The Eagle and the Rose Read online

  The congregation was large, and the people I met at church and grew up with were responsible for my religious upbringing. I had wonderful teachers, and the love and warmth I received from them at a time in my life when I felt none at home, I can still feel today. When I was fifteen years old I committed myself to living my life in the way that I felt Christ had shown through His teachings, so I was baptized. Some of you might think that at fifteen a young girl may not know her own mind, but I knew then, as I know now, that my life belonged to God and that I could trust Him to decide my fate in all things.

  Now here I was, nearly twenty years later, aged thirty-five, listening to a woman I had met only the night before, talking about spirits and mediums. Even though I had said I wasn't interested, she hadn't been put off by my attitude at all. I imagine she had come up against it before.

  Again she pressed home the point that I needed someone to talk to about the strange things that had been happening to me, someone who would understand and be able to help. Eventually, after a lot of persuasion, I was talked into going to her house for tea later that day. But the apprehension stayed with me.

  Driving back to that place took an awful lot of courage for me, as I didn't know what I was letting myself in for, but my instincts told me that once I had entered the Denhams’ house again, my life would change completely. The problem was that I didn't know how, or in what way, or even if I wanted it to. Only my faith in God sustained me and gave me the courage to step over the threshold and into a new world.

  Tea was a small affair, just the Denhams, two dogs, a cat, and me. At first they explained that they were new to the area and had been trying, quite successfully, it seemed, to organize a group of people, who met every Friday evening, to discuss the paranormal. I have since learned that “paranormal” covers an enormous scope, including alternative healing. Irene, as I was asked to call her, had managed to persuade people, like John the tarot card reader from the night before, to come to the group and give a talk on their given subject.

  She informed me that for next Friday's meeting they were expecting a practicing healer from Doncaster, South Yorkshire, in the north of England. It seemed quite natural that the conversation should then turn toward spiritualism, and before I knew it I was asking questions, and more questions. My curiosity was overcoming my fear, and my thirst for knowledge had begun.

  So many things were said on that fateful Saturday afternoon, and so many fears were washed away. My mind was by no means clear, but because I had finally been able to talk to people who really seemed able to understand and who explained some of my experiences, the cobwebs began to blow away.

  It was decided that every Wednesday evening Paul, Irene, and I would meet so that I could develop my psychic abilities.

  I had approached this suggestion with extreme caution and was not at all sure that I wanted to become more involved in that way. Talking about the paranormal and reading about it can be fascinating, but to put yourself directly in the firing line, to experience firsthand on a one-to-one basis communication with “ghosts” or “dead people,” is definitely something else again. The longer I spoke with Paul and Irene, the more my confidence in them grew. It was confidence in myself that was lacking. However, my appetite had been whetted, and I felt that I must give it a try.

  The following Wednesday evening at seven-thirty I arrived once more at the little white cottage in the middle of nowhere. This was to become a familiar pattern over the next few months, and the cottage was to become, for a time, almost my second home.

  Nothing much happened at this, my first attempt at developing my gift. First Paul said a prayer, asking God for His help, guidance, and protection. This call for protection was all-important to me, and I found it very comforting. Nevertheless my own silent prayer, I remember, was a fervent request to God for protection against all evil. Especially, I thought, oh yes, especially, against any little demons that might be lurking unseen in any of the dark corners of that small, quiet room where the three of us sat.

  My faith in God, and in His ability to know better than I did about what was good and what represented evil, enabled me that night to sit with confidence. Shaky confidence, I must add, as my nerves were taut and I was very much on edge.

  I prayed hard that night, and I have prayed hard ever since, for guidance and the strength to do God's will.

  There are many people who refer to mediums as the devil's instruments and accuse us of doing the devil's work. These same people also speak of the love of Christ and of the love we must have for our fellow man. The love of God is something that all so-called religious people talk freely about.

  Now, as I am not acquainted with the devil—in fact, not even on speaking terms with him (or her)—it would be wrong of me to try to describe what kind of work he might have in mind, either for me or for any other medium.

  Perhaps because of my early involvement with the church, I have grown up with God, and because there has always been a regular and sincere form of communication between us, a strong bond has been formed. Because my love for Him is strong and my earnest desire is to do His will, the only work that I have done, or will ever do, is in God's name.

  There are many religions in this world, preaching many things, but the one message they all share is that God is love. Put your faith and trust in God, they say, and He will protect you always. That is exactly what I have done.

  It is my belief that no one religion has got it absolutely right, not even spiritualism. I am not qualified to understand God's intentions, nor do I believe that there is anyone else on this earth who does. All any of us can do, and all, I'm sure, that He expects of us, is right thinking, in our own way, as individuals. To think loving thoughts, and to have a caring attitude toward our fellows, and to try to live in peace and harmony with each other.

  My firm belief is that this is what God's requirements of us are, and if we ask His help, no matter what religious label we have chosen, He will look into our hearts and make His judgment there.

  All these thoughts, and more, had gone through my mind after my first talk with Paul and Irene, and as we sat that first Wednesday evening I found comfort in the knowledge that Paul himself had been a practicing healer for over thirty years. He had trained as a young man, had met many mediums and healers, and had sat in many development groups. Sometimes he would tell me of his experiences, of the strange, often incredible occurrences he had witnessed over the years. How he had seen apports—gifts from the spirit world, such as flowers or small trinkets—appear, as if by magic, before his eyes. How he had played with ectoplasm—a kind of fluid that emanates from a trance medium—held it in his hands, seen mediums change their physical appearance, heard their voices change dramatically.

  Never have I met anyone as caring and gentle as Paul Denham. Although he has been involved with spiritualism for three decades, I have never heard him shout about it or push his beliefs onto anyone else. His quiet manner belies his strength of character and purpose, and his attitude toward others is one of gentle sincerity. His gift of healing is most obvious, I think, when he deals with animals, who take to him immediately. Even the most restless of them settle down under his loving hands. Animals get sick, too, and Paul has a special talent when it comes to giving healing to them.

  As we sat quietly, waiting, for what I wasn't sure, I could feel Paul's presence, warm and reassuring. And while I listened in that quiet room to the muffled ticking of the clock, my eyes began to close and I started to feel quite drowsy. Then, very slowly, I felt as if I were being drawn down into what I can only describe as a large black pit. At first it seemed so natural, and I was so relaxed, that by this time it didn't worry me. I seemed to be moving, floating, down, down, down. My body was stationary, but “I”—my mind—my senses—my being—had begun a “journey.” It felt comfortable and easy, not at all a new experience. I had been on “journeys” like this before, never with anyone present, and because I had assumed that this was part of my “craziness,” I had bee
n afraid and had always at some point struggled for control of my mind.

  As I traveled, in a kind of dreamlike state, farther and farther into this dark space, my limbs became heavy and my whole body became a dead weight. Then, in an instant, and just in time, I realized what was happening. I was about to lose control of my conscious thoughts, to enter a trance state. My mind screamed out, No! and I jerked myself back forcibly from the brink of unconsciousness. Within seconds I was wide awake, and from then on I stayed alert, making sure that I didn't become drowsy again.

  Strangely enough, I was not even one little bit afraid, not in the way I had been before. I had, with effort, been able to pull myself back from the void, to stop myself from being carried away. I had known instinctively that it was important to stay as much in control as I could. In fact, it was imperative. And all these years later, I still feel the same.

  On many occasions since I have become involved with the “paranormal,” as it is called, I have witnessed mediums working in “trance,” and I always ask the same questions: Is it real? Has that person really been taken over by some spirit entity who is speaking through them, or is the trance self-induced? Unfortunately, most of the time I have had to come up with the all-too-usual answer: that the “medium,” consciously or otherwise, is faking! There are many reasons why someone might fake a trance state. Some people so desperately want to be mediums, they may have a need not only to be able to communicate with the spirit world, but to be seen by others to have this ability. Consciously or subconsciously they act the part, often fooling themselves more than others because they think that it looks good. After all, communicating through trance is what real mediums are said to do. I myself through the years have had countless experiences of trance work, some of which I will recount later in this story, but at the beginning of my development it was impossible for me to tell the fake trance from the real, both with myself and with other people. So the only way I felt I could make sure that I wasn't being fooled, or that I wasn't fooling myself, was to remain critical and in control of all situations.

  As I drove home later that evening it occurred to me that my lack of fear was really quite amazing, and I also realized how much at home I had felt. Not so much at the Denhams’ house, but with the idea of making contact with those in spirit. But for what reason I did not yet know.

  Climbing into bed that night, I did what I always do: I prayed silently, asking God for His help and guidance. But this time I put in a special request. Please, I said, give me a sign, let me know if what I am doing is right and if it is what You want.

  I didn't expect my answer to come quite so soon, or in the way that it came, but as soon as I laid my head on the pillow and closed my eyes, His response was immediate and clear.

  I knew instinctively who they were. I heard them quite distinctly, and in total harmony, I heard them singing. Angels—singing!

  Sitting bolt upright, I looked around the room, peering into the corners. Goodness knows what I expected to see, but there was no one there, of course. Still the singing continued, and it really did sound just as you might imagine angels would sound: clear and sweet, their voices holding an ethereal quality.

  And just what, you might ask, were they singing … these angels?

  Well, I'll tell you—they were singing that well-known psalm, the Twenty-third.

  The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

  He makes me down to lie,

  In pastures green, He leadeth me,

  The quiet waters by.

  I lay back down again and listened, as over and over those words were sung. Then, smiling my thanks and like a baby being sung a lullaby, I went to sleep.

  Two weeks later I went with Paul on my first visit to a spiritualist church, in the city of Doncaster, in South Yorkshire. I was a little apprehensive, as I had no idea what to expect. A spiritualist church is run on similar lines to most orthodox churches, the difference being that in place of a minister they would have a speaker, and usually but not always a medium, to conduct the service. After hymns are sung, a short talk is given, the topic concerning life after death, what that may mean to us all, how it can affect our daily lives, and so forth. Prayers are said, and then, if a medium is present, the last twenty to thirty minutes of the service will entail the medium making communication with the spirit world and the giving of messages from those in spirit, via the medium, to members of the congregation. The service always ends with the congregation joining together in prayer that acknowledges the presence of the spirit world and its influence upon us.

  As we sat, waiting for the service to begin, Paul looked through the little hymn book we had been given. The hymns we were to sing that night were listed on the wall, and Paul was looking to see what they were.

  Opening the book to the first hymn listed, he grinned, nudged me, and handed it to me. The words seemed to leap up from the page and bounce in front of me, and I laughed out loud as I read the written message.

  “The Lord is my shepherd.”

  For the next few years, each time I questioned or doubted myself and the work I had begun to do, I would hear those voices, those angels singing, and always the same hymn. The Twenty-third Psalm.

  The following Friday I again made my way to the Denhams’ house, and this time I was quite looking forward to the evening. Although I was a little nervous about seeing all those people who had witnessed my odd behavior during the previous meeting, my curiosity was now fully aroused.

  As I had no baby-sitter that night, I had brought my daughter, Samantha, with me. Paul and Irene had made up the beds in the spare room, and I had agreed to stay overnight. Even though it was only a fifteen-minute drive from the Denhams’ house to my own, I had been pleased to accept the offer to stay, as I expected Samantha, who was just eleven years old, to fall asleep during the visit and didn't like the idea of disturbing her.

  This evening's speaker was a gentleman who for the last five years had been president of the spiritualist church in Doncaster, and he had been a practicing healer for several years. He was short and stockily built, in his mid-thirties. He spoke with a northern accent and gave a solid and down-to-earth appearance.

  Paul and Irene had invited him to give a talk on healing, which turned out to be fascinating. He explained that, as a healer, he did what is known as “laying on his hands,” much as Christ had done. After placing his hands on his patient's shoulders, or simply holding his patient's hands in his, he would offer up a silent prayer to God and to the universe for help to still the spirit of his patient, for healing to be given, by God, to the spirit self, so that the patient would discover an inner peace, an inner calm, enabling him to deal better with his physical or mental ailment. Although there are occasions when healing is obvious and instantaneous, often for the onlooker there would be nothing to see, no outer evidence that anything unusual had taken place. No drama, no great and visible cure, but a quiet and gentle way of healing that only the healer and the patient would be aware of. He further explained that it was his belief that only when the spirit self had been calmed, quieted, through healing, only then could healing of the physical body take place. He was a humorous speaker, and as I knew nothing at all then about this subject, I was spellbound. Afterward, while we sat with coffee and biscuits, many of the group asked questions about healing and how it felt to experience healing.

  We were all obviously so interested that he offered to give each of us, in turn, a minute or two of healing in what he called a group session. Even though I was intrigued by this, I wasn't too happy about being directly involved, and I was very wary of diving headfirst into something I might not be able to handle. But I had no choice, as Irene, suspecting I might bolt, grabbed my hand, insisting that a little bit of healing was just what I needed.

  The first thing we all had to do was join hands while the speaker said a prayer, asking for healing to be given. Then he stood in front of each of us and, one by one, took hold of our hands, and, standing quite still, asked God again for u
s to be given healing.

  He had begun with the lady who was sitting next to me, and as he went slowly around the room I was able to see, quite well, all that he was doing.

  No mumbo-jumbo, no peculiar chanting or strange rituals. Just an ordinary man, giving his love to each and every one of us in turn.

  Carefully I watched people's faces, trying to assess their thoughts; and without exception everyone seemed pleased, relaxed, and happy with their experience. The atmosphere in the room was so peaceful, and as my turn came and the speaker reached out his hands to me I had no qualms at all. Placing my hands in his seemed the most natural thing to do, so I was completely unprepared for what happened next.

  As he held my hands I began to shake. Slowly at first, and then, as if I had grabbed hold of a jackhammer, strange and strong vibrations began to run right through my whole body.

  I sat, paralyzed, unable to move, unable to do or say anything, as the vibrations in my body grew in intensity until they reached my head. My mouth was filled with pins and needles, my teeth and gums shook violently, and my face was a ball of red hot fire.

  Still the speaker held on to my hands, although it must have been difficult, as I was compelled then, by this phenomenal force, out of my chair. I stood, feeling as though I had been lifted bodily off the floor, still shaking furiously.

  Terrified at what was happening, I was completely unaware that everyone else in the room had stood up, dazedly watching our two figures, mine and the healer's, convulsing uncontrollably in the middle of the room.

  Somewhere inside of me I was striving for control of this thing, this terrible force, which was trying to consume my very being. Eventually, and with great effort, I let rip a yell, so fearsome that it must have sounded like an Indian war cry, and it was as if a spell had been broken.