my family, would you tell me?”
“Okay,” I answered hesitantly, clearly remembering that I had given the angel in question his walking papers.
Sam repeated his enthusiastic thanks, pushed the elevator button for me, and wished me a good evening. I stood there staring after him as he walked away. He turned the corner and began to whistle as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
I had just received the proof I had been asking for—in spades. As the mirrored doors opened and I stepped inside, I suddenly had a mental flashback of the mother and her young son getting into the same elevator that morning.
“MOM! Did you see that guy disappear in thin air? That was AWESOME!”
The little boy had seen John! Why hadn’t I picked up on that this morning? Even more proof. Maybe I’m not crazy after all!
At that moment, I was overcome with the now-familiar goose bumps sensation. I heard a masculine, disembodied voice say, “Oh, ye of little faith.” John Reid materialized by my side in the elevator. “PMS is right,” he said with his usual handsome grin. “I keep telling them I need hazardous duty compensation.”
“John! I got my proof! Just like you said!”
“Maybe next time you’ll believe me before you jump to conclusions and make false assumptions.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied humbly. “I should have had more faith in you.” Then I had a pivotal realization. “So, I guess—at times—psychic information is not going to resonate inside of us right away—but that’s okay—because it doesn’t mean that it’s wrong . . . right?”
“I’m not quite certain about what you just said, but I think you’re getting the picture,” he replied. “You’ve had a big day today. What you’re going through isn’t easy, is it?”
“No, it isn’t. And everything is happening so fast. But, John, I’m so relieved. Do you know what I realize now? I’m not a crazy person! There’s nothing wrong with me. Even though I talk to you.”
“I am impervious to flattery, I warn you,” he responded dryly. I smiled at him and he smiled back at me.
“And I’m sorry that I interrupted your story. What were you saying earlier about Oscar Meyer?”
“Oscar Wilde,” he corrected me, in a mock lecturing tone.
“Sorry!”
“As I was saying,” he began with hesitation, in the same lecturing tone, as if convinced that the story might be wasted on me. “My friend Oscar and I used to frequent this small theater in London’s West End. Did you know that a very handsome young lady who used to perform there inspired him to write The Importance of Being Ernest?”
“I loved that movie!” I chimed.
John hung his head and looked resigned.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he replied. “Shall I continue?”
“Yes, please!”
“Well, originally, he was going to call it End Over End, but I convinced him otherwise; I didn’t think such a title would appeal to the carriage trade. He was already in quite a bit of trouble over some unfortunate incidents that occurred at a little soiree he had given at his country home—”
“Really?” I asked eagerly. “Like what?”
“Your sensibilities are far too delicate to hear the details,” John chuckled at some distant yet vivid memory. “I’ve never known anyone before or since who could throw a party like Oscar.”
The elevator doors opened and we exited, John still holding court as we walked down the hall to my apartment. I was glad my spiritual companion was back.
Chapter 9
Slowly Building Trust
Under John’s capable guidance, I continued to eagerly explore the process of channeling, and soon my ability to receive angelic information seemed to explode. At this point—without conscious intent—I was receiving intuitive sensations about everyone who came close to me, and this became extremely distracting—especially in business meetings.
In spite of the experience with the doorman, and the fact that I was consistently bombarded with psychic information, I remained insecure about the accuracy of what I was picking up. However, I discovered that if I maintained faith in John, and myself, and in the whole intuitive process as it unfolded, that proof would always be there for me.
One of the most telling psychic experiences I’ve ever experienced happened at that time, and it really helped build my confidence that I was, without question, accessing accurate information. This event reminded me that things are rarely what they seem on the surface.
I was visiting a client in the health care industry. It was a big closed-door meeting attended by more than a dozen people. One of the executives of the company sat on my left. As the meeting got underway, I was shocked by the very unpleasant waves of dangerous sexual energy coming from him. I couldn’t help glancing in his direction. But he appeared as professional as ever. He certainly didn’t have a flirtatious manner like my ex-husband. To the contrary, he had such a dignified demeanor that I was quite unprepared for the intuitive information I was receiving.
My newly found psychic ability was telling me that he was taking sexual liberties with female patients—a huge, inappropriate no-no in his position at the company. Of course, I immediately questioned the information because it seemed so far off the mark based on my prior experience with him and what logic was telling me. It seemed absolutely preposterous! I felt guilty and disloyal to a man who had awarded our little agency with his big, prestigious account, paid his bills on time, and who had shown nothing but respect and appreciation for all of our hard work.
Very shortly thereafter, confirming my psychic information, I received a call from a colleague of his. She told me that he had just been fired for sexual misconduct involving several female patients. She began to worriedly ask about how I was going to handle the potential media scandal—but frankly, all I could think about at that moment was how on-target my intuitiveness had been. It was my first experience in receiving information that appeared completely unbelievable and nonsensical on the surface but was, nonetheless, occurring behind the scenes.
At this point, about six months had gone by. John believed I was ready to learn about my life’s work. Up to that time, in spite of the fact that he knew I loathed advertising and was eager to move on, he had consistently discouraged me from job hunting, indicating that it wouldn’t be necessary. I had absolutely no clue as to what my destiny was, and I was bursting with curiosity. This was the moment I had been waiting for!
Initially, when John revealed the news to me, I was crushed with disappointment. My destiny was to be a channel and a medium? A psychic? I suddenly pictured myself wearing a turban and lots of costume jewelry, working out of a small trailer with a big neon palm outside that proclaimed, I solve all problems of life! Magic potions prepared, voodoo hexes guaranteed, packets of animal by-products available for curse removal . . .
John impatiently interrupted my train of thought by providing a job description of exactly what a medium does. He explained that a medium, or channel, is a conduit, much like a pipe that carries the flow of water. My “water” was going to be the messages from “the other side” that I was going to share with others. What’s more, he told me, like a physician who specializes in a certain area of medicine, channels specialize, too. One of my areas of specialty was going to be accessing specific information from guardian angels and deceased human beings to help a living individual find out about his destiny.
Destiny, he explained, pertained to life’s work, issues to be resolved, the nature of our relationships with other people, finding a soul mate,