Doorway for the Dead
Mediumship can take many forms.
When so many psychic abilities started to hit (with no training) in the early 1990s, one of the talents I found I’d been handed was doorway for the dead.
I’ve always felt that there were some “personality fragments” that get caught in the Grey Spaces — not alive, but not transitioned, either. Often they had a traumatic death (think Ghost), and they can’t seem to find their way into peace and the Light.
That’s where I come in. And interestingly enough, I seem to specialize in soldiers.
In 1994, I was wrestling with finding out about my own past life as a World War I German pilot. When I had visited Verdun in 1992, barely a year after I’d been shown that life, the ghosts were so prevalent that I couldn’t sleep. Verdun was the longest battle of the War, and certainly one of the bloodiest — over 300,000 soldiers lost their lives there between February and December 1916. And the shadows and the whispers were overwhelming.
Imagine trying to sleep where the darkness was never really dark, when shadows would flicker in the corners of the room, and it always sounded like a faint, faint radio program no matter whether you were wide awake or trying to drift off into fitful slumber…
That 1992 visit to the Western Front was both exhilarating and terrifying: exhilarating because I could touch wisps of my own previous incarnation, but terrifying because at that point I had not learned how to put up my shielding so that connecting with the dead would be by choice, not insistence.
So in a sense, I wasn’t surprised when one night, two years later, a German Grabensoldat (trench soldier) showed up in my Atlanta living room. He was young — no more than mid-20s — looking like your typical infantryman of the time.
Except that half his face and skull were blown off.
It didn’t look bloody or grotesque. They simply weren’t there.
He stared at me, confused. But then a voice in my head asked plaintively, “Where am I?”
“Did we win?”
I explained to him, gently, that he was dead. And that it didn’t really matter who won, because the war had been over for 75 years.
We talked then about the need to forgive the person who killed him. And, more importantly, that he forgive himself for killing those whose deaths he caused.
There was bewilderment that moved to grief, and then resignation.
“Now that you understand,” I said, “if you are ready to go Home, we can do that. The only thing that held you here was guilt.”
He nodded. I stood in front of him and opened my arms.
I felt him move into them. I hugged him (not an easy thing with a discarnate) and then my arms collapsed inward — he was in the Light.
Do I always see the dead like this? Not really. Most times they appear as heat shimmers or columns of faintly sparkling light.
The only ones who appear typically ghost-like for me are those who need help crossing over. And I don’t go looking for them. They come to me when they’re ready.
These days, it happens very rarely. Perhaps during my breakthrough period the sign over my head on the Astral was brighter.
But it’s both a heavy responsibility and a deep privilege that I don’t take lightly. And if called on again, I will answer.
Doors to the Light are never locked.