THERE’S a reason that people don’t share movie spoilers. It has as much to do with not ruining the film for others as it does with prolonging our innocence.
A few months back I wrote a column about Samantha Smith, the eleven year-old American whose 1982 letter to Soviet President Yuri Andropov played a key role in the Cold War detente. What I didn’t tell you is that she was just thirteen when she died in a plane crash in 1985. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want her tragic death to overshadow her incredible life.
Another reason that people don’t share spoilers is because grief can cause us to lose sight of our personal power.
Fourteen years ago, I had a psychic vision that Paul Wellstone, the Minnesota senator whose life’s mission was to “stand up for the little fellers, not the Rockefellers,” was going to die in a plane crash. When my prediction came true it was the worst day of my life, not just because I felt in my heart that it was a deliberate assassination, but because seven other people died along with him —including my best friend’s mentor, a woman who had spent many nights in our home— and I was unable to stop it.
It took more than ten years for me to speak a single sentence about that day without bawling my eyes out. Now I can resoundingly say that Paul’s death was a defining moment in my origin story; the crossroads where I could embrace my psychic ability as a burden or a gift.
The reason that people don’t share spoilers is because there’s always another chapter, another trilogy, another beginning.
This might seem like the bleakest, most random Christmas column ever, but I write it because this year—above all others—it just doesn’t feel like Christmas. No need for a spoiler alert warning. The reasons are well documented in the 2015 Year In Review.
This is my Christmas column is because in every tragedy there is a gift.
Always a new hope there is.
In 2016 that hope is you.
Originally published in Savannah Connect (p. 45)