"Justice never came for me. It was a prize that eluded my grasp time and time again. I could not find fairness in my suffering, and it caused me a great deal of distress knowing that all I wanted—equality, resolution—it would never be mine. Upon my passing, I asked why.
Why was it to be this way?
Why was life meant to be spent in chains and shackles, burdened by the consequences of another's soul?
Why in all my attempts did I not receive justice?'

What I discovered was that martial law could usurp balance. That rouge energies are attracted to the place and space where like energy is contained. To say that I was a magnet for the experiences I didn't want would be true. As long as I held the energy within, I called them forward to me.

Sometimes in prayer, we will hear you say, 'Keep me from all evil of the world. Keep me safe and contained from all that is dark.' Yet, here you are, attracting the energy. You are coating yourself with your words and calling it to you. Instead, you should say, 'I am protected in the light. I am the light of God.' Do you see how much more preferable this is? Do you see how this changes the feeling and emotion of the words? Do you see how the calls to the light instead of calling to the dark? This is in no way suggesting you do not acknowledge the shadow side of life but I am merely showing you through my experiences and my knowledge on how to tip the scales in your favor."

Stories from the Dead
Mediumship channel through Jamie Homeister

Last night I awoke from a dream that began where I was standing inside an unfamiliar house. The colors were light; the room airy. The furnishings were modern with stylized geometric prints on the walls. I walked through each room in wonder, staring at the perfectly thoughtful placement of its furnishings stopping only as I came face-to-face with a senior man seated at an angular dining table. I noticed that his clothes were worn but tidy; patterned plaid and old, bibbed denim. A faded kerchief peeked out of his front pocket. He rested his hands on the top of a cane that had an elaborate carving of a mallard head, rhythmically rocking it back and forth on its heel. He stared beyond me to a shelf affixed above the doorway in the dining room. Upon it sat one of most elaborate carvings I had ever seen: a large, model ship that must have had over a thousand separate pieces. It was stunningly intricate and beautiful, yet completely out of place in this home of immaculate white linen and bold, crisp lines.

"I spent fifteen years building that ship," he said. "Each piece was carved, sanded, and painted by hand. You'll never find anything like it. I modeled it after my great grandaddy's ship. Never saw it but heard stories of it growing up. That's what I went off of—my memories of the stories," he said, tapping the side of his head with his forefinger.

A middle-aged woman suddenly moves into the room. She's carrying a bowl in her hands and places it on the table. She moves it from one place to another, turning it until it’s positioned perfectly to her perspective. She leaves the room and returns, adding more things and shifting them around until satisfaction. She looks much different than we do. It's as if her color is faded from our surroundings. There's a weird noise being emitted off her body; a low, buzzing hum. She is completely focused on scurrying in and out of the room. Some movements are slow while others skip ahead in time like an old video missing frames. If she sees us, she gives no indication.

"My great-granddaddy was an explorer," the old man continues. "A merchant. He traveled all around the world, buying and selling anything he could get his hands on. He learned the trade from his daddy, just like his daddy from did from his.
My father was an explorer too, only he never learned how to make good use of his name. He'd roam from town to town like a dog in heat. One sniff of something sweet and boy—he was outta there!" The old man claps his hands together for emphasis than stretches one arm out longer than the other. He gives a small chuckle at my surprise and leans back in his chair, heaving a sigh. With a flick of his wrist, he motions to the woman still skipping in and out of frame.

"She never could understand why I spent so much time on my carvings." He continued. "She grew to hate all my little projects. Once when she was five, she snuck into my workspace; the garage. It was off-limits to everyone, even my wife. That was my space,” he added sternly, pointing to his chest. "Maybe she jus' wanted to help, maybe she was just nosy; either way she made a big damn mess of things. Lord, you should have seen her." he says, his stern face carving a smile. "We were digging that damn paint out of her nose for a week. At the time I couldn't see the humor in it. At the time, I was too focused on what she did to my stuff. I was so damn angry, face scarlet red, the color of the mess of she left behind. It got the best of me and she never stepped foot in that room again. God damn, I regret that. I regret that more than anything else in my life.

"You ain't ever warned that wandering bones get passed down in your family, just like the color of your hair. If you're born with hot feet it's hard to stay still. You can't explain it, you just gotta go. But in order for me to tuck her in every night, I had to let my mind explore; let my hands craft the adventures where my body couldn't go. There's a penalty for that. I shouldn't have shut her out of her own exploring. I should have fed that fire in her. Now, the only memories of me sit high up on that shelf, out of reach and out of touch like I was, collecting dust in a life that's stuck striving for the perfection I taught her that she needed to hit." We were quiet for a moment and the house around us became still.

“If you could speak to her today, what would you say?" I asked softly.

"I'd say that red looks a lot better on her than white. That curiosity is a virtue and imagination is only good if you live through it, not in it.” He wiped a tear rolling down his leathered cheek and added, “I’d tell her that I'm real sorry for the way I chose to stay."

The dream began to fade as the woman continued to place things on the table. I watched her for a final moment as she sat down at the beautiful table she had created complete with a feast fit for the crown. With a slow hand and a quiet sigh, she lowered herself onto the chair at the tables head and laid down a plate for one.

May we be blessed with the courage to embrace adventure today in all it's messy, unpredictable, and creative glory.

Stories of the Dead
Mediumship Channel through Jamie Homeister

“I was just like you once. Eager to give from a fire that burned so hot in my belly I think I spent half my life in hell. My need to give would never stop. Even when I recognized I was giving too much, I would try to correct it by giving more. Continuously I would misuse my resources, handing my entire life away.

When I would get weary of feeling expended, or when I would fill myself with regret for all the giving I gave, I would raise my fists in the air and tether my heart in its cage declaring, "Never again!” ...until I came across a bucket needing a coin. A dog needing a pat. A child, bread. And one by one I would offer what I could because the giving heart doesn't identify with rules and boundaries. It doesn't quantify its export. The giving heart serves one purpose and one purpose only: to give.

It is the human condition that prevents the adaptation of the giving heart from growing into something powerful. My community didn't shield the Givers from abuse. It didn't help us navigate through the many lessons of boundaries and giving-fulfillment. Instead, Givers were scorned and challenged, my own heart's strings yanked on until they were no longer taught and formed, but loose and incapable.

How horrible is this fate? To be called insufferable for kindness? I ask you because you know. I ask you because you have a giving heart. And yet, in all this time that has passed between you and I, the giver still does not carry the prestige of identity, but instead, are branded by the hallmark of a broken heart.”

Stories from the Dead
Mediumship channel through Jamie Homeister

“So there is this story—it's one full of peril and death, fear, and shame. In this story, the main character, the protagonist, just an average guy, well he dies a thousand times. First, it was from heartache. Next, it was anger. Then, shame. Over and over again, he dies in the middle of these heavy emotions. He just could not see how life would go on.
But, it does.
The kids kept growing. The seasons kept passing. Lord knows the bills kept coming. Everyone is as they ever were, just as time marches on as it's always done.

So this guy, this character in our story, he gets caught up in another emotional swell. And as he's laying on the floor ready to accept his fate smack dab in the middle of one of his worst days, he stops to contemplate for a moment what is more excruciating—to die a thousand deaths or to watch the whole world pass by without notice, and without change as you do.

Now, I know what you're thinking, 'What in the hell kind of story is this?!' but stay with me here because this part is important. Death and consistency are two of the greatest miracles of life. It's obvious our character didn't die a thousand literal deaths, but he felt tremendous pain as he experienced life's heavier emotions. He didn't mask them; he didn't pretend it was okay. He said, 'This is horrible! I feel terrible! What I did was awful!' and then he slunk his sorry ass on the floor and stayed there for a while. But this is where the goodness of consistency comes in, because as he was filtering through his emotions thinking for the fiftieth time that surely he wouldn't survive this, it was life's routine that pulled him back up. Consistency became his stable ground. It was the expectancy of his mother receiving him as she always did, with a big hug from her tiny frame and a kiss with her crooked, pink lipstick that became a safe landing place. That one little thing that bugged the hell out of him also gave him enough courage to stand back up instead of let go. And that was the moment he died.

Now, hang on, don't let me lose you here because this is where things get really good. When our character finally stepped out back into the world he decreed could never be changed, he was shocked to witness that everything had. When he died, his perception died with him. Now, sometimes the changes were hard to notice while others were dramatically different. But what he could always count on were the people he loved the most to be as endearingly irritating just as they ever were, and that was enough to hold him through it all.

Yep. Death and consistency. They're two of the greatest gifts you could ever have. I have no doubt about it.”
 

Stories from the Dead
Mediumship channels through Jamie Homeister