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Apr 29, 2017


'Epiphanies' is a challenging collection of ten short stories by Pam Crane, each shining a distinctive light on the human spiritual journey. They are told in chronological order of significance, beginning with the history of a girl who once lived as the Christ, and ending with God's extraordinary intervention in an oblivious world. In between there are stories of Mary Magdalen and Judas and their lives in the present day, and the persecution of the Christians in Rome. Then we come right back to the twenty-first century and a small boy's undying love for his grandmother, a famous astronomer's paranormal rescue from a desert island, comfort for a bereaved child, a death-bed transformation for another godless scientist, and the unintended consequences of being a global guru. We always get it wrong!

Apr 29, 2017

Sobre el autor

Pam Crane has been a poet since she was seven years old; it was only when she joined her local Writers' Club that she found she could also write short stories. She has also been a Christian astrologer for most of her life, is well known in that community, and is the author of two books plus many articles in the Astrological Association Journal (for which she compiles the regular Cryptic Crossword.) You can find her website at http://revpamcrane.weebly.com.

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Epiphanies - Pam Crane


Ten Tales of the Human Soul

by Pam Crane

Published by Shoestring at Smashwords

Copyright 2017 Pam Crane

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

Thank you for downloading this free ebook.

Although it is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and therefore may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.





No Turning Back

The Electric Chair

Out of the Frying Pan

Light at the End of the Tunnel



Looking Up


Everyone has a special time of the year. Mine has always been spring.

That first May, strangers came crowding through our door with gifts and stories. My mother said they told tales of great conjunctions, eclipses, and shooting stars. Ordinary people spoke of angels. My parents had dreams. They took me home ... and then to another country, well away from the King. People were dying.

My twelfth spring was the time we went to the city and no-one could find me. I was listening to the men who knew about God, and lost all track of time. Something within me was opening to Heaven and I needed to stay in that sacred space as long as I could, to understand who this boy was, who was me, yet bigger than me; to sense the answer to an urgent inner question. Then my parents appeared in the temple doorway, hours of panic giving way to relief, and we were back on the road.

Spring is a beautiful season in Galilee: the sculpted hills and rolling plains, so parched later in the year, erupt in a rich profusion of foliage and flowers; the warm air is full of sweet smells, all the lovelier after rain. It was like this in the April of my thirty-eighth year when my beloved mother and all my faithful friends followed me to an exposed hilltop to watch me die. I remember the smell of blood, the frightening gloom of the sunset lunar eclipse, the racking pain, and the despair that all I had taught and now had to leave behind might after all have been utterly in vain. There came asphyxia, and blood loss ... and the giddying trajectory of my freed spirit into the Light.

I was allowed to see my friends again; this was imperative. Once they realised that the body’s death was only the start of life, they were freed from the fear that might have silenced them. As it was, their astonishment and joy was the seed of a great flowering of truth that spread throughout the world for two millennia, enduring despite the worst attacks of sceptics, lamentable distortion, bitter quarrels, cruelty, and interminable wars.

Then came another spring, another May, when I kept my promise to return. A new age of human evolution had been gaining momentum; into another small community in a drastically changed world I came again, under a holy sky. Now I was a little girl, growing up in a seaside town thousands of miles from my ancient home, and no different from any of the other children I played with on the salty shingle, among sand dunes, or in the copses of maritime pine fringing coastal fields of wheat and barley. Nothing unusual graced my arrival; I was born quickly and easily to a mother who once again took a keen interest in everything and everyone under the sun and passed this on to me, and to another father whose practical skills overlaid an unostentatious spirituality. We didn’t go to church, but an eclectic muddle of books spread through the terraced house, amongst them seven volumes of Man, Myth and Magic, which kept me totally absorbed whenever I found time to curl up alone in a corner. At three I saw an angel.

Did I remember?

Christmas bothered me. It tugged at my heart, and yet it seemed all wrong. Part of me was alienated from the glitter and baubles and winter trees, while cribs and carols had me transfixed. Later would come Easter, amid all the promise of March or April, and I could be found hunched under my bedclothes, feeling sick

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