This post was written by one of our psychics! Check their author bio at the end of the post.
The Atlantic Ocean is an awesome sight to behold when the weather turns cool and Autumn’s first leaves are turning. The beach, full of sunbathers and children building castles just weeks ago, was deserted now. Only my grandfather and I strode along the sand where the waves lapped at our feet.
Image source: Christopher on Flickr
When I was eleven years old, the whole world was an adventure. So much was still a mystery to me, and my inquisitive mind sought answers to questions that most adults have forgotten or no longer care to ask. The September wind buffeted our clothing, and the midday sun shone down on my grandfather’s face as I turned to look at him.
“Tell me about the war, grandpa?” I pleaded. My grandfather, I knew, was a hero in World War II. He fought on the beaches of Anzio and saved the life of one of his comrades. He was such a huge figure in my life, and I wanted to know everything about him. He looked down at me, a sad smile on his face.
“There’s not much more to tell you, Liam,” he explained. “It was a terrible thing. Men being sent off to kill each other, that’s all.”
This was, of course, a let-down for an eleven-year-old boy who still believed that war was an amazing adventure. “What about the time you were stuck on that mountain and the bomb exploded?” I pressed. I knew this story by heart already but still marveled at his telling it.
Image source: Evakraq on Pixabay
“Very well,” he said. He kneeled down next to me and put his hands on my shoulders. “We were trapped on this hill. There was nowhere to go. Bullets flew in all directions, and I, certainly no hero, was huddled down in my foxhole.”
“That’s when you heard your friend calling out, right?” I said.
“Yes, my friend Marty, it seems, hadn’t made it back safely to his foxhole. I peered over the top of mine to see him flat on his belly, about ten feet down the hill. I saw that his arm had been hit, and he was not able to crawl to safety.” My grandfather stared straight out to sea when he told me this. He was looking at the waves, but I knew he could not see them. He was seeing his friend again, and a memory that was almost thirty years old.
“When I climbed out onto the embankment, I thought to myself, ‘this is it. I’m going to die here,’ but I knew I had to try at least to save my friend. A few moments later I had dragged him back to my foxhole and pushed him ahead of me to safety. Just was I was about to climb in there, myself, a shrapnel bomb went off somewhere nearby. There were little pieces of hot metal flying everywhere. I was hit in the neck by one of them.”
At this point in his story, it was almost a ritual for me to reach out and touch the small scar on his neck. But this time, when my finger touched his skin, I could sense a braided necklace there. My grandfather was a devout Catholic, and was wearing a medal of St. Christopher when he was hit by the shrapnel.
Image source: Heidelblog
The hot metal had cut through all but one of the threads of his necklace. It was this last thread that had stopped the metal from going all the way though his neck. My grandfather was alive today, I knew, because of this miracle. I was no longer curious and excited, so much as a shaken child who suddenly realized the fine line between life and death. “It saved you,” I said.
My grandfather looked back from the ocean and focused his eyes on mine. “What saved me?” he asked. His voice had taken on a serious tone, and his eyes were squinting in the midday sun. “What do you mean?”
My eyes focused on his scar again, partly because I was uncomfortable looking him in the eyes, sensing that perhaps I had said something wrong. “The little rope,” I explained. “The St. Christopher medal you wore saved your life.”
“I never told you that,” he said. His voice was quiet now, and just barely audible over the sound of the waves crashing to shore. “I never told anyone that.”
“No, I know,” I told him. “But I could see it. You were thinking about it, and I could see it on your neck.”
My grandfather, who rarely laughed, was very serious now. “You could see it?” he asked.
“Well,” I said, “not see it, exactly. Sort of felt it, though, you know?”
Image source: nathanbswartz on Pixabay
He did know. He was, as I was about to learn, a very gifted man. “Do not tell anyone about this conversation,” he said. “Not yet.” Now his eyes focused on mine, and I discovered I was unable to look away. “You have a gift, Liam,” he said. “I have always thought you might have a gift, but now I’m certain.”
“What do you mean?” I whispered. “Are you talking about the medal?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Being able to sense these things is uncommon. I can do it, too. But I don’t think anyone else in the family can.”
“I’m confused,” I said. “It was just a feeling. I get them all the time.”
“Me too,” he said, the hint of a smile beginning to cross his face. “Me too. But I’ve never told anyone about it. I’ve always been afraid, you see. I’ve been afraid that people would think I was crazy, or worse.”
“Worse than crazy?” I said.
“A fraud. A trickster,” he explained. “People are afraid of things that they can’t see or touch because they’re a mystery to them. But you and I can see these things. We can feel and sense things that other people cannot.”
Image source: geralt on Pixabay
My grandfather and I shared this secret. He taught me what it meant to be psychic. He told me that I would be able to use my gift to help people. And he expressed regret that he never used his abilities in this way.
He’s gone now, my grandfather. He’s been gone for over thirty years. But, in a very real way, he’s still here with me. He guides me through the difficult times in my life and shares my victories. And, though he kept his abilities to himself and didn’t share them with the world, in a way he is sharing them now, through me.