Even Mediums Need to Grieve

It was a wonderful day. I had a friend giving a lecture in town and I was starting to take a class I was very excited for at my local spiritualist church. The weather was gorgeous. I felt great about every reading I'd given that fateful Wednesday in September. I was on top of the world!

At my highly anticipated class, I got a message from a fellow medium regarding my guides. She also got a flash of a woodpecker, which made little sense to me at the time. I accepted the messages gratefully, though, and left the class to meet with my friends who were attending the lecture of my friend from out of town. It was then that I got the call.

My mother called to tell me to call my brother. Something had happened to my father. I knew immediately that he had passed. I felt it in the pit of my stomach as I choked back tears. My suspicion was confirmed once I reached my brother on the phone. My father had passed from a heart attack at a truck stop in Georgia.

This wasn't entirely unexpected. I'd expressed my concerns to my father for several months. I kept getting the impression of heart problems, and I urged him to see his doctor. He accused me of trying to make him a hypochondriac and would crack a joke to break the tension. My dad hated doctors as much as I do.

Immediately following the phone call, I sat bewildered in the night air on a canvas swing in my back yard. I thought about my dad, and what his death would entail. It meant that I'd be returning to Virginia for his services. It also meant that my schedule needed to be changed for the next week. I was a cool logical voice among the angry and hurt voices of my siblings and step mother.

I made the initial arrangements to drive down to my family a few days later. I cleared my schedule as best I could to give myself some room to grieve. Then, the damnedest thing happened: nothing. My emotions were on hiatus. Having taken Psychology 101, I knew the stages of grieving. I felt as though I'd simply accepted it. I really thought that I'd be hysterical. I was the emotive one in my family, wearing my feelings, opinions and intuitions on my sleeve for all to see. But instead of being grief stricken, I was at peace.

I began to reach out to my father on the other side. I spoke into thin air, focusing my intent on finding his spirit in the ether. I felt his presence, but wanted a sign to be sure that I wasn't just deluding myself. As I silently requested this, a dull noise from the neighbor's radio announced that we were listening to the all night Trucker's Network. The station was quickly changed and the radio quieted, but I had my sign.

I then began to talk with him. I told him calmly how much I loved him, and I asked him to cross into the light. I felt a strong resistance, and then received the impression that Dad wished to attend his funeral before he crossed. I'd heard of this phenomenon occurring, and had no other option but to ask his angels to surround him while he waited to cross over.

His messages continued over the next two days as I prepared for my trip south, as did my distant serenity. I'd also developed a cold within a few hours of hearing the news of my father, which I'm sure was due mostly to the stress and shock. I was stuffy, cranky and sneezing all the way past the Mason Dixon Line on my way to meet the rest of my grieving family.

I participated in the family gatherings of remembrance, the wake, and the several communal meals leading up to my father's services. All the time I cast the image of a serene and peaceful man, with an absolute sureness of my Dad's presence beside me. I counseled family members on the grieving process, and even had the privilege to veil messages from my father to others in the family through anecdotes and stories (most of which I expressed as if I'd seen the whole thing, only to find out that the occurrence took place long before my time). I chose to express the messages in this way for two reasons: First, much of this side of my family isn't comfortable with matters of spirit. I tell them that I'm a Reader of sorts, and without elaboration they choose to think that I enjoy sharing literature verbally to those who can't read. Secondly, I felt that it would have been in poor taste. I tell my clients that I won't conduct a sitting for at least 4 months after a person's passing. This usually gives enough time for some healing to occur before I ask them to look at their loved one's passing objectively. How could I ask any different of my own family? Besides, Dad didn't care how the message was getting across, just that it was.

It wasn't until his funeral that I saw my father cross into the light. It seemed to happen as the preacher was giving a very lengthy sermon on hellfire and damnation that I felt the comfort and peace of the Summerlands calling Dad. I could sense his angels take rank around him and free him from the bindings of this world. It was a sensation that I simply can't describe that I experienced around him. Then it seemed as though he was gone. His presence, his personality, it was all wiped from my senses.

In that moment, I was devastated. I finally felt that sense of loss. I felt pain and anger. I was furious and tormented, and if that damn preacher didn't shut up soon I was going lose it. Tears streamed down my face. I felt as though I'd been kicked in my stomach. I was holding my aunt's hand to lend my love and support, but at once I was the one in need. I'd lost my Father!!!!

I was shaking, and all of the little wrongs I'd overlooked in the situation suddenly haunted me. I felt wronged by my stepmother. I felt hurt by my uncle's careless comments. I felt alone, even though my own brother was two feet away from me and I was clinging to my aunt's hand over the handle of her wheelchair. Then, I realized that I had also been asked to be a pall bearer. The only thing that I wanted to do was lock myself in a bathroom stall and sob for three hours, but I had to haul my old man's casket into the back of hearse so that he could be cremated (yet another sore point brought under my focus!).

As the treacherous sermon concluded, I assembled my composure and fulfilled my obligation in the ceremony. I then rode in silence back to my father's house to attend a dinner being put together by the neighbors. Memories flooded my mind as I rode shotgun in my brother's truck. I looked back at the rocky relationship that I'd shared with my patriarch. I tried to convince myself that it was better now, and I had a chance to be closer and share more with him than I ever could in life.

But all of my argument seemed hollow. I couldn't sense his presence anymore. Furthermore, my dad had never been supportive in my spiritual development. Over the years, he'd done everything possible to discourage it. He had no faith in what I do or in my ability to do it. I felt absolutely devastated.

I found the rhythm of rote motion at the dinner, making polite conversation and avoiding direct eye contact. It was then that my cousin (who was my father's age and was likely the closest relative he had emotionally) made her way over to me. She pulled me aside to talk.

"I don't feel him here anymore. I think he's passed into the light. It must have happened at the services." Those beautiful words gave me solace and confirmation. However, they didn't provide the acceptance of a father that I was suddenly desiring more than anything else in life.

My cousin then continued. I was fairly dazed for the first portion of her story, which I was sure would be a quaint story of how the two of them had gotten into trouble, as my father did this constantly. As my attention returned to the story though, it had taken a different tone. She was speaking of my father when he was about twelve. She told me that he'd rubbed his sister's pregnant belly, and then suddenly burst into tears. He started screaming that something was wrong with the baby, and that my aunt was in danger.

His parents punished him for upsetting his sister and nothing more was said about the incident. My aunt gave birth to a stillborn baby girl five days later, and contracted an illness that nearly killed her and left her bound to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. After this happened, my father was punished again by his parents. He never spoke of such things again.

This story was news to me. My cousin claimed that she witnessed the whole thing, and that he was never the same again. Then she put her hand on my face and said, "He had more faith than you think though, at least in you he did. He understood more than you think too. I do to."

I cried. Suddenly, I felt a little piece of hope. I felt a little piece of peace. I also felt his presence around me again, this time full, rich and comforting. One of his infamous practical jokes came to mind, and I began to share it with my cousin. As I was doing so, the plastic legs of a chair gave way from under my uncle's ample derriere. Uproarious laughter filled the patio, just as if Dad were there teasing someone.

The droves of relatives returned to their hotels, leaving my brother, step sister and myself on the front porch. My step sister looked awkward and nervous. She stepped inside and returned to the porch with three envelopes. One was for me, another for her and the third for my brother. These were letters from my dad to be opened when he passed.

My brother opened his first. It had three entries on it from three different dates, each about a year apart. We all sobbed as my brother read through the several pages, sharing the words my dad had left him. My step sister opened hers next, sharing several entries and stories that he'd left for her. My envelope suddenly seemed very thin. I was terrified to open it, at the chance that he'd only have disdain and criticism for me. I convinced myself that I didn't want to know what was inside.

My step sister plucked the letter from my catatonic hand, and lovingly opened it while smiling at me. Her gentle smile turned to shock as she spread the edges of the envelope and peered at the contents. She looked at me as if she'd seen a monster. She then pulled a small post it note from inside the envelope, handing it to me while her eyes silently apologized for blow this must have been.

I willfully snatched the note, unfurling it and allowing the tears to clear from my eyes so that I could focus my gaze upon these spiteful words. 'I guess I'll be talking with you! Love Always and Forever, DAD.' Beside these words was a winking smiley face, and a date underneath. It was dated three days after my birthday, which was the day that I'd told him that I was a going to quit my regular job to become a full time psychic reader and medium.

I was very confused for a moment, then that loving presence came over me again. I finally got it! Validation! In death, he finally showed me that he believed in me, in what I do. I cried tears of joy. I quickly tucked the note away in my things and said that it was an inside joke that he always said he'd pull on me (and if you haven't gathered by now, my father is the epitome of practical joker).

Now, I've returned home and sit writing of my experience. I'm sitting awake late at night three days after and five states away from the funeral writing. Hopefully I've shared a rather unique experience. What I'd like you take away from this are a couple of understandings. Change and transition are hard from any angle, even if you deal with the change on a daily basis. No matter how steadfast your beliefs, no matter how strong your convictions, no matter how quintessentially you 'know', your faith can (and should) be challenged.

Spirit will find ways to test your faith in you, in other people and in Spirit itself. Sometimes the trick is to be strong in your faith. Sometimes the trick is to be open to change. The best trick though is to be open of mind and strong of heart, and allow Spirit to finish the message. We may not ever fully understand what is being said, but sometimes that isn't our place. Sometimes our place is to just listen.