“Love that matters never ends.”

People come to see a medium such as myself because they want to know that their loved ones on the Other Side are alright. At least that’s what they’d tell you. 

Personally, I think that people come to see me because their loved ones on the Other Side orchestrate the meeting. In other words, they use me to let those that they left behind that they haven’t died, nor has their love for them. Their hope is that their messages of love become catalyst for healing. I’m sure that’s why, over time, I’ve come to realize that the “waiting list” on the Other Side is much longer than the one I work with here. 

Gina’s Story

In all the years since my parents had died, it never occurred to me to see a medium. At age forty five, I was the “orphan” who never grew up, forever confounded at my lost confidence. I heard about Anthony by chance one day in a bookshop. At the time, I was feeling proud of myself, having determined that I was through wallowing and that I was moving on from everyone,–living, dead, as well as the old images of a Catholic God that I just couldn’t relate with. I was experiencing many personal breakthroughs with Energy Healing methods that I had discovered in my quest to get better from an auto accident, but the idea of seeing a medium still seemed more novel than real. The shop owner raved about Anthony, so I just hoped to hear anything that might heal my loneliness and hurt. 

What I got was more than I bargained for. Anthony noticed my mother standing between me, and my sister-in-law, there for both of us. He said she was standing next to Mother Mary and holding the rosary. For two years before she died, my mom had become deeply devoted to Mary and the rosary through the well-known apparitions in Yugoslavia. Anthony told me that she was saying “it wouldn’t hurt” me to say the rosary—words she had often used throughout my life to urge me on to things I resisted. I could hardly believe it. After so many blurry years without her, here was my mother picking up with me as if she had never been gone—and just when I had finally determined the rosary was not for me, despite how I had shared in her devotion and had turned to the rosary after she died. But now I groaned, twisted in my seat, and complained how I did not want to say the rosary. Anthony explained to the group that the Other Side is not necessarily Catholic, but the rosary is one of the most powerful prayers. He said even those who had not been Catholic in life often request and wish for it.

Anthony said he saw a crowd of my relatives all talking and kidding around. I thought of the warmth and exuberance of so many around my parents when they had been alive. Anthony talked about my mom, dad, uncle, and others describing exactly how they had died. 

Then Anthony said, “Charlie wants to say hi to Bob.” I had called my grandpa Charlie, and Bob was now his only living son, and my father’s only living sibling. I shrieked with delight. Anthony said of all things, that “they” were congratulating me on getting a new car. It seemed so incidental or trivial that “they” would bring up the car—yet I had spent the summer by myself trying to find the first decent car of my life on a tiny budget. Car trouble had been a running joke in our family, with my father’s string of unreliable heaps. This car purchase had been symbolic of overcoming my years of stress in dilapidated cars, embarrassed and scared as I had barely made it from job to job.

Anthony went on to say that my parents wanted to know why I wasn’t singing anymore. I was sure Anthony had it wrong; I was an aspiring writer, not a singer. But in two other sessions he repeated and insisted they were telling me to sing. My mother was saying that singing was healing for me as it had been for my father. She named “Caruso” whose operatic voice my father had loved. I pictured how my dad always sang to the old-time tunes on the radio with a gleam in his eyes. Months later, I caught myself singing full force to the radio, like I had not done since I was a girl and younger woman, when I had last felt confident and alive. Such a small thing suddenly made sense. As a girl, in my bedroom next to my parents’ room, I had practiced and choreographed singing as loud as I could to the radio and stereo, pretending to be a famous star. I hadn’t realized how much they saw. Riding in the car with my mom, I had always sung every word to every hit on the radio, providing earnest commentary between each song.

Anthony told me how my father said he was with me when I drink my tea all the time. That means my father has been with me a lot, because over the years my teacup has been like an appendage, getting me through so my times alone as I’ve struggled through chronic grief-and sickness. It seemed so insignificant when he [Anthony] said it. I wondered why they seemed so intent on telling me such trivial things. Now as time passes, I realize it was their way of telling me that they are still with me, watching over me. They, just like God, love me in the inconsequential details of my life. 

My image of God has changed to something more merciful, creative, and personal than I could have imagined. After the discernments, I cried, no, I poured out, tears for hours every day for several months. I began to wonder if I would ever stop. I was still healing from my car accident at the time, but my tears seemed to come from some unceasing pool of profound relief and wonder, most often beyond my apprehension. I am still processing my new reality, still sometimes gripped by the mystery of grief and death, but my heart knows a comfort it never knew before and a confidence that the love that matters never ends. I have a new and deeper attachment to those who have gone on, and I pray for them, happy and overwhelmed to know we all still need each other. 

I thank God for bringing Anthony into my life. Now when I hear a song on the radio that especially reminds me of my parents, I know they really hear me, and that they’re near. Sometimes, I even sing.

Gina Alianello

 

 http://www.anthonyquinata.com

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