I apologize for not writing more often these days, but the truth of the matter is this: conservatives are being attacked and censored on every level. I have spoken of this in previous blogs, but now the Cabal is desperate, unhinged you might say. They are desperate to keep you brainwashed, terrified that the truth will have a domino effect on evil players, demons if you must know.
Perhaps 10 to 25 percent of you are woke to the truth, maybe not. I can tell you that my awakening came after years and years of drinking, drugging and messing around with the New Age. My story is not unique, not by a long stretch. Sadly, there is a population of vulnerable, impressionable peeps out there-they have been abused their entire life, be it physical, emotional, sexual or circumstantial. They fly to the “answers” they have searched for their entire lives, and I was one of those victims.
In 2015, I attended a funeral for a young man who happened to be my friend’s one and only son. We sat in the balcony, and when Sherry walked into the chapel? Every muscle in my body tightened. I dug my nails into my husband’s thigh, trying to stifle the scream I felt surfacing-Jason was her only son: an expert on motorcycles, a truck driver found him in a ditch, on a sunny day. Sherry received the news while grocery shopping, when a friend called to voice her sympathies. A part of my heart died that day, and my life took on a frenetic rush to prove that life on this planet had purpose.
“This can’t be it, Jesus. Why are we here? Seems a tad more like hell on earth, not life.”
During the funeral, I was startled to find the woman behind me had placed her hands on my neck. She began gently massaging my scalp, and I retreated in a not so nice way-as if to say-look lady, I don’t know you and why in the harry are you TOUCHING me?
“Honey, this is Lydia. I went to high school with her,” my husband whispered.
The very same Lydia who sold gorgeous, handsewn purses made from old wool sweaters? That Lydia? I had heard of her wares, and she was quite renown in our sleepy little town of Kleinfeltersville. Everyone loved Lydia.
As an artist, I am drawn to others in the field. I envied her, it seemed she had an idyllic life. But why was she massaging a stranger’s neck?
Lydia explained that she was studying for her Reiki Master license. All “treatments” would be free, at least for the coming month. As a victim of narcissistic abuse, I had plenty of healing to do-was this what I had been looking for? I jumped at the chance to see her home, let alone receive Reiki (I had no clue what it was, but my mind is always open) I was not disappointed on my first visit. Lydia sat down with me, I glanced at her kitchen table and noticed a deck of what I thought to be tarot cards.
Ten years prior, I had been at a superbowl party in which there was a “psychic” in attendance for the party goers. Hounded by the host to go up and be “read,” I finally caved. I had attempted to have my palm read years and years ago, in a tiny flat on South Street, in Philadelphia. She read my sister well, so I was excited (and terrified) of what she would say to me. She took my palm. The look on her face said stranger danger, and before she could scream GET OUT, we headed down the steps, taking two, three at a time. My sister laughed the entire way home, but I was tormented.
Why would she kick me out? She told me to call her and she would explain, but that she could not be in my presence. It wasn’t until years later that I realized a very, very important fact:
Practitioners of black magic, fortune telling, Reiki, or witchcraft simply can’t deal with the children of the Most High. They know who we are, and they don’t mess around with God-even if they worship satan, they know who we are. It’s as simple as that.
My visit with the super bowl psychic proved disastrous as well.
“I don’t like tarot cards, or having my palm read,” I explained. I told her of my past experience.
“Oh, I know why she did it, but that was cruel. You must have been frantic, Nothing to fear, let’s get started.”
As my heart began to pound out of my chest, she shuffled the cards.
Long story short, I picked the death card.
“Within the week, someone will die in your home.”
Well, that made me fly up out of my seat and run to my husband.
Honey, I thought you didn’t believe in psychics, that isn’t going to happen.
Two days later? My beloved Dalmatian, Chipper, began having a series of strokes. By the third day we had to call the vet, and he lapsed into a coma in my lap. I sat there for five hours, legs numb, railing at God.
The poor dog was diagnosed with encephalitis, a brain swelling. The trauma hit us both in the face, like a bowl of ice cold water. In my grief, I had more questions than answers. I will never forget that day, the darkness, the heartache.
After a few Reiki “treatments,” I found myself becoming more depressed by the day. I would have days that were so dark? I couldn’t move, get out of bed, even feed the animals. I tried to reach out to others, but no one had a clue what I was talking about. Black crows followed me everywhere, and I mean a murder of crows. Snakes were found in my kitchen, one dead, with his head sticking up as if he were warning:
Something wicked this way comes.
To be continued.