A Christian Girl Goes to See the Psychic

On God Being Everywhere, Not Just [One] Somewhere

It was a good day. It was also a day where I just knew that something new would happen.

My eyes had always been drawn to the sign – every time I’d come to this small, quaint, endearing city, one over from mine, and grab Italian food or a platter of fish and chips from one of the restaurants lining the main street, that “Astrology & Zodiac” sign on its left-hand side would always beckon to me. Typically, the sign was white with bold black letters, but on the day I’d gotten dinner with friends in celebration of Memorial Day weekend, the day the annual town carnival was going on, the sign was a bold red with white letters, starkly contrasting against the crimson – the color of blood, the color of the forbidden fruit I was strictly prohibited from taking a bite of. 

Christians were not supposed to indulge in the dark arts, we were not supposed to engage in any forces that may not be of God. But then…why was I so drawn to it? Why was I not afraid, save for a fear of the unknown? 

My friends had already gotten in their cars and driven away, long before I decided to turn back around. I parked my car and walked the seemingly endless mile (which was really about a block, if that) to the sign, by which a narrow, rickety staircase stood. Walking up the staircase and looking through the glass window that took up the first part of the door, I was transported to the living room of a nice old woman – it honestly could have been my grandmother’s home; the oasis I’d become accustomed to and had loved as a second home before she died. Peering into the psychic’s suite, I saw a loveseat the color of baby’s breath, a long oak table with a few matching chairs on either side, a darkened room further back into the suite that contained some pictures hanging on the wall, and either a bed or a chaise, unsure which. 

I rang the small, white doorbell, and a woman approached. She was simultaneously exactly and nothing like what I imagined a psychic would look like – short and old with leathery, tanned skin, yet she still possessed a youthful effervescence that was both instantly palpable and enviable. She wore black leggings and a pastel blue sweatshirt containing the insignia of some local college. Her eyelids were packed with a bright, sparkly purple shadow; her lips painted hot pink. I stood in silent awe, with two things on my mind – one, I want to be just like her when I grow up; two, I really hope she doesn’t scam and/or hex me. 

I must have been standing there staring much longer than I thought I was. “Yes, dear?” she probed, impatiently yet not unkindly. 

“I, uh, I saw the sign on the sheet. I’d like to get a reading – a palm reading, please.” 

The lady’s face immediately brightened. “Alright, dear, come on in!” Her accent was both familiar and foreign – she sounded like the mothers and grandmothers of some of my friends, but with a hint of some faraway place that could have been either real or fake. I chose to believe the former. 

She led me to the oak table and sat in the chair opposite mine, and instructed me to lay my open hand, palm up, on the table. Interestingly, she didn’t touch my palm, or even comment directly on its appearance in any respect, let alone the meaning of any lines streaking across my palm. She immediately jumped into her spiritual analysis. 

“So, you are someone holding onto a lot of anger, and you need to let it go. What are you having issues with?” 

Damn. She kind of gagged me with that one. “Well…I do struggle a bit with relationships…and knowing where and how my life is going to go…” 

“Why am I seeing military? Was someone in the military?” 

Uh oh. Where is this going? “Well,” I responded, “my latest ex was a veteran, he was in the Navy. And my grandfather who passed a few years ago, he was a Colonel in the Air Force.” 

“Yes, yes,” she replied. “Your grandpa is always with you, he is always with you. Why you break up with the man?” 

I told her the truth. “You know, I really loved him, but there were things going on in his life that ultimately didn’t work well with mine.” 

She shook her head, rigorously. “Don’t go back to him. He’s no good for you and makes you sad.” Well…she wasn’t exactly wrong. 

She went on to tell me that she doesn’t see marriage for me right now, but rather in two to three years. She said I’ll have two kids – a boy and a girl, exactly like my dreams, the dreams I still hold dear. She asked me what kind of law I wanted to practice, and I told her. 

One of the last things she said made a decently lasting impact on me. “So, I see medicine or a doctor’s office around you – what is that?” 

I drew a blank, and at this point began to wonder if I could get at least half of money money back. Was she just saying random shit now? I thought. “Umm…” I pretended to ponder the matter in depth to mask my annoyance. She interjected, “Do you go to see a therapist or psychiatrist?” Oh. “Yes, yes I do.” 

“Ok, so that’s why I saw the medical in my vision,” she replied. “It’s a good thing that you’re seeing a therapist. They do the medical, and I do the spiritual, and in my opinion, you have a minor spiritual problem.” She let that sit in the open air for a moment. “Together, we are going to figure out what may be energetically blocking you from finding love – I know that it’s very minor, and I know you don’t want much out of life. You just want a man to share your life with, and to have fun with.” She gave me somewhat of a sad smile. “You’re just lonely.” 

You’re just lonely. 

You’re just lonely. 

You’re just lonely. 

Such a simple yet astute observation. It’s not like it was anything I hadn’t heard before, or that I hadn’t already thought of myself. It didn’t exactly cut deep, either – it was actually somewhat refreshing for someone else other than myself to recognize it. Is loneliness truly profound if it’s normalized, if it’s known both to the person it occupies and that around them? What religious or spiritual practices can one utilize to remedy the affliction of loneliness? Should we be ashamed of it? Even after years of religious and spiritual exploration, I am still unable to answer these questions. 

My whole life, I was taught that the only way to live your life, to find peace and salvation, was to do so through Jesus Christ. I still believe that statement, but just not within the restrictive confines of the fire-and-brimstone, shaming perspective that many Christians still believe to be their saving grace. Imagine my surprise when, after the reading ended and the psychic and I engaged in some brief small talk, she stated that she goes to a local Catholic parish for mass and had been going for years as a self-proclaimed practicing Catholic/spiritualist. “What I do is of God,” she stated. “None of it is demonic or evil. God speaks to me and I use it to speak to others, when it might be hard for them to speak to God themselves.” 

This  made me think of the aspects of certain Christian traditions in which laypeople ask some type of interlocutor – whether a pastor, priest, family member, friend, or saint – to pray for them or to give them some divinely-inspired guidance. Hearing from this woman was equal parts validating and shocking. Not shocking in the sense that her merging of both Christian and seemingly “pagan” rituals, beliefs, and practices was so scandalous, but shocking in the sense that I’d met someone else who had a very similar approach to faith and spirituality and they were unashamed of it. In the Christian circles I was raised in, it was contemptible to integrate anything else into your faith that was not “of God” – there are even people in my family who refuse to set foot in a yoga studio. Even still, I felt a call from very early on that the messages God was trying to send me were not such that could be found within or limited to the walls of the plain, sterile, denominationally ambiguous church my family had been attending since my childhood, nor the palpably awkward and unsatisfying youth and young adult ministry groups I’d tried to seek out. Neither the Biblical interpretations nor the community-building attempts within these groups satisfied me. I found myself drawn to Gnosticism, to the historical roots of Santería and Hoodoo, to the morals and lore at the foundation of Greek mythology, and even the occasional tarot card reading from time to time – all the while keeping Christ at the center of my heart, if you can believe it. Learning about the Gnostic Sophia as the syzygy Christ-bride coincided with my knowledge of the other women who were a significant fixture in Jesus’ life and the word of God in general, and they all informed my reverence of divine, Christ-like women. After praying to God for love to enter my life, I completed a card reading for myself in which I drew the “Lovers” Major Arcana card for the first and only time; not even two to three days later, I met one of the three boyfriends I’ve ever had, all of whom still poses a small piece of my heart for what they’ve both given and taken from me. And I’ve read so many iterations and retellings of the Trojan War that I know it like the back of my hand – what I’ve learned from Achilles and Patroclus about divine love and devotion that is literally blessed by the gods, as well as how our destinies are prewritten for better or worse, were things that I knew God wanted me to see and learn. 

I’ve accepted that I will never know the totality of the truth, until I’m gone, at least. I know that God lives all around me and in my heat. I know that I am divinely favored, loved, and protected. I know that our purpose is to live out the Word, the message of God. But I refuse to believe that there is only one path home. At least, for now. I plan on finding a new church home. I plan on intentionally exploring Catholicism and talking to a priest. I also plan on giving myself an in-depth tarot reading for the first time in years, rose quartz in my hand. 

Sounds contradictory, doesn’t it? I don’t have all the answers, after all. Doesn’t it just matter that we make it home at all?