Thirty-eight Books of the Bible make reference to psychic ability as a gift from the Holy Spirit.  And yet, many Christians, in particular, pooh-pooh clairvoyance as the subterfuge of demons.   Perhaps that is why they are more open to accepting signs or omens from forces they attribute as external, such as angels.

For the uninitiated, signs or omens are portents of danger lurking in the shadows.  Akin to electronic early warning systems, they are designed to keep us, and those around us, safe from harm.  Sometimes, a sign or an omen can also serve as a guidepost along the oft-darkened road of life.

The day before Christmas Eve of this year, I received one of the latter signs.  I was en route to the vet with my beloved older kitty, Gremlin, who had already been examined by three vets — none of whom could put their fingers on the source of her ailment.   As I sat with my husband in the waiting room of the state-of-the-art veterinary hospital, I glanced around, wondering which humans waiting with us might struggle to pay the vet’s bill that day.

The very thought broke my heart; I would sell the blood in my veins to get the proper treatment for Gremlin and I think most humans would do the same for their pets.

The minute we’d entered the practice, I had donated a dozen cans of expensive, prescription cat food back to the on-site pharmacy, for the express purpose of having them gifted to those who could not afford them.  I’d also startled the women behind the pharmacy counter by asking, very quietly, which of the people in the waiting room might have difficulty paying their bill today.  Because they did not know of any single case, I then placed a donation into the clear acrylic box, the box whose coffers were used to assist in the diagnosis and treatment of pets whose humans were in dire economic straits.  Pin no medals on me, for I was simply moved to do so.

Although my donation was larger than the single dollar bills already crammed into the box, I wished to do something more.  If only I hadn’t lost my little purse last fall, I mused, the one with my emergency money.  I’d looked high and low for that little purse, which contained not quite two hundred dollars.

For as long as I can remember, I’d always kept a little emergency stash, for “just in case.”  When I’d lost the purse months earlier, I even went through my trash, not so much for the money but for the purse, which had sentimental value.   It was not in the trash; it was not in one of my other handbags; it was not in my car.  It wasn’t anywhere.

In the car, I’d gone down on my hands and knees, poking under the seats with a coat hanger.  I’d unearthed gum wrappers, a few coins, and an old playbill, but no purse.  I moved the seats and checked the areas covered by them.  I investigated the glove compartment and every pocket in the car.  Nada.   The purse, by the way, was bright orange.  In the shape of a pumpkin, it was sequined and lined in matching orange silk.  It wasn’t an easy thing to lose, as its color was vivid and its little sequins caught and refracted the light.

In the vet’s office, I thought that if I hadn’t lost my purse, I would have emptied it into the clear acrylic box, to help out another pet lover.

We left with bad news about Gremlin, the kind of news you don’t see coming; the kind that leaves you blindsided, shocked, and making deals with God.   Riding home in stunned, silent hell, my husband suddenly said, “By the way, you must have dropped that little orange purse of yours in the car. It’s on the side of the passenger seat next to the console.  You can probably see it from the back seat, where you are with Gremlin.”

In disbelief, I stared at the spot he’d indicated.  I had gone over this car, months ago, with a fine-toothed comb.  There was no way that the purse could have become lodged there, for it was wedged in too deeply and too tightly for even my small fingers to budge.  I could not have put it there if I’d tried.  But there it lay, rammed in, sparkling like a flattened tangerine against the deep gray interior of the car.  Later, I retrieved the purse, but it took both my husband and me working together to dislodge it.  I looked at the liberated purse and knew that something else was at work here, something bigger, something more evolved than me.

If whatever messenger had placed it there had truly wanted me to make the larger donation, it would have allowed me to see the purse as I sat in the back seat en route to the vet, not on the way home.  But, the messenger had waited, perhaps testing my worthiness, until I’d donated the cat food and some cash to a needy pet-lover’s cause.  It was as if whoever had retrieved my lost purse, from literally God knew where, was telling me, “Here is a gift for you.  What was lost is now found.”

In light of Gremlin’s medical condition, I took a deep breath at this sign and paused.  Surely, this had to have been a positive omen that somehow, we could help her.  Three days later, against all odds, we found that our sweet kitty had gained three ounces over the long Christmas weekend.  Three ounces may not sound like much, but when one’s cat has lost three pounds, it’s a small, welcome miracle.  As I write this, my husband is researching homeopathic treatments for our cherished little cat, an avenue we’d never before explored.  So, we are hoping for the best.

Maybe the inexplicable reappearance of the purse was only the angels’ way of reminding me that we are all of us looked after and guided from above, even when we are ailing, even when we are small, non-human creatures.  Maybe it was only meant to bring me some small solace.  Whatever it was, I’m grateful for that sign.

This article will be far too long for the average reader if I cite chapter and verse about every single sign or omen I’ve gotten in my lifetime.  So I’ll just mention one more.

Years ago, basking in the sun at the beach with my family and dozing lightly, a voice in my head ordered me to open my eyes and look straight ahead.  As I did, a tiny, red headed boy toddled across my path, dragging behind him a very small surfboard.  I cast my gaze behind me, thinking to see his parents or grandparents in his wake.  But there was no one on that crowded beach claiming that lone child.

Stunned, I watched him toddle on chubby legs, heading straight for the water.  It was as if the kid was driven.

When you go after that kid and bring him back to the blanket, when you contact the police, the mental devil in my head advised, when they delve into your background, they’ll discover that you cannot have children.  They’ll think you set out to kidnap this child, or that you did away with his parents!  Meanwhile, my mental angel of the New York mouth spat, “The hell with that!  This is a helpless child, for God’s sake! What are you thinking?!?“

 

Immediately, I rose from my chaise lounge, imploring my family’s help.  They only mouthed back at me the very words of my mental devil!  Undeterred, I followed the little boy down to the water’s edge.  We were on a beach to which there was no access unless one paid to enter.  Ergo, there were lifeguards on duty, always … except for that one particular day!

Panic drove the heart up my throat, for I could not swim and the child was inches from the shore.  All around us, children and adults cavorted gleefully, in poignant counterpoint to the ache and fear in my heart.  They were ignorant of our dilemma and a moment later, I understood that they actually wanted to be.

“Oh, thank God!” piped up a woman from right beside me.  “Is he yours?”

“No! I saw him all by himself and I followed him down here.”

“Well, the same thing happened to me.  I looked, but his parents are nowhere in sight.  Neither are the lifeguards today; how odd!  He’ll drown if nobody watches out for him, poor kid.  Good thing you’re here.  Well, good luck with him, then.”

“Wait!” I cried, too ashamed to holler, on a crowded beach, that I couldn’t swim a stroke at the retreating back of the strange, apathetic woman.

The kid came abreast of me, determined as only three-year-olds can be.  He lay his little surfboard in the water and I swear, he was no more than three years old.  Jesus, help me, I implored inside my head.  Give me the right words to say to this child, not to frighten him, but to get him to come back with me to my umbrella, where we can call the police.

 

I’m not exactly sure of what I said to the boy, but whatever it was, it put suspicion immediately into his eyes.  My heart sank.  If I grabbed him and hauled him onto the sand, if he screamed and kicked and we drew a suddenly interested crowd, surely I’d be arrested for attempted kidnapping.  As I prepared to wrestle the kid onto the sand, still nattering away at him, his blue eyes squinted up at me.  Silently, he pulled the surfboard from the water.  Refusing to take my hand but miraculously allowing me to lead him, we walked side by side up the burning sands until we came within a few yards of my umbrella and my lackadaisical family.

Instantly, a gruff, beefy man appeared out of nowhere.  “There you are!” he admonished the child, as if the boy’s foray down to the water had been the kid’s fault!   “Who are you?” I demanded at once.  “Why, I’m his father, that’s who I am!” the oaf thundered.  I ignored him and looked down at the child.  “Do you know this man?”  The little boy nodded once, but there was no joy in the reunion.  “Daddy,” was all he said.

A thousand words bloomed and died on my tongue.  I wanted to ask that father if he knew how lucky he was to have had a child.  I wanted to say, “If I were a rat bastard instead of the person I am, I could have snatched your boy in a heartbeat and been halfway to Philly by now!”   I only said what came out instinctively: “Thank God!”

Thank God, indeed.  Had the voice in my head — the sign, the omen — not alerted me to wake up and look in the right direction, God only knows what may have happened to that little boy that day.

Do you have a compelling story about a sign or an omen that either saved you or another person from harm, or uplifted you to face another day?  If so, please share it with us. 

Related Articles:

 

Paranormal State

 

Angel on an Icy Road: A Near Death Experience

 

Read My Palm

 

Do Angels Exist?

 

Seances, Psychics, and Ghost Hunters: Smoke and Mirrors or the Real Deal?

 

Love Never Dies

 

The Mystery of the Veiled Ring

 

For Whom the Clock Chimes: A Paranormal Tale

 

A True Tale of Things that Go Bump in the Night…and the Day!

 

Throughout my twelve years of Catholic school, I’d been taught to avoid fortunetellers like the plague, for some were thought to do the work of the devil.  But, like the length of my uniform skirts and the friends with whom I hung out, I didn’t give much credence to what the nuns had preached.  From the time that I could read fluently, I had researched — through books and whenever possible, personal experiences — palmistry, tarot card readings, phrenology, ghosts/spirits, seances, Egyptology, the Loch Ness monster, UFO’s, lycanthropy, vampirism, astral travel, meditation, tea leaf readings, and Eastern theosophy.

Imagine my astonishment when, a few years ago, my research uncovered the fact that the gift of prophesy is not only mentioned in 38 of the 66 books of the standard Bible, it is deemed to be a gift from the Holy Spirit!   While the Bible differentiates between the practice of consulting charlatans versus those who demonstrate true psychic ability, and issues warnings against the former, it is sometimes difficult, in this life, to discern the between the two.

As a child, I remember reading that virtually every human being is born with a sixth sense, the capacity to predict future events with a reasonable degree of accuracy.  The general consensus was that psychic ability was a type of survival mechanism, and that it could be cultivated if one removed from one’s self, as much as possible, from negative events and persons.

Later, I learned that the discipline of meditation enhanced one’s clairvoyance.  By meditation, I refer to focused and frequently practiced spiritual meditation, not the type designed simply to reduce one’s stress level.

I had my first, unplanned reading as a young woman in her early twenties. I’d been seeing two young men at the same time, and was very much interested in the one we’ll call Dave; in fact, Dave and I wound up getting formally engaged.  Romping through New York City’s East Village one Saturday night with friends, including Sam, the other guy I’d been seeing, we stumbled upon a storefront card reader, replete with the headscarf, gold hoop earrings, and crystal ball.  Everyone thought would be fun to consult her.

Approaching this as a lark, I was shocked to discover that the woman who was not much older than myself saw me with the two men: one blonde (Sam) and one dark (Dave).  She finished the reading almost in shock, saying that although I’d come far in my career for one so young and otherwise had a good head on my shoulders, I’d insisted upon falling in love with Dave, who would “bring me to ruin.”   Well, I was far from ruined, but Dave and I did split up and the schism, at the time, was deeply painful.

For years, this experience haunted me.  How had she known?  She had to have been very gifted, I’d supposed.

But further investigation enabled me to understand that “all of the information is already out there” and it’s just a matter of tapping into it.  Also, a psychic can read a subject more accurately if that subject approaches him or her with an open mind or at least, a generally positive mindset.  Not all clients do, despite their strong desire to be read.  Against my better judgment, and because I’d been pestered to do so, I had once referred a very difficult person to an excellent psychic.  Thoroughly exasperated, the clairvoyant later told me, “He’s enough to make you want to throw away your cards!”

The second reader into whom I ran — quite literally — was sitting, oddly enough, at a little card table on a quiet corner just off New York’s Little Italy.  She, too, had the scarf and the gold hoops, but no crystal ball: just a pack of regular playing cards and a very quiet, slightly amused air, as if she’d known I was about to barrel right into her.

I’d gone to the Feast of San Gennaro with the man I would eventually marry, and remembering well the incident with the first psychic, refused her offer to read my cards!   However, my future husband was very much interested.  His was a short reading, and all I remember was that she’d told him that he had an honest woman in his life, a very honest woman, and that she wasn’t sure if he could handle her.  Considering that the woman was me and that my husband is still wondering, after all these years, what to do with me, I’d say that reader was also dead on!

The next reader and I crossed paths like ships in the night, and this, she foretold, was through destiny (and thereby hang tales too long for this article).  She nailed every physical ailment in my body in the first few seconds — though I had not thought to consult her about those — and then she picked up the brochure of my realtor that I’d brought for her to see.  I was in the process of moving to Jersey and the reader, whose name was Christie, intoned, “There is a job for you across the other side of a covered bridge.”  Neither one of us understood what this meant (yes, spirits do move through genuine psychics), but months later, the light dawned.  My realtor’s office was located at the foot of a sort of covered bridge … one that enabled foot traffic over a busy highway … directly across from the writing job I’d landed!   This was just one of the many things that Christie had predicted, that later came to pass.

Bonnie, whom I met next and befriended, added to my education.  She was the first one I’d known to use a tarot deck other than the original Waite deck familiar to most of us.  The deck she used was called The Rose Deck; it was dark and beautiful, with intricate artwork.  The Rose Deck was but one of many different designs that I would later access through other readers.  Bonnie explained that she used the tarot only as an icebreaker, as some clients were not comfortable with her just pulling their most intimate secrets out of the ether.

This lady explained that when her beloved grandmother had passed on, she was a young child of four.  On the night of the day that her grandmother was laid to rest, Bonnie’d dreamed that her gran had appeared to her, advising her that, at the age of twelve, the young girl would come into the gift of prophecy.  As foretold, that is exactly what happened to Bonnie.  Fascinated with the planets and their influences, she studied astrology and was gifted in this form of reading as well.

Eventually, the accuracy of her work came to the attention of law enforcement agencies in both New York and New Jersey … and I’m talking about both State and local levels.  Often grudgingly by Bonnie, who abhorred violence, her talents were utilized in cracking major cases.  To protect her privacy, I’ll just tell you that these cases all made the headlines in their day: murder, kidnapping, and theft of a large fortune.

Bonnie also had the uncanny ability to simply touch an object and “read” its owner.  One night over dinner in a restaurant, she’d admired an emerald bracelet my husband had given me and reached across the table to stroke it.  Immediately, she got that glazed look in her eye that I’d come to know and began telling me very personal things about a certain in-law that I had never shared with her!  An in-law that had only touched that bracelet once!

Kit, a.k.a. Katherine, was another lovely reader, an older, deeply spiritual woman lauded by the Catholic Church for her continuous contributions to the community.  Kit, in my experience, was an anomaly in that she was a devout Catholic who also practiced as a psychic.  Among the many things that this wife and mother foretold in two readings, she saw me following a certain musician, approximately two years before I’d ever heard his name.  She also spoke of the wonderful friendships, travels, and experiences that my following him would bring me.

A few years later, Trish saw me journeying to the city of that musician’s birth, and the adventures — and great music — that awaited me there, and the good friend with whom I’d traveled.

Most recently, a very nice lady named Robin, who shares my love of music, foresaw me being asked by Sneak Attack, The Counting Crows’ media representatives, to cover one of their recent concerts.  She did not name the band by name but intimated that it was a large, well-respected, well-known act.

If your curiosity is peaked and you wish to consult a psychic, I have but two bits of advice to give you, which I myself have followed.   Seek a psychic, please, through the recommendation of someone that you trust.  And then feel that psychic out.  As I’d learned long ago, we are all indeed born with at least a modicum of clairvoyance, so use yours.  You want a reader who is spiritual; one who believes in a Higher Power, and a positive power.  Anyone who gives you another sort of vibe, avoid at all costs.