When I first started to do readings, I didn’t really understand what a reading was. I knew I could access and read a person’s energy, and I knew this gave me bits of information about that person’s path and purpose in life. Eventually I realized I could also connect with people who had crossed to the Other Side. I could be a “go-between” for people on earth and those who have crossed. I’d learned it was my responsibility to interpret everything that came through, to be a translator of sorts. At first it was difficult, like learning a foreign language. But over time I got better at it. I began to understand what certain symbols meant. It was like playing—and getting good at—a game of psychic charades.
One of my early readings taught me much about the power of forgiveness. Barb, a woman in her fifties, had heard about me from a friend. Barb called me from her kitchen in Pennsylvania, and throughout the reading I could hear her relaying some of what I was saying to her husband, Tony, who was nearby.
“He doesn’t believe in any of this,” Barb told me. “He thinks when you die, that’s it—you go in the ground and you’re gone.
But I want you to talk to him anyway.” Before I could object, she handed the phone to Tony.
Oh, great, I thought. How is this going to work? Will the Other Side even come through for a skeptic? Tony gave me a grumpy hello, which was his way of letting me know he wasn’t buying any of this. I took a deep breath, waiting for someone to come through for him. And then someone did—his father.
He told me his name was Robert and he had an urgent message for his son.
“Your father is here, and he wants to tell you something very important,” I told Tony. “And it’s really important that I get this right and say it the right way. Your father wants me to tell you that he is so sorry about the belt.”
On the other end of the line, Tony said nothing. I kept going.
“Your father wants you to know that when he crossed to the Other Side and did his life review he understood what you were doing, and he is very sorry for what he did with the belt,” I said. “He is asking for your forgiveness. He wants you to forgive him.”
I heard Tony quietly begin to weep.
His father showed me more. He showed me an event, in the form of what I call a “movie clip” in my mind. I saw young Tony sitting on his bed, with the door to his bedroom closed. I saw him holding a belt, and I could tell the belt meant a lot to him. I relayed these images to Tony, who composed himself and told me the story—a story he’d never shared with anyone before.
When Tony was seven, he went to a Boy Scout meeting one cold December night. At the meeting, he was given a do-it-yourself leather belt kit. He was excited because he had the great idea of making his dad a belt for Christmas.
At the meeting he worked hard on the belt, carving in designs, creating belt holes, attaching the buckle. Then he brought it home, hidden in his coat pocket, so he could finish it. He went straight to his bedroom and got to work. In his excitement, Tony forgot to take out the garbage, his nightly chore.
It wasn’t the first time Tony had forgotten to take out the garbage. His father would get pretty angry, but on that particular night, Tony’s dad stormed up to his bedroom and threw open the door, full of rage.
Then he saw the belt. He grabbed it and beat his son with it. The beating was brief, only several seconds, but it damaged something sacred between Tony and his dad.
“I never ended up giving him the belt,” Tony said. “I never even told him about it. I never told anyone. But it’s made me sad all these years. I always felt like I had let him down in some way.”
Tony’s father came through again.
“No!” I told Tony. “Your father says to tell you it was he who let you down. He says he just didn’t understand the situation then. But now he does. And he is so sorry. He is asking for your forgiveness. He wants you to know how much he loves you and what an excellent son you’ve always been.”
I found myself fighting back tears—but not because of this sad story. I’d just seen a beautiful light pass between Tony and his dad. Tony had carried that hurt around with him his whole life, and now I could feel him letting it go. I was witnessing a great healing between a father and son—after the father had died.
“It’s okay, Dad!” he said, his voice cracking with deep emotion. “It’s okay! Please tell my father it’s okay.”
“You don’t need me to tell him,” I said. “You can tell him yourself. He is with you all the time. He is always right there with you. Just say what you need to say. He can hear you.”
Tony handed the phone back to his wife. I could hear him in the background.
“It’s okay, Dad,” Tony said, over and over. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.”
From the book The Light Between Us by Laura Lynne Jackson. Copyright © 2015 by Laura Lynne Jackson. Reprinted by arrangement with Spiegel & Grau, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. randomhousebooks.com