I'll take "What Am I" for $1000, Alex

So I've become fairly certain that I'm a spiritualist. It's been an interesting journey over these last few years -- one that certainly continues -- but at this point in my life, spiritualism is my faith home.

I guess my evolution began when I couldn't wrap my arms around the idea that if a person doesn't believe in Jesus as Savior, said person is doomed to hell. The Buddha? Ghandi? All of the great non-Christian philosophers, thinkers, and scholars that have ever walked the earth? All the non-Christian pacificists? All the non-Christian philanthropists? Need I go on or have I established why I call "bullshit."

It had always kind of bugged me that whatever church I happened to be in at any given time proclaimed itself to be the world's only bastion of truth, and that Jesus was the only way. And look, I still believe in Jesus for sure. He was a great teacher, prophet, holy man, and quite possibly WAS the Son of God. I don't know. Do I believe in the resurrection? Is "maybe" going to be a good enough answer for now? Because that's the answer I have.

I think in a lot of instances, something that was very good and very pure -- that being Christianity -- has been corrupted by the influence of man. It's been used to control, individually and on a macro scale. It's been used to justify things that the application of just a little common sense would identify as wrong. It's proclaimed itself the be-all to end-all. And I'm sorry, but I think there are fantastic people of every faith, of whom God is proud, who go to heaven. I don't care if you're Muslim, Hindu, Christian, Buddhist, Shintoist, it doesn't matter. I believe in a loving, peaceful, benevolent God; one whose grace defies understanding. (I guess it IS good to maintain some of the ideas of the Christian faith I was raised in.)

I had a vision of Jesus once. I know. Dear reader if you told me you had, I wouldn't believe it either.

I was doing a meditation I enjoy, called "visualizing a deity." It doesn't have to be Jesus. I guess really it doesn't even have to be a deity. I suppose I could use my favorite Founder, Thomas Jefferson, if I chose.

But this particular night, it was Jesus.

The meditation requires one to focus slowly, intentionally, and carefully on every physical aspect of the subject. In my case, I began with Jesus' sandals. I envisioned the dust on them, observed their color and construction. I saw the frays and imperfections.

I then moved to his robe. It was like burlap, only softer. There was a rope doubled around his waist, tied just left of center as I faced him.

As I raised my eyes toward His, he said, "Jason."

I hit my knees and buried my head to the ground as quickly as possible. This wasn't part of my meditation. This was a real man. This was a real God. This was Jesus Christ. I would testify to it under oath and under penalty of death.

I reached out meekly to try to touch the bottom of his robe. I remembered the teaching about the old lady who reached out and touched his clothing as he passed and was healed.

As I took hold of the bottom of his robe, I curled it slowly in the fingers of both hands. There was some peace in doing so, but at this point, I was becoming scared. "This is it. This is where I'm told that the life I have lived is an abomination to God. This is where I hear that it's over. I'm no longer loved by the Creator of the universe, and his Son was sent to deliver the message."

I felt a soft hand on top of my head. I tried to bow further...into the ground if it was at all possible. That's when I heard, "No. Stand and look at me."

Right. I'm going to stand and look into the eyes of Jesus himself. The Catholics had taught me that my reaction was pretty damned spot on. However...when Jesus tells you to stand and look, you stand and look.

He was handsome, a little rugged, maybe appeared a little old for his age, and had a slight smile on his face. Surprisingly, gazing at Him didn't bring the fear I expected. There was actually a sense of -- well -- normalcy I guess.

I was still pretty sure I was going to be told I was damned for eternity, or at least that I need to clean up some list of all the many, many mistakes I've made in my life to have a shot at any sort of heaven.

I will never forget the words He spoke. So simple. So profound. So shocking. He said:

"Go, and be well."

There was no order given. There wasn't even a request; at least not something I would need to perform to achieve some sort of reward. He told me to "Go, and be well."

I turned to leave His presence and the whole scene vanished. I was awake and alert, lying in my bed, fully certain this had not been a dream.

Now, keep in mind that I don't ask anyone to believe anything. I have had many spiritual experiences, most of which would be met with a healthy dose of skepticism. And I would expect nothing less from someone who has not had such experience. I myself would likely be a skeptic if not for personal experience.

After marinating on my encounter for a few days, I finally asked some friends what they thought. Some said, "cool" or "that's wild," but one got to the heart of my concerns about what I had seen and heard.

I was maybe doubting myself a little. Maybe I was trying to put some distance between myself and what I perceived as meeting Jesus himself. (I still do perceive it that way, by the way.)

I told her, "I know it doesn't make sense. Why would He come to me? I'm not anyone. There are a billion people I would think He'd appear to before me. I'm not even a good person, really, let alone a great one."

She said, "I think you're looking at this the wrong way. Who did He appear to in the Bible? It wasn't kings and pharaohs and other 'great' people. It was to lowly shepherds and criminals and tax collectors."

We laughed as she explained that she didn't mean I was a hideous person, but rather was attempting to provide an explanation as to "Why me?"

It was the answer I needed. I believe to this day it is the correct one. Jesus didn't really make a habit of appearing to people who thought they didn't need Him. He appeared to the ones that did.

He said what I needed to hear. And as I've contemplated it in the years since, I needed it for a whole host of reasons.

Again, He didn't come to me barking orders. He said, "Go, and be well." Go and be all right. Go and stop beating yourself up. And go and stop feeling inferior, broken, and useless. Go and do something that makes you happy. Go and know I'm here. Go and know I always will be. Go and be Jason. That's enough.

"Go, and be well."

Prior to my experience, I would have thought a vision of Jesus would have included instructions, guidance, expectations, probably some chastising, maybe just shaking of his head and walking away in exasperation. I received none of that. I wasn't told to quit my job and roam some far off land preaching, teaching, or feeding the hungry. I was told to go and be well.

I can do that. Well. I can try. Of all people, Jesus knows that's an unusually difficult task for me. I have a conscience more ferocious than a thousand Great White sharks. And it's chewed me apart on many sleepless nights.

I've also had a tendency to allow other peoples' opinion of me shape my own. I'm getting much better with that, but there was a time that when I was told I was a worthless piece of shit, welp, I was a worthless piece of shit.

As is the case with all humans, my life experience has shaped me in many different ways; some good, some not. I have learned to become the person I am through trial and error, through moving people into and out of my life, and by studying the one topic of which I should be the world's foremost authority: me.

The funny thing is, I haven't always been the foremost authority. As I said, for a long time, I allowed the evaluations of others to become my own, and it's been a challenge to learn which people mean well and which don't. Hell, even the most well-meaning people can have moments where they're callous and destructive. More on that later.

I view myself as an immensely flawed human being, or as I like to call it, "a human being." I believe I was designed by an omnipotent God. I believe that the design flaws he included in me -- and you -- were deliberate. Free will is probably chief among them, and thank God for that one. Though life, our choices, our experiences, and our existence can be painful and difficult, it would have been a waste (in my human opinion) to create something with the ability to reason and learn and grow, and send it through a perfect existence. There would be no use for the strength and resilience of the human spirit without the challenges we face.

The human spirit.

That's something I have a lot of experience dealing with too.

I am sensitive. (Yes I have a big heart that gets me in trouble sometimes, but that's not what I mean.) I can sense the spirits of people who have "crossed over" or to put it bluntly: died.

It is through these experiences that I know for certain that the spirit or soul (which I will use interchangeably) is real. I'll only share a few examples, but I've had too many to count.

My girlfriend Trina's best friend was murdered several years before we met. I never had the privilege of meeting her in person, but she has chosen to share a part of herself with me in the spiritual sense.

I remember one night before Trina and I started dating, we were standing in the parking of the local Planet Fitness talking before going home for the night. I sensed Lisa very strongly. She was over my right shoulder, which was unusual. Women usually appear to me on the left. I quickly realized that was because she has such a strong personality.

I told Lisa (in the way I communicate with those who have crossed over -- in my head, but spirit to spirit) that "I'm not going to do this." She wanted to let Trina know she was still around, but I was afraid Trina would think I was just trying to sleep with her and using Lisa as a means of working my way in.

Lisa, as I now know her to be, was very persistent. Terrified, I told Trina, "Lisa's here."

She believed me immediately, which put me a little more at ease. I told her that Lisa seemed like a very strong person. Trina confirmed that, "I watched her beat up guys."

I said that even though she's very strong, she also has a light, funny, "life of the party" side. When I said, "life of the party," Trina shook her head kind of in awe.

"That's what her mom said to me at the funeral."

Lisa's shared a lot with me in the couple of years since that night. I was able to sense that she had something across her fingers. Not rings, but......well, Trina confirmed she'd given herself a "prison tattoo" of a guy's name when they were dating. I learned that her favorite band was KISS and that she hates Skynyrd. I was blasting Skynyrd while cleaning the house one day, and I could hear her say, "Turn that redneck shit off!" I confirmed with Trina that she despised them.

Lisa still makes herself known, usually when things are especially good or especially bad between Trina and I. She doesn't like it at all when I hurt her best friend with stupid words.

I've experienced both of Trina's parents on multiple occasions. I've been able to describe her mother's demeanor accurately, and even told Trina what she used to wear around the house. She called it her "duster."

She is the embodiment -- I suppose DISembodiment -- of peace and love. I can't even explain how I feel when she's around. I feel like I'm filled with an immense white light, I get very relaxing chills from head to toe, and any cause of stress or frustration immediately and completely vanishes. She is a literal angel, but without any reason to be "sore afraid." I wish I could have known her in person. Her soul is the purest and most beautiful I have ever encountered.

I've had many experiences like these, but the last and most important one I'm going to tell you about is Trina's dad.

Sadly, he and her mom passed before I ever met them in person, but as long as I live, I will never forget the night I "met" her dad.

We were laying in bed, just about to drift off to sleep, when I got this very clear picture of him. So clear that if he had been standing in front of me it wouldn't have been any clearer.

I didn't want to disturb Trina, but he kept giving me this very strong impression that "I need to talk to my daughter."

Communicating in the same way I did with Lisa, I told him that he didn't need me to be able to do that. But he insisted, not rudely at all, but made it clear he wanted me to tell her. OK...

"Baby. Your dad's here. He wants to talk to you. He's wearing black work pants, black shoes that are kind of tall, and this...I don't know...not really a shirt, not really a jacket, flannel, red and black."

She sat straight up, eyes wider than I'd ever seen.

"That's what we buried him in. (Her oldest brother) picked it out. I hated it. He never would have worn that."

Her father had chosen that as his way of proving to her that it was really him.

I asked her to sit up, close her eyes, take a deep breath and clear her mind.

As soon as she did, I could tell that he was communicating with her.

She began to sniffle a little. Trina is a heroically-strong woman. She doesn't cry. And if she does, you better pay attention.

I thought about putting my arm around her, but I knew it would "ground" her and she would lose contact with him. I also knew that she was with someone who would never hurt her under any circumstances.

Eventually she lifted her head, tears streaming down her face. "He was holding our son."

Shortly after we got together, Trina had a miscarriage. Her doctor had told her she couldn't get pregnant due to a procedure she had years ago. We believed that. The doctor was wrong.

Unfortunately, because of that procedure, it was clinically impossible for her to carry to term. She miscarried after a few weeks. We talked about "what if" many times after that. See, Trina is my soulmate, and we'd both love to have had a child born out of the part of our purpose that exists for each other.

We named our son. (We both knew it was a boy somehow.) Jacob Jason Fornwalt. "J.J." Trina's dad showed her that J.J. is real. That there is a soul in heaven, adored by his grandfather, born of our love.

I saw him flash in front of my eyes about a year later. He's cuter than hell. Wispy blonde hair. Big blue eyes. I saw him in overalls and a tiny pair of Timberland boots. I knew immediately who he was. Daddy's boy. The son I'll meet when MY time comes to cross over.

For these and so many other reasons, I know the human soul is real. I know that it goes to a place better than this. I know that somehow it can travel between here and whatever "heaven" is. Or maybe it coexists somehow, here AND there. I'm not sure how all the details work, but I know that what I've said is true.

I know too that Trina and I are connected on a soul level. There were simply too many things that had to line up just perfectly for us to be together, and they all did. We even had the exact same vision of the exact same former life at the exact same time once. It was wild. (I no longer say, "unbelievable." I fully believe it all. I know it in MY soul, and would testify to it too under penalty of death.)

So we've established that I had my vision of Jesus. (You are not required to believe that it was Him, but the experience happened.) We've also established my reasoning for my unshakable belief that the soul exists. (Again, no required belief, but these experiences happened as well.)

"Cool, Jason. You're a Christian who has proof souls are real. What's the problem?"

No problem, per se, but as I mentioned earlier, Christianity isn't for me, at least not in the form that's preached here on earth.

I used the following example with Trina the other night to explain why I don't care for earthly Christians all that much; or at least the "official" teachings of many churches:

"Say someone walks into the living room and says, 'Jason, here's $100 million dollars. You have to take it. If you don't, I'm going to shoot you in the head and kill you.'"

So wait. You're offering me something that is wonderful. You're offering me an opportunity to change my life forever, and hopefully improve the lives of many others in the process. Why then, do you have to threaten me?

The simple answer is that you don't. If you offer me something amazing -- something beyond my understanding it's so good -- you DON'T have to threaten me. Yet what do so many "Christian" churches do? Welp, here come the threats.

"Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father but by Him. Oh, and if you don't do and believe what we tell you to do and believe, you're doomed to Hell for all of eternity. Unimaginable suffering. Eternal languishing in the hottest fire. Eternal separation from that God that loves you so much He sent His Son to die for you."

Wait, wait, wait. So God loves me so much, He let His kid be slaughtered on my behalf. But if I don't believe what you tell me to, He'll let me suffer forever? On what fucking planet does THAT make any sense?

Furthermore, Jesus is supposed to be the way to eternal peace and love and happiness and joy and fulfillment and...all of those things that are worth SO damned much more than money. Why in the name of all that is good and holy do you have to threaten me to get me to want that?!

"You have to take this super-great thing or you're dead." HUH?!

And these are the people who get to decide WHO gets the super-great thing or not? No, I don't think so. As I said in the beginning, there are so many truly beautiful people who are not Christian. Those people go to heaven. I'm sorry. They do.

How do I know? Well, did Jesus tell me, "Hey bud, do exactly what I say man or it's hell fire and damnation for you. Take care!"

No.

He said, "Go, and be well."

And if that's His only expectation of me, then I can be pretty damned sure that those great souls among us who have furthered the knowledge, peace, and wisdom of mankind are partying in heaven when their time here is done. For them, it's a just reward. For me, I pray that it will be grace. I believe that it will be. Though my belief system has certainly migrated away from what most would call "Christianity" I still don't believe heaven is something I will "earn."

It's been hard enough for me to just open my mind to considering that there are other "ways" that are possible. Afterall, I've been subjected to the whole "or else" thing that many Christian churches are so fond of, all of my life. It kind of scares me a little to open myself up to that damnation being reality. What if they ARE right?

Nah. A God that gave me the ability to think isn't going to punish me for eternity for doing so.

So yeah. I'm just going to say it. People go to heaven without believing that Jesus Christ is their Lord and Savior. They do. They just do.

I'm reminded of my earthly father's words to me years ago. I was in a particularly dark place in my life, and I'd created a hell of a mess for myself with a series of really stupid decisions.

He looked at me with compassion and asked, "Let me ask you something. When will you stop loving your kids and wanting to 'do' for them?"

"Never."

"And what could they do that would make you stop loving them?"

"Nothing."

He said, "Exactly. And I feel the same way."

He went on to offer his full assistance, financial and otherwise, and help me formulate a plan to dig out of the hole I had created for myself.

Now. If my earthly father can be that compassionate in a time when, quite honestly, I deserved having him give up on me, how is my heavenly Father not infinitely more equipped to do so? Why wouldn't He do so? You mean to tell me that the Father who knows the number of hairs on my head cares less about me than the father who doesn't?

Bullshit.

I just don't believe that the benevolent and loving God I have come to understand in some way would forsake me because I don't think there's only one way to get to heaven.

I also met Charon, the Ferryman of Greek Legend.

OK, goodbye to those of you who were already beginning to think I was completely insane, and now, with sure confirmation, are checking out.

To those of you still reading, let me just say that you mother fuckers are awesome. Screw those other dickbags.

So yeah, I was drifting off to sleep one night, when I felt a clear presence beside my bed. I don't know if I turned to look and physically saw him, or if it was one of those "in my mind's eye but very clear and real" kind of things.

It was Charon. I wasn't sure why he was visiting, but I knew for certain it wasn't my time. I told him that, calmly and convincingly, as I felt his bony hand move up and down my forearm.

I remembered that I had attended a summer program at a nearby university in my youth. One of the programs of study I chose was Greek mythology. (I hate that word. Mythology. Every goddamned thing in this world is a myth. Why do we make a point of identifying some of those but not others?)

Anyway, the instructor brought in a guest at the end of the "semester" to talk us through a Dungeons & Dragons type roleplay game.

When the class arrived at the River Styx, there was an old lady there who didn't have a penny to pay the Ferryman for her passage. I shouted out, "I'll give her mine!!"

When mom came to pick me up, I overheard our instructor telling her what a kind and generous kid I was, and how impressed she was that I'd give up my penny and not make the boat trip myself. (I didn't know crossing the River meant I was dying. In hindsight, it was a pretty selfish decision. lol)

But when I faced Charon as an adult, I reminded him of that day. I reminded him he got the soul he wanted, and I made it happen. I essentially asked that the old lady stand in my stead a while longer.

I had never felt any fear during this encounter, and when I realized he had accepted my offer/explanation I felt total peace.

I've come to think Charon's true role in whatever great cosmic misunderstanding there is out there is wrong.

When we think of the Grim Reaper (a Westernized version of Charon in a way) we think of a frightening figure who comes to end our lives, and not in a good way. Charon doesn't really do that in Greek lore, but it's his responsibility to ferry souls to the afterlife once they've arrived at his shore.

If he does indeed perform that service, I believe he does it as a service to humanity and the true "person" within each of us that carries on after this body is no longer useful.

I also think he has a higher position, calling, or responsibility than we've been led to believe by tradition.

I'm fairly certain that most readers of this text are unaware that Charon appears on the Altar Wall painting "The Final Judgment" by Michelangelo. It's in the Sistine Chapel. THE SISTINE CHAPEL...probably the most famous Christian/Catholic church on planet earth.

To my knowledge, the church has never disavowed his inclusion in the painting. They've never said he doesn't exist. In fact, he holds a position of honor in Michaelangelo's masterwork, directly above and just to the right of Jesus.

The Sistine Chapel, in Vatican City, where the Pope holds mass, acknowledges not only the existence, but apparent job of Charon, as he is depicted on a boat looking angry, a pile of "souls" on the boat in front of him.

The image in the painting isn't the image I saw. I saw the "Clash of the Titans" version, a skeleton in a dark cloak, and again, with bony fingers that I could actually feel.

I don't know if this is his "normal" form or not. Did Michelangelo get it wrong, depicting a huge green monster of a person? Did he shape shift into a form I would recognize so I would immediately know it was him? Did I see his true form in my experience?

It's hard to say. I tend to believe what I see, and I know what I saw.

I've developed an affinity for him since that night. I keep myself open, and try to put out the vibe that he is welcome to visit any time. I want a figure of him of some sort that I can display in my bedroom as kind of a "Bus Drivers of the Under World Welcome Here" sign.

I remember talking to a Wiccan friend of mine a few years ago. He was open about his beliefs, and I was anxious to learn.

Among other things, he talked about a reverence for Mother Earth, and the pure intention of doing no harm...not to a stink bug even. For if you do, it comes back to you, I think, seven fold? I don't recall exactly, but it was along those lines.

He also said that Wiccans believe that it's ok to have several "gods." Say you believe in Jesus but you also like Mars, God of War. Wiccans apparently say "ok." Or maybe you like Buddha and Mohammed. No problem. Maybe...Just maybe...you think Jesus and Charon are pretty cool.

I haven't done enough of my own research to decide if Wicca is right for me. But from what little I DO know, it would be Charon who would be my patron. I also like the simple (but immensely difficult) mantra of doing no harm. How can that be a bad thing?

While I like Charon, I also like so many other teachings and other figures. I mean, how can you not love the concept of The Buddha? How can you not long to be a part of any teaching that first seeks mastery of one's own mind? Is there anything more difficult or important on this earth?

I have another friend who believes in the Old Norse gods. I haven't been fortunate enough to discuss it with him too deeply, but it's fascinating, and just as plausible as any of the other stories humans tell to make sense of this life and what's after it.

I think the best thing for me to do is to be open. To view myself as sort of a radio antenna, connected to an empty vessel of some kind. I think I need to allow myself to be receptive to whom, or whatever might decide to contact me. And when it's time, I think I'll know. Then I can begin to fill that vessel with the beliefs that bring peace to MY soul.

I don't need to impress anyone. And I certainly will not allow anyone else to form the basis for something as important as my faith. As any good novice should do, I'll ask questions of those further along in their understanding than I. I'll do my own research and homework. And most of all, again, I'll make myself open and receptive.

If I'm wrong to do this, I'll have to accept the consequences. But I've never been a "just accept what you're told kind of guy." Frankly, that type of person scares me to death. Nothing good can come out of just accepting what someone tells you, no matter who it is. We have brains and hearts. They do a pretty good job of telling us what's right if we allow them to.

I hope I'll figure out where I am supposed to sail this ship at some point. I believe I will. Afterall, for now, Charon is driving.

Sensitivity in an insensitive world

I guess I always knew I was a little different. I experienced things that other people didn't. I felt things that others didn't feel. I saw, and occasionally heard, things that didn't exist for anyone else.

I struggled with my experiences in my youth. I had a recurring night terror as a child that was so vivid -- and so utterly horrifying -- that it still causes me pain to think about it as an adult.

I would be laying bed when I would feel a thick, dark, ominous mass in front of my face. It would become difficult to breathe, and my limbs would begin to feel paralyzed. I would fight with every ounce of everything I was worth to pull my covers up over my head.

That's when the voice would reverberate inside my skull with the violence and anger of four death metal bands each playing a different tune within the space between my ears. It was SO LOUD that it made my ears hurt. But it was also entirely within my own head.

It would say the same thing every time.

"How DARE you cover your head when I'm talking to you." But it didn't matter if my head was covered or not. It was in me. It was of me. And at the same time, it was a massive weight...its own entity entirely, holding me in place while I shook my head violently, trying to wake up.

Then came the most horrifying part. I would wake up, still unable to move. Though I'm sure the paralysis lasted only a few seconds, it felt like days. Imagine...being fully conscious but unable to move. If that's not true terror, I can't imagine what is.

I saw counselors, hypnotists, and medical professionals to help me come to grips with what I was experiencing. Being a kid, I made shit up, which likely through them off track. "It's dark and there's a mean voice," just didn't seem scary enough for them to understand.

Having done some research over the years, I now know that what I experienced was a night terror. There are paintings that date to the middle ages showing victims of this unspeakable horror with monsters sitting on their chests and pained looks on their faces. It is not a terribly uncommon experience, unfortunately, with some studies saying most folks will experience it at least once in their lifetime. (I pray that if you haven't, you never will. And I pray that if you have, you find peace. I kid you not.This experience fucked me up, and for a long time.)

My research has provided me with many potential explanations. As I said, simple night terror, alien abduction, or.....or a spiritual/demonic encounter.

There were reasons that I leaned toward the abduction theory for a time, but I won't get into them here. (I will address them in a later post.) And I'm sorry, but I know my body and mind well enough to understand the difference between a simple night terror, and something much more sinister.

I still don't know who (or what) I was dealing with in that dream. But I am certain that it was inherently evil, and probably demonic. Unfortunately, I was too much of a pussy as a little kid to try to figure it out. I almost wish I could have the dream again, in order to face my deepest fear with the knowledge and courage of a man...a man who now knows he is sensitive to spirits.

I've had quite a few experiences with the paranormal throughout my life, but I had my sensitivity confirmed for me when I was fortunate enough to investigate Jean Bonnet Tavern in Bedford, Pa. with Jofa Kauffman and Patty Wilson.

It was a great night. We recorded some good EVP (electronic voice phenomena) and collected some other fun evidence. But it was the last room of the night that changed my life.

The room was a small dining area, with a fireplace on the outside wall. There were three rows of tables. I felt a little uncomfortable, and was getting tired, so I sat at the back table while the rest of the group moved to the front. I can't quite explain what I was feeling, but I noticed as soon as we entered that room. It was a different feeling than I had all night to that point.

Patty began conducting some EVP. Asking who was there with us, if they had anything they wanted to share. Suddenly she stopped and turned to me.

"Jason. The person I'm talking to was in the military. So were you. I think he may respond better to you."

I have chills again as I type this.

I asked the entity his name. I asked his rank. I asked what had happened to him. And while I tried to fight off the emotions welling inside me, I began bawling and had to get out of the room.

I went out on the back porch of the tavern, trying to catch my breath and escape whatever it was I was feeling.

That's when Patty's husband Hutch came out and put his arm around me. It felt good to be embraced by another human. It grounded me somehow. It kind of pushed my reset button. Suddenly I was OK...mostly.

"This is how it starts," Hutch said to me, a comforting knowing grin on his face. "You're sensitive. You have two choices now. Embrace this, or decide you want nothing to do with it."

In actuality, I had no choice. Not in my mind. If I was able to do this, I was going to do this. I shook his hand and told him, "I'm in."

We went back inside. Patty and I continued conducting our EVP session.

Before long, we were both in tears. She put her arm around me. Again, her touch grounded me. I felt secure and safe, even though there was an overwhelming level of sadness in me that I knew wasn't mine.

It was my first real experience with clairsentience. Clairsentience means "clear feeling." In other words, people like me are able to feel the raw emotions of spirits and entities. And believe me, the emotions I was feeling were RAW.

It was a strange feeling. I was crying. I felt the intense emotions of the spirit with whom we were communicating, and yet I knew full well that those feelings were not mine. They were his, and I was able to feel that clear distinction.

I also got incredibly tired. I was physically exhausted by the experience, despite just sitting at a table the entire time. Patty explained to me that spirits use the energy of people like us to manifest themselves. It's a gift and a privilege. And I pray that those entities who need me will use as much of my energy as they ever need, always.

As we were conducting the session, my face felt funny. Hot. Tingly on the left side. And just full of pressure. Patty, explained that as well, with corroboration from the EVP we recorded.

The soldier's name was Mark. He was a sergeant in the Army. He told me both of those things, on the recording, in immediate response to the questions I asked.

Patty was able to discern that he had suffered a severe facial injury in WW I, the result of a rifle buttstroke to the left side of his face.

He returned home, unable to find work because of his disfigurement, and sunk into a deep depression. His misery, and feelings of hopelessness were as real as if I had been enduring them myself.

I will never forget Patty saying, "Jason, we're going to help him to cross over." I didn't have to ask what that meant. I knew. And I wanted Mark's pain gone forever. I needed him to experience the eternal peace deserving of a God-fearing man who had served his nation well.

Patty and I held hands. I cried some more. She talked Mark toward the bright white light. She cried when someone came through to help Mark on his way. It was the enemy soldier. The one who had crushed Mark's face. He extended his hand in peace. And he escorted Mark home.

I felt the very instant that Mark crossed. The pain, tension, and sorrow I had been feeling were lifted -- replaced by a sense of overwhelming peace, and again, exhaustion.

I don't expect most of my friends to read this story, let alone accept it at face value. Before I had this deeply personal and amazing experience, I was somewhat skeptical as well. I always believed in ghosts and spirits, angels and demons, but it took this incredibly personal experience to make me realize how important this realm is to me.

I believe that everyone is born with some level of sensitivity. After all, sensitivity to spirits should be pretty normal, given that these meat suits that we all wear contain one. It's reasonable to expect a dog to be able to communicate with a dog, a cat with a cat, a spirit with a spirit.

I also believe that we have to be willing to accept our sensitivity. I think Hutch was right. I think I could have said, "Nope. I want no part of this," and shut myself off. But I felt a calling to continue that I could not ignore.

I think sensitive people are like ER nurses, or paramedics, or firefighters, or police officers. Not everyone can handle this kind of work; especially on an emotional level. But I believe that those who can -- just like our first responders -- should.

So now you know a little bit about me, who I am, what I do, and why I love it so incredibly much. Stay tuned, and I'll share more of my personal journey as I explore this part of me that I wish I would have "met" sooner.

Thanks for reading.

Jason

Good Luck?

I have just awakened from a deep sleep, not fully aware of how long my eyes have been closed. There is a dank, musty smell, combined with...I don't know...maybe the scent of creosote. The odor itself is ominous, foreboding, and almost seems to carry on its smelly back the presence of...well. I shudder to think the presence of what exactly, but it's definitely there.

I am cold. I feel like I'm indoors, but my eyes don't quite seem to want to adjust to the environment. I can feel beneath me, under my ass as I struggle to sit my groggy self upright, an old sofa or big chair. It feels like it's finished in velour, with evenly spaced buttons in a pattern on its surface. My heart rate is beginning to quicken. I am beginning to hear a soft crunch, crunch, crunch – the sound of my own pulse in blood vessels somewhere near my eardrums.

My breathing is shallow and quick. I feel as though I don't want to breathe in too much of this smell; this musty awfulness. And I feel as though...my God please let their be some light. Please. Someone is here. Not just in this room, but inches from my face.

Dear God, the pit of my stomach feels hollow. My heart even more so. I'm dead. That's the only conceivable answer. I'm dead and I've gone to hell. The devil himself is staring at me, no doubt grinning as he plots my eternal torture.

I guess I wasn't the best guy in life, but I have to admit that I'm at least a little surprised to have been damned to hell for cheating on my wife once, and telling the pastor who presided over my mom's funeral that he could go fuck himself. He could. My mom was no saint. But there was no good reason to wish her luck getting into heaven. The bastard actually said, “good luck,” as they lowered her into that hole.

I digress. I have a tendency to do that. Especially when I'm nervous. And right now I'm scared shitless. It's been a good 10 minutes now, my eyes have adjusted to nothing, and I know that if I stick my hand up in front of my face, I'm going to touch the face of the devil hims....

The lights. They're slowly beginning to raise...and...and there's something else. Oh for chrissakes...carnival music. It sounds like it's coming from an old Victrola. It's scratchy, and occasionally skips. And it seems void of all the joy that such oom-pah sounds from a merry-go-round naturally bring. It's sad. It's melancholy, whatever that means. And yet, it's just carnival music.

This place, this room, clearly hasn't seen another person – a living one, at least – in a good 80 years. Maybe more. And yet the lights work, that goddamned Victrola plays, and...wait. Someone had to turn all of this shit on.

It turns out there was nothing directly in front of me. The devil isn't here. I wonder if he does wear Prada. I'm digressing again. I told you I do that when I get nervous. Or at least I think I did. I'm too nervous to remember, honestly.

Though I fear to turn my head for what I might find...what I might see...what I might not be able to UN-see, I must. I have to summon strength, bury my fear, and find out just where in the name of God I am.

It looks like some kind of formerly beautiful, old Victorian-style living room. Everything is black and red. The high wing-backed chairs, the sofa I now see that I'm sitting on. The red wallpaper that rises from the floor to a black chair rail. And above that, I can't tell what the walls look like. They've been re-papered with posters advertising a vaudevillian magic act that look decades upon decades old. They've yellowed. They've faded. They're covered in dust and cobwebs, some of which stretch clear from the walls to the chandelier in the center of the room.

Whoever this magician was, he was clearly proud of himself. I wonder what his wife thought of his gaudy display of ego ruining what could have been a lovely living space. Hell, she was probably his “lovely assistant.” But if she let him do all this shit, she was probably ugly as sin, and just allowed him to flaunt his stupid little posters so he wouldn't throw her out.

“She actually was quite lovely, David.”

Jesus. There's someone here. He knows my name. And this is no act of magic. He's reading my mind. He's in my head. I can see him as plain as day in my mind's eye. He is tall and thin, dressed in a 1920's dark suit. Graying hair, and a...a cape...under his right arm. I need someone to know this in case I don't make it out of here. His name is...

“Mephistopheles the Great!”

My arms. Dear God in heaven, I cannot move my arms. And my legs. And...and my mind. I've lost it too. I'm hearing voices. I cannot move. I cannot think for myself. I cannot...MAKE THIS DREAM END!!!

“Now, now, David. Calm. Be calm. I want to teach you one of my most famous works of magic.”

No. No magic. I just want to go home. I'm pretty sure I have to work tomorrow. Or...or something. Maybe it's my weekend to see my daughter. I can't remember. And I sure as hell can't seem to make a move toward the...my God. There IS no door.

“No, David. No doors. What I have for you is a box. The same box from which I conducted my most famous escape. And I am going to teach you to perform this escape as well. You will enter the box when I slide it in front of you...and then...”

WOOSH!!!

It's. It's a pine box. How did you...You slid it right in front of me, but you're not even...It looks like a...

“No matter what it looks like. When you escape from the box, you will be home.”

You swear? Don't fuck with me, Mepha...whatever your name is. I don't know how I got here, but I want out. I never want to see this place again. For chrissake. Please let me go, and I promise to never speak of this to anyone.

“Gooood. Good.”

The lid just slowly opened in front of me with no one else here. No one touched it. At least no one that I can actually see.

“Into the box, David. Hastily, now.”

My arms and legs that hadn't worked are now working on their own. Without my command, they lift me from the sofa. I take the two steps to the edge of the box, and then step in. Left foot. Right foot. And I lay down.

Slowly the lid begins to lower. Again, without being touched, just as it had raised. And now it is closed. Once again I find myself in complete darkness. And now there is banging. Violent, loud, banging. The box is being nailed shut. Starting near my head, and now six inches further down. And six inches more. And another six. Until I am now finally, completely, sealed.

Mephistopheles, I have kept my word. I am in the box. And now you keep yours, damnit. How does the trick work? How do I get out of here and get home? You promised to tell me. Mephistopheles, please. You promised.

“David?”

“Yes.”

“Good luck.”

Putting on the red suit

(Let me preface this by saying that this is a purely hypothetical piece. I have not, do not, and will not EVER pretend to be Santa Claus. The fact that he and I have not been seen in the same room for about 7 years is merely a coincidence. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it. Mmkay? Thanks.)

Of all the legendary figures whose tales have graced the history of this rock we call earth, it is my deeply-held belief that the most loved, most longed for, and most enjoyed is Santa Claus.

I proved that myself just yesterday. I'm a 40-year old man, but for a few moments, I'd became a kid again.

I was home, enjoying an afternoon of football on TV, when I started hearing sirens. They seemed to be passing on the highway near my house, one after another, after yet another.

I feared the worst. I live a couple of miles from a facility that -- among other things -- tests rockets. I've felt the house shake when they've had a malfunction. And when I was a kid, I remember hearing about a major explosion out there, and knew kids who didn't know if their fathers were OK until we got home from school.

Considering I was hearing sirens for every bit of an hour-and-a-half, I figured there had certainly been a major incident, and that every fire unit within a 100-mile radius was responding.

To my great joy, I was wrong. And not only was I wrong, but the lone fire engine that had been the noise culprit, began heading toward my house.

Now ordinarily, it's not a good thing to see a fire truck headed toward your home. But when I looked out the window and saw Santa standing on top of the engine and waving, you can absolutely rest assured that I ran out the front door and waved to Mr. Claus and the firefighters whose job it was to chauffeur him for the day.

Santa Claus does that. He turns the young, the old, and everyone in between into giddy little kids. Why? Well, if you want the truth, because our parents, and their parents, and their parents before them lied. lol

Stop me if an adult told you something very close to this story when you were a kid:

"See, on Christmas Eve, this big guy with a white beard and a red suit flies around the world in a sleigh, pulled by magical flying reindeer, delivering toys to all the good girls and boys. Rudolph is the team leader, and his nose glows red to help Santa find his way in the dark."

Sound familiar? Of course it does.

As kids, we all had the awe-inspiring experience of going to bed on Christmas Eve, struggling as hard as we could to fall asleep, and waking up to the sure and certain evidence that Santa had indeed visited our home.

His name was right there on the tags. He ate the cookies. He drank the milk. He took the carrot for Rudolph. He had certainly been there, right? It's not like my parents would ever LIE to me! They HATE lying! That was the only time I ever got spanked as a kid, was when I lied about something! Surely they're not going to spank me and then lie about Christmas! Right? RIGHT?!?!

To this day, I can't prove that Santa Claus didn't visit my house. Sure, I have my own kids now. I've eaten Santa's cookies. I've drunk Santa's milk. And...well, let's be honest...I threw Rudolph's carrot away.

But there will always be a part of me that hangs on to my belief. There will always be something deep in my heart that knows there IS a Santa Claus; that the spirit of Saint Nick is as real as those of you reading these words.

I still get presents from him. Every year, there's at least one gift (nevermind that it's in my mom's handwriting) that says "To Jason, From Santa." And every year I get excited, grinning like I did 35 years ago, as I open the gift from the guy with the magical flying reindeer.

There's something else I get excited to do every year too. I get to pull out my own red suit. I get to put on the fluffy white wig and beard. I pull on the white gloves and the black boots, and for just a little while become my own version of Kris Kringle.

This is the first time I've ever admitted to doing so. When my co-workers ask, "What day are you going to dress up as Santa Claus?" I feign confusion and ask, "Do what?" They play along, and say, "Call Santa and find out what day he's coming in."

There's a very important unwritten rule I have for myself when it comes to playing Santa. DO...NOT...BREAK...CHARACTER.

I was very hesitant to write this for that reason. But I figured that if I posted a disclaimer, it would allow me the leeway to speculate on what someone who dresses up as Santa Claus must experience.

And let me tell you, it's a magical feeling. Magic in a hat? Frosty, my friend, you have nothing on putting on that red hat with the little white ball on the end.

Kids of all ages love it -- from my boss who is...let's just say "older than me," to toddlers, to those in their 80s and beyond.

The joy of seeing faces of every age light up is indescribable. I get to see the reactions of folks who, like me, have spent their entire lives wanting to believe. I get to play a character that everyone loves, wants to see, wants to talk to, wants a picture with...just wants to experience.

Santa, for me, has come a long way since I first ordered the costume.

I was home alone, recently divorced, feeling like the only soul on the planet...only a little more alone than that even. I was feeling particularly down that night, as I'd come to the realization that I'd never again be able to play Santa on Christmas morning. (The milk- and cookie-eating version.)

Then it was like someone walked into the room, tapped me on the shoulder, and asked, "Why can't you?" The light switch within me flipped. "Indeed. Why can't I?"

At that very instant, I started shopping online for the nicest looking suit I could afford. I requested overnight shipping, and less than 48 hours later, "Santa" arrived.

Santa has appeared at my mother's house on Christmas Eve every year since. And while I've never had the pleasure of being there when my girls get to see him, I know he's there. I know that Leah is still looking at him for more "proof" that it's really Daddy, even though she knows it is. I know that Lacy is quietly playing along, not wanting to spoil anything for her sister, even though she knows that she knows.

I know that Mom and Dad are watching and holding on to their own childhood through "Santa" and their grandkids. I know that this is one very important place in my life where I saw a challenge and fixed it. And I know that long after I am gone from this earth, my version of Santa is something that my girls will hold onto, and hopefully tell their own kids about.

I love playing Santa Claus. It's one of those things in my life that gives me a great sense of enjoyment and self-worth. It allows me to give back to those around me, no matter how much money I do or do not have at the time. And it allows me to be a part of something much greater than myself. It allows me, for those couple hours a year, to let kids young and old escape their daily reality and just wonder. "Is he real?"

The little girl that Santa met

"That was wonderful, David," Miss Kline said with a polite smile as the next-to-last student finished reading his "Who I would most like to meet" paper to the class.

"And finally, let's hear Kayla Morris read her paper. Kayla?"

Kayla stood, adjusted her red and green dress nervously, and walked to the front of the room. Miss Kline touched her shoulder reassuringly, knowing Kayla would be nervous about this sort of thing, then stepped aside to listen.

Kayla took a deep breath, sighed heavily, then raised her paper and began to read.

"The person I would most like to meet is..." she glanced at Miss Kline, looking for assurance. The young teacher nodded and smiled.

"The person I would most like to meet...is Santa Claus."

Some of the students laughed. Some of the boys, gave an exaggerated eye roll. One girl called from the back of the room, "Miss Kline! Santa Claus isn't even real!"

The teacher raised her index finger, and gently admonished her pupils.

"Let's show Kayla the respect she showed all of you. Please be quiet and listen. Continue, Kayla," she said, while keeping her eyes on the rest of the class.

Kayla cleared her little throat and picked up where she had left off.

"Some people say that Santa Claus isn't real." The girl in the back slouched in her seat a little. "But I believe that he is. Maybe not as a person you can see or touch. But he's real. He brings happiness to everyone this time of year. Everyone is nicer. Everyone is happier. If I could meet the real Santa Claus, I would ask him to stay all year, so the world could always be like that. The end."

Miss Kline smiled big and wrapped her arm around Kayla's shoulder, squeezing tightly.

"Beautiful."

That night at the dinner table, Kayla was quiet. That wasn't terribly unusual as she was a shy, contemplative child. Even at home. Her father tried to draw her out of her shell a little bit.

"How was school today, honey?"

"Fine, thanks."

"Did you do anything special?"

"No. I just had to read my paper to the class."

"What was your paper about?"

"Who I'd like to meet."

"And who is that?"

Kayla's mother looked at her father with a stare he knew well. He lifted his head a little, acknowledging her.

"I said I'd like to meet Santa Claus," Kayla said meekly, looking down at her plate as she picked at her food.

"Santa Claus, huh?"

"Yes, Daddy. Santa Claus."

Her dad sat back in his chair a little. "And why is that?"

"Because he makes people happy," Kayla said, becoming just a little boisterous for one of the few times in her young life.

"He doesn't let people be sad. He doesn't let people tease and act like jerks."

Mike Morris raised his eyebrows a little, listening closely as his daughter began to open up.

"And he DEFINITELY wouldn't let you and mom yell."

Mike swallowed hard and shot a quick glance to his wife Leslie. She knew his looks as well, and this one meant "It's your turn. You handle this."

Leslie pursed her lips a little, tapping the tips of her fingers together in front of her as she tried to think quickly.

"Honey, I think you picked a good topic for your paper. I really do. And I think the idea of Santa Claus is a good one for everyone to hold on to.

"But, Kayla, sweetie...There are just some things that even Santa Claus can't do."

Mike and Leslie had discussed divorce. They'd discussed how it would affect Kayla. They'd even discussed how they might divide up their belongings. But they hadn't come to any final decision. Mike braced himself, expecting that he and Kayla were about to have their hopes and dreams shattered at the same time; for different reasons.

"When your dad and I got married, we waited for someone we'd never seen before too. This person was going to take the couple that we were and turn us into a family. Think about that honey. This person was going to be 100% responsible for creating a family. This person was going to make all of our dreams come true, and make us happy forever. Do you know who that person was?"

"No. You already said it wasn't Santa."

Mike spoke up.

"Sweetheart, it was you. You made us a family. You did something that even Santa Claus couldn't."

"Well, I still want to meet him," Kayla said softly, not fully understanding the grandeur of the truth that was just revealed to her. "The real one. Not the guy at the mall."

Over the next few weeks, Kayla's parents tried everything; from having her call 800 numbers with messages from "Santa," to showing her internet videos that showed a man dressed as Santa addressing her by name. She remained unimpressed.

She wrote to Santa, and received a return letter -- in her father's handwriting. She even spoke to the guy at the mall, who clearly knew nothing about her. He couldn't have been real either.

On Christmas Eve, Kayla's parents volunteered at the church soup kitchen as they had every year before. This time they took Kayla.

She tried to help. She put ice in plastic cups. She handed out plastic spoons. And once everyone that had come in for the "early rush" was served, she walked to a table near the back of the social hall and sat down, a little fist on each side of her head, looking forlorn as could be.

The outside door opened, and she looked up to see a skinny man in a tattered green coat and ripped jeans walk through the door. He wore a bandana on his head, and had a long white beard. His grizzled face told the story of a long, hard life; in Vietnam and then on the streets of Anytown, USA.

"He's got the beard," she muttered to herself, convinced she'd never meet the real Saint Nick.

The man got his bowl of food, and then began to walk straight toward Kayla.

"Is this seat taken, miss?" he asked kindly, smiling at her with the teeth he had left.

"No sir," Kayla answered softly.

The man sat down.

After a few moments of silence, Kayla spoke up.

"What's your name, sir?"

The old man smiled and shook his head a little.

"Sweetheart, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"I might."

"Well, I guess I oughta tell you the whole story then," the man said, gently resting his plastic spoon on the side of his bowl.

"My parents loved Christmas time. I mean really loved it. And so they named all of us kids after stuff that involves Christmas somehow. I have three sisters who they named Noel, Eve, and Holly. I have two brothers who they named...get this...Rudolph and Ebeneezer."

Kayla laughed a little bit at the thought of actual people being named after a reindeer and Mr. Scrooge.

"And then there's me."

"What did they name you?"

"Santa Claus."

"No they didn't," Kayla said, shaking her head, hoping with all her might that it was true.

The man reached into a pocket in his old jacket and pulled out a well-worn billfold. He opened it, and pulled out a half-century old military ID card. He placed his thumb over his last name, then showed it to Kayla.

She could barely make out the letters that were nearly worn off, but on inspecting the card closely, her heart skipped a beat. There she was, surely enough, talking to Santa Claus.

"Santa," she said, sliding back into her seat, wiping away a tiny tear of joy. "I knew you were real. I KNEW you were."

"Yep. Real as you are," Santa said, taking a few quick sips of his soup.

"Where are your reindeer? What do you feed them? How do they fly so fast? Wh..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy there," Santa said with a grin. "Christmas isn't about me. It's about people like you."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, when people are hungry, what do you do?"

"Feed them."

"When people are sad, what do you do?"

"Cheer them up."

"When people don't believe in something because they can't see it, what do you do?"

"I wish they would have faith."

Santa stood, pushed his chair in and began to walk away. He paused for just a moment before leaving, and turned back to Kayla.

"That's why Kayla matters more than Santa ever will."

"Wait! How did you know my name?"

"I had faith that those folks over there told me the truth."

Kayla looked over behind the counter just in time to see her parents embrace, and give each other a soft kiss.

"Merry Christmas, Kayla," Santa said, and then he was gone.

The Big Duck

Preface: I wanted to write today, but was having a great deal of difficulty coming up with a topic. So I posted a facebook status, asking my friends to suggest topics for a short story. I told them that I would then select one, and write it; giving proper credit for the idea.

Turns out a very good friend of mine, Mr. John Donaldson, suggested "HOF Induction of ____ 2030." It was brilliant in its simplicity. It would allow me to explore a character type I'd never really considered before.

John left me a lot of options. He didn't suggest that I write about a specific person, or even a real person. Though I suspect he likely had Redskins' QB Robert Griffin III in mind. He's at least as big a Skins fan as I am.

I hope he won't mind me going in an entirely different direction. I will be examining a character of a completely different race, different education level, different upbringing, and different life than my white middle-class existence. I will tell it from a first-person perspective. I will be harsh. I will be realistic. And I will try to make you believe that this character is telling the story. PLEASE understand that I intend no disrespect to anyone, of any background, in so doing. I want this to be raw and real; and to push my own boundaries.

That said, thank you, John. We're both fans of Griffin's, and I hope you'll become a fan of "The Big Duck."

I'ma go ahead and introduce myself, even though if you watched NFL in this last 15 years, you already know who I am. My name is Reginald Washington. Though you might know me better as "The Big Duck."

I got that name after my fourth year in Buffalo, my seventh in the league. I done had so many knee surgeries I couldn't bend my legs no more. 'Til I got on the football field that is. Out there, I don't know if it was the shots, the adrenaline, what it was...out there, I could've squatted a half ton. Felt like I did sometimes too. Them offensive linemen heavy. I ain't lyin'.

I ain't wanna leave New York. Growin' up in the Bronx, you ain't never really leave New York. But Buffalo? That wasn't New York no how. So I went with 'em when they went to LA. Played three years there. That town...man. I don't even. Too much other stuff to do I guess. Most of the people came to our games was there to be seen. Them people in Buffalo? They came to SEE the game.

Ten years. Ten damn years I spent bangin' my head up against somebody else. Everything broke. My knees. My elbows. Even broke my head a few times. The old guys used to say they got they bell rung. Now the league make you come out. It's good I guess. Least I can speak for myself today.

Oh...guess I ain't tell you yet. I'm gettin' in the Hall of Fame today. Yup. Sweet Mrs. Chandra Washington's baby boy, a Hall of Famer. I guess daddy here too. Lookin' down and whatnot.

My boy, Reggie Jr. gonna present me for enshrinement. "Enshrinement." They make it sound like they buildin' me a Taj Mahal or somethin'. Nah. Ain't all that. But they made my head outta copper or some shit. Guess that shit oughta last a while.

It's almost time. I'm next. I go right after Aaron Rodgers. I done GOT after his ass a few times too. Good player, that kid. I still ain't like him though. He a quarterback.

Good speech, 12. Least I guess it was. Lot of stuff in my head right now. There go Junior to the podium. Do me proud, boy. Do me proud.

Scuse me a minute, gotta listen to my boy.

"Mr. Commissioner, Hall of Famers, distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen,"

Listen at him. You well-spoken as fuck, college boy.

"I come before you today, to present for enshrinement, one of the greatest defensive tackles ever to play this game."

Go on, kid. Go on.

"In his 10 years in the National Football League, this man recorded 147 sacks and over 750 tackles -- all from the defensive tackle position. He was a 6-time All Pro, 8-time Pro Bowler, 2-time NFL Defensive Player of the Year, and a Super Bowl champion."

I ain't count that shit. Fuck Baltimore.

"But even more than his accomplishments on the field, I am most proud of him for one thing. He was the best damn dad I ever had."

I told that boy. I TOLD him not to use no swear words. Fuck. Embarrassin' my momma right now.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I present for induction to the Pro Football Hall of Fame, Class of 2030, my daddy, 'The Big Duck' Reginald Washington."

He did not just call me 'daddy.' Damn. I'm already snifflin'.

Help dad up, Reggie, but don't make it look like you is. There we go. Ah, damn, son, I ain't ever wanna let this hug go. I love you, lil man. I love you. Good job.

Alright. Lemme get my notes up here real quick. I ain't write it all down. Just some stuff to keep me on track. Kinda like what Coach Manning did my last couple years. He know I ain't need no film study from no quarterback. Just say hey, go do your thing, Duckie.

Gotta raise this mic up a little bit...

Damn. That noise loud through the speakers. *ahem* Aight. Here I go then.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. And first of all, lemme thank my boy, Reggie Jr. for that awesome introduction. Son, you done good. I 'preciate ya. One of these days, you gon' be here. And they gon' be inducking...*scuse me* in-duc-ting The Duckling into Coopers...into Canton, Ohio.

(Damn, I ain't think I'd be this nervous.)

Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank very much all of y'all for puttin' me in here. I mean, I think about the great ones, man. LT Taylor, man. "Mean Joe" Green. Man, I don't even know...Richard Singletary, Mike Dent, man. All them guys.

And just so all y'all know, I ain't even gonna mention none of you offensive guys. Ya'll get y'all ass talked about enough.

But seriously. There's a couple things I gotta say tonight. And a couple people I gotta thank. Without some of y'all folks, they not only be no Duck, they be no damn EGG even.

To my moms, and I see you right there. Right in the front row. I love you, momma. You takin' my ass to all them practices. Washin' my uniforms, cookin' me dinner when I was eatin' as much as all three other kids by my-damn-self. I love you. Great job.

(That felt a little like it ain't go right. If I clap for her, hopefully everybody else ass will too. Damn. That shit loud on the speakers too.)

To my coaches...to my teammates, man. Y'all helped me immensely. I can't name all y'all, cause we'd be here till next year enshine...*ahem* enshine...damn...enshrinement. But thank all y'all very much. Ya'll awesome to play with, for real.

(Man, I gotta take a break for a minute, drink some of this water under here. This next part gonna be hard.)

*ahem* Oh boy. (Damn, they gonna know why they really call me The Duck here in a minute. My eyes gettin' watery as hell.)

They one person, that I gotta thank to the utmost. *ahem* And um...unfortunately, he couldn't be with us tonight as a physical person.

*ahem ahem* (More water. Damn, son, calm yourself down.)

I gotta thank my daddy.

They clappin so hard now, damn. Gotta wipe the sweat off my eyes. Least make it look like that what I'm doin'.

Ladies and gentlemen...*ahem*...my daddy was my first football coach. He was my first coach at life too. And he was good at it. Real good.

He used to tell me, "Reggie, keep yo head down when you do school work. Keep yo head up when you playin' football."

I ain't know what he meant then. But I do now. Daddy knew when you do work, you keep your head down. You pay attention hard as you can. Kids called it "the grind" back in my day. You gotta grind hard if you want anything in life.

Daddy in football was a little more talkin' bout what he actually meant. You don't keep yo head up, you gon' got knocked on yo ass!

(They laughin', but that shit serious.)

Only thing was, I ain't realize what Daddy meant about the whole head up and down thing till he was gone.

What he meant for real was, keep yo head on the things that's important to you. And believe me. Once yo daddy gone, you realize quick, fast, and in a hurry, what you should be watchin' at...*ahem*...lookin' at.

(They clappin hard again. All for you, Daddy.)

Ladies and gentlemen, I'ma ask you tonight, what should you have your head on? That's my question for y'all right now. What y'all don't give enough time to? Who you ain't called in like six months? What friend you ain't sat down and had a beer with?

NFL Football was my life for 10 years. If I did it now, my life would have included football. I lost 10 years, thinkin' I was bad shit. Guess I was, or I might wouldn't had this jacket on right now.

(They laughin' ass. I was.)

But I let a lot of shit go for 10 years too. Friends. Family members. All of it. And when I let go of my daddy...I ain't had no choice.

Don't be me. Yeah, play football if you want to. That's great. It is. I had a nice life. But like my Daddy said, keep y'all's head up.

(This hard, lookin' up to the sky right now.)

Daddy. Right now, you baby boy head up. Lookin' at you. Sayin' thank you. I love you. And God bless you. I see you one day. I know that's right.

*ahem*

Thank you.