After being taught how to close my channel by a psychic medium, going outside on my own became a bit less daunting each time. However, the concept of opening my channel on cue was something I was still not able to fully comprehend. Instead, it was as though I was just waiting for the impending cloud of anxiety that would demand me to open it.
Nearly every time I was alone with another adult, the familiar pressure would start pushing in asking me to share messages. Numerous stylists at the Dry Bar received mini readings as I tried not to shout too loudly over the blow dryer. Once, while having lunch with a friend and our two babies, her dad pushed through. He shared his messages of love as well as highlighted a pair of sunglasses and her husband. Although the messages didn’t make any logical sense to me, the nudging to share overtook the fear of being wrong.
Her damp eyes went wide with surprise, “the one thing my husband took from my dad’s house was a pair of sunglasses.”
I began to realize that it wasn’t my job to make sense of the messages but just to share without trying to interpret how they made sense.
Just as I began to navigate letting go of the control over sharing messages while not knowing what they meant, I walked past my newly-widowed neighbor’s patio. She was sitting outside with a couple of friends and she introduced us. Although I didn’t catch the wife’s name, the husband’s name, Stephen, stuck with me but I wasn’t sure why.
Right after meeting them, I put my little one down for a nap and jumped in the shower, my first chance to be alone for the day. As soon as the warm water poured over me, the familiar pressure moved in and my deceased next door neighbor’s voice appeared.
“Tell SteVen he’s like a brother to me,” the male voice echoed above my ears.
Oh, I replied in my head, my memory tugging at me that I heard this same message before but had shared it with another friend, assuming it was her father speaking to me. She hadn’t known of a Steven so I quickly dropped the message, embarrassed for it not making sense.
“SteVen,” came through again as I quickly rinsed the soap out of my hair, a large V appearing above the the name each time he said it, followed by the sound of laughter.
Still sopping wet, I jumped out of the shower, eager to text my neighbor. As I reached for my phone a message from her appeared.
“Stephen was so happy to meet you,” she had written. “He was one of my husband’s best friends.”
My heart hammered as my thumbs navigated through the texts I had originally sent to my other friend when I believed the messages were from her dad.
“I thought these messages were for someone else,” I typed, “but I am realizing now they were for you to tell Stephen that he was like a brother to your husband.”
The pressure pushed in stronger as the V appeared again, “but,” I hesitantly wrote out, the urge stronger than the resistance, “he keeps highlighting that it’s spelled Steven not Stephen, and laughs each time, like it’s some kind of inside joke.”
Placing my phone face down on the counter, the impending text bubbles too much for my pounding pulse chest, my mind took over, What are you doing? It shouted at me, convinced that the phrase less is more was something I should probably start doing in regards to sharing messages.
“Oh my goodness,” she typed back. “Stephen always introduces himself as Stephen with a P-H because you can’t call a Stephen- a Steve. He’s crying over here, we all are. The one thing he asked for was a sign from his best friend.”
My eyes welled right along with theirs, a deep self trust seeping in as I began to realize it wasn’t about being right or wrong, it was about simply sharing what I saw in that exact moment.
Even though I had no idea what my future would hold, a part of me knew that this was just the beginning and that trusting each sign as they appeared was not only for others, but also for myself.
To be continued next week, sign up for my newsletter to receive it first!