Long ago, when I was a young teenager, it happened that I accompanied a friend to their home after school one day. When we walked into the house it was apparent something significant was occurring.
My friend’s parents were sitting at the kitchen table across from each other tightly holding hands. The father was crying. The mother had been crying too. One brief glance from the mother wordlessly directed to us conveyed this message, “You will go to your room immediately and leave us be.”
We complied. As I followed my friend I took note of the scene on the table. Cigarette packs on the table, a full ashtray and the remains of a pot of coffee. The coffee surprised me. The father was a known alcoholic and a more common beverage would have been whiskey on the rocks at that time of day, not coffee. The adults waited in silence until we were in the other room and closed the door. Then they began talking again.
It might have been the more proper thing to allow my friend’s parents their privacy, but we did not do this. We silently cracked open the door and strained our ears to listen. We knew something very important was transpiring and we wanted to know what that was. We didn’t hear every word spoken, but we heard enough. And I will never forget what I heard.
The father, it should be mentioned, was completely sober. He was speaking in a passionate manner, words tumbling and spilling out to his wife in complete coherent sentences. Not lubricated with alcohol. The mother mostly listened but occasionally asked a question.
The man was spilling his heart, emptying his guts to his wife. Sometimes he spoke so quickly, it seemed like he was trying to hurry up and finish before she might get up and leave. Every few minutes he pleaded with his wife to “believe him.” She was being very supportive and didn’t seem like she was about to quit the conversation, but you could hear the fear notes in his voice that anticipated her walking away.
My friend and I stared at each other in open mouthed amazement when we began to hear enough snippets and pieces of the conversation to understand what they were talking about. No wonder he thought she might get up and leave. He was telling her that for many years now, he had been taken aboard an alien spaceship. He was describing the other beings. He was admitting being afraid and confused. He was acknowledging that if the story got out he would likely lose his job, his friends and maybe his family. But he couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. He had to tell someone.
My friend looked at me with disbelief and anger and disgustingly whispered “Drunk.” I didn’t say anything but noted to myself that he was as sober as I had ever seen him when we walked in the door. He certainly was not intoxicated at that time. My friend, who “sided” with the mother in all things felt quite protective of her at that moment and believed that this was another dramatic emotional ploy of the father; ridiculous, concocted and devious.
“When I drink, I tend not to remember. But ‘they’ don’t want me to drink so much anymore.” Somehow that line softly entered our space complete and full.
It seemed as if he wasn’t so much afraid of the “beings” as much as being “found out” by his fellow human family and friends. He wanted his wife to know, but not to tell another living soul all the things he was telling her now. This was a secret to end all secrets. I personally, even then, had no problem imagining life forms existing apart from Earth, but wondered too, about his mental state and grasp of reality.
My friend was livid and pacing silently, considering the benefits of barging in and disrupting the scene at the kitchen table.
I remember being sad and feeling sympathy for the father. I had always thought him simply weak and controlled by his drinking habit, but the idea that he was using alcohol as a coping mechanism for such a profoundly unusual aspect of his life had never occurred to me.
“Lies, lies, lies,” my friend was saying, fists clenched.
I didn’t know what to think at the moment, but I do remember later, mostly adopting my friend’s unwavering notion that the story was a fabrication, created simply as another alcoholic delusion and excuse for poor behavior. Who would disagree? Hardly anyone at the time. Maybe hardly anyone would disagree now either. But I have since changed my mind. And in a very big way.
Even though Mr. B has passed away now, I wish to formally apologize to him and I do believe he will receive this apology in some way.
Dear Mr. B,
I apologize. Even though we never spoke of this incident and I wasn’t supposed to be listening, I wasn’t sure I believed you either. I thought I was just listening to a drunk. But the emotion and energy in your words that day have never left me. You were speaking your truth, soberly, and from the heart. I know that now.
Currently I professionally work with many people who have similar experiences with off planet beings. I have even communicated with some of them myself! Although it is still considered far from commonplace, these experiences are now pretty much accepted in the metaphysical community. Someday soon, perhaps enough of humanity will wake up and acknowledge that our place on Earth is as but a single version of sentient life in the cosmos. There are countless others out there, physical and otherwise, just waiting for us to mature enough as a race to be able to handle this concept. When we are enlightened and mature enough to do so without fear (and without fear of ridicule) then we can communicate with each other more freely and openly and be welcomed into our cosmic neighborhood.
We are working on it, Mr. B. We are working on it.
(Permission to share this story is given as long as it is shared completely with all links and remains unaltered in any way. Copyright 2012 Candace Craw-Goldman. www.newearthjourney.wordpress.com)