After a while I managed to convince her that it would be much easier for both of us if she simply talked to me. If she felt it necessary to describe how she had passed over, then she should do it quietly and not be so enthusiastic in her description.
This agreed, Aunt Maudie began her story.
She had been living with a man, whom she called her husband, for several years, but for the last two years things between them had been difficult. He had lost his job, which had become redundant, and being unable to cope with the new situation, he had started to drink rather heavily. The inevitable happened. Aunt Maudie started nagging, he in turn drank more, she nagged more. It became a vicious circle.
Then, one night, Aunt Maudie's “husband” came home roaring drunk. I suppose you can guess what happened next. Aunt Maudie decided that enough was enough and began shouting at him to get out of the house. Before she realized what was happening, his hands were clamped tightly round her throat. Then, viciously and with great force, he began to bang her head, again and again, against the wall.
Eventually his strength gave out, and he let go of the once happy, lively body of Aunt Maudie, which, now limp and lifeless, slumped to the floor.
Staggering into the bedroom, he collapsed onto the bed in a drunken stupor and slept soundly for the next few hours. When, the next morning, he found Aunt Maudie's body lying in the middle of the sitting room floor, he was totally stunned and at first couldn't remember what he had done. He was later to give himself up to the police and was eventually found guilty of murder and imprisoned.
Although Aunt Maudie's passing had been violent and traumatic, she herself had been able, with the help of friends and relatives whom she had met on the “other side,” to come to terms with what had happened. She bore her “husband” no malice. In fact, she told me that she felt very sorry for him. Whereas she had had the loving arms of her family waiting to comfort her, he now had nobody, for all his family had turned against him and he was without love.
Emotional upsets leave scars which are, for most of us, the hardest to bear. Aunt Maudie, having lived through this terrifying ordeal, should have been particularly distraught, yet she took great pains to make me understand how she felt so that I could explain to her niece, my client Margaret. Although at first, with the shock of death and then the revelation of a new life, she had been, to use her own words, “a bit of a mess” emotionally she had had a lot of time to come to terms with things. She had received a great deal of help from her loved ones on the “other side.”
“Please,” she said, “tell Margaret that I am now well and very happy with my life.”
There are, I know, many people who are not only seeking evidence that the people they loved have survived death. They also need reassurance that these people are well and happy. Almost everyone who comes to me for a sitting and who makes contact asks, “Is she [or he] happy?”
During this sitting Margaret was given this message by Aunt Maudie: “I am content.”
I have seen Margaret perhaps two or three times since that first memorable sitting, and I know that she feels some peace and has gained a little understanding of life, both on this side and on the “other side.”
She told me that knowing Aunt Maudie has been able to forgive her “husband” for this terrifying deed, she has been able to understand that there are always two sides to every story. Margaret now strives to be more tolerant of other people's shortcomings. She doesn't always succeed, but she tries.
There is, of course, a lesson here for all of us. It is so easy, isn't it, to judge other people and their actions, and most of us are guilty of that. Perhaps we should learn to leave the judgment to God and trust Him to decide what is right and what is wrong. Maybe then we too might learn to feel, like Aunt Maudie: content.
In Stephen Covey's book,
Seven Habits of Highly Effective People,
this phrase says it all:
“Be a light, not a judge.
“Be a model, not a critic.”
S
everal months had passed since Grey Eagle had come into my life. Samantha, now twelve years old, was settling down at school. I was working, taking private consultations, never fewer than three a week and increasing steadily, as by word of mouth my reputation began to grow. Money was my greatest problem, and I often cried and fretted and worried when I was on my own, fearing I wouldn't manage—but for all that, life was good.
It was through Mick McGuire that I came to work at the Stainforth Spiritualist Church. He had decided that the time was right and that I was ready to “stand on the platform”—go public.
“Don't worry,” he said as he broke the news of this engagement to me, “it's only a small church, and there are never many people there. And besides, I will be right there with you.”
Stainforth, although a mere ten miles from where I lived, was a place I had rarely visited and didn't know much about. I had been completely unaware that it even had a spiritualist church until Mick dropped this little bombshell on me.
Mick continued, “You don't have a thing to worry about,” he said. “I'll give the philosophy and all you have to do is give some clairvoyance.”
As I knew that I would have to get my feet wet sometime, I nervously agreed to go, consoled by the fact that my friend had stressed not many people would be there to witness my first public appearance.
The fateful Sunday arrived all too soon, and at four o'clock that afternoon, having been jittery all day, I went upstairs, had a bath, and went through to the bedroom to get changed.
Even though my guide had reassured me again and again, I had been on edge all day. I kept telling myself that Grey Eagle would be there and everything would go well, and in some part I had managed to convince myself. In fact, as I sat down at the dressing table to put on my makeup, I was quite pleased with the way I was handling the situation. I was keeping my nerves under control. Or so I thought.
Then I looked in the mirror—and gasped in horror at the sight before my eyes. I was looking at a face that was almost unrecognizable to me.
Huge red lumps had appeared across my cheeks, making my nose look as if it were in the wrong place. My neck and shoulders had developed into a great swollen, salmon-pink blob, and as I watched, more lumps and bumps began forming on my forehead. From my shoulders up I was looking at one great big, blotchy red mess.
Oh, my God! I thought, my heart sinking into my boots. What on earth can I do?
Well, I tried cream, and makeup, then more cream, and more makeup. But the more I tried to cover up the mess, the worse it got, and time was running out.
Eventually, with no more time to spare, I gave up, dressed quickly, and without even a backward glance in the mirror, went out.
By the time I got into the car I looked like a very lumpy red balloon. I drove to Stainforth to meet Mick, all the time muttering to myself and to Grey Eagle that at least I would be noticed, if nothing else.
Mick took one look at my face and burst out laughing, which only made matters worse than they already were.
“I knew you would be nervous,” he said, chuckling, “but I didn't expect you to be as bad as this.”
He had known immediately what had caused the rash. My seemingly calm exterior had hidden my true feelings. I was terrified.
Most spiritualist churches run on a shoestring, and speakers go around the country, working without pay, claiming only traveling expenses. All of the churches I have ever worked in support themselves on a voluntary basis, and this church was no exception. The Stainforth Spiritualist Church building is a very small place, not much more than a barn. It is very easy to miss, as it is set back off the road and insignificant looking to boot. Only when you step in the door and feel the love and warmth inside it do you have any indication that it is a church at all.
When we arrived most of the congregation were already there, about a dozen adults in all, and I was quaking.
Well, I needn't have worried, because things went very smoothly, and I actually enjoyed myself. First of all we sang a hymn, then Mick took over and talked to the small group about his beliefs and how working as a healer had given him a greater understanding of what Christ had meant about loving others as yourself.
I listened intently, forgetting for a time how nervous I was, until he introduced me to the audience. “Here is someone very special with a very special gift, which she would now like to demonstrate to you,” he said.
I stood up shakily, very aware that I was trembling and trying hard not to show it. I searched the room for my first communicator, that person in the spirit world who would like to give a message through me to one of our “flock.” Soon I began to work, making clear and positive connections with many waiting souls, and my nervousness disappeared as I simply got on with the job that I had been born to do. And the rash? Well, that stayed with me for three or four days.
A few days later I received a phone call from the president of the Hatfield Young Farmers Club. Hatfield is another small village that backs onto Stainforth.
News travels fast.
“Are you Rosemary Altea, the lady who does fortune-telling?” the young man asked.
“No,” I replied. “But I am Rosemary Altea who is a medium.”
“Ah yes, well”—he coughed—“someone I know has mentioned to me that you do ‘this sort of thing’ and that you don't charge. My committee and I were wondering if you would be interested in coming to Hatfield to give our group a talk.”
“Yes, of course I will,” I heard myself say. And then and there we made the arrangements.
I wanted to know how many people he would expect to come and what age group I would be dealing with. I also tried to ensure that he knew what he would be letting himself in for.
He told me that the membership was mixed, girls as well as boys, and that age varied from fifteen-year-olds to thirty-year-olds. As for numbers, I should expect probably around twenty people to be there.
At that stage in my life twenty people seemed a lot. Putting down the phone, I turned to Mick, who had just arrived for the Wednesday circle.
“Did you hear that?” I asked. “Did you hear what I just did? I've just agreed to give a talk. You will come with me, won't you?”
He laughed. “Yes, of course I'll come with you.”
When I arrived at the community center where the talk was to be held, I was amazed to see so many people assembled. At least thirty-five were there, all in their late teens and early twenties. It was also a surprise for me to discover that I had been booked as the “mystery speaker,” which meant that no one there, except the committee, would be expecting a medium.
I looked at the scrap of paper that contained the speech I had struggled to prepare, such as it was, and realized how empty the words seemed. Taking a deep breath, I crumpled it up, braced myself, and walked onto the stage.
At first I was very nervous, but courage came, and before long I began to settle down. What really broke the ice, and gave me complete attention from my young audience, was this:
In an attempt to help them understand about mediumship, I explained some of the different ways that those in spirit can come through to communicate. “Sometimes,” I said, “I see them as clearly as I see you. At other times I may see no more than a shadow, or I will see someone quite well, but from a distance. There are times,” I continued, “when I won't see a person, but I will hear them quite clearly.”
I also told them that many people, not just mediums, can often sense the presence of spirit. Then I asked, “How many of you here have felt someone standing behind you?”
Well, I had hardly got the sentence out before the whole place was in an uproar. My audience had taken the sentence literally and were laughing at the thought of “feeling” someone—or anyone, for that matter— standing next to them. The color came up in my face, which seemed only to delight them even more. Of course, it didn't take me long to realize how they had taken what I'd said.
I looked at this group of seemingly unruly kids, who were laughing all the more at my discomfort and embarrassment, and then I began to laugh. Grey Eagle was laughing, too.
“Have you ever ‘felt’ anyone?” I spluttered to myself, and then this group of young people saw that I, too, was laughing, laughing with them, and they began to clap.
A few cheered, but they all clapped, and it took several minutes before we all settled down and I was able, once more, to continue with the demonstration. From then on I had their complete and undivided attention as I made connections again and again with relatives and loved ones in the spirit world, and we all enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.
In fact, it was one of the best demonstrations I have ever given—many people from the spirit world came through to communicate—and it was one of the nicest groups I have ever had to work with.
I continued with my private consultations, becoming busier and busier, and some twelve months later I received another phone call from the same Young Fanners Association, asking me if I would please come back to see them again and do another demonstration.
But this time I was not booked as the “mystery speaker,” and more than just a few youngsters came for the night out. There were people of all ages, old and young. Word had obviously gone round, and I found myself with an audience of about two hundred people, all of them curious about me and eager to hear more about the kind of work I did.
It was that demonstration that seemed to trigger things, and before many weeks passed I was inundated with calls. Requests came flooding in from women's institute groups, schools, and churches, and I went from strength to strength, gaining experience all the time. Always Grey Eagle was with me, always guiding, reassuring, encouraging me forward.
The first school I went to also stands out clearly in my mind. Mick McGuire had once again agreed to come with me, to hold my hand. Although by now I ought to have gained more confidence, I was still very apprehensive about standing on stage. What if my mind went blank or if I said something wrong? Worse still, what if those in spirit deserted me, what then? Every time I faced an audience, small or large, these thoughts raced through my mind, leaving me feeling sick and jittery.