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The most common definitions of the word cavalier include arrogance, overbearing, proud, haughty, scornful.

The lesser known definition is an escort, usher, chaperone, protector, guard, warden. This is how I use the term.

 I am a Cavalier of Souls

I usher them, positive and negative alike, old, young and unborn, from this world into that one. My home is a safe place for them to rest after the exertions of death, before undertaking the last leg of their journey.Believe me when I tell you dying takes a great deal of effort. Some come to me so tired they can barely move.

My home is rarely unoccupied. Sometimes I can feel the population grow, souls gathering to wait for someone important to come for them and take them to where they are supposed to be.

Pope John Paul II was at least four months late in his passing. During that time of waiting, hundreds of souls were gathering. So many they were nearly visible to the naked eye in daylight hours. When he finally arrived at my home, the night after his funeral had taken place, he took them all with him. The atmosphere in my home was tangibly lighter.

But why are you weary? you might ask.

What I do is exhausting, physically and mentally.

Most people lie down in bed and go to sleep. They enjoy a coma-like restorative rest. I rarely ever get that. I will be awakened at any moment, sometimes several times, by spirits who are ready to go or who want my attention for some reason. Some will take me days or weeks to figure out who they are so I can send them on their way. I don’t know why, but for whatever reason, certain spirits want me to recognize them before they will go through. Once I’ve recognized them, they depart and go to wherever it was they needed to go.

My most recent example of this was my former mother in law. She and I never really got along well. Not a hate, but more a case of taking her baby boy away from her and he never really was able to cut the umbilical cord. She had a terrific martyr complex. Well, I’d been having this spirit coming to me in the curtains of my bedroom for about a week. One of them is tied and the shadows look like a hand extending up. A bony arm and wrist with bony fingers. Night after night there it was, waking me at least once a night. Then I learned that she had passed about two weeks earlier and it made sense. She had wanted me to know it was she.

Why the Pope would come through an Atheist and a former mother in law would seek out the daughter in law she never really liked is beyond me. But it is what it is and I don’t question it much anymore. I’ve largely accepted that this is what I do now and let go the why.

Then one night she showed me the hand with a fourth finger instead of three. Next to it was a panel in the middle of the window with a sword standing straight up in a hand, and then bottom portion of a third panel I couldn’t make out. She was saying something was going to happen when the third panel filled.

Now and then, spirits attempt to frighten me or manipulate me. Seeing this was what she was probably doing, I just gave a mental laugh and turned my back on it so I could sleep.

Sometimes these visions are predictive of an event. In this case, it seems it was predictive of Newtown. I can never know what event is coming. I never know where. So I cannot tell anyone “Hey, there’s this really big thing that’s going to happen, but I have no idea when or where. But you better be on the lookout!”

Yeah, I’d really rather not spend Christmas in the psych ward. Thanks anyway.

So this horrible thing happened. And all my friends are posting this lovely saying and that touching picture, and sharing this story and that story of this person and that person…and I cannot look at any of it.

If I do not comment, it’s not because I don’t care. It’s not because I don’t feel anything. It’s because I care too much. Because I feel too deeply.

It’s because if I see their picture and look into their eyes, the connection will be made and they will come through me. I’d really rather they went through someone else this time. Unfortunately, I cannot pick and choose who comes to me. I’ve dealt with the sweetest of imps and the most vile of demons. When something like this happens, I know it’s coming and can’t do anything to stop it. The most I can do is delay it a couple days.

You know that scene in Star Wars Episode IV, when Obi Wan feels Alderaan explode and it takes his breath away and he has to sit a moment? He heard millions of people crying out in sudden terror and suddenly silenced.

Yeah, I’ve felt that. But it was 200,000 people and a tsunami.
Yeah, I’ve felt that. It was a child named Nixmary Brown.
Yeah, I’ve felt that. It was children and a teacher in an Amish school.
Yeah, I’ve felt that. From a place called Newtown.

I feel it every time I get a glimpse of a picture. I know that’s a child who died there. Every time I see the smile of a teacher, I know what she did to save her children. And YES, in that moment before she was shot, they were HER children just as if she’d given birth to them. She knew she was probably going to die for them and she still lied to him and said they were in the gym. She may not have given them their first life, but she most assuredly gave them a second life.

I’m still feeling it right now as I type this, reliving with the teachers and the children every second of the last minute of their lives. Every time I see a picture, see that touching verse, I relive it with them all over again just as surely as I was standing in the room.How can I do that? It’s called remote viewing, and I’ve done it all my life. I looked through the eyes of a little girl during an earthquake out in Oakland/San Francisco during a World Series. I do it with quite a number of my dreams.

From this distance away, and no I won’t say where I live, I can feel the grief of the families. I can feel the fear of the children who died and the ones who lived. The ones who lived are the ones still touching me.

Such an intense fear a child has.  I know because I’ve known it personally in different ways. Intense, soul-changing fear. The one place other than home where they are supposed to always be safe is no longer safe. And in there eyes, never will be. Every noise that doesn’t belong will be the bad man come back. My inner six year old cringes with them, holding hands and shrinking down to be very very very small. Very very very still. Very very very quiet.

And hope the bad man passes us by.

I can feel them shaking together.

I feel the fear of the teachers and the bravery of the ones who protected their children and died for it. I feel the gratitude of parents whose children are alive because those teachers took a bullet for their kid.

We complain sometimes that teachers don’t get paid enough or are paid too much.

You tell me something: Is your teacher paid enough to take a bullet for your kid?

Maybe. Probably not.

But she’ll do it all the same.

Who am I? Nobody important. I’m just the person who opens the gate and ushers the souls through. I see them on their way and close the gate behind them.

As they pass, the teachers are holding the hands of the little ones, helping them walk double file just as they would in the hallway if they were going to the auditorium or to lunch. Little ones bewildered, not understanding what happened and why they are in this strange place. Teachers being the diplomats they’re always supposed to be and getting the little ones to the proper place.

If being a bit tired all the time is the price I pay, I can live with that.

So please forgive me if I say I’m really not up to going out dancing. I’ve had a busy week.


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