answer. No? He said “no” to his ‘sister?’ Honoring his wish has been one of the hardest things I've had to do. I didn’t go see or even speak to him during those last weeks of his life.

But that didn’t keep me from thinking about him and his family. Of course, I did. How could I not? Of course, I prayed for an easy transition—for him, but also that it would not be so difficult for his daughter and wife. Again, how could I not? Yet, I couldn't help wanting to say goodbye in person. We lived about 45 minutes apart, an easy drive. I was ready to go at nearly a moment's notice. But Kem, well, let me just say he had a way different version of how to do that! One morning, while waiting to use public transportation to get to work, I saw him—in spirit! I had just been thinking of contacting his wife again to plead that I wanted to say goodbye in person. I just wanted to see him before he passed; as much as I begged his wife to check with him one last time, his answer to me was still: No. No? Wait!—how could he continue to say “no” to me—his friend/sister from decades ago? It hurt. Again. I'm not going to lie; I felt more than crushed, and I wanted to retaliate. But his wife reminded me what an extremely private person he was. That his "No" was not personal as much as that he didn't want people to see him as he became sicker.

All this said I wanted to ask one last, one more time—just in case he had changed his mind. But as I was pondering this in my mind and at the same time talking with someone at the train station, he (in spirit) stood in front of me on the railroad tracks, no less. Waving his arms, he shouted, "Do I have your attention?” Yep. He sure did! Seeing the vision of him in a classic brown and creme plaid cozy big-shirt definitely grabbed my attention. “It's too late. It's too late!" he hollered.

The experience? Surreal. Startling, yet not totally. He appeared young—not with greying hair or a weakened body. I saw him clearly much as he looked twenty or thirty years ago, though even more translucent and ethereal than I had seen him just several weeks before. (I guess it was, in a way, a "goodbye," but to me, it wasn't necessarily a good goodbye, for I wanted us to see each other’s eyes in person).

My crushed heart wept, and I thought I heard Rimsky Korsakoff’s brilliant score “Scheherazade” play somewhere in my befuddled and saddened mind. This musical composition was one of my favorites (I love a good Persian, Arabian Nights inspiration!) but spawned a joke between the two of us early in our friendship that, whenever it was brought up, would make us laugh until we almost peed. I had a few cassette tapes of different musical pieces or artists and told him I often put on Scheherazade for inspiration (quite the opposite of “A Lark Rising,” another of my favorites.) I had told him it was light and airy (remembering the piccolo and flute parts), but somehow, I didn’t recall how very heavy and commanding every note was in some sections. And he would tease my musical knowledge of what I had remembered was as sweet and was dirge music fit for a funeral.

Background music or not, it had been a valid spiritual experience. But I didn’t understand what he meant by “it’s too late.” I feared the worst. And it came to pass. When I went home after work that day, I still planning to call his wife but checked my email first. I saw a group email that indicated he passed away just after 12:30 p.m. Little did I know what would be his grand re-entrance into my life years into the future.

THE MEANING OF IT’S TOO LATE

__________________

His Life Celebration (not called a “funeral”) was captivating. His daughter sang and, with her swingy ponytail and a smile, nearly a carbon copy of his, spoke about her beloved dad. A few others spoke, including me. I paid him the best tribute I could. I was determined not to cry (this was a huge effort because I easily cry and often in commercials (from insurance coverage to advertising, in warm and fuzzy moments of dramas, and mostly with little provocation). I told some funny stories of our times and conversations together. And even played a version of a practical joke on him, which "mirrored" one he played on me after we met. (It had to do with flashes of light from an old broken mirror; when he moved it up and down, the sun reflected in a myriad of bursting sparkler-type images when aimed at my bedroom window). It scared me to death. He couldn't contain his laughter. So, during this tribute at his life celebration, I flashed a mirror back at him. And I could hardly contain my laughter!

His wife has an angelic voice, and she sang at the service just before the burial later that afternoon. The day was a warmish one, with rich emerald green grass patches strewn with more than a few multi-colored autumn leaves. The sun shone brightly on this Indian summer day. To me, it seemed an extra ray of light appeared. He had gone to his somewhere and beamed light back to us. Those who gathered had the chance to pay homage to a wonderful human being—

my friend, in life and the afterlife.

The Impact of Our Pact

In 2012, three days after his death, Kem began to honor our Pact. It started as a meeting in Spirit through an extremely clear and experiential vision. By then, I had been channeling for nearly 30 years, and this type of vision was not new. But usually, I saw and sensed, or heard and even sometimes smelled life on the other side. This time, I was there! I was with him in the spirit world, in a pale cream and soft grey marble-ish colored building open to grassy fields of kelly green and mountaintops of snow-peaks and the grandeur of soaring birds circling, which certainly did not feel of this world.

In this spiritual/“experience,” I saw no flashes of light (referring to the practical joke he played on me decades ago). But felt he was literally standing and sitting next to me. I said, "How can you come now?"  He answered, "I can come. It's been three days." I was not sure what he meant by that, but he smiled so broadly and with such new-found calm and inner serenity. I, somewhat flustered, said under my breath, "Man, I don't want to be making this up."  He heard me muttering, "You're not making this up."  He then gave me a private message which had something to do with my health. As I said, he looked to be about the age when we first met on earth. But this time, he looked more "solid" in the spiritual planes, if that makes any sense.

He glowed and looked filled with intangibles—hope, happiness, bliss, and, most of all, cocooned in love! He wore a robe-type garment and carried a huge book under his arm. He signaled me to sit on the marble bench, which overlooked a vista quite like “The Hills Are Alive” from Sound of Music. I marveled at being able to speak to and be with him. I told him he looked positively radiant. Again, he just smiled. Of course, I asked him, "What is the book under your arm? It's huge!" He answered: "Ya. It’s my life story. I am studying it from so many perspectives now…You can do that here.” He proceeded to show me how he “studied.” something which will be explained in more detail in the Kem: The Explorer section ????.

________________

About seven months after his death, my husband and I moved into his family's home. Since our families were friends, his widow kindly invited us to live with her in their large, roomy home. She did not want to be alone, and her daughter would soon return to college out of state. Shortly after, he began sending brief messages to his wife and daughter, me, my husband, and our daughter, while learning the mechanics of channeling and being tutored in communicating from the spirit world to the earth. He referred to these messages as “KeyMails" (indicating there was at least a highlighted key point within each message) sent for much the same reason someone sends an "email." He continued to send KeyMails for the next several years. Many were interspersed in our continued conversations on consciousness. Sometimes, he was so serious. Sometimes, his laugh-out-loud funny persona! I had experienced them both. And this became part of Our Pact.

I had been channeling and doing automatic writing since the early 1980s, and at the time of his death, I was familiar with the process. Although he needed specific coaching on how to come through, guides worked with him to bring forth his messages. He eventually was able to do this himself. An avowed Scholar and Researcher when on Earth, it seemed he was passionate about learning whatever possible in the spirit lands. He tells parts of his story. He wrote things about me and my guide (Percivel). But mostly, he began painting pictures of life on the other side of the "Veil." Funny thing is that I used to talk about my guide a lot. He scoffed at some (well, quite a lot) of what I told him—the "revelations" and information that came through. And more than once, he made fun of the whole process of channeling.

On January 18, 2014, nearly one and a half years after his passing, he began to pour forth much more information. He called the first 100 pages his love letter—to his wife and daughter (channeled through me by automatic writing) and told them he had been studying—history, the spirit lands, and himself. And he, living up to his end of our pact, wanted—no, felt compelled—to bring this information through. He explored the histories of the earth and cultures from a spirit world perspective. And also explored the history of the spiritual realm in which he lived. According to him, so much of written history on earth was not accurately recorded, and much was hidden. That from there, he could see different perspectives and find some of the hidden stuff. Fascinating!

The real essence of this story is his exploration of the lands or realms he went to in the spirit world and, most significantly, the fascinating-scintillating messages and clarifications he brought forth. The contents might well surprise some and challenge others to reframe some beliefs they hold now. It also just might change one's perspective of why it is important to prepare for the eventuality of death, not to mention a few tips about how.

Fast Forward —

Though death did us part, our friendship and conversations continued from one world to the next. Mostly because he felt a calling to give information that could be helpful to people on earth. The story is a journey of heart-to-heart connection spanning 50 years; it began that summer of Our Pact when we were both 23. When America was singing Stevie Wonder's "You Are the Sunshine of My Life," Oreo cookies were 59 cents, Secretariat won the Triple Crown, and the first cell phone call was made. And the story continues now, eleven years after his death when the world is working toward bringing and unearthing greater consciousness to the planet. Working to make a difference in others’ lives. To “love anyway.” To find our authentic Self. To live on a new Earth.

All told, there are 400+ pages of information, including his original "KeyMails” and longer messages, as conversations, apart from the main material. From January to April 2014, almost every early morning before I went to work and every evening, I received what might be considered a type of "blog." His blog or journaling about the Afterlife.

The core of his messages on many levels is simple:

Use your “kaleidoscope” (your perspective, periscope, telescope within) to find the hidden truths of yourself and your Self.

And “divine” yourself—that is, to recognize your Divine Self. Your GodSource-Divinity. Your real You! (while still on Earth)

This is a story of many monologues and some dialogues (some KeyMails and some “KemMails") that bring forth information on life and death he feels called to make known on earth.

This is a story of two friends: he, with a message from "beyond,"—timely and, I would say, also timeless.   And I, the scribe/channeler, to assist in its delivery. 

For —

This is also a “love letter”—but to the world at large!

I have the sense he hopes the friendship we have enjoyed can spark something of the same for other true and trusted friends and loved ones by the one who makes their transition to the one who remains on Earth. Not to hold either person back from living in whichever world they do. But for some, it is possible to still “BE” in communication—in life and the afterlife.

I say, pick up your impassioned pen and begin to listen, not only for rainbirds but for voices that spread knowledge and truths that bring clarity to life. That brings your hearts together in a knowingness that each has their life to live—whether still on the earth or within a spiritual realm. Not in the bondage of relationship, but to assist in erasing the lines of separation. Of chords that find accord rather than discord. For each to live fully within the life they are living, but also as friends in the other’s world.

This is not only possible but a trend in the Awakening, the Continued Conversations in all our Consciousness. The upliftment of an alliance is possible through mutual respect and trust and the greater awareness of love—on both sides of the Veil.

There are clues Kem brings forth for those interested. The Course Intuit You: Devein-ing, Kaleidoscope-ing, and Divine-ing You is certainly a stream of consciousness he brings to earth.