Last night, as I was going to sleep, I thought about Patrick, the boy I had met at Dorst Campground in Sequoia National Park when I was seven. Camping in the spot next door, he befriended me. He showed me how to walk on fallen logs in the meadow. He helped me climb up on the big rock in between our campsites, offering a helping hand without never once making me feel inferior or weak. He sincerely wanted to spend time with me and share life's wondrous things, like being up on a rock that was bigger than a trailer.
One day, he said, 'I have something special to show you!' and took my hand to lead me far out into the meadow. On the ground was a small patch of snow. And poking up out of it were strange, beautiful red spikes, about three in all. ''Those are snow flowers.' Patrick said. And I was amazed at the wonder of God's Nature on Earth.
When Patrick drove away, I cried great tears, knowing I would never see him again. Home for him was in Pennsylvania. I lived in L.A.
I never forgot him. And as I fell asleep I gave thanks for him.
Patrick died, Blessed Mother said. A great sorrow washed over me, and I bargained with her, to let him know, wherever he is, how truly thankful I was for his kindness and example in my life. It helped me to believe in the highest inentions of others. I prayed hard for his soul to get the message of respect and love I had for him in my heart.
It was me. I was Patrick. said St. Germain, someone I have never channeled before.
My mind was swirling--what? how? why me? But...you were a boy! I touched you! In time, I started to recall that what I had liked about Patrick was his vibration. It was high. He was 'different'. He was 'like me'. Our bond was unspoken, and not of this world.
This was the truth...he said he can be in many places at once.
