Archive for the ‘True Stories’ Category

Valladolid (Part II)

Monday, April 1st, 2013

El meson courtyard night time

(This story begins with Valladolid Part I)

Dinner is served.

I survey my food. Immediately a name drops into my left ear. “Maria” is indicating she’s Sophia’s mother. She’s trying to reach her daughter, but Sophia  is stuck in her own tragedy of some four hundred years ago. She’s unaware of the support available to her. Her mother is there and can’t help her.

Maria is concerned.  That’s why she’s here by my chair. She knows Sophia can see me. I’m the bridge.

Kate interrupts the impressions flowing into my mind.
”Is there something else? What’s going on?” Again, Kate is sensing but not seeing this energy. Because she’s a little nervous, Kate has unconsciously dialed down her clairvoyance and clairaudience – kind of like safety valves being shut off.

But Kate’s body has sensed the new energy around her.  And herein lies a valuable tip for you, dear Reader:  If we choose to listen, our body can be our strongest intuitive tool.

I tell Kate: “Sophia’s mother is named Maria. She’s here in Spirit. She’s trying to reach her daughter.  But Sophia doesn’t see her. She doesn’t realize she’s not alone. She’s earthbound. Her mother is not. ”

“Poor Sophia,” says Kate.

“Poor Mom,” I reply.

Time for the dessert menu.
“Helado, por favor” is one Spanish phrase Mathilda has quickly learned to use.  There is no doubt: Mexicans know how to make delicious ice cream.  As the waiter takes our dessert orders, I’m given the nudge. And I step in without hesitating.

I glance up at the mesero. “You have worked here a long time?”

“Two years now,” he nods pleasantly.

I take a deep breath to try and remove the sheepish look that’s developing on my face.  I ask, “This is probably an unusual question, but… have you had any strange experiences here… with ghosts? Spirits?”

The table seems frozen in time. Little Mathilda is staring at me with jaw dropped: She knows I don’t normally talk about this stuff with strangers. My husband has his eyes trained on the white linen tablecloth in front of him.  He seems distant. Perhaps he’s reevaluating his choice in life partner?  Kate is staring expectantly at the mesero, waiting for his reply.

The waiter’s eyes instantly enlarge. 
“Espiritus? Fantasmas????   Siiii!!! Siiii!!!!”

And before I can say another word, the waiter leaps into an extraordinary tale in Spanish. Just this past week the overnight chef (there’s 24-hour room service here) heard the loud cries of a young woman. The sounds came from above his head, while he worked in the kitchen. The cries seemed to move around in the darkened restaurant.  The chef was terrified. It happened around 3 a.m.. Earlier other staff members have seen the apparition of a young woman floating up and down the inner arcade dressed in a wedding dress. And also recently, the newspaper was in to take photos of the restaurant, and when the pictures were viewed, a shadow appeared to be moving across the room in the photos.

In English, I relay the mesero’s surprising story to Kate. She’s staring back at me in astonishment. And what might be described as a poorly disguised grin.  We simultaneously raise our hands to high-5 each other. It’s always nice to get third-party confirmation of intuitive hits – validation supports the learning curve and develops our ability to trust the messages. Trust is fundamental to mediumship.

I’m feeling a little guilty about my impromptu glee. 
A high-5 is not particularly respectful to Sophia who’s lost and needs help.  I turn to the waiter.

“You have a ghost here. We’ve seen her every time we’ve visited. Don’t worry. She’s a nice young lady. Her name is Sophia. She died here in the 1600’s.  She was engaged.  She is looking for her husband-to-be. She died of some kind of poisoning. It was painful. She doesn’t know she died.”

The waiter’s eyes are saucers. Mexicans seem much more open to other-worldly worlds. He quickly excuses himself to place our order of ice cream. I can only imagine the conversation going on in the kitchen right now.

The four of us quietly await dessert. 
It’s time to honor and close the session:  I pull in and turn down my energy. I breathe through my chakras and cut any energetic chords that may have attached. I ask for assistance with Kate, and feel Kate’s energy being pulled in, turned down and cleared.  She’s too excited right now to pay attention to these protocols.  I thank all involved and say a prayer – asking that Sophia and her mother, the chef and the hotel staff be assisted in this experience.  I rewrap us all in light – to make sure we don’t bring home an uninvited souvenir.

My husband breaks the silence.
With his logical inquiring mind, he’s been carefully appraising what just happened.  Hubbie eludes to my Spanglish: It’s passible, not flawless.  Something could be lost in my translation. The details of the waiter’s story are uncannily synchronistic with Sophia’s appearance. My quick interpretation of the waiter’s words is possibly too good to be true?

“When did he say they saw the ghost? When did the chef hear the woman crying?  Seems like it was a long time ago?”  Hubbie wants to be sure I’m not making a quantum jump to conclusions. He heard what the mesero said, but the waiter was talking so fast, it was hard to take it all in.

I want to clarify this information too.

The mesero approaches with his arms full of ice cream.  And without hesitating, he speaks to me in English, “It’s very interesting what you say about the Lady fantasma.”

“Yes,” I say. “We’ve been here a number of times.  This is our fourth year. She’s here every time. There is no need to worry. She’s just sad. She’s also in pain. She was not well. Her mother is also here. Her name is Maria.  She’s not a ghost. She’s in spirit. She wants to help her daughter.”

The waiter nods his head.
“The chef es soprendido (shocked). He hear the cry of a woman. It is 3 o’clock in the morning.  Nobody else here.  He hear the cry move around the restaurant. He come out here. But she is nowhere. He go to the kitchen. He scared. ”

“When did the chef hear the woman crying?” I inquire matter-of-factly.

“Two nights ago, Lady.”

“When did the people see the lady floating through here in the wedding dress?”

“Just a few days ago, Lady.”

I further my questioning. “Where did the chef hear the noises?”

“Around here, Lady.” The mesero points to the area of the restaurant around us.

“Where exactly? Do you know?” I ask.

With his index finger pointing up, the waiter makes an L-shaped motion in the air that delineates the area below Sophia’s upstairs quarters.

Kate is now bouncing in her seat.
I’m smiling.  I point to the Juliette balcony in the far corner overlooking the courtyard. “Sophia’s bedroom was over there.” Then I point to the area above our heads. “And her main living area was here.”  With my index finger above my head, I retrace the same L-shaped area the waiter just traced – the same one Sophia had shown us earlier.  “She moves in this whole area.”

The bug-eyed waiter nods emphatically, “SI! SI!”

My husband is silent, but his energy has shifted.
There are no more questions. Every once and awhile, my husband needs a little extra reassurance.   It can be a surreal experience for even seasoned spectators like my husband to watch how easy it is to access other planes of consciousness.

I admit: It can take a leap of faith to absorb this as real. Even for me. Even with witnesses. Why do you think I write them down? I’ve learned that fully processing the experience is a critical aspect of being a clear and accurate medium. Writing helps me integrate what I’ve learned and becomes a part of my new normal.  Back to the story….

I reassure the mesero.
“Please tell the chef there is nothing to worry about. Tell him she’s sad. Please let the other staff know not to be afraid.  She’s just a nice young lady who is lost. She’s been very sick.”

I don’t want these people to be freaked. They have to work here. It can be unnerving. Especially late at night. I know what it’s like.

I explain that the fantasma is the reason why I asked the waiter earlier about El Mesón’s history. I mention that I clear spaces of ghosts and other uncomfortable energy. Ghosts are normal. Sophia is not a bad ghost.  She’s upset.

The mesero has a lot to process.
And it’s only his first table of the evening. He manages another nod.

We leave the cloistered confines of El Mesón.  This courtyard looks very different now that we’ve had a glimpse of the ‘living’ history of this colonial hacienda.   The night air is fragrant. A full moon shines upon the Zócalo. The main square is packed with people.  The Cathedral is holding Sunday night Mass.

My busy-mind is already gearing up to chastise me with thoughts like this: “What was THAT all about? You didn’t actually DO anything! You say you only like to deal with ghosts when you can help them to the light… She’s still a ghost!”

And she goes on, my inner mean girl.
Ahh. The ego. It wants to beat me up to take control.   Ego is right. I left the gal in limbo. Some places I can clear from a distance. Other clearings – like this one where a spirit is firmly entrenched – are not so easily done over dinner.  I’m not going to beat myself up. I acknowledge these thoughts and put them aside.

My calm-mind, my higher self, slides in.  Its message: “You helped people. You left it better. All is well.”

It seems each of us received something of value. My question was answered. It’s a haunting not an imprint. The Spirits of Maria and Sophia were acknowledged; Sophia was given an empathetic ear to tell her story to;  Kate and Mathilda got to participate in a spiritual encounter in real time; Hubbie got third party proof; Our waiter and the chef (and possibly the entire hotel staff) got reassurance. Everyone was given a compassionate perspective, not a fearful one.

Next morning back at the B&B, we’re chowing on delicious Huevos Casa Hamaca. I ask our knowledgeable host about El Mesón:  Denis knows the current owners who started the hotel back in 1967.  It was a ruin before they turned it into their home and a 4-room hotel. It’s grown ever since to some 90-rooms and 4 stars. El Mesón is considered one of the oldest buildings in Valladolid.  It’s captured a steady lunch business from a few bus-tours who’ve chosen a mid-day stop in the region.

Denis side-tracks to Valladolid’s recent honor as a “Pueblo Magico” by the Mexican Tourist Board.  The new “Magical Villages Program “points visitors to a series of towns around Mexico that offer a “magical” experience – because of their natural beauty, cultural riches, or historical relevance.  I tell him we are captivated by the history of this town. (I don’t mention Sophia.)   I work around to asking him what kinds of things people naturally died of back in the 1600’s.  Without prompting, Dennis cites dengue fever as a common plague.

When we fly home, one of my first pursuits, after laundry, bills, grocery shopping and answering messages, is online research. I find no specific historical information about El Mesón. But what I uncover about Valladolid validates the scenario Sophia had shown us.

Valladolid has a rich yet violent history.
The city was founded by Francisco de Montejo, who had been gifted all land east of Mérida by his ambitious Spanish conquistador uncle (founder of Mérida) of the same name.  The first Valladolid was established by Montejo on May 27, 1543 at a lagoon called Chouac-Ha some distance from the current town. But it was not a success: Early Spanish settlers complained about the humidity, mosquitos and the malaria at the original location, and petitioned to have the city moved further inland.

On March 24, 1545, Valladolid was relocated to Zaci, an ancient Mayan town named after the adjacent deep cenote that supplied water to the Mayan tribe that lived there. The Mayan town’s buildings were demolished and the stones were reused to build the Spanish colonial town that is now Valladolid.

Montejo followed quickly with arbitrary acts of domination that would shape events for centuries to come. He displaced indigenous Maya and began granting their lands to well-connected Spaniards. He forced the Maya into indentured servitude, and abolished their  indigenous water rights.

The following year the Maya people rebelled against the Spanish overlords, but were put down by additional Spanish troops brought in from Mérida. This revolt was the first of many Mayan uprisings that would become a continuous cycle of indigenous rebellion followed by conqueror subjugation.

It was some two hundred years later, in 1847, when the law of karma was exacted upon the Spanish.  The bloody massacre known as the Caste War of Yucatán, that included vicious battles in Valladolid’s Zócalo and Cathedral, ousted the Spanish from their economic, government and societal stronghold.

On the surface, there are no obvious traces of the violent fighting that occurred in the Yucatán between the Spanish conquerors and the indigenous Maya. It’s hard to believe that reserved and elegant Valladolid was a central stage for these rebellions. We were given an incredible peek into the past while dining at the Hosteria El Mesón del Marqués.

- With thanks to Spirit for infinite return.
(c) 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013  The Accidental Medium. UltraMarine Media Inc. All Rights Reserved.

Valladolid (Part I)

Sunday, March 31st, 2013

hotel-el-meson-del-marques restaurant entrance

For the past four years, we’ve taken our young family on a Yucatán vacation.

At a soothing, restorative pace, we watch the sunrise, play in the tide pools, make sand castles and snorkel along the shallow reefs.

Then we’re ready to depart the tourist-flocked beaches to find a more authentic Mexico.

My husband knows Mexico better than most Mexicans.  At least that’s what our Mexican friends tell us.  I never bother to read up on the itinerary before we travel.  I’m spoiled. He’s my walking guide book. My Spanish gets a little better each time as we tool around, visiting archeological sites, Mexican towns, freshwater cenotes and other highlights in this culturally rich region. In turn, I’m the tour guide when the past comes to life.

But I’m getting ahead of myself …
Situated in the heart of Mayaland between Mérida and Cancun, Valladolid (vye-yah-doe-leed) has been a mid-day stop-over on our yearly sojourns.  It’s a gem of a small colonial city: sedate, clean, cultured, and full of character.

The highlight is the central Zócalo, in the oldest part of town, where huge gnarled trees drip veils of Spanish moss, well-dressed locals chat on elegant white wrought iron benches, beautiful black-haired children play on the grass, and a towering Cathedral has its doors flung open in welcome.  This central square is surrounded by a busy shop-lined thoroughfare and old neighborhoods with walled streets painted in vivid colors.

This town feels no pressure to deliver a “tourist attraction.”
Everyday life here is the experience.  And in all our trips, that’s about all I’ve learned about this place: It’s a window into Real Mexico.  Yet most tourists don’t bother to detour off the main highway to get a glimpse of authentic Mexican life.

Admittedly, we’ve only ventured into Valladolid for lunch on our way to someplace else.  Each year we hazard the maze of one-way streets to the Hosteria El Mesón del Marqués that sits facing the Cathedral on the Zócalo:  The noise and heat of the busy main square disappear as you pass through El Mesón’s thick stone walls and enter into the hushed cool atmosphere of its inner courtyard restaurant.

This year we’ve decided to stay two nights in Valladolid.
We drive by the 4-star El Mesón del Marqués hotel, opting instead for laid back accommodations at the nearby Casa Hamaca B&B that’s more suited to our young family’s noise and needs.

After a good night’s sleep, our B&B host Denis steers us in the direction of Casa de Los Venados, a recently restored private residence near the square. It opens its doors for just two hours each Sunday morning to guide a handful of tourists through the largest collection of Mexican folk art in private hands. It’s just one of many local treasures we discover during a big day exploring the old town on foot. Tuckered and hungry, we end our tour at the door of El Mesón for what just happens to be my birthday dinner.

It’s a balmy Sunday evening.
My husband leads us to a table away from the kitchen, yet near El Mesón’s tiny open-air courtyard garden.  There are no other patrons in the place. We settle in. The lights are low and the candles burn softly in wrought-iron candelabras around the restaurant. A trickling water fountain is the only sound in this intimate setting.  It’s gentle and romantic. It soothes my soul. Mathilda pulls out her Leapster from our day-trip bag.  Playing “I Spy” soothes HER soul.

The mesero welcomes us to Hosteria El Mesón del Marqués and hands us each a thick menu that lists a featured array of traditional Mayan dishes.  As I glance up at the waiter, my eyes inadvertently float above his shoulder to a Juliette balcony that overlooks the inner courtyard.

And there she is.
She’s dressed in a flowing gown from a bygone era – white with mutely colored ruffles – very understated and obviously beautifully made.

The waiter silently pads away on soft-soled shoes to place our order of bebidas, while we return to the extensive menu.  I stare at the menu, but my mind is wandering.

On our first visit here four years ago, I briefly saw an ethereal young woman looking down on the courtyard from an upper hotel room. On our subsequent visits, she’s remained unobtrusive.  But when she appears, she’s leaning over an upper balcony or peeking out a window watching the proceedings below.  She seems to move from room to room above the inner courtyard arcade. She’s never interacted with us.  Is this a spirit haunting, or is this a residual imprint?

It’s a big question I’d like to answer.
A highly charged past event can be imprinted on the environment, and is known to stay there for hundreds of years in the form of an energetic recording:  If a residual imprint is present you are watching a playback of that recorded emotional event.  The characters in this imprint are consistently viewed in the same place, at the same time. They don’t see or hear or interact with you. It’s not an earthbound spirit haunting.

Some of the most famous hauntings – like the ghost of Anne Boleyn in the Tower of London – are said to be imprints,  not hauntings at all. Nobody knows what causes these events to play back: There is a theory that the energy of empathic intuitives can get this psychic recording to start looping. So, is this woman an imprint or an earthbound spirit? Either way, why is she here?

I’m jettisoned out of my daydream.
Kate is sitting beside me, quiet and centered, with her back to the courtyard. She’s now leaning into me, whispering calmly:  “Mom. That lady’s here. I can feel it. Can you tap in? Let’s try! I want to find out more about her. Why is she here? What happened?”

Kate and Mathilda are still learning to fully stand in their power and be discerning when they have to deal with spiritual encounters on their own.  I help them to understand that we have control on this side but we need to exercise that control. It’s easier for some than others. Six-year-old Mathilda naturally blows off a lot of the heavy low vibrating energy of earthbounders.  Mathilda is full of love but she’s not an Empath like her sister.  For Kate, it’s much harder: Kate absorbs the emotions of those around her. An Empath’s boundaries are easily permeated.  This can be a little overwhelming for an 8-year-old.

I agree with Kate.
When a ghost appears, it’s always a learning opportunity.  While this woman is not trying to interact with us (it could be a residual imprint) she’s immediately made her presence known. And it feels right. The energy here is very calm, even with an apparition in the balcony.  It’s quiet. It’s full moon. The veils between dimensions are thin. It’s magic.

I whisper back to Kate, “Okay. Let’s wait until the waiter takes our dinner order – then we’ll tap in – then wait and see what happens.”

“What do you mean, Mom??” Kate likes things nailed down. She likes to know where she’s going.

But mediumship is not like that.
We cannot control things such as what spirit comes in when and how, or what questions they’ll answer.  Mediumship involves setting an honorable intention, creating sacred space for the intention to manifest, and trusting the universe to step in and support this process. Holding onto a desired outcome can actually block the process and stop the universe from coming in with something even better than we could possibly imagine.

“We’ll open up to the energy here.  It’s up to her to link in. Maybe she will. Maybe she won’t. Maybe someone else will come in.”  I don’t feel it’s necessary to tell Kate about a possible imprint. Too much information.

We munch on a customary appetizer.
Our mesero has brought us Pico de Gallo (a fresh uncooked condiment of chopped tomatoes, white onions and jalapenos) served with thick cut tortilla chips and home-made hot salsa.  As I order a Sopa de Lima con Pollo (a hearty Mayan Lime Tortilla Soup with Chicken), I casually ask our waiter about the history of this beautiful building. Has the same family always owned this building?  Who were the original owners? What did they do for a living? The mesero has no more details other than the brief history found in the menu. He departs for the kitchen with our dinner orders.

In this peaceful setting, Mathilda has her nose in her Leapster. Hubbie is relaxed and happily sipping a Don Julio margarita-on-the-rocks. Somehow we’ve got the old hacienda courtyard all to ourselves.

Kate and I begin. 
We hold hands. We close our eyes. We consciously connect to our breath. I set our intention and whisper a prayer. I wrap us all in white light. I call on Archangel Michael to protect our boundaries. My guides are already present.   I ask that the messages be clear, accurate and for the highest good of all involved. I expand my aura to fill this room and beyond. I feel Kate’s sweet energy so present, and supporting our intent.

I’ve kicked off my Ipanema flip-flops and feel my bare feet on the cool uneven stone floor. I take a few more deep cleansing breaths. My breathing slows. My consciousness drops down into my heart space.  I create a beautiful empty room in my mind. I expand that room. And expand. And expand. For a brief moment, I feel that familiar sense of falling forward. My consciousness has shifted.  I feel lighter.  I wait calmly. Receptive. My mental screen appears in my head.

And then the movie begins.

Her name is Sophia.
She is the only daughter of a wealthy land-owner – at least that’s how she is portraying herself. She may be the only daughter left behind – all the others may have married. Marriage is a priority for her.  She has a young man on her mind.

Sophia watches from her aerie above the courtyard. There’s an underlying sense of upheaval and apprehension in the air. Yet this hacienda is clearly a busy spot. I see merchants bang on the massive front door to peddle their wares; Farm produce is delivered; Squawking chickens are being chased around the courtyard; A grand party is being planned for the cool inner salons by several older women dressed in long gowns; This home is a stop-over for many well-to-do people.

This is what I see.
In my head, I ask Sophia to come down to us. She understands my question: She shakes her head. An emphatic “No”.

“What’s going on, Mom?” Kate quietly urges me. She’s sensing but not seeing.

I tell Kate what I’ve picked up so far. Then like a simultaneous interpreter, I start to blurt out snippets of Sophia’s tale as I receive them.  I know now that Sophia is not an imprint. She interacts. She’s telling us her story.

“She’s moving about. Pacing.”
She’s showing me her sleeping quarters are there…“ (I open my eyes to point to the corner courtyard room with Juliette balcony above the hotel kitchen). “And her ‘living’ quarters are here… “(My finger has outlined an ‘L’ shape that starts at her room at the far corner of the courtyard and ends directly above our heads.)

“She’s showing me that she leans over her balcony to talk to a young officer. I’m getting there is definitely romance involved.  He looks up at her all “googly-eyed.”  (I use my girls’ terminology to emphasize that the young man is definitely into our gal Sophia.)

Mathilda looks up from her I Spy game to bat her eyes and giggle, “OOooooooooooh!”

I continue the simultaneous translation.
“He’s a soldier. They are betrothed – they are supposed to get married. They don’t know each other well. He’s a bit younger than she is. But…? oh.  This is a memory from long ago.  He’s not around now.”

I pause to try and make sense of the messages that are now flowing fast.  I close my eyes to focus on my screen while connecting to the energy around me. I feel Hubbie and Mathilda’s energies have locked into ours.

“She’s asking herself a bunch of questions: Where has the boy gone? She’s been looking for him. Every day! Where is her family?  She’s upset. This is painful…

“I feel there’s a strong military presence. There always seem to be soldiers in the background. It doesn’t feel that safe sometimes. Sophia is not allowed downstairs very often, especially when there’s lots of activity in the courtyard.  I can’t’ tell if the owner – her father – is he in the military? Or if he just hangs out with them? Perhaps both.”

My husband is listening intently.
He’s read a ton of books on the history of Mexico and has traveled extensively throughout the country. For our edification though, he’s always steered our family towards the Yucatán, in the general direction of the stunning Mayan world he loves. The Maya were phenomenal pyramid builders, powerful warriors, and controversial calendar makers. We don’t talk much about the Spanish.

I carry on. “I’m being shown Sophia’s been very sick. I am feeling this intense scraping inside my own my body. It reminds me of the time I got food poisoning. “

“What happened to you, Mom?”  Kate doesn’t know this story.

“A long time ago, I ate a take-out lunch from a salad bar. But in less than a half hour I got really sick. I started throwing up. Uncontrollably. I was sick for three days. Hallucinating. Vomiting.”

As I listen to myself speak, a thought floats in that ‘this is not great talk for the dinner table’. But of course I continue.

“I felt that poison pumping through my body.  My body was trying to clean it out. My blood vessels felt like they were being scraped raw on the inside with sharp knives. That’s what this feels like –Sophia’s got some kind of poison in her blood.”

I pause.

“But it’s not murder. “ I blurt. 
I listen to my own words and comment, “Murder? That’s weird. Why would I be told that?”

More words drop in: “malaria….. dengue.”  These words aren’t churning out from my logical brain.  They are sliding into my mind, like a CD into a CD player. I observe them while commenting aloud.  “I can’t tell what she died of. It feels like food poisoning, but I just heard ‘malaria’, then ‘dengue’. Maybe Sophia doesn’t know what she had, has.”

My husband comments, “I don’t think they had dengue back then.”

I don’t know. This is not my area of expertise.
None of this is. I don’t mention this – but I see Sophia crying softly.  Sometimes, not so softly.  I say, “Sophia likes to watch the diners below – the courtyard is always busy and distracting during the day. But it’s at night that she has time to think about her painful situation. She’s at a loss about what to do.”

This is the underlying nature of many earthbound spirits. Loss. Lost.

(This story continues in Valladolid Part II).

- With thanks to Spirit for infinite return.
(c) 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013  The Accidental Medium. UltraMarine Media Inc. All Rights Reserved.


Anthony’s Message (Part 3)

Saturday, December 29th, 2012

The Accidental MediumThis is the continuing story of Anthony’s Message. If you missed it, here is Part 1 and Part 2.

“Whaatt?” I say in my head.
But I feel it’s true. I’ve never felt so sure of winning something in my life. I know I’m going to win this raffle.  I feel the nudge.

I call over to my Hubbie who’s talking with another Dad, “Hon, can you go buy another set of tickets, please?”  He waves at me from across the room.

I’m now talking to my close friend Eve.  She’s insightful, very intuitive. She’s a sister from another life. She’s already heard about the crash. Her husband’s friend’s son is a friend of Anthony. The young man is devastated by this news.  We’re all shaken. It’s a parent’s worst dream come true.  And it’s unthinkable for a teenager to lose a friend.

I tell Eve about the Soul System, that Anthony is an old soul. Dad says he’s a 5.  That he didn’t have to come back. That he came back for a reason – to activate the souls here. She nods.  She has already gotten the message on FaceBook that Anthony’s accident has touched hundreds. And it only happened 36 hours ago. Hard to believe.

Eve says, “I bet Matilda is a 5 too.  ”

I haven’t told Eve about what’s been going on in the house. 
About Matilda waking up the night of the crash.  That Anthony seems to be visiting us and hanging out with Matilda. I’m not sure, after all.  It seems too much to hope for. I need more proof.

One hour later, the raffle organizer is yelling, “Last call for tickets! Last call for tickets!” It pops into my head that my man hasn’t bought those tickets. I grab his arm, “Hon, did you buy those tickets?” Without a word, he rushes over and buys another set of five tickets before the raffle sales closes.

Matilda’s little friend walks up to the big jar stuffed with tickets to pull the winner. I whisper in my husband’s ear. “We’re going to win this. Get your tickets out!”

The organizer calls, “The Winner is…… !”  She calls out the number.

My husband looks down at his two sets of tickets.
Then walks over to the Raffle organizer. He exclaims, “We’ve got the ticket!” He comes back with the primitive oil painting of our little red brick schoolhouse – and hands it to me.

He looks at me, shaking his head, incredulous.  I smile back at him. “I told you we were going to win this.”

“What are we going to do with this? We have no walls!” My husband is happy to win something, but he’s also a practical man.

“We’ll find a good home for it.” I reply.

At this moment, I look up to see Deb approaching us saying in her quiet voice. “I’m so happy you won this. I know you’ll enjoy it. And the girls will enjoy it too.” She adds quietly, “I’m just a little bit sad. I bought 4 sets of tickets.  I even had a spot picked out.”

I thank Deb and give her a hug. (And I know what we’re going to give her for an end-of-year teacher gift. We won it for her).

As we’re getting into the car, I tell my family we’re going to give the painting to Deb as a surprise.  All agree it’s the perfect gift for a much beloved teacher.

Then it dawns on me.
“Hon?! What was the number on the winning ticket?”

My husband can’t remember. He pulls the ticket from his pocket. “It’s O-5-O.”

“Oh, My God!  Anthony helped us win that raffle!   He helped us get the painting. And he solved our gift idea for Deb!”

On the way home, I explain the Soul System to my bewildered husband. I tell him how Anthony has been coming in since Friday night.  How he’s been hanging out with Matilda. That I asked for distinct proof it was Anthony.  And got it.

My husband doesn’t question this. He feels it’s Anthony.  He answers matter-of-fact, “It’s the kind of thing he’d do, isn’t it?  Let us know he’s here – with something fun, that helps people. It’s very creative, how he did it.”

I agree. It’s seems exactly the kind of thing Anthony would do.

We’ve now parked in our driveway and my husband turns to me saying, “Looks like you have a job to do: Talk to Monica and Rufus. Let them know he’s around.”

That night we finally get the girls fed and to bed. They’re having difficulty settling down. So much excitement playing with their friends at the Auction.   My husband leaves the newspaper open on the kitchen table – Anthony’s life is outlined in a big city newspaper article with a photo of a heart-breaking impromptu roadside memorial.

I check FaceBook. More comments.  Kids are shocked.  There are many posts about promising not to drink and drive, and not let friends do it either.  “Tony’s Promise” is spreading fast.

My sister-in-law calls me. Sheryl says, “Lo, we spent the day with Monica, Rufus and Alanna. It was so sad.  I think it would really help if you called them. You won’t bother them.”

I know. It’s time. I’m not sure how that’s going to play out though.  Monica and Rufus don’t know much about me, about our mediumship abilities.  I let that thought go.  What’s supposed to happen will happen. I’m tired. I need to go to bed.

It’s 3 am. It’s Matilda.

I’m quick to Matilda’s room, making sure her yells don’t wake up Kate in the other room. Anthony is standing by the bed.

“It’s okay, Mattie.  Anthony’s here. He’s our friend, remember?  I’ll stay with you til you fall asleep.”

Matilda rolls over, pulls the covers over her head. I slip under the comforter on the spare bed.  Soon I hear the snuffling of Matilda’s soft snores.  I shuffle bleary-eyed back to my room.  Anthony is soon sitting on my bedside. I can see him clearly.  He’s definitely crossed over. We chat.

“Anthony. I told you that I’d tell your Mom and Dad you’re here.  Tell me what happened”.

I hear Anthony’s voice in my head.
“It happened so fast.” (He shows me a car coming across the center line – the scene is playing on a screen in my head).

“I wasn’t scared. I just tried to get out of the way. When it hit, I didn’t feel anything.” (I don’t feel any pain in my own body as Anthony says this. Often I do feel the physical pain of others.)

“I just felt my body tingle – it felt good – and then I lifted up out of my body. I saw…” (Anthony shows me his grandmother looking at him through the windshield).  “She gave me a hug.  She took my hand.   I was so happy to see her.  She’s alive, you know. She’s here, you know.”

I know. I say, “Anthony, was this an ‘accident’ or was this your time?”

“Well…. if it was an accident, it was a pretty good time to go.”

I understand what he’s saying. He’s an old soul. As we collectively move into higher consciousness, Anthony is activating a huge number of teenagers. And many of us adults.  Life is short!  He’s reminding us to live full out, follow our passions.  But do it with care and kindness for those around us.

The next day I have errands in the city.   Anthony seems to be enjoying the ride in the passenger seat.  “I have friends who will want some things of mine. Tell Mom.  She’ll know what to give. But when the time is right. There’s no rush.”

He shows me a red car.
It’s in his room. I can’t tell from the images if it’s a toy car, a picture, or what.  But the message is a red car. I need to tell Anthony’s parents. They’ll know what it means.

I’ve been crossing to do’s off my list and now sit in the car in the pharmacy parking lot.  The radio is on.  I crank up the music. I’m nervous. I know I must call the McColls.  The news cuts in.  There’s a clip about the accident. The news reports the crash as occurring just after 2:30 a.m. on Saturday morning. It’s now Monday. It gives me the nudge.  I pick up my cell phone.  Anthony is happy.  He says, “Don’t worry. You won’t reach them. They’re busy.”

I ring the home number anyway.  A woman answers. Rufus and Monica are being interviewed by a television crew.  Can I call back later?  I’m amazed at the media coverage this is getting.

But I also have that sinking feeling, after you crank yourself to do something difficult, only to find you have to wait it out.  Anthony has this grin on his face. “I told youuuu!”

I’m wondering again, how is this going to play out. 
The radio music filters into my brain. It’s Kelly Jones singing Maybe Tomorrow. The Stereophonics’ lyrics say a lot about how to live life fully, even though things may seem black at the time. And the song’s refrain is “Maybe tomorrow… I’ll find my way home…”

Anthony says, “See? You’ll talk to Mom and Dad tomorrow!”

I have to laugh. Spirit often, I mean OFTEN, uses music to get its messages across. That’s one way we can tap into our loved ones who’ve left this physical plane. When you are thinking of them, turn on your favorite radio station and listen to the music.

Anthony changes the subject. He confesses, “I’ve been kinda buggin’ Alanna.”

Once a big brother, always a big brother.

“What have you been doing to that poor girl?”  I admonish.

“I’ve been teasing her. Pulling her hair.  Things are dropping for no reason.” An honest answer.

I see a pencil rolling off a desk, a book falls out of a girl’s hand; Alanna is swiping stray hairs away that keep falling onto her face.

“Does she know it’s you?” I ask.

“I think she does but she’s afraid to believe it.”

“She’s afraid?” I’m saying this with just a bit of pointed parental irritation.

“I knowwww…”Anthony admits he’s possibly freaking out his sister. “I’m backin’ off…”

“I’ll get the message to her that it’s you. Just don’t stand so close. ‘K?”

“Thank youuuuu.” he replies in a monotone.

Sheryl calls me that night. “Did you see the TV interview with Rufus and Monica? It’s posted on the news website.”

I load the video news interview of Anthony’s parents.
Anthony’s heart-broken parents are sitting close to each other at their kitchen table, talking to the reporter about the accident, about the parents of the son who plowed into Anthony’s vehicle. The spliced-in video B-roll shows a crumpled red car.

Rufus has tears in his eyes. He’s saying, “We hold no judgment.  This could have happened to any of us. We’ve all lost a child in this tragedy”.  Monica is nodding her head in agreement, holding her husband’s hand.

At this moment, I start to cry. I am so proud of those two. It’s an honor to be a friend of theirs.  Their compassion and forgiveness is truly remarkable. They are role models for us all.  They didn’t follow the typical “easy” path of blame.  They rose above it.

I see movement out of the corner of my eye.
I look up from my dining room table. Anthony is coming through. He’s got his arm around someone’s shoulders. It’s another young man. I cannot see the man’s face – It’s blurry.  His body outline is fuzzy. And his energy feels unsure, nervous, possibly a little frightened.  The young man doesn’t speak.

Anthony looks me straight in the eye and states, “We’re not leaving him behind.”

That’s when it hits me. It’s the boy who hit Anthony. But he’s lost.   He’s not crossed over. (A.k.a a ghost).  Anthony is staying with him.  Reassuring him.  This is what Anthony would do.

Before they fade away, Anthony adds, “Look at the video again – I’m with them. I’m standing behind Mom, on her left side.”

I go back to the computer, and press ‘play’ on the news video.  I scan the scene for signs.  I don’t see Anthony. But I do see Monica is wearing a crisp white shirt – and there’s a spot on her left shoulder that is surprisingly crinkled, where a hand might rest.

As I listen again to Rufus’s words of forgiveness, I am struck by the true meaning of Anthony’s words…‘We’re not leaving him behind’. Anthony is telling us he’s working through the veil, co-creating with his parents.  They are a team.  The McColl family will always be a team. By voicing their compassion, Rufus and Monica will help the young man release from this earth.  He won’t get stuck here, attached to the physical realm.  He’ll be freed.

And Anthony’s family’s words and actions will encourage others to forgo judgment. What’s done is done.  No need to create more pain by criticizing, finding fault, laying blame.  We are all connected.  This tragedy could have happened to anyone.   How we choose to respond to the heartbreak is what counts. It’s about choosing kindness and forgiveness and compassion.  It’s about living life and choosing love. That’s Anthony’s message.

- With thanks to Spirit for infinite return.

(c) 2010, 2011, 2012 The Accidental Medium. UltraMarine Media Inc. All Rights Reserved.

Anthony’s Message (Part 2)

Saturday, December 29th, 2012

The Accidental MediumThis is the continuing story of Anthony’s Message. If you missed it, Part 1 is here.

We arrive at the front entrance to the church.
And I remember it’s Palm Sunday. I had no idea there are baptisms slated for this morning. The church is packed. Lots of kids.  Standing room only.  Many families and friends are gathered here from our village, in from the surrounding rural countryside and up from the big city to celebrate new life and the future ahead for these beautiful newborns.  They represent hope and promise for all of us.

I enjoy the ritual of the church service, the quiet hour that gives us permission to be present, the sense of community it brings out.  Our Minister, Gisele, has become a good family friend. She knows about our active household, and is an insightful observer as Matilda, Kate and I – the Indigo Girls – have our adventures in Spirit.

Gisele doesn’t doubt our experiences. We’ve sat together many times over tea to try and figure them out – look at the messages, discuss the lessons.  I’ve often wondered how Gisele reconciles her knowledge of us with what the church teaches.  Gisele grew up Catholic, but became a United Church Minister and now regularly attends Buddhist retreats.  She’s open, non-judgmental.

I remember last year at this time, it was Easter Sunday Communion Service.  Gisele was in the pulpit.  As she surveyed the congregation she had iterated another one of the church tenets “We come into this world alone, we leave this world alone.”  Her gaze had fallen on my husband and I. We’d gazed back at her, both of us smiling.

I personally don’t believe we come into this world alone.
Or leave it alone. We are never alone – before we come into this world, on our life’s journey or as we depart.  We are infinitely supported on our path by loved ones and loving beings.  I see this. I KNOW this.  This is my experience.

I’d already nudged my Better Half, muttering mischievously in his ear “Yeah. Right. That really happens.”  He continued looking  forward to the pulpit, nodding with a chuckle, while squeezing my hand.

As we left the church service that day a year ago, we give Gisele a big hug at the front entrance.  Gisele is shaking her head, laughing at the inside joke.  “And as I finish with ‘We leave this world alone’ I see the two of you smiling back at me.  I’m thinking, ‘WHAT am I SAYING???’ I know YOU two don’t believe ANY of this! How could you possibly?”

Fast forward to the present day. Today’s service is longer than usual. We’ve got four little beings to welcome into the community. No time for a sermon.  Will there be time for a community prayer?  The beautiful babies are blessed and paraded around the church.  Gisele finishes the baptism ritual and then asks the congregation if anyone would like to include someone in the community prayer.  I surprise myself. I start speaking.

“The family of Anthony McColl”, I call out without hesitation

Gisele asks me from the front of the church, “Laurie, can you repeat Anthony’s last name?”

“McColl. Anthony is only 19.  He was killed by an impaired driver on Friday night.”

There is a palpable hush in the congregation. 
I’ve just reminded every parent of their worst nightmare. New beginnings joyfully commemorated here are abruptly juxtaposed with a too sudden ending.  I now know why I was tested this morning – told to speak up.  To remind all of us gathered.  Life is fragile.  Hug your children.  Celebrate every day.

We leave the church and grab a quick bite in the village before heading home to pack up appetizer trays for the next event.  I’m hustling. The spring rolls need to be fried. They’ve turned rubbery over-nighting in the fridge and must be revived. Everything is finally plated and garnished. I rush upstairs to pee, and put some lipstick on.

I’m fixing my hair. Dad’s there in his usual spot. He says, “Good Job, Putty.”

Dad’s not talking about the completed plates of sushi. It’s about my speaking up in church.  Dad adds, simply, “Anthony is a 5”.

I stop in mid brush stroke. “Oh My God.  This makes sense!”

Here’s the thing.
Three days before Anthony’s death I’ve had a session with friends who are energy workers.  I know my hip problem is really “issue in the tissue”. I wanted to dig deeper into those unhelpful beliefs before my surgeon digs deep into my hip so I’d set up a session with my friends Rita and Thomas.

As part of the session, Thomas, who is a medical intuitive, had asked me, “Would you like to know where you are on your soul’s progression?”

My immediate gut response was, “Well, not as much as I want to deal with the issues going on now in this life. To be honest, I want to pull out the subconscious beliefs that are causing my hips to disintegrate. But I guess it would be interesting to understand where I am in the scheme of things – although I don’t think it matters. You are where you are, right?”

Thomas laughed. “Well, that’s right. But I can give you a quick overview of it if you like.”

I agreed to the synopsis.

Thomas continued. “There is a channeled system that helps you understand why things are the way they are.  It’s a system that helps you see where you are on your Soul’s Progression.  It talks about the Soul’s Path – and the system is based on a range from 1 to 5.

The 1’s are basically soul babies. They are naïve, have so much to learn. Fives are old souls. They’ve chosen to come back, they don’t need to be here.  Their job is simple, to enjoy the physical world in all its manifestations, and shine their light by being their true selves. They are really here to activate souls in the other ranges: their light helps to uncover hidden divine gifts and uncover buried parts of the authentic self in those souls they touch during their lifetime.  In a way, it’s a bit of a joy ride being a 5 – both literally and figuratively.

“Well, now I know”, I said half-jokingly. “I’m definitely not an old soul! I’m coming back because I have to! ”

Thomas laughed.  “Well, you’re a mature soul. ”

I’m fine with that. This soul’s path was interesting info but it didn’t seem relevant to me at the time. It’s like being the youngest sibling, or having green eyes. I didn’t “do” anything. It just is.

But now it makes sense.  
Anthony is a 5.  I know why I was supposed to hear what Thomas had to say about the subject.  I needed that piece of the puzzle to understand Anthony’s divine role in this lifetime.  Anthony was here to activate, to shine his light.

Dad continues, “Just look at Anthony’s life.”

I don’t know Anthony that well but we called him “The Gentle Giant”.  He didn’t seem afraid to embrace life, and he did it in so many ways. Rugby, art, music, laughter, hugs.  He was kind, responsible, non-judgmental.  He made it clear he loved his family, he loved his friends. He was true to himself, he focused on what he loved, and he made people feel good about themselves.  How many souls has he activated in his lifetime? The outpouring of grief over his passing has rippled out in waves. His story is touching possibly thousands of people who never knew him.  It’s truly awe-inspiring.

Dad nudges me, “This is what I’ve been telling you, Putty.  Your brain, your intellect, is important, but it’s overrated. Get into your physical body. Feel its intelligence.  Listen to its messages – It will tell you what you are meant to do and not. Trust its guidance and you won’t get stuck on your path.  You are meant to laugh, have fun, make love, dance, create! And stop! Take more time to do nothing. Just allow yourself to receive. Go out and smell your cedar trees. Listen to your birds.  Feel the breeze on your face.  Get out of your head, Honey.  Follow your heart. Enjoy this physical life, in all its manifestations. You know this.”

I nod. I know this. But I’ve been holding back. We live in a left brain world.  Adhering to the tenets of popular culture is greatly rewarded. A book learning education holds the highest value.  Busyness gets a badge of honor.  Tapping into your unique inner knowledge? Swimming against society’s current to follow your soul’s inspiration?  Not so much.

I’m a strong swimmer. In spite of my hips.  It’s time to trust myself, and swim upstream.

Dad says, “Matilda is a 5, too.”

I have a momentary shiver.
Of course. That’s why Anthony would go to her first.  I wonder if that means she’s going to check out of this earthly plane early too? She’s already had two critical scrapes, the first she turned blue and couldn’t breathe, the second, her heart stopped.  She’s only four.

Dad is reading my mind. “Love your children, Honey. The mess doesn’t matter in the long run. Creating memories does.”  His words are reassuring. I get the distinct feeling Matilda won’t even consider taking off to the higher planes until she makes a big impact in this world.  Like Anthony.

When I come downstairs, my husband is already loading kids and platters into the car. It’s a rainy day.  I buckle up, still mulling over what Dad said upstairs.  As we drive down the highway, I talk to Anthony inside my head. “If it’s really you Anthony, I need a sign. A distinct sign.”

Outside my head, we are talking about the “to do list”.  It’s never ending. My husband is gone so much of the time.  It’s hard to split household duties.  He’s taking care of the business, so I take care of the rest  – the kids, the cars, the accounts, the events, the schools lunches, the bus runs, the homework, and managing the house and the home office fall to me.  When he’s away, we talk twice, maybe three times a day on the phone.  Since the girls don’t always sleep well at night, I get exhausted and quickly fall into overwhelm.  I rely on my husband to help us focus on our priorities.

My husband talks above the radio music in the car. He wants to know how my work is going.  He’s my biggest supporter.  He wants me to block out more time to develop my new online business education program.  He knows I have a lot to offer. I’m thinking about what Dad just said: It’s time to step into my life, get out of my head, make my dreams happen.  My husband is saying the same thing. It’s time to shine my light on my business.

It’s hard to shift. I’m thinking of all the things I’m responsible for. So many trails of unfinished personal business. I clean up a lot of messes.  So many loose ends to be tied.   Another loose end dawns on me. I haven’t bought any gifts for the teachers for year end.

“What are we going to give Deb?” I question the family for ideas.

Deb has been Kate’s and now Matilda’s teacher. She’s greatly loved.  Deb should be paid much more for her work. But she loves what she does.  It’s not just about the money. She’s truly dedicated, passionate about child development, and committed to the well being of her flock. And the kids adore her right back. Deb is part of Kate and Matilda’s extended family. Whatever gift we give has to be special.

We’re at the Silent Auction chatting with parents,
The kids play in the corners.  There’s lots of items to bid on. We don’t need anything.  I tell my group of friends, “There are some lovely pieces of art here, but we don’t have any walls to put them on at our house. I hope you can bid on them.”

My friends are pointing out their favorite pieces when a parent organizer comes up. “Ladies, you need to buy raffle tickets to win the oil painting of the school.”

I didn’t notice we’d been standing right beside the raffle prize. It’s a brightly colored primitive oil painting of the little red brick schoolhouse, including kids and playground.  It’s very sweet. I don’t have a wall to put it on. But I buy a pack of five tickets for $5 to support the cause.

The other ladies are excited about this painting. It’s special. It captures the wonder of our co-op pre-school.  I wish I had gone to this school when I was little. I think a lot of parents wish the same thing. Lots of tickets are being sold.

As I stand there holding my tickets, a voice whispers very clearly into my left ear. “You are going to win this.” The tone is very matter-of-fact. It continues,  “But you need to buy another set of tickets.”

- With thanks to Spirit for infinite return.

(Story to be continued in Anthony’s Message – Part 3….)


(c) 2010, 2011, 2012 The Accidental Medium. UltraMarine Media Inc. All Rights Reserved.

Anthony’s Message (Part 1)

Saturday, December 29th, 2012

The Accidental MediumAnthony’s Message was written for the family of Anthony McColl about three months after the accident that took the life of a vibrant 19 year old young man.  Anthony was – and still is – the son of dear family friends.

This story was my attempt to recount our own experience in the wake of the possibly avoidable death of Anthony – to offer some peace, reassurance and a life altering perspective on this tragic incident.

A year later, this story was published in the book A Father’s Tears by David McColl, Anthony’s father.   If you have lost a child, or are supporting someone who has lost a child, I highly recommend reading A Father’s Tears.

The recent tragedy in Newtown CT compelled me to publish Anthony’s Message here.  The loss of a child is unthinkable. But when we are forced to think about it, let alone experience it, we may leave ourselves open to a spiritual awakening.

I hope that Anthony’s message will give people hope that life is not what it seems, that there is a higher perspective – an expansive view of life being lived on a continuum. We never lose those we love. They are with us, and here to support us on our earthly journey.  This is the first of three installments. Please read on…

“Mommy!!! Wake up! Wake Up!”
Matilda is sitting straight up in bed in the darkened room. She’s got both hands on my bare left arm, yanking me from a deep sleep.  Kate, Matilda and I are supposed to be in the middle of a Friday night sleepover at Mom’s condo. Matilda and I are bunking in Mom’s room.  We all went to bed late.  It’s now well past midnight, the exact time unsure.  This is too soon to wake up.

I’m barely conscious. “what’s the matter, Mattie?” I murmur.

Matilda is talking in a stage whisper. “Mommy. I’m scared… There’s somebody here. They’re here on my side. I don’t know who it is. Can we change sides? Please? I’m scared…”

“o.k.” I sigh as I slide towards her, pull her up and over me and settle her on the other side of the bed.  I scoot over to Matilda’s well-warmed spot.  I find her soft white blankie and her dog-eared bunny toy nestled there.  I snuggle them down beside Matilda who is now almost back to sleep, then roll over on my side to get more shuteye.

But I can’t.

There’s definitely somebody here.
I stop trying to sleep and try to discern the subtle but pressing energy.  It feels like a male presence.  It’s moving around this corner of the room.  A paper rustles, something softly scuffs a surface.  He’s by the bed again – it’s a calm gentle energy.  It could be my Dad, or my grandfather or …?  The usual suspects would normally let me know exactly who they are. And there are a few others who tend to wake us up at night.  Who is it?

But it’s weird.  Nighttime visitations have never happened at Mom’s condo. Whoever it is,  is not making himself known.  I know I’ll find out soon enough if it’s important.  I try again to settle down to sleep. I can’t.  I wonder what he needs?

Sunlight is leaking around the edges of the drapes when Kate and Mom tiptoe into the room. Matilda is snoring softly on her side of the bed as I whisper to Mom that Matilda didn’t sleep well. We need to let her sleep in. Someone woke her up. Someone has definitely been in the room.  It felt like it was a male.  Mom whispers she’s not slept well either. Kate was very restless, flopping around like a fish out of water. We both agree. Something’s “up”.

Bleary-eyed with coffee in hand.
Mom and I try to revive ourselves in the living room.  As I gradually perk up I think more about last night. Very strange. Matilda would normally tell me to get rid of the unknown visitor  – tell them to go away.  People she doesn’t know she calls “monsters” – I guess because she’s scared, they don’t come in clearly enough to be seen.   I’d say the usual: ‘Thanks but no thanks. We can’t help you now.  Please go.’ They usually do.

During these situations, Matilda always asks me to call in Grampa Grant to watch over us to make sure nobody will bug us.  But last night I didn’t do any of this. Did Matilda feel this person was meant to be with us?  I guess I may have felt that too. At least it never occurred to me to ask them to leave.  The energy was somehow familiar.

With Matilda now up and both girls busy munching on breakfast, I slip into Mom’s bathroom for a quick shower. I’m not fully positioned under the showerhead when I hear the matter-of-fact statement in my head, “ “Someone close to you has died.”

“Whaaat?” I say back, incredulous. This is awful.  My mind whips into worst-case-scenario. Oh God, I hope it’s not my husband. He’s in the air right now on his way here, to be with his family. It’s a stormy morning, with high winds.

I’m given no more details.
But when I get out of the shower, I hear the phone ring.  The voice in my head says softly, calmly, unemotionally, “Here we go…”  I peek out the bathroom door and Mom is in the bedroom, portable phone to her ear, tears streaming down her face. “You better talk to your sister…” she says into the phone.

It’s my brother Andy.  Andy is in charge of calling people. We’re his first call. He can hardly talk. Brief details. Anthony was in a fatal car accident early this morning.  I get hit by a wave of grief.  Anthony is such a great kid.  Everybody loves Anthony. This is devastating. Oh God. Poor Monica and Rufus.  As parents, it’s their worst fear realized. This shouldn’t be happening. It’s not right.

Then a thought bubbles up.  Could it be Anthony who visited last night?  What time was the crash?  What time did Matilda wake me up?  Around 3 a.m. I’d guess. Matilda doesn’t really know Anthony. She was a baby the last time his family visited us at the lake. Whoever it was seemed to be attracted to her.

I’m packing up our sleepover bags.  The girls are readying their gear to load the car, then pick up their Dad at the airport.

A voice in my head says. “He’s with his grandmother. He’s crossed over. It was instant.”

I don’t know if this is wishful thinking or if it’s a clear message. I let it rest.

Hubbie is home safe. 
We’re now in our kitchen at the lake, making platters for the appetizer table at the annual fundraising event for Matilda’s co-op preschool – it’s happening tomorrow.  Kate has helped us finish filling spring rolls and now we’re busily rolling sushi.  For no apparent reason I look up and stare at the stacked ovens.  Why am I looking there?  We’re not using the ovens.

A male is standing there facing me.  He’s a big guy, he’s young. Dark wavy hair falls in front of his face.  It’s not the first time I’ve had Spirit visitors beside my ovens.  All the electricity – it’s a magnet. Spirits often use the energy that charges big appliances to come through to this side.  My fridge has the same power, and the same effect.

Is that Anthony?? I’m not sure. He’s faint. He comes in and out – at least it seems that way.   I sigh. I don’t enjoy this space – not knowing whether it’s wishful thinking, my imagination or a real visit. But I’ve learned what to do. I push away the vision.  If it goes away, it’s wishful thinking. If the vision comes back again, gets stronger with more details, if we interact, it’s the real deal.

We continue our veggie sushi marathon. I look up from my sushi mat, frustrated with an inside-out roll that’s not working for me, to find the young man standing by the ovens but this time with an older woman beside him.  I think it’s his grandmother.  They aren’t talking, just calmly surveying the scene. I acknowledge their presence.  They disappear.  I’m feeling it’s Anthony but my ego needs more proof. I don’t say anything to my husband.

It’s late.
The girls are now in bed and I’m in my upstairs bathroom – my channeling room – brushing my teeth, washing my face.  A subtle presence comes in.  I say, “Anthony, if this is you, I will help you get any messages to your family. I promise.”  There’s no answer.

I don’t sleep well. None of us do. Kate wakes up. “Daddy!”  She’s had a bad dream and can’t get back to sleep.  Her Dad goes down to Kate’s room to settle her down.  I hear her cry out every time he tries to leave. He stays with her.

It’s Matilda’s turn. “Mommy!” Matilda often wakes up in the middle of the night. She gets up by herself to pee, read her picture books, chat with unseen friends, sing pre-school songs, recite newly learned rhymes.  She only calls out if she’s sick, she’s wet the bed, she’s hungry.  Or, if there’s a visitor.

I stumble down the stairs. “Mommy!” Matilda is crying now as I walk into her room. “There’s somebody here!”  Matilda pleads.

“It’s okay, Honey. It’s okay. It’s just Anthony. He’s our friend. He’s visiting.  He’s a good guy.  We love Anthony. Time to go back to sleep. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Matilda seems reassured.  “o.k…  Can you stay with me ‘til when the sun comes?” Matilda mumbles from under the covers.

I agree, crawling into the spare bed.

I dream that Dad is standing by my bed.
He tells me in my sleep, “Anthony and Matilda have the same kind of energy.”

In the morning we are scrambling to get ready for church. I’m back in my bathroom, finished my hair and now doing my face. My Dad, now in Spirit for more than 15 years, is in his usual spot, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.

“Dad? Why Anthony?”

Dad answers back immediately, “Soon you’ll understand.”

I reach into my walk-in closet and dig out some pant stockings from a drawer.

Dad adds, “You’ll say his name in church today.”

ugghh.  I know what this is. It’s a test from Spirit.

Dad knows I like to lie low in the pew. 
I go to church, but as an outlier in the protestant religion, I feel it’s not my place to speak up in church:  I feel I’m in no position since I don’t subscribe to some of its fundamental tenets.  Case in point:  I have not accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior, yet this is a cornerstone of our religion.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m a firm believer in what Jesus stood for, his lessons, his compassionate role model, and I am in awe of Christ consciousness that manifests every day, in warm gestures, in respectful responses, in thoughtful deeds, showing how we are all connected.  The Dalai Lama sums up Christ consciousness by saying, “My religion is kindness”.  I subscribe to that. So I go to church.

Dad’s request refers to a quiet portion during the service where churchgoers are encouraged to speak the names of people who are in their thoughts this week.  Gisele, our Minister, then leads the congregation through a spontaneous community prayer that includes the names of these people. It’s an unrehearsed moment where everyone seems to connect.

I make a feeble attempt to lessen my potential involvement at church this morning. “Dad, You know I don’t DO that…”

Dad looks at me and waits.

“But…,”I’m thinking out loud. “I guess if there was a time to speak up, it would be today, after what happened.”

“Don’t worry about it, Putty,” encourages Dad in my left ear.  “It will all work out.”

(Putty is my nickname – because I tend to be on the go, doing something, thinking about something, working on something. Dad used to say I was always putt-putting around. )

I don’t know how this is going to play out. Maybe I will say something. Maybe I won’t need to. I have to wait and see. And trust that soon I’ll understand

- With thanks to Spirit for infinite return.

(Story to be continued in Anthony’s Message – Part 2.)


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