Sometimes, I canít believe the words that tumble out of my mouth. It happens occasionally when I connect with a spirit thatís come for one of my clients Ė a few naughty phrases that slip out in the privacy of a one-on-one reading. "Did your father curse a lot?" Iíll ask, and get a nodding head in reply. But when off-colour remarks pop out when Iím serving at a Spiritualist church Ė yikes! A few blue words, and Iím red in the face.
Iíll never forget seeing in my mind a tall, good-looking man with wavy brown hair and a thick mustache. He wore a sleek black leather coat, and the first three buttons on his Hawaiian print shirt were open, revealing a well-toned chest. I described what I was getting to the congregation, but no one raised a hand to claim him.
Come on, I mentally spoke to the spirit. Give me some more information about yourself so someone can identify you.
Suddenly, I heard loud, thumping music. The fellow gave me a lascivious smile, then started shimmying and taking off his clothes. My jaw dropped. As he wriggled out of his shirt, he winked and showed me perfect six-pack abs. The guy couldíve stepped off the cover of a Harlequin paperback.
When he undid his belt and loosened his pants, I turned away. But you canít turn your back on spirit! He laughed at my embarrassment and whispered, Gene. I passed that name on to the group.
A young woman in the second row gasped. "Might that be Jean?" she asked, giving his name a French inflection.
"Possibly," I said, then cleared my throat. "Was he, uhÖ a stripper?"
The woman laughed. Jean stopped dancing when he got down to his G-string Ė thank goodness! Ė and I helped the young woman connect with a former boyfriend who had died last year in a car crash. Jean blew his girlfriend a kiss and, before returning to spirit, gave me another wink.
I blew out a breath, then paused to take a hearty drink of water. I had to do something to lower my temperature. Whew!
Another time I felt the presence of an older woman, and in my inner ear I heard mother. I described her as a bit rotund, with brightly painted nails and blonde hair out of a bottle. She passed into spirit from lung cancer in her late 70s, and chain-smoked unfiltered Camel cigarettes until the day she died.
I glommed onto a middle-aged fellow in the audience as if a flashlight were trained on his face; spirit was directing me to whom the message belonged. He sat with his arms crossed over his chest, and a look on his face like heíd rather be cleaning a cat box than listening to messages from spirit. "I think this woman came for you," I said, pointing at him. "Are you alright with it?"
He shrugged. His wife, sitting beside him, giggled and elbowed him in the stomach.
"I feel this is your mother," I told him. "She says youíre expecting to be the last person in the world to hear from someone. Well, guess what? Youíre here, and so am I!"
I noticed my stance: right hand on my hip, left hand pointing at him. "Is this how your mother would stand?"
"Damn right!" I said, then caught myself and turned away, embarrassed. Oh my God, I thought, youíre not supposed to swear in church!
I canít remember what else I said to the fellow, but after the service I apologized profusely to the minister. She chuckled and said she understood. "Sometimes," she said, "even spirit makes me blush."