James Van Praagh was about eighteen months old, crying in his crib because he wanted to be out in the living room with everyone else, when a white-haired gentleman began visiting him every evening with a toy in his hands. Years later, his grandmother was paging through a photo album when James pointed to a familiar face. "oh, that's your grandfather. He died before you were born."
He told her the man used to come to him every night. For the Queens-born boy who would grow up to write the 1997 New York Times bestseller Talking to Heaven, it was just how the world worked.
Lights at the end of the bed
James assumed everybody could see what he saw: the dead standing behind his friends on Saturday mornings, and the colors around people — auras, the glow some believe surrounds every living person. One night, as his mother knelt beside his bed for prayers, he asked about the people at the foot of it with lights around them. Her answer settled the matter: "They're God's angels. I used to do them, too, when I was a little girl. They'll never hurt you."
By his account, everyone is born with six senses, not five. Children stay wide open until around seven or eight, when parents and teachers teach them to become people pleasers and the intuition gets shut down. A medium is someone who never shut it down, and who can raise their vibration high enough to reach the dead. His favorite way of putting the difference: "a psychic perceives and a medium receives."
Two years to the day
None of this was the plan. James wanted to write TV sitcoms, and he was temping at the William Morris Agency, pulling staples out of contracts so they could be copied onto microfiche — tiny film sheets offices once used for storing documents. A supervisor asked if he wanted to see a medium. What's that? "he's someone who talks to dead people."
To humor her, he visited a medium named Brian Hurst in Manhattan Beach, California. Hurst looked at him and said, "you're a medium." Then came a prediction: "the spirit people want to use you in two years time." James, a cynical New Yorker freshly landed in what he called the land of fruit nuts, shrugged it off. Still, the names and details Hurst brought through cracked him open, and he spent weekends at the Bodhi Tree Bookstore on Melrose Avenue, devouring books on astral projection and Edgar Cayce.
Later, temping at Paramount Studios, he saw a woman standing behind his cubicle neighbor, Joe Dallas. The spirit — Joe's grandmother — told him: "Tell her about the house in Idaho, the yellow house with white shutters and the footstool cover." Jo took it calmly. "We made a pact before she died that she'd come back and let me know she was in heaven."
James was the one who panicked. He raced home to his small Hollywood apartment, sure he'd be locked up, and called Hurst. "James, it's two years exactly today."
The meat suit and the school
Raised Irish Catholic in a big family, James went to plenty of funerals as a boy, and couldn't understand the tears. At one aunt's viewing, he wondered aloud why everyone was crying: "She's standing right next to the box." Decades later, at the viewing for his own sister, she appeared beside him, unimpressed by the fuss. "that's not me, James." His reply: "That's the meat suit."
In all his years, he says, not one spirit has ever said they miss the body. Earth is a school; the spirit realm is home. And when we arrive there, we face a life review, feeling every hurt we caused from the other person's side, many times stronger. With no chance to apologize, that replay can become a person's own hell — or their heaven.
According to James Van Praagh, death doesn't change anyone, not even a skeptic. One dead father stood beside him with his arms folded and refused to talk to his own daughter, because he hadn't believed in mediums when he was alive.
Angel wings in Maui
The readings that stay with him are the ones that heal. At a performing arts center in Maui, a little spirit girl in a pink dress and blonde pigtails bounced across the stage announcing it was her birthday. Her parents stood up in the back row. "Daddy, thank you for the angel wings. I love my angel wings." Her father, a big gym guy, pulled off his t-shirt and turned to the crowd. Across his lats, the big muscles of the back, were two angel wings, tattooed for her birthday.
He is just as firm about readings that wound. When a student medium in Holland described a boy killed by a car in gory detail, James stopped him cold — the boy's mother was sitting right there. "you're here to heal, not to hurt."
And the dead, he insists, stay exactly who they were. At one event, a spirit man stood nearby with his arms folded, refusing to speak to his daughter: "why would I believe in this? I don't believe in this in life. Why believe it now?" He watched other messages land, then asked, "can I give it a shot?" His message was an apology: "I wasn't able to show love in life and I want to give her my love now."
Looking forward to the party
Skeptics have come at James for decades; he calls himself the first medium to take all those bullets. After an Unsolved Mysteries group reading, the skeptic Michael Shermer explained away a murdered boy named Kevin by noting his mother wore a letter K necklace. James shrugs: "that's their truth, not my truth." Every choice, he believes, comes down to love or fear, and fear is a human invention, absent from a spirit world of pure love.
So what does a man who talks to the dead think of his own death? "I can't wait." At sixty, he felt he had accomplished what he came back for. The hard part of his work was never the dead. "Talking to dead people is easy." It's convincing the living to see their own gifts.
