Death is not an ending, but a transition of the soul. Here are true-life stories of ordinary men, women, and children who no longer fear death or grieve for deceased loved ones. Why? Because they know the human spirit survives death--and lives on. But how do they know this with such certainty? The proof lies in what they have seen with their own eyes and felt with their own hearts. Each was present when a grandmother, best friend, spouse, or child appeared to them in a luminous visitation to ease their grief and to show them that no one had really died. They were graced to witness angels, or Jesus, or other spiritual beings who came to announce the well-being of their recently passed dear ones. Here, told in simple but emotionally rich words, are seventy-eight unforgettable tales of grief allayed and solace attained. Housewives, mechanics and mothers, sons and daughters, truck drivers and nurses, young and old--all attest to the survival of the spirit after death. What is remarkable is that many of them had no previous mystical experiences or even beliefs that such occurrences were possible. Read their miraculous stories and you'll begin to understand why Nick Bunick, subject of The Messengers, assures us that with every transition of the soul, grief dissolves and it is only death that dies.
Death is not an ending, but a transition of the soul. Here are true-life stories of ordinary men, women, and children who no longer fear death or grieve for deceased loved ones. Why? Because they know the human spirit survives death--and lives on. But how do they know this with such certainty? The proof lies in what they have seen with their own eyes and felt with their own hearts. Each was present when a grandmother, best friend, spouse, or child appeared to them in a luminous visitation to ease their grief and to show them that no one had really died. They were graced to witness angels, or Jesus, or other spiritual beings who came to announce the well-being of their recently passed dear ones. Here, told in simple but emotionally rich words, are seventy-eight unforgettable tales of grief allayed and solace attained. Housewives, mechanics and mothers, sons and daughters, truck drivers and nurses, young and old--all attest to the survival of the spirit after death. What is remarkable is that many of them had no previous mystical experiences or even beliefs that such occurrences were possible. Read their miraculous stories and you'll begin to understand why Nick Bunick, subject of The Messengers, assures us that with every transition of the soul, grief dissolves and it is only death that dies.
Truth City epitomizes man's greatest achievement; it is a special place on Earth, the birthplace of the Truth Machine. The Truth Machine in turn allows human beings the chance to shed their former iniquity and barbaric tendency and make Earth into a Utopia, where human beings live in freedom, and happiness. But for Peter Savante all is not well; he makes a living as a geneticist, enhancing genes of parents who desire genetically enhanced children. He uncovered a foul lie underneath the surface of societal civility and prosperity, which launched him on a quest to uncover the origin of the Truth Machine. As he searches for the truth, he would evade the all powerful Consortium, find love, and join the Revolution in a final battle for the soul of mankind.
IT had rained in torrents all the way down from Schenectady, so when Jack Duane glimpsed the lights of what looked to be a big house through the trees, he braked his battered, convertible sedan to a stop at the side of the road. Mud lay along the fenders and running boards; mud and water had spumed up and freckled Duane’s face and hat. He pulled off the latter—it was soggy—and slapped it on the seat beside him, leaning out and squinting through the darkness and falling water. He was on the last lap of a two weeks’ journey from San Francisco, his objective being New York City. There he hoped to wangle a job as foreign correspondent from an old crony, J. J. Molloy, now editor of the New York Globe. Adventurer, journalist, globetrotter, Duane was of the type that is always on the move. “It’s a place, anyway, Moses,” he said to the large black man beside him, his servitor and bodyguard, who had accompanied him everywhere for the past three years. “Somebody lives there; they ought to have some gas.” “Yasah,” said Moses, staring past Duane’s shoulder, “it’s a funny-looking place, suh.” Duane agreed. Considering that they were seventy miles from New York, in the foothills of the Catskills, with woods all around them and the rain pouring down, the thing they saw through the trees, some three hundred yards from the country road, was indeed peculiar. It looked more like a couple of Pullman cars coupled together and lighted, than like a farmer’s dwelling. “Fenced in, too,” said Duane, pointing to the high steel fence that bordered the road, separating them from the object of their vision. “And look there—” A fitful flash of lightning in the east, illuminating the distant treetops, showed up the towering steel and network of a high-voltage electric line’s tower. The roving journalist muttered something to express his puzzlement, and got out of the car. Moses followed him. “Well,” said Duane presently, when they had stared a moment longer, “whatever it is, I’m barging in. We’ve got to have some gas or we’ll never make New York tonight.” MOSES agreed. The two men started across the road—the big Negro hatless and wearing a slicker—the reporter in a belted trench coat, his brown felt hat pulled out of shape on his head. “It’s a big thing,” Duane said as he and Moses halted at the fence and peered through. Distantly, he could see now that the mysterious structure in the woods was at least a hundred yards long, flat-topped and black as coal except from narrow shafts of light that came from its windows. “And look at the light coming out of the roof.” That was, indeed, the most peculiar feature of this place they had discovered. From a section of the roof near the center, as though through a skylight, a great white light came out, illuminating the slanting rain and the bending trees.
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