Читать книгу An Angel Walked Beside Me: Amazing stories of children who touch the other side - Joan Charles - Страница 5

Through a child’s eyes

I first became aware of my psychic powers when I was five years old.

Actually, that’s not true. I always knew I had those powers; I just didn’t understand them.

When I was little, I always felt very alone, very isolated. I didn’t know my place and I wasn’t quite sure how to fit in. I was a shy child and constantly being told by my mother that I was ‘highly strung’. What I really felt was that I had been invited to join a game but no one had told me the rules. I had a sense of there being something waiting for me, something that was my destiny, but, of course, I couldn’t put it into words at such a young age. I always felt awkward, and I spent a lot of time sitting in corners, waiting, waiting, waiting – what was I waiting for? My life to start. My real life to start. The one in which everything made sense and the world stopped being such an unfathomable place. It would be a long time before that happened, but, when I was five, I got a glimpse of what I was waiting for and what was waiting for me.

Before I started school, my family – a very traditional, solid, working-class family – had moved from Port Glasgow in Scotland to Burnley, Lancashire. We lived in a house on the same street as my dad’s brother, Uncle John, but I didn’t have much to do with him. One night I was lying in bed. My little sister Rita was fast asleep in the bed next to me, but I was wide awake. It was dark, and my bed was positioned by the window. The curtains were open and I could see the moon shining high above me, but it wasn’t comforting. I couldn’t sleep because I had a terrible feeling of dread knotting my stomach and playing on my mind. I often had trouble sleeping, and this night was no different in that respect; however, none of the usual tricks did me any good. I counted sheep, I thought of nice things like my favourite dolly and I told myself that my mummy and daddy were in the room next door. The outside doors were locked and no one could get in. None of it made any difference, because something inside me knew that locks and doors couldn’t keep everything out.

The sense of waiting – the waiting I always felt part of – was there, but I felt that it would soon be over.

As I lay in my bed, I saw what I still call ‘the Dark Thing’.

Past the open curtains, a figure floated.

It took seconds but, to me, it felt like forever.

The Dark Thing was a terrifying winged shape and the name I gave it was automatic, but I also knew the name other people would use for it.

I was five years old and I had seen the Angel of Death.

Not only had I seen it; I had known, without doubt, what it was.

As it floated past, my heart was in my mouth and I felt terror coursing through my veins. When it had passed, I huddled under the bedclothes and a fleeting thought crossed my mind – was it coming for me? No sooner had the question been formed than I had my answer, an answer which came automatically from deep within me. The Angel of Death wasn’t for me; it was for my Uncle John.

I must have fallen asleep eventually. The next morning, I knew that I would keep it a secret. My family didn’t encourage openness, and I wouldn’t have considered telling them for a second. This was something I had to keep to myself. I remember trying to convince myself that it had been a dream while knowing full well that it had been all too real to me. I had to deal with the memory of the terrifying Dark Thing, and also with my own sure knowledge that it had taken my Uncle John away.

As I’ve said, my family was not one in which children were encouraged to chat openly. It was very much a case of being seen but not heard, so when I went into the kitchen and found my mum and dad talking quietly I didn’t interrupt.

I didn’t reveal what I had seen.

I was quiet as a church mouse and sat on a kitchen chair waiting to be given my breakfast.

I was quiet as they talked in low voices.

I was quiet as my dad shook his head and my mum shed a tear.

I was quiet when I heard them say that my Uncle John had died suddenly the night before.

I was quiet, but I wondered why the Angel of Death had been shown to a five-year-old child and what on God’s earth I was going to see next.

I have never told anyone this story before, but now, as I invite you into my world, it seems only right that I disclose this encounter. I have worked as a psychic medium for almost thirty years – and had the ability to see things for all of my life – but now I have decided to take the next step and share with you what I believe and what I have experienced. Given that I was a child who possessed psychic gifts, and given that some of my own children and grandchildren have also been blessed, I have never doubted the many tales I have heard or cases I have witnessed in which other children make contact with those they love, whether on this plane or on the other side.

I can only tell you what I have observed. It is up to you to make your own judgement about the journey on which I will take you in the pages of this book. I believe that every child – and therefore, every one of us – has the ability to communicate with spirit, and, when they pass, to retain contact with those they love who have been left behind. These whispers from another world can be heard if only we open our minds and souls to hearing them. The stories I will share with you are full of love and hope, yet the angels who act as messengers of tenderness and care are often dismissed, for in the world in which we live we are all too quick to reject the beauty in our lives.

At a time when so many of us are searching for meaning, I would encourage everyone to look at the natural and loving messages which surround us. They can add richness to our daily lives and relationships, giving us guidance and hope. We should cherish those who bring us such messages and listen to whispers from the angels who exist in all of our lives.