Mediumship: A Complement to Traditional Grief Supportsam
by Roger Hardnock
When a loved one passes on, we typically find comfort in the arms of family and friends, in support groups, through grief counseling, and in our place of worship. But what happens when our broken heart needs something deeper and more profound than those kind words and a sympathetic ear? What if we yearn for a greater sense of certainty—that our loved one really is free of pain, and actually at peace in that better place?[ad name=”AdSense Responsive”]
During a session with an Evidential Medium, departed loved ones are given a channel by which to come back—in spirit. Through the medium, they share evidence that validates their presence, and give examples of how they are still present in our lives. They share personal messages that would otherwise never be heard. Most Evidential Mediums consider this work a divine calling—a sacred gift—to be able to offer relief to those who have lost someone dear: a parent, spouse, friend or even a child.
The following transcript comes from an actual mediumship session.
The image of a young boy appears out of the darkness behind my closed eyes; faint and delicate—like the residue of a dream. I speak into the phone that is held close to my ear and describe what is unfolding before me. “I see a boy wearing a baseball cap, running barefoot across a large, grassy lawn. He is happy and energetic, and I sense his love of baseball. Do you recognize this boy?”
“Yes,” the voice on the phone replies. “I know who you are talking about.”
The scene changes abruptly.
“There is a white farmhouse,” I say, “with a large covered porch, and steps that go right down into the grass.”
“Yes, that’s right,” the voice says. “That was his house.”
“There is a woman running out of the house,” I continue, “down the steps and across the lawn. She is screaming out in horror, but I can’t hear her voice. I feel her panic in my body though; something bad has happened.” Why is she running? I ask myself—feeling deeper for the answer. I see the boy again. He is no longer running, but standing in the grass, looking back at me. His hands are at his throat—then he lowers them slowly to his chest. A realization hits me—hard. I struggle to breathe—overcome by a feeling of sadness. “This boy died,” I say.
There is a pause on the line, then, “Yes.”
“He was young, only eight years old,” I say. “There was an accident.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
I feel the emotions coming through the phone, but the grief is faded and distant—not what I expect. An inner knowing feeds me the answer. “But he didn’t die recently,” I say. “It has been a while.”
“Yes,” the voice confirms. “A while.”
I don’t ask for more. I know that it is my job to provide him with the evidence, not the other way around. I focus again on the boy, and ask him how he died. He doesn’t show me, exactly, but his hands return to his throat. I feel pressure in my own throat and down into my chest. I hear “water,” and then I know.
“He drowned,” I say.
“The woman running from the house—that was his mother,” I add. “She was trying to save him, but it was too late, right?”
The confirmations coming through the phone make it clear that the evidence I’m receiving is valid. I am connecting with a young boy who loved baseball, and who had drowned accidentally at the age of eight. And his passing was not recent. But my session with the man on the phone is not complete. I have solid evidence, but I know that this boy is not appearing before me only to provide proof of his presence, or to rehash the final, tragic moments of his young life. No, he has come forth to share a message to his family, and that is where my focus goes. Now, instead of “looking,” I begin to ask—and “listen.”
In my mind, I ask him to share a message, and I feel his energy lighten. He is no longer the boy that had drowned, but a light, energetic spirit that is now free of his physical body. He tells me that he loved his short life. He regrets that it was not longer, and that his passing has caused his mother and his family so much grief. He is very happy where he is now, and there was no pain in his passing. I share this word-for-word with the person on the phone, who listens quietly. I have no idea what he is thinking, but I sense that we are in the midst of very special connection.
The boy then says something that catches me off-guard. Even though I have learned over the years to not edit or hold back the messages I receive, this one seems insensitive to me, and I feel uncomfortable sharing it. I want to believe that I just interpreted it wrong. But that is not possible—I heard it, clear as day. His message was: “Tell everyone that I know how to swim now.” I take a nervous breath, share the message—and wait.
I learn that the man on the phone is the boy’s uncle. After a brief pause to gather his thoughts, he again validates the evidence I have given him, including those final words. He tells me that was exactly the way his nephew was; he was always joking and playing around, and nothing could cause him to lose his infectious sense of humor. He was eight years old when he drowned many years before. His mother saw him in the pool that day and rushed out to save him, but she was too late. My “sitter” then tells me how grateful he is to receive such convincing evidence, things that I could not possibly have known, and how he now believes that his nephew is not only around, but still his same playful, joking self.
As a complement to traditional grief support, experienced Evidential Mediums offer a service that is truly unique. The evidence and messages that come through make a mediumship session a wonderful place to find peace and healing.
A few weeks after the session above, I received an email from the young boy’s uncle. He told me that the previous weekend was the 20th anniversary of his nephew’s death, and the family had gathered in his memory. He shared with the family the details of our session. He told me how grateful they were to me for bringing Charlie through, and sharing his messages. The evidence had brought them greater peace, knowing that Charlie is still the same happy, fun-loving personality they all so fondly remember.