Sometimes, Guest Posting, I can't believe the words that are coming out of my mouth. Sometimes it happens when I connect with a spirit who has come for one of my clients—a few naughty phrases that slip out in the privacy of a one-on-one reading. "Did your father swear a lot?" I ask and nod my head in response. But when off-color remarks come up while I'm serving in a spiritual church—yikes! A few blue words and I'm red in the face.
I'll never forget seeing a tall, good-looking man with wavy brown hair and a bushy mustache in my mind. He was wearing a sleek black leather coat and the first three buttons on his Hawaiian print shirt were undone to reveal a well toned chest. I described to the congregation what I had received, but no one raised their hand to claim it.
Come on, I was talking to a ghost in my mind. Give me more information about yourself so that someone can identify you.
Suddenly I heard loud, booming music. The guy smiled lasciviously at me, then began to glitter and undress. My jaw dropped. As he wriggled out of his shirt, he winked and showed me his perfect abs. The guy could have stepped off the cover of a Harlequin paperback.
I turned around as he unbuckled his belt and loosened his pants. But you can't turn your back on the spirit! He laughed at my embarrassment and whispered, Gene. I passed the name on to the group.
The young woman in the second row gasped. "Could it be Jean?" she asked, giving his name a French inflection.
"Maybe," I said, clearing my throat. "Was he, uh… a stripper?"
The woman laughed. Jean stopped dancing when he got to his G-string - thank goodness! – and I helped the young woman connect with an ex-boyfriend who died in a car accident last year. Jean kissed his girlfriend and gave me one more wink before regaining consciousness.
I exhaled and then stopped to take a big drink of water. I had something to do to lower my temperature. Gentlemen!
Another time I felt the presence of an elderly woman and heard my mother in my inner ear. I described her as a little curvy, with brightly painted nails and bottle blonde hair. In the late 1970s, she passed on lung cancer and smoked unfiltered Camel cigarettes until the day she died.
I glared at a middle-aged guy in the audience like a flashlight was shining on his face; the spirit directed me to whom the message belonged. He sat with his arms crossed over his chest and a look on his face as if he would rather clean the cat box than listen to messages from a ghost. "I think that woman came for you, I said, pointing at him. "Are you okay with that?"
He shrugged. His wife, who was sitting next to him, giggled and elbowed him in the stomach.
“I feel this is your mother,” I told him. He says you expect to be the last in the world to hear from someone. Well, guess what? You're here and so am I!"
I noticed my stance: right hand on my hip, left-hand pointing at him. "Would your mother stand like this?"
He nodded.
"Damn right!" I said, then caught myself and turned away in embarrassment. Oh my God, I thought, you shouldn't swear in church!
I don't remember what else I said to the colleague, but I apologized profusely to the minister after the service. She smiled and said she understood. "Sometimes," she said, "even a ghost makes me blush."
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