A Psychic’s Stunning Comment Made Me a Hesitant Believer

There’s no way she could have known what she told me

I’m at a friend’s Halloween party. It’s a birthday celebration for one of her children and she’s included several activities for the adults. One of these things is a psychic.

But I’m not sure about psychics or psychic mediums.

I watch as each partygoer passes through the door to meet with her.

The skeptic in me is telling myself this is a gimmick. The worrier in me is afraid of what I will be told. The Catholic in me is saying we aren’t supposed to believe in these things.

But curiosity gets the best of me.

I wait my turn.

The psychic is not what I expect.

She’s a regular person. She could be anyone in the community. She’s not adorned with a costume. There are no tell-tale mystic elements used as props. And despite the holiday, there’s zero spookiness at all.

I’m guarded and say nothing.

It’s just the two of us.

There are no other people in the room. There are no computers. No cell phones. The psychic isn’t looking at notes or holding anything she might reference. I’ve never met her and she’s never met me.

The skeptic in me has a plan.

I will remain intentionally silent.

I may inadvertently alert her of aspects of myself if I speak.

I want to know if this psychic is the real deal. I want to make sure I can decipher any degree of manipulation. I want to determine if the psychic has any tell signs or prompts or prods me for information.

Interestingly, she is silent too.

The psychic asks me only one question, “What is it you want to know?”

“My uncle passed away recently,” I say. “I would like to provide some comfort for my cousin who misses her father.”

“What’s his name?” asks the psychic.

I provide my uncle’s name. That’s all. Nothing else. Two words.

“There’s someone named Tommy,” she says.

“Oh,” I say. “My grandfather’s name was Tommy.”

“No,” says the psychic. “It’s not his father.”

“Oh,” I say. “My uncle had a brother named Tommy who passed away when he was four years old.”

“No,” she says.

“Oh,” I say. “My uncle also has a son named Tommy.”

“No,” she says. “It’s a boy about eleven or twelve years old. Your uncle wants him to know it’s going to be okay.”

“I don’t know who that would be,” I say.

I’m confused but the psychic has me intrigued.

If she was a phony she certainly would have felt she hit payday the first time I recognized that name. She had no way of knowing it was a family name.

She also wouldn’t give up.

She dismissed me every time I attempted to agree with her.

“Did your uncle miss his daughter’s wedding?” asks the psychic.

“No,” I say. “She’s his only daughter and he was definitely there.”

“Are you certain?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m positive my uncle was at his daughter’s wedding.”

“Did he miss the photos by any chance?” asks the psychic.

“No,” I say. “He was in the wedding photos.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she says. “Your uncle just keeps showing me a wedding photo.”

I thank the psychic and leave.

I call my cousin.

“I know you’re having a hard time since you’ve lost your Dad,” I say. “I went to this party and there was a psychic. I wanted to see if she could tell me anything that would be of comfort to you. All I did was tell her your Dad’s name and nothing else.”

I recount the psychic’s initial words to my cousin.

“I don’t know who she is talking about,” I say.

“Colleen,” says my cousin. “My brother’s oldest son was with my Father when we said goodbye to him.”

I was shocked.

I had forgotten about the names of my uncle’s grandchildren.

The psychic was correct when she spoke of a twelve-year-old Tommy.

I tell my cousin what the psychic said next.

“I don’t know what she was talking about,” I say. “I told her your Father was at your wedding and in all of the pictures.”

There’s a momentary silence on the other end of the phone.

“Colleen,” says my cousin. “Just today I went down to my Father’s apartment and grabbed my parent's wedding picture and hung it in my dining room.”

My cousin and I were speechless.

These were absolutely random things. They were not things that even if the psychic knew me she would know. They weren’t things someone could tell her or things she could look up.

This psychic’s stunning comments had made me a hesitant believer.

She had a gift.

There was no denying it.

I was such a skeptic turned believer that I pitched a story about psychic’s to the editor of one of the print publications I was writing for. The only reason I ended up shelving it was I disproved the next psychic I spoke to who was also a psychic medium.

How did I do that?

It’s a story for another day and I will write that next.

Because people who want to believe can be fooled by people who claim to be psychic’s but aren’t. Especially people looking to connect with a psychic medium because they are missing a loved one.

This experience made me doubt my first psychic experience.

At the very least, it made me question it.

I hadn’t randomly chosen the second psychic. I was writing a piece for a major publication which meant I had to vet my sources properly. Long story short, a former law enforcement officer worked with a psychic and became a believer and devoted his time afterward to creating a registry of psychics with true ability.

But I was able to disprove what she told me and how she did it.

Initially though I believed her, which shows the potential ruse of psychics.

Then one day I was having lunch with a new colleague and friend.

She was vague but the way she spoke I knew she had some ability. She would later tell me it’s not something she typically shared because people will judge.

“I wish my uncle would send me more signs,” I say. “So I could feel his presence. It would be comforting.”

My uncle (another uncle) had passed away and he had been like a father to me. I missed him terribly.

My friend laughed.

“Your uncle says he sends you signs all the time,” she says.

“No,” I say. “I don’t feel like I’ve gotten that many.”

The funny thing about our conversation is my uncle and I talked about signs all the time because I had lost my Mom (his sister) in my twenties. I’ve always been a big believer in signs. My uncle was a Catholic priest and knew I was always looking for or receiving them.

“He’s going to send you a white dove,” she says.

My friend is quiet for a minute.

“It’s going to be a white dove that is flying with outstretched wings,” she says.

I laugh good-heartedly and say, “Really? Where am I going to see a white dove flying through suburbia?”

I dismiss this and tell no one of this conversation. It doesn’t seem believable. It’s not because I don’t believe my friend may have a gift. It’s the unlikeliness of encountering a dove.

The next morning my phone pings.

It’s a group text between three of my friends, none of which know the person I just had lunch with. I look at the picture with astonishment.

It’s a photo of my friend’s coffee.

“Good Morning, Doves!” writes my friend.

In unmistakable latte art there is a white dove with outstretched wings.

Another stunning comment making me a hesitant believer.

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