The Hand of the Beekeeper

At the time this blog post was written a close friend of mine, Sam, lost his father. This isn’t really unusual. I’ve had many friends lose family members to the other side, and in rare instances am I able to make contact, and even then only after several months or years have passed.

Around 7:15 p.m. that evening I was lying on my bed, unwinding from the day and contemplating the many thoughts circling inside my head. Suddenly, I felt a presence in my room. This is normal for me, especially in my line of work. But, what made it unique was that this presence approached me from behind and placed a gentle hand on my right shoulder. I felt that he wanted to talk, but did not want to startle me. I felt warmth, care, compassion and concern for my mental state at being touched by an unseen person in my bedroom.

I could tell his hands had been worn, perhaps from farming. They were large, wide, and had a gentle firmness about them.

I quickly began receiving impressions, feelings, and pictures in my mind, as is typical with most spirits who come to me. What made this one different was how very clearly he communicated. I made mental notes and stored them away until I could talk to Sam and see if this spirit’s characteristics described his father. I had never met him, never seen his picture, and never heard Sam mention him. Ever. Until the morning I was told he was dying.

It was getting late and Sam was most assuredly busy processing the emotions of the significant loss to him and his family. So, I reached out to another close friend, Kat, who was more familiar with his family than I was, to validate some of the information I had received.

I shared with Kat that I believed this gentle spirit had been a farmer or worked with his hands in some capacity. He appeared to me to be a tall man with a larger build, and was more or less a gentle giant. She was able to confirm I was on the right track. And our work would begin.

I gently let Sam know that I was in contact with his father and explained how he had introduced himself to me. I told Sam I would be available to him if he had any questions. But he had a funeral to plan and family to appease. So, Mr. Gentle Man and I would patiently wait to begin our adventure. In the meantime, he was perfectly comfortable hanging around with me until his son eventually reached out with questions.

A few days later his text came. “Does he have anything he wants me to know?” I felt the trepidation in his question, and the harried emotions from the recent couple of days. But there were things Mr. Gentle Man wanted his son to know.

First and foremost he wanted his family to know that he was fine and it was beautiful where he was. He seemed oblivious to the chaos he had left behind in his passing, and felt almost jovial. He showed me mental pictures of his daughters, or “hens” as he referred to them, all bombarding their brother with how-tos, what-fors and everything else he needed to do to prepare for the funeral. I’m sure it was overwhelming. And he had a word for me and for Kat: “Take care of my boy.”

While waiting for Sam to formulate his questions, Kat fed me information on Sam’s dad. His name was Ron. He was a flower farmer and a Master Beekeeper. This so eloquently explained his gentle nature, his “farmer’s hands,” as well as his ability to communicate so well. To be a beekeeper, you have to understand the bees. You need to be able to trust them and them you. There was a mutual respect between Ron and his bees. I felt it. This communion with nature taught him how to communicate with his spirit instead of his words. Which was, I believe, how he became so good at talking to my soul that night.

A bit later, Sam asked me if I would help locate his father’s “stashes,” which were hidden all over his property. So, I asked Ron. What could it hurt? Ron agreed, but he had one stipulation – if I told Sam where to find the stashes, Sam had to promise to keep them for himself. After all, Sam was doing all the work to find them, and Ron believed in reaping the rewards of hard work and living up to one’s God-given potential, something that Sam verified for me with much enthusiasm. This was why I think he chose me to be his medium.

You see, I was at a critical crossroads. I was just a thought away from turning my back on my abilities and living a “normal” life. I was about to squander my gift away and not live up to my full potential. Ron, being aware as he put it, couldn’t stand by and let that happen. So, he hired me to help Sam find his stash.

Ron told me there were four treasures in total. But he only showed me three locations. I later learned that Sam had found one and had already shared it with his sisters. The other three (as I saw them) were located; 1) In a work shed of some sort, beneath a wooden work bench; 2) Inside a honey shed, near where he worked with his bees, beneath a counter top – he called this one his “Honey Money”; and 3) In the attic inside a can or old cleaner container.

Sam located two of the three: One in the box beneath the work bench, and the other, the “Honey Money,” (photo of the actual bag below) was found. He is still looking for the stash in the attic.

As often as I get great validation of my work, I was still blown away. This was awesome and amazing and all the other exciting words you could pour into this sentence to express how thrilling a ride this was.

Shortly after that, Ron’s presence faded and sadness filled the void. During the previous days while we were working together, he was amused as I sang along with the songs playing on the radio during the ride home from work. He shared images of his life and his family, and he gave me tidbits of what it’s like on the other side. We had become close, and now my life was returning to normal. I wept. But he came and did what he intended to do. He helped his son, and he saved me from making a devastating decision.

There is so much more to Ron’s story, but there was one important lesson I learned in all this and what I want to share it with you: Never, ever give up on yourself no matter how awful you think your life is turning out. There is an end to the darkness and there will always be someone there holding a Light to help lead you out. Mr. Ron was my Light. This life-saving experience allowed me to work with him and Sam, to share some fond memories, to get a glimpse of life on the other side, and to laugh.

I was honored to be his voice, his tool and his hand. I was and always will be The Hand of The Beekeeper.

David’s Story

In the Fall of 2012 I was contacted by a woman who needed a health reading. I met her at her home after many back and forth emails to  make sure I felt safe going there alone.

 She was a pleasure and a joy to work with and I was easily able to complete her reading. When we finished and I was gearing down to hit the road for home, she casually mentioned that she and her teen-aged boys had been losing sleep and waking up at different times during the night. She reported blankets being taken off them while they were sleeping, being poked, feeling watched, and hearing footsteps running across the attic, to name only a few of her concerns. She asked me if maybe I could help.

 Since I was already in her home I obliged and then took a few moments to close my eyes and check out her house with a remote visit, which is to say that I, from where I was seated in her home, had a look around Trisha’s place using clairvoyance.

 What I found was what seemed to be either a male teen and a younger, preteen girl, or a form that appeared to have one superimposed over the other – the female over the male.

I felt very different energies from both. Almost immediately, I knew from the male that he had a story that he needed to tell before he would move on. I felt that there was some sort of a gun accident, but that was all I could get…until I was able to talk with him one on one.

I use many different tools to gather information from Spirit, but on this occasion I chose to use my pendulum and dowsing chart (sort of like a Ouija board, but not). I pulled out a paper chart I had crafted with the alphabet scribbled across it, and started to explain to Trisha what I was about to do.

Before I could even get a word out of my mouth, the pendulum began swinging to the following letters: M-E-E-T-M-E-U-P-S-T… and I finished the sentence by saying, “Meet me upstairs. Well, I guess that’s our cue.” I felt bad for my new client and friend. I’m not sure she had ever seen a dowsing session, and I was not given enough time to properly explain the process before we were summoned upstairs.

A word of caution – I am very skilled at dowsing, and I use protection, not only for myself, but also for my clients. Please visit a reputable dowsing site, (MirrorWaters is an excellent resource), to learn the dos and don’ts before trying this on your own. In inexperienced hands dowsing can be a problematic practice, because you may not know who is attached to the other end of the energy tether.

We arrived upstairs and I was pulled to a bedroom to the west of the upstairs. When I say I was “pulled,” I mean it was a feeling like I belonged up there, like a craving, if you will, and I followed this “craving” until I reached the room that seemed to be calling me. According to Trisha, this was the room where most of the activity had taken place. We sat for a few moments and the impressions began flooding my thoughts.

I began by asking my unseen friend to slow down a bit and explain to me what he wanted me to know. He seemed very excited to finally have someone to talk to, and he was throwing out so much information so quickly that I could barely catch what he was saying. And then, I clearly heard (in my thoughts), “It was an accident! Tell them it was an accident!” Then almost immediately I heard, “It was NOT a suicide!” I was shown a picture of a gunshot to the head and then a feeling of bewilderment, as to say, “What just happened?” He told me, “Tell them it was an accident. Tell them I’m okay. Tell them I love them.”

Visually, I saw a young man, not more than 20 years old if he were alive today, with brown hair, light eyes, thin build, and hair just below his neckline. He appeared to me wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved jersey-style tee shirt. His demeanor was very sweet, and he felt to me that he truly cared for people and their feelings.

Using my intuition, I tried to get his name, which worried me some, because at that state of my psychic development, I wasn’t really good at getting full names. But I did hear “Thomas.” I didn’t feel that this was his name, so I pulled out my paper chart, which had been folded and stuffed back into my pocket. I verbally asked him his name: “D-A-V-I-D.” Now, we were getting somewhere! A moment or two later he spelled out his last name (withheld for privacy).

I asked David if there was anyone around who might be able to help us locate his family. The pendulum began to swing in a clockwise direction, indicating “Yes.”

Trisha began spilling out names of people she knew in the area. We figured if David was at her house, there was a good possibility that the people he was trying to reach lived within a close proximity to her.

When she got to the name “Wilbur,” I felt him give me a very strong Yes! Trisha agreed to talk to Wilbur to help locate David’s family so we could pass his messages on to them. Wilbur did confirm that a young man, David, had died in that neighborhood and he had hung around with a good friend named Thomas. We gathered all the information we could in that span of time, and it was time to close out our session.

A few days later I received an email from Trisha. Not only had she found David’s obituary, but she had located his father who lived in her very own neighborhood, less than a quarter of a mile from her home. She decided to pay him a visit.

He was understandably skeptical, but she made it clear that she was there for David, not him. He told her that his son had committed suicide, and this was where it got interesting. Trisha described David as I had seen him, and told his father that his son had not committed suicide, but that it was a terrible accident.

David had explained to me, with visual images and strong feelings, that one second he was here and with the very next beat of his heart he was on the other side and in shock over what had just happened. He told me there was no pain; he was just instantly out of his body. My client explained all this to his father, who agreed that some of what she said had made sense. I’m willing to bet a lot more made sense than he wanted to admit. Trisha said the dad appeared very worn, even sick. My gut and common sense told me that David’s death caused a terrible rift in their family, one that destroyed its foundations with both blame and guilt, and he could not rest without them knowing the truth.

 As informative as David was with his own story, he claimed no responsibility for waking Trisha’s boys at night. But this is another story for another time.

David’s Obituary:

“David P., (last name omitted for privacy), was born September 16, 1983 in Houston, Texas to Lynn and Vera. David passed from this life on September 11, 2003 at the age of 19 years. He will be remembered as a person who thought of the needs and wants of others before himself. David had a brilliant mind, a bright soul, and a beautiful smile; all of these will never be forgotten by all those who knew and loved him. He leaves behind his parents, Vera and Lynn; brother, Christopher; sister, Kimberly; and numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins, as well as his very best friend, Arturo O. A gathering of friends for visitation will be held Sunday, September 14, 2003 from 1:00 p.m. until 3:00 p.m. A memorial service to celebrate and remember David’s life will be held on Sunday, September 14, 2003 at 3:00 pm with Bill Fehmer, officiating. In lieu of flowers, David’s family has requested memorials be made to the David P. Memorial Fund, in Care of Cypress-Fairbanks Funeral Home, 9926 Jones Road Houston, Texas 77065.”

White Feather

It’s no coincidence that I chose a white feather as my website image. There’s a story behind it.

Years ago I dated, (for a short time), a Navajo man, but nothing serious ever really came of it. To be fair to him, I was very up front about my abilities. I figured if I was going to get involved with someone, they should know who they were getting involved with, as well. Plus, it was my way of weeding out the ones who wouldn’t fit into my lifestyle as a medium.

He was an average-looking guy, but had a knack for conversation, which was a plus. He had shared with me how he was raised from a young boy by his recently-departed Navajo grandmother. As he was telling me his story, I began seeing the image of a shorter woman with long-graying hair, which she wore pulled up into a bun on top of her head. She had typical Native American features and deep, expressive eyes. She had a firm, yet compassionate nature and let me know in no uncertain terms that she was there to continue to protect her grandson. I made note of her concerns and thanked her for sharing her energy with me.

A few weeks passed and he eventually invited me to his office for a tour and then lunch on the beach afterward. When I arrived to his office, I noticed a row of family photos propped up on the ledge of his dry-erase board that was hanging on his office wall.

He noticed me looking at the photos and then pointed to one of them and told me, “That’s my grandmother.” I found it very odd. This was not the woman with whom I had spoken just a couple weeks earlier. The woman in that photo was clearly Caucasian, was much younger, and had long, brown hair, which she wore at its full length.

I looked at him strangely and told him I must have been off my game, because that was not the woman who had come to have a chat with me. He went on about doing what he was doing to get ready to leave for lunch, and I continued examining the row of pictures. Suddenly, just as I had seen in my vision, I saw a photo of the woman who I knew as his Navajo grandmother.

I whipped around and said, I’m sure with much excitement and a little aggravation in my voice, “THIS is the woman who came to me! Who is she? She said she was your grandmother.”

“Oh, her? Yes, that’s the grandmother who raised me. The one who recently passed.” I finally got it. He was testing me. So, yes, I was a bit miffed, but happy that I had seen correctly.

Conversations with The Grandmother continued while we were dating, and I finally felt her accept me as part of her “tribe.” Of course, as family, it was customary to be given a Navajo name. At that moment, I saw in my inner vision an image of a soft, white feather gently floating on the air, and I knew my name would be White Feather.

Life as Me

Welcome to my blog. This is where you’ll find true life stories and experiences that are not only fascinating, but can be creepy and even mind-blowing. I know they were for me!

I’ve recently moved my site to this space, so have a look at my other blog posts. I hope you enjoy them! Please feel free to Contact Me if you have any questions or wish to schedule a reading for yourself or a friend.

Happy blessings!