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Published in Nonfiction
A brief flash, like a movie, rolled before my eyes, fast but very clear. This was all I had, but it was enough to tell me that someone was waiting to deliver a message.
As I watched the "film," the vision, I heard shouting and saw a young man, taken at gunpoint by two youths and forced into a car. For now, this was all I saw and heard.
Who was he? Who were they? I knew it was my job to find out.
I was in New York, giving a lecture, my audience of more than twelve hundred all wanting something special from me. My larger audience, those in the spirit world, trusting me. Trusting that I would do my best.
Michelle and Ken Martin were there that night. Their anticipation and desperation for a message was great, as their eldest son had been tragically murdered.
Neither of them had been to such an event before, and they had no idea what to expect. Having heard of me, having read my first book, Michelle had felt a desperate urgency to find me, and the couple had traveled from Colorado to New York with the single hope of somehow contacting their son. Theirs was the first boy I connected with, but it took me a while to figure it out, as you will see.
"My name is David ... Michael ... Michael ... David." I heard the voice, but I was confused. Was he saying he was Michael David, or was he David Michael, or more confusing, did I have two young men in the spirit world trying to communicate? I tried again, and this time I saw a young man about eighteen or nineteen years old.
"Ha, good for you," I said, sending my encouragement as I went into my audience. "I'm hearing the name David Michael," I said, and was stunned at the amount of hands that went up throughout the crowd. "In his late teens, early twenties, he died very tragically."
Most of the hands stayed up, so I knew I had my work cut out for me. This could be tough. So many people wanting messages, and I had to discover who it was that David or Michael, or both, wanted to speak to.
"My son's name is David, he died two years ago," called out one woman. "His brother is Michael."
"My son's name is Michael David," called out a man from the back row. "He died three months ago."
A couple to my left, clutching each other, crying, called, " Our son is David, he was killed just a few weeks ago."
Then others began to call out, and for a moment there was utter confusion as desperate parents called out for their children, hoping against hope for a message.
It took a while to sort things out, as first I had to calm everyone down. Finally, we had quiet while I tried to see where I must go.
"Okay," I said, "I need to speak to anyone who has lost a Michael or a David, in his late teens, who is the parent of that boy." I was sure that this would narrow it down, but I was mistaken, as about ten couples raised their hands. This was time to call for Grey Eagle. He'll know what to do, I thought.
"Where should I go?" I asked him, confident that he would show me, and to my surprise, he said, "You speak to all of them." They are all here, all sons, waiting to talk with their parents.
"But what if I get them mixed up?" I asked, a little confused, yet knowing even as I voiced the question that I would have help sorting things out. I was right, of course, and it was easier than I thought it would be, for as I asked the parents to step up onto the stage, I could see each of their sons quite clearly standing beside them.
" I'm David. I was killed in a car accident," said one, and as he spoke, I witnessed the accident as he described it to me, saw the car skid around a bend in the road, watched as it turned over and rolled down the bank. "It was very sudden, very quick," he said. "Tell my mom and dad, Rosemary, that I felt no pain. Please give my love to my brother Michael, and tell him I watch over him. That I'm with him always."
David's parents, nodding, held on to each other, tears raining down their faces, a little peace entering their hearts.
Then the next boy. "I'm Michael David, I was killed on a motorbike." And again, a flash, an insight, as I saw the bike spinning off to the side of the road. Saw as it hit the tree.
" I'm Michael, my dad's name is David," said another. "I died from a brain tumor." Another flash, and I saw the boy as he lay in the hospital bed before he died.
"I'm David, I want to speak to my dad," came from yet another of the boys.
On and on it went, until all the boys had given messages, messages of hope and love, and clear evidence of their survival.
My audience was riveted. So was I, and each time one of my communicators spoke, I saw a flash, a film, some kind of playback, as if I were present at the scene of their passing and their lives here on earth. Sometimes one message overflowed into another, and I had to ask the Davids and Michaels to try not to interrupt each other. "It's difficult enough"---I laughed at them---"without you making it more confusing. Please just speak to me one at a time, if you can, and try not to butt in on each other's conversations." But it was hard for them. They were excited, and they all had so much they wanted to say.
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