Satnav for Your Soul: Guidance from Those Who Have Made the Ultimate Journey

Satnav for Your Soul: Guidance from Those Who Have Made the Ultimate Journey

by Susan Pengelly

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Overview

Satnav for Your Soul: Guidance from Those Who Have Made the Ultimate Journey by Susan Pengelly

Have you ever wondered

if there is an afterlife, and if so, whether you will see everyone you have loved again;

what happens to bad people;

whether people who have died a traumatic death suffer;

whether everyone you have loved who has passed knows all about your exploits, your failures, and your triumphs; or

how to live your life to guarantee entry to the best place?

In Satnav for Your Soul, experienced medium Susan Pengelly shares with you her encounters with people who have died and who wished to remove the fear of death for those who are yet to leave their physical body.

Satnav for Your Soul is a travel guide from people who have got there ahead of you, who know the pitfalls to avoid and the road best travelled so that your journey is much easier and so that those who are waiting to meet you are pleased to see you and not wondering why you’re dragging your heels—which you’re doing because you sold your grandmother’s ring after she died and you are not sure if she knows (she knows).

If you love to laugh, to be moved, to learn something from the experiences of others—then you can do no better than to curl up on the sofa and let Satnav for Your Soul provide the map and compass for your own enlightening ultimate journey.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781452584607
Publisher: Balboa Press
Publication date: 11/05/2013
Pages: 220
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.50(d)

Read an Excerpt

Satnav for Your Soul

Guidance from Those Who Have Made the Ultimate Journey


By Susan Pengelly

Balboa Press

Copyright © 2013 Susan Pengelly
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-8460-7



CHAPTER 1

Mark


The first person ever to come through to me; a remarkable young man who, despite or because of the hard, cruel life he had endured when he slipped through the cracks in society, chose to come through to bring hope to others. How sad that no one took the time to know his worth when he was here. And here is a lesson for all of us—never overlook that angry child, for he or she may be crying out for help or to be noticed, or the vagrant you pass every morning on your way to work. Try not to judge when you know nothing of what someone may have endured at the hands of others.


I was a bad devil, I was! Don't think I did a good thing for anyone in my life—even being born was a bad thing and I thought babies were supposed to be innocent—well not me apparently.

My mother told me I were a waste of space. Can you imagine that? A mother telling you that? Said she'd never wanted me and she only kept me for the benefits she got. Not that I ever saw much of those—there were no benefits living with her. All her money went on booze and fags. Used me as a fucking ashtray until I were nine, and the Social paid a visit. I had a t-shirt on that was too small. It rode up when I reached up to the door to let them out, so they saw the marks. Could have done join-the-dots on me they could—kept them busy for hours. Course, there was hell to pay then, finding the marks like that. I was taken away to the kids' home. Me mother were shouting about her benefits being cut now because of them interfering.

I can remember the smell of the social worker's car. Leather it was, the seats—brown leather. It was a bloke, the social worker. He had a woman with him who was really nice. He was a nice bloke too, but I could tell he was angry with me mother. He was doing his best to control it, but I knew: I know anger when I see it. Nearly had steam coming out of his ears he did. I was just glad someone had taken me away, even though it had taken nine years to do it.

The minute I got to the children's home it stopped being nice. Bloody cold there it was, and there was a right wanker in charge. Thought it was funny to belt the kids with a wet towel, those who weren't quick enough having a shower. Used to chase them, he did, flicking this bloody towel. Bastard. No one ever told on him, because we knew he'd get worse. He had absolute power, see—brutalised kids for years he did, until me and one or two others who shall not be named, scotched his little game. I'm not telling you what we did, but it weren't pleasant—that's all I'm saying, but he left us alone after that. Took us three years to get revenge, so he had a lot of payback coming his way.

I was a right little sod—weren't afraid of no one by then. I was never big for my age, but I was fast and wiry. Me and a couple of other lads used to do burglaries of a weekend when we were allowed out—sell the stuff to a couple of blokes on the local council estate and then hop it back to the home. No one was ever the wiser. How we never got caught I'll never know.

Then I got into drugs, didn't I! Did it for kicks first, and it was great. I was out of my head many a night. I fitted right in with the wrong crowd—felt right at the time. I was wanted, you know, not for my friendship I now realise, but because I was eager to please. I wanted to be liked, see—accepted, I suppose. Anyway, I fucked me head up good and proper. I'd left the home by then—well, kicked out really; "came of age" didn't I. Then it's, "Bye then. You can manage on your own now." Only; I didn't manage—not very well at all. I lived in a local squat for a while. Somebody's house, it was, not that I gave them any thought at the time. Trashed it we did. Not proud of that now, but at the time it was a good laugh. I spent years of my life nicking and doing drugs. What a fucking waste. Ended up in London. Went up west, where the money was. I begged, nicked—you name it, I did it. I even resorted to poncing a few times but it used to turn my stomach. I used to drink anything I could get my hands on. Regularly got a kicking from lads out on the town—skinheads mostly—proving how hard they were by kicking a drunk about. Clever.

I never mugged old ladies, though. Never mugged anyone, come to think of it. A Japanese tourist gave me his camera once. I think he thought I was going to rob him but I was just trying to get into the toilets as he was coming out. We sort of "clashed" in the doorway. I was dying for a slash and wasn't looking where I was going. I was out of my head, I suppose. All of a sudden he starts babbling away and thrusts his camera at me. I stood there, looking at this camera, put two and two together, and starts laughing. I also pissed down me leg, as I recall. Worth it though—I got twenty quid for the camera—probably worth £200. I never gave a thought to how frightened that chap must have been.

I know now how scared he was because I've felt it. Oh yeah; when you die it's not over, not by a long chalk. I've had to experience every bit of pain I ever caused anyone, caused them deliberate like. A real eye-opener it is, too. I also got to see why my life turned out to be a shit one, why my mother was the way she was. It was not pretty.

I took my own life when I was twenty-eight. At least I believe I was twenty-eight—I stopped counting birthdays. I was so wasted most of the time that I barely knew what year it was. I OD'd deliberate: couldn't stand it anymore. The money from the camera did it, that and a bit I had on me. Ironic, isn't it? That Jap chap probably thought I'd kill him, but his camera ended up killing me. Best choice I ever made. Believe it! Thing is—I'd never felt loved, see. Not in my whole, sorry, miserable, little life. So I thought, "Fuck it. There has to be something better than this." Stands to reason, doesn't it? I was already in hell, so heaven had to be out there somewhere.

I remember waking up in a bed and thinking I was in hospital. I thought, "Fuck it, I failed."

Then this bloke comes along, a doctor I think, and he says to me to lie still and sleep. But you know what, I heard him say it, but I swear his lips didn't move.

I thought then, "Fuck me, Mark, you're still out of your head." But I wasn't, see. Everything was clear, crystal clear.

Anyway, I nods off again and eventually woke up to find my old neighbour beside me bed, my neighbour from when I was little. Lovely woman; used to give me jam sandwiches through the letterbox when me mother had gone out. One time she took me in her flat and gave me Weetabix and hot chocolate until me mother found out and gave her a lecture and me a hiding. Didn't want to draw attention to us, I suppose.

I was pleased to see her, Mrs Collins. Nice old bird she was. She told me that I'd died. It clicked then. Mrs Collins was old when I was little, so she'd have to have been dead for years, and I mean years. Turns out she'd called the Social, and after about the hundredth time, they condescended to turn out. Me mother had guessed it was her and had gone for her with a whisky bottle when her benefit was cut. Mrs Collins had been okay but had a heart attack three weeks later.

I was pleased to be dead. It was the one thing I'd got right in all my life. Course, it took some getting used to, still being me but having no physical body and everything done by thought. But, best of all, I felt loved—loved by Mrs Collins and everyone I met. It was weird at first. I met relatives I never knew I had, all kinds of people. I was helped a lot; to understand my life—the way it was, the choices I made. No one was mad at me for ending it. I wasn't threatened with the fires of hell or anything like that. It's all rubbish, that is.

I'm happy now, really happy. I work with other young people with troubled lives like my own. I'm one of the welcoming committee, if you like. God knows they need a friendly face 'cause there won't have been many where they've come from. I'm not sorry I did it, not sorry I opted out. I'm just sorry I hurt people, people I'd robbed—I know now how it made them feel, and I'm sorry for that. But the rest—no, not sorry at all. I have a use here: I have a life here. Not a waste of space anymore. In fact, I don't take up any space at all. Just a pity I had to die to feel loved, really. Still, there's always next time. See you. Be lucky!

CHAPTER 2

Frannie


Frannie is a warm, lovely, gentle soul who came through to me on a cold winter morning as I was settling down to some ironing, a job that doesn't require all your thought processes to do. Frannie, sensing my reluctance to actually start the job, decided this was an ideal time to get my attention to tell me her story. She was right.

It was the long days, you know, long days that stretched into very short nights. I used to get up with Joe just after four in the morning, dragging my weary bones out of bed to make him a cuppa before he went to see to the cows. It wasn't so bad in the summer months, but the winter—oh, the winters were bitter. I've had to crack ice off my slippers more than once. Of course, if I hadn't worn them out in the yard the night before it would have helped. I was always doing that—I'd go to bed thinking all my chores were done and then I'd remember I'd left the washing out, so I'd get back out of bed and dash out to the yard in my slippers.

That's what happened that night—the worst night of my life it turned out to be. I had just settled into bed with Joe when I remembered I'd left the washing out.

"Leave it for the morning," Joe mumbled from somewhere underneath the covers; but I'm a tidy person see, I couldn't leave the washing out so out, I goes at the dead of night, in the rain. I could have left it out—my sister Ellen does that. She leaves her washing out for days ... says she's letting it rinse through again. I said to Joe once "What if someone stole her underwear?" He said no-one would want it unless they were going camping because her knickers were the size of a two man tent.

It was very eerie outside that night. The moon had cast a silvery light across the yard and the old wall beyond—very pretty but a bit, you know, eerie. As a rule I'm not afraid of the dark, I was brought up in a house with no electricity, only candles we had, candles in jam jars. I could have done with a candle in that yard. I felt afraid, like someone was watching me, but I couldn't see a thing.

I went down over the grass to the washing line and began to gather it in as fast as I could. Pegs went flying everywhere—I wasn't going to bother about those. I was sure someone was out there, but the dogs were quiet, so I thought I must be scaring myself, and I told myself off for it, but I skipped and ran the last ten feet to the door.

I shot in the kitchen and bolted the door behind me; then I was afraid in my own kitchen, but I didn't know why. I'd never been afraid in my own kitchen before. I mean, it was my kitchen, where I had spent many a happy hour, or not, depending on whether Joe had tracked mud in for the umpteenth time. I threw the wet clothes on the table and high tailed it upstairs, I kicked my slippers off, then jumped into bed and tried to burrow under Joe to get warm. Only Joe wasn't as warm as he usually was, and he didn't complain when my icy feet touched his. He always complained about my feet, "Like blocks of flipping ice," he said they were, "blocks of flipping ice."

I said, "Joe? Joe love, are you alright?" He didn't answer me. I nudged his shoulder, like you do, not enough to wake him but just so he'd grunt to let me know he was still alive. Only he didn't grunt. He didn't do anything; he just lay there.

My heart was hammering so loud I couldn't tell if Joe's was still working or not. I didn't know what to do. I leaned over him to see if I could feel him breathing. I even got my old compact with the cracked mirror and held it to his mouth. Nothing. I sat on the bed and looked at him for what seemed ages but was probably only minutes. I was waiting for my brain to catch up and tell me what to do. Funny how your brain stops working when you've had a shock.

A fierce breeze whipped through the bedroom—it was always cold in the bedroom. Joe always liked a window wide open, summer or winter, and that night there was a force nine whistling through the room. I shut the window for the first time in forty years then I tucked the blankets up to his chin and kissed him on the nose just like I always did.

He had a very large nose did Joe: it took him years to grow into it! When I first knew him it seemed to take over his face but as he got older the rest of his face caught up with it and it suited him. He used to tease me.

"You know what a big nose means, don't you Frannie?" he'd say.

"What?" I used to say, all coy, like I hadn't heard the answer a hundred times before.

"Big hankies!" he'd say and wink at me.

Joe couldn't wink at me anymore. He couldn't track mud in anymore either—I missed that. I missed his nose pushing into my neck when we used to have a cuddle. I missed his big old hands on my waist waltzing me around the kitchen when a Glen Miller tune came on the radio. I missed the way his lovely blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he grinned. He used to look at me with so much love, even when we were knee deep in slurry or sheep dip. That's a test for any relationship, that is—if your man can still love you when you are splattered head to toe in slurry, then you have a good man. I missed him. I missed him every day in lots and lots and lots of ways but most of all I missed being loved.

I had to sell the farm. It was too much for me and I was broken hearted all over again. We'd worked hard all those years. I still woke at 4am for a long time. I often used to think that I must get Joe's tea, before I'd remember that Joe wasn't here to drink tea anymore; then I'd have a little cry, turn over and try to get back to sleep.

You must understand, my lovely, I didn't want to live anymore. Not without Joe, without everything that was familiar to me. I couldn't see the point. So on the day of the farm sale, when the last of the stock had gone, I sat in the yard and had a little chat with God. I hoped he was listening because we had been strangers for a while. I told him I was ready to go—I told him I wanted to be with Joe, that I had done my stint here and when he had a minute would he collect me up. Well, he must have been listening because eight long months later I was taken poorly, very poorly—pneumonia, they said.

I was in the cottage hospital one night, just sleeping a bit, when I saw my Joe. I knew I wasn't dreaming. I really wasn't. He was stood there at the end of my bed.

I stared at him and said, "Joe? Is that you Joe?" He smiled at me and I heard his voice inside my head.

"Hello my darling girl," he said. He always called me his darling girl, even when I was long past being anyone's idea of a girl, he was funny like that.

"You coming with me?" he said.

I would have gone anywhere with my Joe, anywhere at all. He came over to the side of the bed and he took my hand, took my hand in his big warm farmers hand, and I slipped out of that tired old body just like you'd slip out of an old overcoat; and I was with my special man.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Satnav for Your Soul by Susan Pengelly. Copyright © 2013 Susan Pengelly. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Contents

Foreword, ix,
Preface, xi,
Introduction, xv,
Part I: The Monologues,
Chapter 1: Mark, 1,
Chapter 2: Frannie, 6,
Chapter 3: Robert, 10,
Chapter 4: Tony, 15,
Chapter 5: Arthur, 19,
Chapter 6: Danny, 25,
Chapter 7: Rosemarie, 28,
Chapter 8: Sharon, 33,
Chapter 9: Iris, 37,
Chapter 10: Harold, 41,
Chapter 11: Gwen, 43,
Chapter 12: Alma, 47,
Chapter 13: Billy Boy, 52,
Chapter 14: Ethan, 55,
Chapter 15: Brenda, 60,
Chapter 16: Jon, 67,
Chapter 17: Bridget, 71,
Chapter 18: Lisle, 78,
Chapter 19: Betty, 81,
Chapter 20: Jake, 84,
Chapter 21: Liam, 87,
Chapter 22: Valerie, 91,
Chapter 23: Iain, 94,
Chapter 24: Karis, 98,
Chapter 25: Chris, 102,
Chapter 26: Gavin, 105,
Chapter 27: Edwin, 111,
Chapter 28: Sonia, 115,
Chapter 29: Evan, 119,
Chapter 30: Mal, 121,
Chapter 31: Billy, 123,
Chapter 32: Adam, 127,
Chapter 33: Julie, 131,
Chapter 34: Edward, 136,
Chapter 35: Dementia, 140,
Chapter 36: Marnie, 142,
Chapter 37: Existence, 146,
Chapter 38: Heaven & Hell, 147,
Part II: My Life,
Chapter 39, 153,
Chapter 40, 159,
Chapter 41, 161,
Chapter 42, 168,
Chapter 43, 171,
Chapter 44, 173,
Chapter 45, 177,
Chapter 46, 180,
Chapter 47, 185,
Chapter 48, 187,
Chapter 49, 191,
About the Author, 195,

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Satnav for Your Soul: Guidance from Those Who Have Made the Ultimate Journey 5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 1 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
If you are new to the idea of life after death, this book will be an extraordinary learning lesson. If you already believe and are curious to expand your knowledge, again, this book will give amazing input. Ms. Pengelly is not only a gifted medium but now an extremely accomplished author, as well. This book takes the fear out of dying and allows people a glimpse of how the transition is achieved and how the participants feel about not only living but dying. I have had the opportunity to personally have interaction with Susan, and her gift enabled me to relinquish a great deal of the grief that was consuming me from the loss of my daughter. Enjoy the read and be enlightened. Womynbard