āĀ« Here is the life of BenoĆ®t, as his mother was kind enough to entrust it to me (excerpts from the book by Jeannine Van Camp, 'You will tell them' Ā ):
āWith her pretty healthy blond baby in her arms, JoĆ«lle left the clinic. But as he passed the pediatric ward on his way out, an icy shiver ran through his body. She heard herself thinking: "One day we will come back here"Ā Ā».
āāAt two years old, aplastic anemia is diagnosed in the child. Successive operations, complications, successive hospitalizations, chemotherapy, sepsis, haemorrhages, loss of speech, epileptic seizures, BenoĆ®t is 15 years old and is still fighting bravely. He is admired by the nursing staff, but also by his teachers who, despite the accumulated delays, recognize his desire to succeed. He would like to become a doctor. "You understand, I know the pain," he said to his mother. In 1996, BenoĆ®t reached an unprecedented degree of maturity for his 18 years, and his courage, his patience, his wisdom continue to grow. Back from hospital, his mother hears him say to her: āI had a good life anyway!"Ā Ā».
āThere is neither resentment nor hatred towards anyone and towards life. From all these trials he drew great wisdom and an incredible, superhuman strength of character. He could never be a doctor, but 8 months later he went back to high school. But new pains appear in the hips: femoral necrosis. Implantation of prostheses, rehabilitation. Then headaches: successive tumors appear in the cerebellum. In a moment of lucidity, BenoĆ®t speaks calmly of his death: āTo strengthen the spirit, you have to know how to overcome the insurmountableā. When he dies, his mother hears him whisper to her: āPardon ManāĀ Ā»
* *
āI am devastated, revolted, helpless, angry. Why so much suffering? So much bad luck? To achieve what? Not a word could come out of my dry mouth. And JoĆ«lle who was looking at me, waiting for meā¦ Suddenly an idea arose: ask my guides to help me! I was heardā¦ immediately. I guess they must have been there for a while, watching us, waiting for me to ask them to intervene. And the words came by themselves.
āĀ« JoĆ«lle, I heard myself say to her, you write to BenoĆ®t every day to tell him how much you miss him, to assure him of your unfailing attachment and of your immense love. Your child cannot be made āaliveā to you and you are also aware, having read it, that this grief manifested, these regrets do not allow your son to āascendā, to go towards the Light. He stays there, near you, mopingā¦ Is that the goal you are looking for?
āI am therefore going to suggest that you continue to writeā¦ but not to BenoĆ®t. You are going to confide in Jean, my teenager, passed in the other dimension, of the same age as your son, your pain, your grief. You will ask him to take care of your child as you would like to take care of yourself. Do you agree ? Ā Ā»
āAn almost inaudible "I agree" was whispered.
āA month later, JoĆ«lle comes to see me, a notebook under her arm. The one in which she wrote her letters to her son, then those to Jean. On the last page, she shows me a sentence that I'm not ready to forget. The handwriting is different, smaller, tighter than JoĆ«lle's, practically illegible:
ā
Ā« BenoĆ®t's mother... don't know whether or not...Ā Ā»
āA little later, messages (clearer) follow one another:
ā
Ā« Mother of BenoĆ®t, thank you for your message. Everything will be better, time will benefit you, stop crying, "Forget about it!" as BenoĆ®t would say. Bye. Jean.Ā Ā»
āĀ« Jean the messenger thanks you for your kisses. I never tire of reading your posts. Come back quickly, mother of BenoĆ®t, the Titi to his mother. Bye. Jean".
āĀ« Mother of BenoĆ®t, thank you, everything is fine for me. Don't worry, BenoĆ®t isn't far, go, I can't tell you more, the messenger flies awayThis notion of "going up" often comes up in the messages; it is however not question here of altitude but of vibratory rate... Bye. Jean.Ā Ā»
Later :
ā
Ā«ā¦BenoĆ®t is on a mission, he come back soon, no fresh news.Ā Ā»
āHowever JoĆ«lle cannot help doubting and often gives up writing, for fear of being the plaything of deadly and dangerous illusions, or of disturbing him. She writes:
ā
Ā« I haven't written for three days now. It's not for lack of thinking about you, but I'm careful not to monopolize you too much.Ā Ā»
_ _
āFinally, JoĆ«lle's condition is slowly improving. A kind of confidence settles in her. Every evening, she continues to make contact with her son and lets go, little by little, of his suffering. His sentences become more open, lighter:
ā
Ā« Above all, live, my love, be as happy as possible. Your new life, your relief, your happiness, are for me my deliverance.Ā Ā»
...
āĀ« I like more and more this magical moment when I can put down on paper all the well-being that I feel. I know that you are not far from me, since I feel this soft freshness caressing my handā¦ In me rises a great happiness, thank you for this well-being.Ā Ā»
* *
āAnd then one morning, she can recognize in her notebook a "IĀ love you Mom "repeated several times.
* *
āBenoĆ®t's messages then multiplied, but despite her courage the mother cannot completely hide from her son, who reads her like an open book, how difficult certain moments are for her.
āĀ« Mom, don't be so sad anymore, please. I love you so much, so with me find all your joy and I will have no more torments.
āYou see my painful moments too much, my darling little mother. Bad memories should be erased, as much as possible. Nothing can make me suffer anymore, except your sadness.Ā Ā»
...
āĀ« No, mom, you did everything right, no the hospital couldn't have changed anything.Ā Ā»
