A Medium's Plight

For years I have gotten strange looks and wondrous replies to the vivid imagination that some say I must have, and the following recent event is just an example of what the life of a Medium consists of.

It was Saturday July 4, 2009 at about 12:40 pm. My mother and two children decided to check out the stores in the strip mall after making an advance purchase for our movie that began at 1:10. The first shop I saw I entered. I am not a sports fanatic by any means, but I decided to go in and look in a shop that carried loads sports memorabilia.

We talked with the gentleman manning the store for a bit and discussed the one piece of pop group memorabilia in the store. 'When you get Michael stuff, call me', I said. While looking over the East wall of signed memorabilia I confidently asked, "Hey who was that quarterback that retired and died recently?" His reaction was awkward and being that I knew nothing of the sports world I felt a bit out of place. "Who," he asked in return.

I said, "Oh man, now you are asking to name names....and I am not good with names, let alone any sporting facts, I just could have sworn that a retired quarterback died."

"I'm not sure who you are talking about," he replied.

"Who was that guy here from Utah that retired? I think he went to Utah State."
He gave me a funny look and said, "Steve Young, but he's from," and I butted in saying, "BYU, yeah now I remember." He finished by saying, "But, he's still alive."

"I believe you. I just could have sworn that a retired quarterback had died tragically."

He smiled and we said our goodbyes. After watching Transformers we stopped off at the skate park so my child could practice his skills on the skateboard. Later that evening after arriving home and turning on CNN to watch more updates on MJ, a breaking news story came over the airwaves. "Former Quarterback Steve McNair has been found dead," and I was frozen in time.

Although I felt like calling that sports memorabilia shop guy back, I'm sure he's figured it out by now.

Since early childhood my life has consisted of unexplainable coincidences. When I was only 6 years old and I returned home from school earlier than everyone else, I noticed a man standing in our kitchen with his back to me. I said, “Hello,” and watched the guy turn and look at me as if he was shocked, and then he took off through the hallway and into my bedroom where he disappeared.

Of course my parents taught me to call 911 in emergencies and in my eyes, this was more than an emergency. It took longer than it should have taken for the authorities to arrive, and by this time I was standing in my front yard, shaking like a leaf.

I gave the officers a complete description of the man I had seen in the kitchen. “He was about my dad’s height and wore a checkered long sleeve shirt with worn out jeans and brown boots. He wore glasses, that were squarer than round and they were brown in color. His hair was graying brown and short up against his face and over his ears, “I described.

“And he was just standing at your kitchen counter when you came home?” the officer asked.

“Yes, he was just standing there, and at first I thought it was my dad, but this guy was much older than my dad and when he turned around and saw me, he ran and took off down the hall and went into my room. That is when I called you.”

Four police officers set off on foot to search the parameters of the yard and neighborhood, including the alley that ran adjacent to the backyard. Two other officers drove around in their cars for back up. While they were gone checking the neighborhood park and nearby streets, my father pulled into the driveway after getting off work. He began talking to the officer that stayed behind with me and it was not seconds later when the questioning began on my father.

All of the typical questions of where he was at the time I came home, to asking if he had any extra clothes in the car, were asked. As soon as he pulled out his ove
ight back the officer grabbed hold of his shoulder radio and began to call in for backup to the original location. Moments later, cop cars and neighbors blocked my view of the driveway I knew so well.

“We are going to ask you again sir,” the officer began, “where were you at the time your child came home from school?”

“I was at work, probably sitting down filling out the logbook to turn in to the office.” The officers were not convinced and they all agreed that my father matched the description. They immediately pulled out a pair of handcuffs and began to take my father into custody.

When I saw what they were doing I began to shout, “It wasn’t my father—the man was much older and had gray hair! His clothes don’t even match what the man was wearing and his glasses are different,” I begged for them to listen.

My father stood in the driveway and withstood the humiliation the police officers were putting him through. “Dad, I told them it wasn’t you. Why are they doing this?” I cried.

“Connie, look at me,” he said. “What happened while I was at work? Are you okay? Did this man touch you or say anything to you?” His questions made me cry harder.

“No dad, he wouldn’t talk to me, he just ran, and that’s why I called the police. He didn’t seem mean but when he ran after I saw him and said hi, I thought he was stranger danger.”

“You did the right thing by calling the police. It will be okay.” Just as he said those words the police officer walked toward us and began to pull the keys from his belt.

“I’m sorry,” he told my father. “We had to make sure that your story was true. We called your place of employment and verified your story, so you are free to go.”

“I’m sorry,” I cried to the officer.

“You did the right thing by calling us over. We may not have found him today, but we believe you, and we’ll keep more officers in the neighborhood.”
He informed my father of various ways to avoid instances such as the one we were in. First and foremost he stressed the importance of making sure an adult was at home when the children arrived home.

After the slew of emergency vehicles and neighbors cleared our yard my father took me aside and asked me to describe once again what this man looked like. His facial expression as I described the man, told the whole story of who was in our kitchen that day. My father’s dad, who passed before I was born, had decided to come for a visit that day. When my father brought out a bunch of old photos and asked if I recognized anyone in them, I pointed right to his father, who was wearing the same outfit I described to the officers.

It just so happens, that a Medium’s life is not always explainable to those who are not willing to take the time to listen. If you judge your child or friend as crazy because you would rather not take the time to understand where the story is coming from, then sooner or later you may find that you could have missed out on many a great message or visit.