We Will Have Nun of That
BY Linda Lauren
April 19 2014 3:44 AM ET
Mother Superior nodded, and Sister took my hand and hustled me down the hallway to the guidance counselor’s office. The room was cozy. It had a sofa and two chairs with a coffee table and was full of beautiful plants and flowers. Sister motioned for me to sit down and sat across from me. She adjusted the billowing folds of the skirt of her habit before reaching forward and taking my hands into hers.
“What did you see, Linda? Tell me what happened, please.” She poured me a glass of water from the pitcher on the table.
I was still shaking as I brought the glass to my lips and took a tiny sip. “The painting on the stairs fell.”
“But it didn’t fall. How did you see it? In your mind?”
I nodded. “But it didn’t happen, and I don’t understand.”
“What time was it when you saw this?”
“We were going to last class. One? Two?” I shifted in my seat and looked down at my shoes. “What does it mean? Mother Superior was very angry.”
“It means that what you may have seen was the future, and it didn’t happen yet.”
I brightened. “If we know that, then we can stop it from really happening, and Mother Superior won’t be angry with me!”
She smiled and patted me on the head. “It doesn’t work that way. One day you will be able to understand that even when you know something, you can’t always prevent it from occurring.” She seemed very sad at this, her smile fading as if remembering something, and then she smiled again. “You must keep your faith and trust that God is guiding you. Maybe one day you can help others, but right now it isn’t smart to share these things, with the exception of your parents and me.”
This sounded like a terrible way to live my life, by denying the things I knew. As much as I knew Sister wanted to help, as I think back on it now, I believe she was caught in her own personal identity crisis. She was a bright, thirty-something-year-old woman with the gift of second sight, and because she had devoted her life to the Catholic Church, a religion that scorned her gift of insight, she had to deny any acknowledgment of her abilities. In the 1960s her service to God would be in conflict with her intuitive abilities, but in the reality of what we have learned since, God is the very source of those abilities. I would one day be able to express what Sister was prevented from expressing.
My parents did come to school, but rather than listen to the complaints of Mother Superior, they simply took me out of there and enrolled me in public school.
The next day, at 2:15 p.m., the painting of Archangel Michael fell from the brackets it was hanging on and crashed into the stairs. From what my parents told me, they had heard that no one was hurt. Seems Mother Superior, with prodding from Sister, conveniently arranged for a fire drill at that time, and no one was in the building.
It was around this time that I began to have lucid dreams of a very vivid nature that bordered on premonitions.
It was 1962. A peaceful row of clouds slowly moved across a pale blue sky, and as each cloud rolled along, it grew larger in size. I watched this magnificent formation of nature enlarge until it filled my entire vision and exploded. The holographic image of an airplane loomed menacingly as the metal monster broke through the clouds, the words Boeing 707 stamped across its side.
“Linda!” It is at this moment that I heard my maternal grandmother’s voice calling me. “Linda!”
My eyes burst open and beads of sweat dotted my forehead as I shot up to a sitting position.
My hand glided down to the bed beneath me, and I patted the mattress gratefully, my ten-year-old self relieved to be safe in my bedroom. It was only a dream.“Are you okay?”
My mother was standing beside the bed, gently pushing the damp strands of hair away from my forehead. “Did you have another bad dream?”
“It was only a dream, Mom.”
“It’s never only a dream, Linda. Tell me about it.”
I retold the dream to my mother, and the first thing she did was to call my grandmother (her mother). “Linda had a dream about a Boeing 707, and that could be your flight.”
“Does it crash?” my grandmother asked.
“You’d think she’d learn to have these dreams a little more in advance for convenience sake. Now I have to send someone down to the airport to change things.” She blew out a long sigh, as if the weight of the world were on her shoulders.
“Well, Mom, at least you’ll be alive to see another trip.”
“Not till your daughter has insomnia.”
My mother laughed. All was safe. It was just a normal day in a very paranormal life.
As it turned out, American Airlines Flight 1 was a domestic, scheduled passenger flight from New York to Los Angeles, that crashed shortly after take-off on March 1, 1962. All 87 passengers and eight crew died in the crash.
Excerpted by permission from Medium Rare: Memoir of a Fourth Generation Psychic Medium