Thursday, January 16, 2014

No Gimmick. No Joke. I'm Psychic. by Rachelle



Okay, I’m freaking out a little bit. So I called Hilary and said, “I’m freaking out a little bit.”
“Don’t freak out,” she said after I told her why. “Embrace it. It’s a gift.”
A gift?? Okay, that’s one way to look at it. (Are you intrigued by what my “gift” is yet?) I’m psychic. Seriously. Not the Sylvia Brown kind of psychic who can mediate communication between the living and the dead, or the kind who can look into a stranger’s past and tell them what color shirt their loved one was wearing when they were hit by a car.
I just seem to have overwhelmingly powerful intuitions that show up in my dreams and make me feel psychic. Or crazy. Or, well, freaked out. Just now, I literally sat down to write a blog post about something entirely different than the one I’m writing, when my cell phone beeped to tell me I had a new email. It was a notification letting me know that someone had just donated $97 to a fundraiser I’m hosting for a family with an ill child (check it out: Mission: Food for Families).
The fundraiser didn’t have quite the speedy take-off that my and Hilary’s project, Mission: Unbeatable Mom (Mission: Unbeatable Mom) had, so I was feeling a bit discouraged. It had been three days, and my Mission: Food for Families fundraiser had raised only $50, so I had a dream last night that I checked the status of the donations and it was up by $97.
$97, just like in real life!
In my dream, I remember thinking, “hmm, why would someone give $97 – that seems like a strangely uneven number to donate” – the same thought I might have had after seeing the donation amount of $97 this morning. But instead, my thought was, “Holy crap! How did I know that?”
This, coming from me, the person who has had too many of these instances to write about in one blog post.
“That’s why you get things done,” Hilary said to me. “You dream things up and your thoughts and desires are so powerful that when you send them out into the universe, the universe responds.”
“That, or I’m just crazy!” I said.
“No, I totally believe in that stuff!” she said.
I guess I should too. After all, this isn’t the first time it has happened. I remember the last time I saw my grandpa – who was in a home for the elderly – because I instinctively knew it would be the last. My parents and I were visiting him, and he was suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. Most of the time, he had no idea who we were when we visited and told stories of his days in the Navy during World War II, referring to the lawn we were sitting on as  the ocean, and the lawn chairs, other ships at sea.
We took him into the cafeteria at the end of our last visit, and they had just served him a big scoop of ice cream – his favorite. I gave him a hug, and he hugged me back, and as I followed my parents out of the cafeteria, I looked back at him, and the expression on his face as he looked at me was total recognition. It was one of the sweetest moments of my life, mostly because I was overwhelmed with a mixed feeling of peace, sadness (because I knew I would never see him again), and happiness because he knew who I was. That’s what his smile told me. It was a smile my grandfather had before the disease took away his memory, and I could just see it in the crease of his eyes that he knew, in that exact moment, that I was his granddaughter. He passed away a few nights later in his sleep, and I was not surprised one bit.
As you all know, Hilary adopted her daughter, N, 2 ½ years ago, five days after my second son, E, was born. The night before Hilary called to tell me that she had received the highly anticipated, very special phone call from her adoption agency, I had a very vivid dream that she found out there was a pregnant mom who would be giving birth to Hilary’s future daughter.
“You got the call that you’re getting your little girl!!,” I blurted before even saying “hello?”
“You totally ruined my special moment of calling to tell you!” she said, and she holds it against me to this day.
My dad is also a psychic, of sorts. The last time he shook my great grandfather’s hand (my mom’s dad), he knew it would be his last. Another time, when my dad was taking a long, red-eye flight, his body was filled with a panicked knowing that something bad was going to happen the moment his foot touched the plane. He ignored the feeling, forced himself onto the plane despite of it, and a few hours into the flight, when the pilot announced that an engine was out and they would be forced to do a crash-landing (since the landing gear would not emerge), my dad sat there quietly while people on the plane started screaming and crying.
He should have listened to his gut. (In case you’re wondering, there was a “crash-landing” on some random airport’s runway, and nobody was injured. The pilot landed the plane on its belly, and the plane was stopped by debris thrown all over the runway).
When hubby and I got married, we did the pastoral pre-marital counseling a few times before the big day so that the pastor could get to know us a little better before marrying us. Without even telling him a single story, the pastor could sense the strength of my gut instinct, and I remember him telling my hubby, “No matter what you think may be right, when she (pointing at me) has a strong gut instinct, go with it. Hers is very strong, I can tell.”
The pastor was right. Maybe he’s psychic, too.

  


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