Sometimes I forget what normal is. No matter where I go, where I am, or who I am with, I see (and most of the time communicate with) those that have physically died. I try to bubble myself off with a white light, a shield if you will, so that contact is limited and I am not looking like a lunatic talking to what most people would only see as air, but I see as energy or a spirit. But sometimes the energy/spirit is strong willed and stubborn and wants that contact. And when they can see that I can see, the avoidance doesn’t just feel rude, it feels sad. How many people can actually see and communicate? How many can give their story to their loved ones? I can and I have taken on the role of being that messenger. What should’ve been a simple hour of time waiting for my son to get a haircut ended up in story time with Phil.
Phil had committed suicide after a painful diagnosis that numbered his life span, and even though he was raised Catholic and had a faith, he didn’t feel as if he could hold on anymore. This was his story that he asked me to share with his family. The girl that was cutting my son’s hair.
A man frail in body, dying, sad in heart showed me his spirit as he was before he passed away. He said that he needed to say that he was sorry for hurting everybody and causing the difficulties that he did, especially the way that he ended his life. He hadn’t wanted anybody to find him that way, but he didn’t know any other way. He was scared of dying, but he was more scared of living and he didn’t want to burden anybody anymore.
He showed a darkened room. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding the gun in his hand. He didn’t show me the death (most do), but instead showed me the tension beforehand and then the loud noise that took his physical life. Over and done. What a quick second, he thought, that quick second that ended his life and changed so many.
He showed himself crying beforehand, taking a deep breath and then crying in spirit afterwards – surprised by his own actions. He showed that he was grounded, not able to cross over for awhile. His purgatory was having to watch the anguish his actions effected his kids and other loved ones. The shame, he felt was worse than a physical death, he explained, but he said that he didn’t have the fight in him. He continued to defend his actions by saying that over and over.
He said that he could see the light, but that he was too exhausted in order to meet the angels, not even half way and so he sat there wondering if he had done the right thing. They called to him. He cried. He saw his loved ones standing there, but felt as if he might not be good enough to be with them or that his judgment might not be one that he wanted to face and would put him in a worse place. Could it be possible that he made a huge error? He said he asked himself that over and over again.
He then showed himself in a good place with his loved ones and his wife. He was in a small, simple home that sat on a crystal lake. He had a flannel shirt on and his spirit looked healthy and happy. He said that he tries to visit, but that everybody on this side is just so stressed that his visits instead induce nightmares that aren’t true visits.
“Miss, you see me. Please send my love and the message that I am proud of everybody. Please tell all the kids that they need to take care of themselves and to please forgive me. Mom and I love them so much.”
He then shared a message that I thought was the deepest of all, and advice I thought we all need.
“Enjoy the family. Enjoy life. Enjoy the simple things. Enjoy one another. I am okay.”
I rarely go up to strangers and offer messages, but he insisted I put my magazine down and write a letter to his daughter. With the tip, I handed the letter to her on our way out. Confused with what I gave her, my son and I simply walked to the car, but it was a second later that the hairdresser caught up to me, tears streaming down.
“You have no idea how much this means to me,” she said, embracing me. “How can I repay you?”
“Forgive your dad and do as he says,” I said and smiled.
We all hold on to anger, even with those who aren’t with us physically. They know. They feel. They sense. They see. And they want to be a part of your life, but it is that anger that can cause a fuzz and a bad connection to the telephone line on the Other Side. It can, however, be repaired with some soul searching, but let me tell you that once it is repaired, the phone will keep ringing. And that is a good thing.