The Ride

I was turning the key in the ignition when I heard a tap on my passenger window. It was a young woman – dark hair and eyes, heavyset, with a tiny little cockapoo dog – making the “roll down your window” motion with her right hand. Puzzled, I did so.

“Can you give me a ride? I’m trying to get to my uncle’s place, and my car broke down.”

I moved into my heart center, aligned outward, and felt her aura. It was fairly normal, free of malice or ill intent, and the only surface desire was for a ride.

“Which direction?” I asked.

She pointed behind me, and a bit to the right. I asked a couple more questions, and the situation became clearer. Her name was Amber. She’d been driving to her uncle’s house from her home, a couple blocks away, when her car broke down. Continuing on on foot, she found me, leaving a house in her neighborhood, and decided to ask for a ride.

Chelsea, her dog, would not be coming along as he knew the way home from here. That bothered me, but she seemed quite certain. “OK,” I said.

She ordered Chelsea to go home, and the little dog trotted off down the sidewalk, back in the direction from which she and Amber had come. Slightly reassured, I turned the car around, and drove off, following Amber’s directions.

“What were you doing?” she asked.

“Publishing committee meeting. I’m part of a company that publishes spiritual textbooks, and this was our monthly meeting.”

“Oh? That’s cool. I left my medicine in my uncle’s car, and I have to pick it up.”

“Medicine?”

“I have a tumor in the left side of my brain.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll pray for you.”

I hadn’t sensed anything like that, and I’d have expected someone with a tumor to be more specific. Nevertheless, I aligned upward, from the heart, through the top of my head, to the great deva of healing, and through that deva with the Christ.

Invoking the Light of Healing, I aligned outward, to Amber’s brain, and infused it with healing light. I held that alignment the two miles to her uncle’s place, and then throughout the drive home.

Namaste,

Glen