The Festival Of Tree’s Ghost Boy

I got paid twenty dollars for my first reading. I promptly turned around and gave it away, because I sensed the woman I did the reading for was actually a racist who couldn’t wait to tell her friends at church about me, but sort of wished she could tell them she was lucky to meet a “white enough” psychic to give her her first ever message from THE OTHER SIDE. You can not win at this life game, can you?

The Festival Of Tree’s is an event held by Primary Children’s Hospital every December, in honor of children who have passed on from Leukemia, Cancer, and other serious illnesses. The distraught parents, friends, and other family members gather to auction off a tree in honor of their loved one, and in hopes of raising enough money to cure childhood illness. Every tree is unique, specifically designed for the child who is an Angel in Heaven now. The tree I stopped at had Yellow in abundance. Apparently the child had loved the color.

One strand of Spongebob lights hung awkwardly out of place on the tree, but I said nothing.

The woman who would receive my message was busily hanging more lights as we stared at her hard work, and obvious amounts of love and money that went into such a creation. She was oblivious to me, until I had the sudden overwhelming urge to ask her why she had chosen the damn Spongebob lights!

She looked at me strange, but replied that they were yellow and therefore matched the rest of the decorations on the tree. I said, to my own surprise, “but he didn’t really like Spongebob, did he?” I hoped I wasn’t being rude, it felt urgent, and uncomfortable to stay silent when such a catastrophe was taking place right before my very eyes. Imagine the nerve of this woman stringing Spongebob lights all over this otherwise perfect tree!

She stopped moving, looked up at me, and dropped her jaw. I continued, “He doesn’t really like Spongebob. He’s like “mom! You know I don’t like Spongebob!”

After a moment of silence she answered, finally understanding what was happening to her, ” No, he didn’t.” I continued, “you bought them at the last minute, didn’t you?” She shook her head yes, and explained that she knew her son who had passed away a year before hadn’t liked the character and she’d hesitated to buy them.

The little boy’s energy (which in my opinion, is really all a ghost or spirit is) ran around me in circles, to the point that I became dizzy. “He’s running around me in circles!” I exclaimed, laughing at the thin air to those who can’t see small ghost boys in their minds eyes or in person. Her mouth hung open, she finally replied, “He used to do that all the time! It drove me crazy, now it’s all I wish he would do again!”

She went on to tell me a little about her four year old little boy who had passed on from Leukemia.

I stopped her and insisted she needed to hear the message her son had really come to communicate to her that Christmas. “He’s telling me you were the best mother he could have asked for. That you went above and beyond. There was nothing you could have done any better than you did it.” She began to tear up, but shook her head yes as if to verify what he had told me.

“He needs you to know that God has a plan for us all, and that he had never intended to live past the age of four. It had never been his plan.” She nodded in understanding. The messages stopped flowing through me. She asked for my personal information. I wrote my name on a piece of paper, explaining that I was not a professional. She wanted to pay me and I shook my head no. She handed me a twenty dollar bill anyway, against my wishes, and told me she’d be sharing her experience at church the following Sunday if it was okay with me. I felt her judgement about my skin color and her disappointment about the way I looked (maybe not like a psychic should look?) seep through her words, but told her yes and got the Hell out of there.

Readings used to come through me against my will, in the strangest places, because when God has a plan for you, it is his way.

Even if that plan ends at the tender age of four.

Namaste.

 

 

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