An Angel Called My Name: Incredible true stories from the other side

The guardian angels of life sometimes fly so high as to be beyond our sight, but they are always looking down upon us.

Jean Pavl Richter

I have always believed in the afterlife. I believe that loved ones watch over us from the other side and that guardian angels, or spiritual guides, walk with us through the journey of our life. I also believe that guardian angels can manifest themselves in countless miraculous ways. They may appear as a bird, a feather, a child, a puff of air, a gentle touch, a song on the radio, a coincidence, a dream, a mysterious scent, a flash of insight, or in other people who are consciously or unconsciously guided by those from a spiritual dimension.

My earliest recollection of forming an intense connection with the afterlife began at the age of four or five when my great aunt Rose told me to always save part of my seat for my guardian angel. It makes me smile even now as I remember shuffling forward in my seat to make room for an invisible guest without hesitation or doubt.

In the years that followed – although I did eventually stop shuffling forward every time I sat down – I never lost my belief that an angel was always at my shoulder. My family was constantly on the move and I never got opportunities to build lasting friendships at the various schools I attended, but I never felt lonely. Why should I be? My angels were constantly with me.

Looking back it’s no surprise that great aunt Rose’s words made a lasting impression on me. Although she died just before my tenth birthday, I remember her vividly as an independent and impressive lady with a twinkle in her brilliantly blue eyes. Growing up at the turn of the century, Rose’s decision to devote her life to the work of a professional medium raised many an eyebrow among her peers – even though spiritualism was all the rage at the time. It was common place for séances to be held in church halls and private homes and Rose’s mediumistic skills were much in demand. During both World Wars she was a source of hope, comfort and healing to those who lost loved ones.

I had the privilege to watch my great aunt in action on just one occasion when she agreed to give a rare public demonstration. I was very young at the time, and most of the details of what transpired at this gathering have faded from my memory, but I do recall how electric the atmosphere was.

One of my remaining memories from the demonstration is that of Rose telling a recently bereaved widower in the audience that the spirit of his wife was standing right behind him with her hand on his left shoulder. The man shook his head in disbelief. Rose told him that his wife had always wanted to hold hands in public but he had never let her and it would be healing for both of them to hold hands now. The man nodded in surprised agreement and admitted that holding hands in public had never been his style during their 20-year marriage. Encouraged by Rose he gently raised his left hand to his left shoulder and caressed invisible fingers. I remember looking at him and wondering, as only a child can, how it was possible to have tears in your eyes and a smile on your face at the same time.

Rose wasn’t the only medium in my family. My grandmother, mother and brother were all born with the gift. My grandmother could not only see spirits but she also had the uncanny ability to know exactly what people were thinking and feeling; a gift inherited by my mother who earned her living as a psychic counsellor and my brother who also worked in the field.

Obviously, talk of sensing, feeling and communicating with spirits was commonplace in a family like mine. There were, of course, embarrassing moments – like when my mother told my first boyfriend to stop seeing my best friend behind my back because the spirits were watching (she was right, as mothers usually are) – but there were also magical moments – like the time my brother told our neighbours exactly where their missing and much loved dog was.

When you consider that I was born into a family of psychics, my unshakeable conviction that there is an afterlife isn’t surprising. However, it is surprising when you consider that until my mid-thirties I never actually received any personal evidence of the existence of angels or spirits.

I didn’t levitate in my cot or see dead people in the school playground. At college I couldn’t read my tutor’s mind and later in life I often couldn’t tell the difference between intuition and fear. I couldn’t talk to angels or sense when spirits were present and my dreams, although surreal and colourful, were never precognitive or particularly illuminating. In fact, I was completely normal – if there is such a thing as normal. I had a wealth of anecdotal evidence from people I loved and trusted but I had certainly not inherited the gift. In fact, I was often gently teased by family and friends for my inability to make contact; my brother had great fun calling me ‘square head’.