Messages From Angels - Hold the Bus: Angels in the Driver's Seat - (post 3 of 6)

Note: One of my favorite parts of my spiritual job description is when I am asked to be a messenger for benevolent angelic forces. I often receive messages for people whose angels or spiritual guardians ask me to communicate when it is a matter of urgency or they are having a hard time getting through to their human counterparts. Many of these people are strangers to me and our interactions last only moments. These messages can be warnings of illness or accident. They can also be intended to clarify or give direction. Whatever they are, I play my role as messenger faithfully.

(continued… click here for post 1, post 2)

“What I am getting,” I replied, “is that your son attributes his pain to his relationship with you, to growing up without a father. This is an opportunity for you to begin correcting that, but you have to understand you will have to set limits and demand that he grow up. It will force you to be different too.” 

“I’ve been working on my own stuff. I’ve been changing,” he said.

“You will do another layer of this work. The pain that your son is dealing with is the same as your pain.”

“I hope not,” he said, “I was sexually molested as a child. Raped. By another man.” This confession felt heavy, like metal.  Psychic pain and confusion radiated from him and the gravity of his situation became apparent to me. I also appreciated his ability and willingness to get right to the point. 

At the same time, as he revealed this fact, a quiet lucidity settled over him and the anxiety left his eyes.  In his voice was certainty, as if the mass of his confusion swirled around one central point of clarity: the devastation he experienced to this day as a result of these childhood violations.  He had the look of a man searching for an escape and a man at a loss to find a way out. I watched his eyes as he assessed the internal wasteland in which he roamed. The faint smell of alcohol wafted from a puff of his breath.

The words of the angels continued and I spoke them to him, returning to the topic of his son’s pain. “It doesn’t have to be the same experience,” I said.  “Our children get a piece of our pain, almost as if we give it to them. Your son feels hurt by you. Were you not hurt by your parents?”

“I was hurt by family members.”

“That’s how it goes.”

Suddenly, he switched topics. “My health. Tell me what you see about my health,” he commanded. 

I stared at him.  He stared at me.  Though he had volunteered information about his family situation earlier, when it came to the question of his health he had offered no facts for me to go on.  I sensed he was testing me.  After all, if I, a complete stranger, could tell him about known health issues, then the other information in the message was more likely to be trustworthy.  I was impressed by his instincts.  I would have to read him cold.  

I continued to return his stare.  In silence I waited for the information to come.  The words “mental health” and “lithium” jumped out of his head. I did not pick up anything else in his body.

I wanted to tell him what I saw but was nervous about embarrassing him.  There is a social stigma around mental illness and I did not want him to feel that I was judging him.  Still I knew that if I was not honest – and did not come forward with the information - he would not trust me or the message.  

(For more, see next post)