Signs from deceased loved ones — the small, specific, inexplicable events that interrupt grief with something that feels impossibly like contact — are documented throughout the afterlife literature. This story from Memories of the Afterlife centres on one such event and the past life regression and LBL work that followed it. Grief had made the world smaller. Then something happened that made it larger again — and the session that followed gave it a framework that the sign alone could not.
The case documented in this story from the Newton Institute archives begins with exactly this kind of experience — and uses LBL therapy to go deeper into what such moments actually are and who, exactly, is sending them.
The Session: A Song and a Soul Who Wouldn’t Stay Quiet
The client had lost her mother two years before the session. The grief was not raw any longer, but it had settled into something dull and permanent, a low-frequency loss that she had begun to accept as simply the new texture of her life. She was not a person given to magical thinking. She was, in fact, somewhat skeptical of spiritual claims generally — which is part of what made what had been happening to her so unsettling.
Three times in the months following her mother’s death, she had heard the opening bars of «Jingle Bells» in circumstances that felt pointed. Once from a passing car in July. Once from a child’s toy that turned on by itself in a silent room. Once from a busker on a street corner, playing it inexplicably in March. Her mother had loved that song with an illogical ferocity — had played it year-round, to everyone’s exasperation, and had laughed her particular laugh at the family’s protests.
The TNI-certified therapist guided the client through the session carefully, knowing the skeptical frame she brought. In the between-lives space, the client encountered her mother’s soul — or what she experienced as her mother’s soul: recognizable, warm, and carrying what she could only describe as «her energy, completely.» There was the laugh. There was the specific quality of her mother’s attention, that way she had of being completely focused on you.
And there was an explanation for the song.
Synchronicities as Spiritual Communication
In the between-lives state, the client received — not in words but as direct knowing — an understanding of how the communications had worked. Her mother’s soul, she understood, was not haunting in any traditional sense. The soul was in the process of its own continued journey, engaged in the between-lives work that LBL accounts describe: rest, review, reunion with the soul group, preparation for what comes next.
But the love hadn’t ended. The connection hadn’t ended. And souls who retain strong bonds with those still living, multiple LBL cases suggest, can direct attention — can, through mechanisms that remain outside our scientific frameworks, nudge probability. Not control it. Not manufacture dramatic interventions. But lean gently on the small coincidences of daily life to signal: I’m still here. I still see you. You’re not as alone as you feel.
The choice of «Jingle Bells» was not random. The mother had chosen something specific, recognizable, impossible to mistake for generic coincidence. Something that carried her personality — that laugh, that deliberate absurdity — rather than something vague and beautiful that could be dismissed as wishful perception. The specificity, LBL accounts from Newton Institute therapists suggest, is often intentional. The deceased know what will cut through the static.
Joy as the Medium of Contact
What strikes many people about this case is the quality of the communication: not warning, not guidance, not wisdom — but joy. A silly song, chosen specifically for its capacity to evoke a very particular laugh in a very particular woman. The message was not «listen to me» or «I’m at peace» — though both of those things may have been true. The message was closer to: remember how we laughed?
This points toward something that surfaces across many LBL accounts of contact with the deceased: the souls of those we’ve loved don’t necessarily reach back to deliver profound spiritual lessons. They reach back to maintain relationship. To remind the living that love is not a finite resource that ends when a body does. To offer, sometimes, exactly the thing their person needs most — which is not always wisdom. Sometimes it’s just the echo of a familiar laugh.
The client in this session described crying during this part of the between-lives experience — not with grief, but with something she called «recognition relief.» As though something she had suspected was true, but had been afraid to fully believe, had finally been confirmed by a source she couldn’t dismiss.
What This Means for You
If you have lost someone and you have had moments — a song, a scent, a bird, a word that arrived at exactly the right moment — you may have been holding those experiences at arm’s length, afraid to trust them because trusting them feels like wanting too much.
LBL therapy doesn’t prove that these experiences are what they feel like. No therapy can provide that kind of proof. What it offers, through the accumulated accounts of hundreds of clients in deeply altered states, is a consistent model in which such communications are not hallucinations of grief but genuine — if limited — expressions of continuing connection.
Your person may still be trying to reach you. They may have chosen something very specific — something only you would recognize — because they know you well enough to know you need more than a generic sign. Pay attention to the things that feel too specific to be coincidence. Not to become obsessed with them, not to build a theology around them, but simply to let them in.
Let the song mean something. Let yourself laugh. That, the accounts suggest, may be exactly the point.
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