Spirits Show They Care

by Jane Stahl

Probably my first spirit visit occurred when Paul and I first moved to Colorado. One night I awakened to see a man standing quietly at our bedroom door. Terrified, I pinched myself several times—hoping I would awaken from what I figured must be a dream. That failing, I turned away and reached to alert Paul—yet withdrew my hand, not knowing how he’d react and hoping the individual would just disappear. And that he did.

When I looked again at the doorway, I saw the stranger turn to leave his spot at the door and realized his form became transparent as he left. While I didn’t recognize the man, I’ve always thought it may have been the spirit of Paul’s father who’d died decades ago and who’d decided to check out where his elder son had relocated. I’ve never had an experience like that again.

What I have experienced often in recent years is the smell of coffee brewing in the middle of the night and the sensation of being hugged during sleep. These sensations are unexplainable, yet my friend psychic medium Cristina Leeson and other spirit finders assure me that spirits who have not yet passed on to the next realm were probably hanging out in my house from time to time bringing me friendly hints of their presence. It’s been some time since I’ve awakened to the aroma of coffee and the hugs, so I’m assuming they’ve moved on to their next season of existence.

The most dramatic visitations occurred following the death of my father. While he and I didn’t always agree on everything during my growing-up years, I had the greatest respect and love for him. He was my Superhero. His passing was a huge loss.

But he let me know he didn’t leave our state of being right away; he didn’t want me to mourn for him. He wanted me to know he was more than fine; and, before he left for good, he may have wanted proof that I loved him—despite our differences over the years.

Here’s how.

The month following his death. I found money every day. Everywhere I went. After every class I taught, there would be handfuls of coins left on the floor. Walking the halls, I’d find money. In the parking lot—more coins.

I knew, through those coins, that his spirit was reaching out to me because as a high school student contemplating my career, he had discouraged my plan to become a teacher. “There’s no money in it,” he’d say. “Lawyers make a lot more money.” Idealistic, I’d complain he was only interested in creating a family dynasty.

And so, for that solid month after he passed, I believe he was teasing me, still trying to build the family dynasty!

That was 28 years ago. Only recently did my brother share that he, too, found fistfuls of money in unexpected places for a month or more after Dad died. Strange, but true.

During that month he gifted me—and perhaps himself—in another way: securing proof of how much we loved each other. I had a few vivid dreams shortly after he died. I dreamed of walking up approaching his front door and hearing his voice inside. In my dream my heart leapt up at the sound—thinking “He’s alive! Hallelujah!”

In another dream, I saw him in his kitchen at the stove, stirring the eggs and cheese and ham omelets that he’d make for all of us each Sunday in his favorite electric frying pan. He looked so young, and healthy, and happy—just as I’d always want to remember him and perhaps just as he wanted me to remember him. I felt such joy to see him--in my dream and memory--happy and well.

If he knew my heart in those moments—and I absolutely believe he did—he knew, in no uncertain terms, how much I loved him.

I have had no more dreams like that, that vivid, since that month, but I still find money—in random places—and I think of him every time I do. And I smile. I feel certain that he has moved on after having assured us of his presence somewhere and of the bond we share in this life and the next.

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