I'll never forget the feeling of leaving the house I loved. Sitting on the backseat of my father-in-law's car and looking back, as we drove away, and seeing Lincoln cathedral disappearing in the distance. Even typing this makes me want to cry.
Unlike me, my husband was excited to move. Our dog had already taken an early flight days before and was staying with my parents.
I was convinced to go back because my dad hadn't been well for a while. It wasn't the sun, the sea or the culture. I missed none of that. I never belonged.
Just over a year later my dad passed away. It was sudden but not necessarily a surprise. What followed was grief, an only daughter trying to be a wife and a mother's only support. Something had to give. It wasn't just something, everything fell apart as time went by. As years went by I realised I was alone. My husband was lost to alcohol. My mother was taking me for granted and wanted more. I'd lost everything.
My bookshop, just a couple of minutes from the sea was my safe haven. I met very interesting people, listened to their life stories and I made friends that remain to this day.
I stocked Angel Oracle cards in my shop. To my surprise they sold very well. One afternoon I decided to unwrap one (they arrived sealed to be sold). I pulled a card and I remember it meant something to me. But, I put it away.
Minutes later someone walks into the shop, starts browsing and turns to me and blurts out "are you into angels?"
I remember I froze. "Was I?" I thought.
I wasn't new to New Age and spirituality. I'd read Louise Hay and it was a book that shifted a lot of my catholic upbringing thinking. But angels?
I placed the oracle I just opened on top of the counter.
I can't remember what we talked about after that. Lillian and I arranged to meet at some point for lunch.
We became very close friends with a certainty that we'd met before in a previous life. She was the person who guided me, a light during a very dark and frightening period. She was someone who would say "you can handle this, but when you can't, reach out for me". I fell, I got up again and some days I had to reach out before I could believe I could take another step. And then, there were angels. She did angel therapy. It's something I'd never consider undergoing with someone else. The spiritual connection we have made each session very special and meaningful.
I'm a Doubting Thomas, I need to keep a healthy dose of skepticism, but I was privileged to experience things I can't explain rationally.
Archangel Michael for anyone interested in the angelic realm seems to be the most popular angel, for lack of a better word. Revered?
In 2010 the Eyjafjallajökull Iceland volcano erupted. A common friend (also into angels) had to be in Ireland and decided to take off by road to, I believe Cherbourg, to then take a ferry to Ireland. On the way she found Mont St Michel in France. When she returned to Portugal she brought me back a candle with St Michael's image on it.
A couple of days before my husband's birthday we had a row. He'd been drinking and that was a deal breaker for me, so I said I'd not be going to Sintra with him for his birthday.
Much to my surprise and shock, he took off by himself. We'd been before. It was the only place where we had some peace now and again for a night or two.
I didn't hear from him at all. I was sick with worry but I'd let go of the marriage. This was the end of the line. I just wanted him to be well. I feared he'd done something stupid.
I felt helpless and I lit the candle my friend had given me. I didn't pray. I just had the intention that I wanted him to be happy and well. It was still lit when I finally heard from him.
He wanted to tell me he met a priest called Michael in Sintra. He'd gone into a church and this priest had approached him and he'd admitted he had an addiction. They'd talked and this priest was going to give me a contact for a retreat.
I sighed in despair and rolled my eyes. Did he really think I was going to fall for that story? A priest called Michael in a Portuguese church. How convenient. I put that story along with others that people who have addictions tell. I threw it away.
When he returned from Sintra he carried on talking about the priest. This went on maybe for a day and then the phone rang. I heard him talk to this person and make notes.
I didn't believe it was real until he went to this rehab retreat and I spoke to the people there (who also knew Michael). Michael was the son of a Dutch and English mother. He just happened to be there that day, for a few days, covering for another priest. He noticed my husband didn't look well and approached him.
My husband went to the retreat he recommended that was setup by two recovered addicts, that Michael once met.
Coincidentally, the retreat was in a village where I had once turned to my mother and said "mum, I want to be a member of the Bon Jovi fan club". I don't know why I decided it then, on a day out. Even more surprising that she agreed and sorted out the bureaucracy of paying for something in dollars.
From that, I met my husband via the Bon Jovi pen pal page. Who would have though that would be the small village where he'd go to recover from his addiction years later. Ripples through time.
And yes, I met Michael in Sintra one year later. My in-laws went to meet him, too, to thank him. He wasn't a traditional priest. Young guy, wearing shorts, like a young version on my favourite author Wayne Dyer.
In 2018 my husband and I went to Mont St Michel. It felt like a pilgrimage walking all the way to the top.
My husband hasn't touched any alcohol for 11 years.
