Dad has agreed, I would say admitted to me, that he has obtained his sense of religious conviction through a process of 'conscious brainwashing'. The sort of thing you do to make healthy food taste nice. He would attend church regularly, sing the hymns loudly and generally follow the flow until routine became belief, a type of mental transubstantiation, so that eventually any conflicting argument could be put down instinctively with that all-encompassing and so very useful one-liner, "Yes indeed, God does work in strange ways". I felt slightly exasperated when I read that dad wishes to 'atone for Phil's rejection of Christ'. Phil was only 21 when he died and Christ would have been a topic he'd have fitted into the 'deal with it later' box of life. I'm not sure whether Phil remembered sitting in our lounge listening to the letter that grandad wrote to be read out on his death, I was fifteen and so he was twelve. The letter opened with something similar to 'You all know that I have never believed in God' - Well I didn't, - this had been hitherto kept secret to me but it sounded great, you didn't have to believe in God, grandad said so. Philip, on discovering rather young that dad was in fact Father Christmas asked him 'so you must be God too?' Who said Phil did not think about the after-life? I am tempted to say that the pain dad has suffered over Phil's death exposes his physical rather than intellectual engagement of Christianity, but then true religious belief has never seemed to protect from the pain of bereavement. Is it just that all people at heart are unsure of the wonders and charity of God, or is pain always meant to be? I think it is the former. True belief would surely remove the fuel for pain but belief, like grief, appears not to be a constant, rather it touches then leaves you, moving in waves that both pick you up and hurl you down. I know that occasionally, in the deepest moments of despair following Phil's death, there was within me the knowledge that I was now touching the core of life, that I was truly living and understood all around me. It was an all-fulfilling surge of knowledge that would drift away as easily as it came. These may have been momentary shots of belief but a refusal to deny them may lead me, in time, to an on-going conviction of some kind. Either as an alternative or else to complement the support and understanding he received through the church, dad started to look elsewhere. Despite mum's misgivings, there was a brief flirtation with 'The Ghost Club' and then more seriously there was the world of Sai Baba, to whom dad was introduced by no other than his GP. Sai Baba is an organisation that undertakes spiritual and educational activities under the guidance of Sathya Sai Baba, a 'man of miracles' born in 1926 in Southern India. It teaches an appealing mixture of commands within its code of conduct centering on love, truth and peace. In particular, there is a concept of Universality, that religions are facets of the one truth - 'Moslemites, Christianites, Hinduites, Jewites, are all the same to me! There is only one religion, the religion of love.' Whilst Sai Baba has received world-wide attention, some commentators have questioned his refusal to carry out under independent scrutiny the miracles which emanate from him as a blessing to his devotees. Dad has dipped his toes into the organisation (as has reportedly the Duchess of York), obtaining leaflets, buying videos and attending the odd meeting. I can't imagine that the videos are much fun, on a mailing list I noticed one advertised as containing 'many delightfully informal sequences of Baba when young (riding a donkey, wearing a hat and sunglasses, walking among his devotees)'. I suspect that Sai Baba's reported ability to perform acts which break down basic conventions and laws of physics touches a chord with dad, as something he could cling to, but mum says "I hope it's just a phase he's going through". I suppose I myself have become more spiritual since Phil's death, or at least spend time thinking about it (not left it in the 'till later' box). It may be crude and you may say I'm ignorant or maybe 'how dare you put down your own pathetic theory before you've even given God a chance' but I hypothesise that there is no such thing as death (I can accept immediate re-incarnation as an alternative), rather it is actually just a smokescreen to prevent complacency and insanity arising from the knowledge of natural eternal life. There you go. I tried to convince a Jehovah's witness the other day but she was having none of it, concentrating on her own sales pitch which seemed to centre on the fact that before 1914 there were no wars or child molesters. To my surprise she felt she won the ensuing argument and so I don't imagine that my theory can therefore quite compete with the might of Christianity, at least in the West. I can never quite get to grips with this geographical aspect of religious belief, what's the point learning to put my faith in and believe the teachings of Christianity when, let's face it, if I was born in Pakistan I'd be told something else. Maybe I'm perfect fodder for Mr Sai Baba and his universal god of love? Sally's visit to the medium certainly triggered more feelings of....strangeness. In dad it was I guess a confirmation of his religious conviction and in me a certain 'yep, there's something a bit weird going on up there'. At some point, the growing dossier of evidence may tip the scales firmly in favour of spiritual presence rather than coincidence. When granddad died, Joanna was up at Bristol University and had stayed the night at her boyfriend (now husband) Andrew's house. They were rushing to their 9 o'clock lecture when Jo sensed there was an urgent message for her back at her house. Andrew said she was crazy but after a 'to do' they skipped the lecture and drove back where waiting on the answerphone was a message to call home because granddad had died. It seems that Joanna may be able to relate to mum and/or dad in some slight extra-sensory manner. On the Saturday night when only mum and dad knew about Phil's death, Joanna was hardly able to sleep at all, telling Andrew that she thought mum was in pain. But back to the medium. Sally had gone to a Spiritualist Society of Great Britain Open Day in London where she was directed to a middle-aged lady in a booth who got straight to the point, 'There is a young male who has gone over just recently'. Despite her amazement, Sally says she tried to agree in as matter-of-fact a manner as possible. The lady then asked 'him' what happened, - 'He tells me he couldn't breath, he's reluctant to say more, I think he's a bit coy about it'. Now, that is perfect Phil, exactly the reaction he'd have given, coy, maybe cringing with embarrassment because mum and dad were proved right! And the lady in the booth knew nothing of Sally until she agreed that "Yes, I've got a brother Phil who did die last year". And, it's all on tape, Sally taped it. Now, that's evidence! In one of my early dreams, I was sitting at a table with Phil, asking questions. We both knew Phil was dead and it was like a Question and Answer session. From the moment I woke up the next day I was unable to remember the detail of what was said which is probably a great pity [My book on the mysteries of life is still on hold] but I do know that the answers he gave were unexpected. Dreams may shock or scare you, you may feel out of control, but they are your dreams and somehow you always know what's coming. This was different, less a dream more a conversation. The median said that 'Phil has grown on the other side, he is there looking after us and you can contact him if you need him'. This is a topsy table concept for us Davies's given that he's our YOUNGER brother, we're the ones that help him. At times though it's difficult to deny his presence, another pinch of irony that whilst we can never be with him, he is now no longer ever away.