Thread: Two Letters

This is my own supernatural tale. In a way, the story forced me to shift my vision from the seen to the unseen. I hope the story amuses all who read it. I polished it up a bit for reprint. The story is about a serious gambling problem I used to have and a dream which helped me to conquer the problem.


Two Letters

After gambling all day and nearly all night, I went home to my apartment about 3: 00 a.m. While playing poker, I had lost all my money and was disgusted with myself, so I decided to write a letter with the intention of reading it when I woke up to remind myself just how awful I felt. Perhaps, I thought, the letter might encourage me to quit gambling.

A Letter to Myself:

Geez, it’s long past my bedtime, and I have been gambling all day long. What a disaster. Frank, you can’t go on doing this. You have been on that gambling track for many years, and it hasn’t done anything good for you. It only gets you more frustrated. If you continue this pattern, you will blow everything. Truthfully, blow everything! This is Frank speaking right now. . . Frank. And you have to get this message across to yourself. You have to finally say, ‘Frank, don’t be a fool anymore.’

You cannot accomplish anything by gambling. Look what is happening: last night, you walked into the apartment and the cats’ litter box was filthy; the apartment smelled awful. And both of the cats were very hungry. You didn’t even have any money to go to the store to buy them cat food. Luckily, you had some baloney and milk in the refrigerator for them.

Frank, this is you. I am begging you to consider giving up gambling when you awake. Seriously, you should read this letter and think about this: if you go back to gambling, you lose! You will be a guaranteed loser. Do you remember what your father used to tell you about gamblers? He used to say that gamblers died broke. He even set that example for you himself. He gambled his whole life, and when he died, he left nothing. So, come on now and make him happy—quit gambling. Do it for your father and for your mother and for yourself.

Your father set a living example for you—don’t be a fool and pass up his warning. Frank, you can be something. You really can. You shouldn’t be afraid to quit gambling because you have nothing to lose. Please read this letter as soon as you awaken and seriously consider giving up gambling.

Frank.

I had written the letter above as a stern warning to myself. I tried to put my bruised feelings onto paper to remind myself just how dejected I felt when I walked into the apartment. But my attempt at trying to convince myself to quit gambling failed miserably. When I did wake up later that day about noon time, I ignored the letter. Instead of reading it as I was supposed to do, I left it on the small table where I placed it after I finished writing it. Quickly, I put on my clothes and went outside to find another card game.

Again I found myself wrapped up in a card game all weekend long, and when I finally finished playing on Monday morning, I was feeling good because I had won a few hundred bucks. With a pocketful of cash, I decided to visit my mom at her apartment to have breakfast with her. She lived in the same neighborhood only a few blocks from my place. So I went to see her, and after I was finished eating, I decided to take a nap because I was very tired from being up almost the entire weekend. I walked into my father’s former bedroom, and after taking off my shoes, I plopped right onto his bed fully clothed to get some needed sleep.

And, then, it happened. I had a dream, or was it a dream? Whatever it was, I do remember leaving my father’s bed wearing the same clothes I had gone to sleep with. After getting out of the bed, I walked into my mom’s kitchen to find my father and my cousin Eleanor (both deceased) sitting at the kitchen table. When my father saw me enter the kitchen, he turned to me and said, “Frank, get a beer in the refrigerator for your cousin “Covena.” Immediately, I started for the refrigerator, but before I could open the door to get my cousin the beer, I found myself back in bed, awake, staring at the ceiling.

“Wow,” I thought to myself, “that was some dream; it seemed so real.” All I could do was lie in bed thinking about the dream I had just had. Over and over, I kept replaying it in my mind trying to decipher any message it might have contained. What puzzled me most about the dream was why my father had called my cousin “Covena” when her real name happened to be Eleanor. Finally, after dwelling on the dream for some time, I had gotten out of the bed, put my shoes on, and told my mom I was going home.

As I entered my own apartment, the dream, which didn’t last too long, was fresh in my mind, especially the word “Covena”—the name my dad had called my cousin Eleanor. With the word “Covena” dictating my actions, I walked into the bedroom, picked up my dictionary, and began flipping through the pages to try to discover whether such a word existed. I knew that the word “coven” was associated with witches, but I didn’t know whether the word “Covena” had existed. To my dismay, I never found the word “Covena,” but I did find the word “covena-nt.” So, I began to read the definition of “covenant” aloud: “A formal binding agreement; compact; contract.”

With dictionary in hand, I drifted towards my bed to sit on the edge. Once again, I read the definition of covenant. Before I had looked up the word, I had no idea what it meant. And, as I sat on the bed trying to figure out whether “a formal binding agreement or a contract” had any significant meaning to me, my eyes drifted toward the small table near my bed where the letter I had written almost a week ago still lay untouched. Staring at the letter, I started to get goose bumps because the dream was now beginning to make sense. Finally, I realized the dream was connected to the letter. Through the dream, my father was reminding me about the promise I made in the letter to attempt to stop gambling in the letter.

I am no dream detective, and all I could say is that it took a stroke of luck to tie the word “covena” to the word “covenant” to decipher the message from the dream. Yet, I always wonder how my father expected me to uncover the meaning? Did he believe I had police skills worthy of a Sherlock Holmes? Whatever the case, my dad must have been so disappointed I had ignored the letter and continued to gamble, he intervened in a very mysterious way. Now convinced he was trying to reach me from the other side to reveal his displeasure with me, I eventually overcame my addition to cards, horses, dice, and the many other games of chance. Though a fierce struggle ensured for weeks, I did manage to stop gambling by constantly dwelling on the dream.

A few years passed, and I had acquired an interest in the occult, particularly the afterlife. One day, I found myself searching the occult section in a Barnes & Noble bookstore, and I purchased a book titled “The Dead Are Alive.” After I finished reading it, I wrote a letter to the author explaining the dream I had had about my father and my cousin Eleanor (Covena), and I was very surprised to get a response. The following letter is the response I received from the author’s wife:

Dear Frank

First, to my regret, I must tell you that my husband left for that mysterious next dimension last August at the age of 89. Your letter has been forwarded to me for answer as, at his demise, the foundation ceased all activities (A paranormal foundation in which he was president).

Of course, I cannot answer your letter as my husband could have but I think he would tell you that your Guardian Angel, in the shape of your father, is trying to point out to you that you did make a written covenant to your self to turn your life around. You remember the story of the prodigal son, who finally saw the errors of his ways and returned home to a royal reception. In other words, we learn from our mistakes how NOT to do things.

It would seem to me that you are naturally intuitive—your dream—which was more than a dream—and your brief experience with out of body. Cherish those experiences. They do not come to all. My husband would have been pleased that you have found his books of interest. This I must tell you, he always wrote from real life experiences—never from his imagination. He believed it is up to us, as individuals, to control our own lives. He felt that our minds are so powerful that if we once determine to do a thing WE CAN.

I would like you to feel that your father has directed you to a new way of life which will bring you so much more happiness and satisfaction and self respect. It’s worth a try!

With every good wish, sincerely Martha.

Martha’s response planted a new seed in my mind. Was the meeting with my dad and my cousin in my mom’s kitchen more than a dream? Could it have possibly been an OBE? Did the three of us meet is spirit? But, if we did, why did I return to my body in such a hurry, wake up, and find myself staring at the ceiling. Since I received Martha’s letter many years ago, I have wondered whether it had been a dream or an OBE. Either way, though (and more importantly), my dad’s message had gotten through to me.