The Vessel of Reconciliation and the Power of Reaching Out

Dear readers,

May each of you have the knowing that you belong; that you are a necessary part of all you are in relationship with. 💖💖💖

For decades, I have done work as a spiritual healer, but over the past few years, my focus has shifted towards healing the dead. Working closely with the ancestors has become my deepest passion. I am constantly awed by the glimpses they give me into their lives—stories of their struggles, their triumphs, and, most of all, their spiritual beliefs, which includes their devotion to different faces of the Divine.

Early on in my ancestral healing work, I came across a simple song by Shoshana Jedwab called “Where You Go.” Some of the lyrics are:

Your people are my people
Your Divine is my Divine

Those words landed in my heart like a calling. If my ancestors revered something as sacred, could I do any less? Whatever or whomever they called Divine must also be Divine to me.

I decided to take this on as a mission of sorts. Whatever they held sacred, I would hold sacred. I would honor this without question and not let them down.

Or so I thought.

The ancestors come from many lineages, and their beliefs are as varied as they are. Some of these beliefs, unsurprisingly, conflict with one another. My once-clear mission of honoring their sacredness quickly turned into a complex puzzle. Still, I remained committed. If we are collectively moving toward a more relational way of living—a message my guides remind me of often—then surely this was an opportunity to practice that very relationality.

I began to see myself as a vessel of reconciliation, capable of holding all the paradoxes my ancestors carried. It felt like an honor to be the bridge, the place where centuries of discord might finally find harmony.

And it worked! Some of the time. Ok, once or twice. And then I was faced with a real life, in-the-moment situation and had no idea what to do.

My parents live in a small mountain town, where they’re active members of the church community. On a recent visit, my mom asked if I would attend a service with them to meet their new minister and I agreed to go.

Both of my parents sing in the church choir, which meant they’d be sitting up front near the pulpit during the service. I found a spot in the congregation and, as it turned out, had an entire row to myself.

As soon as I sat down, I could feel a great many ancestors all around me. Generations upon generations from every lineage had belonged to the Christian faith and they were immensely pleased about gathering together to worship that day. I smiled and settled in, happy to be sharing the experience with all of them.

But then, something shifted.

The new minister was engaging and articulate, delivering a sermon that held my attention—until he made an offhand remark. He was discussing Roman culture in the ancient world and, in passing, referred to the Roman gods as mere fantasy.

Immediately I sensed the presence of my Pagan ancestors. Here it was! My opportunity to be the living reconciliation of differing beliefs as it was unfolding in real time.

And I blew it.

I felt defensive and protective of the Pagan ancestors. I wanted to reassure them that their beliefs are not inferior in anyway, and I felt myself pushing away the Christian ancestors. Rather than being a vessel for reconciliation, I was taking sides.

I stopped listening to the sermon entirely. My thoughts whirled: How do I stay neutral? How do I hold both points of view? How do I reconcile this?

By the time the benediction began—a tradition where everyone stands, holds hands, and sings together—I was still lost in my thoughts. As the congregation rose, I noticed that everyone was holding hands, but I had no one next to me since I had chosen a row to myself. My isolation in that empty row now felt glaringly symbolic.

Mostly, though, I was consumed with guilt. I had failed to hold the paradox. I had failed to be the bridge. Silently, I pleaded with the ancestors, Show me what to do.

I turned back to face the front of the room. There, in the choir, with an expression of profound love on his face, was my Dad, reaching towards me with an outstretched hand. My eyes prickled with tears as I ran up and took his hand.

I’d gotten the answer I needed. The ancestors did, indeed, show me what to do.

It was never my job to be the sole vessel of reconciliation or to hold paradox alone. In my mission to embody relationality, I had forgotten to be relational. I’d slipped into the familiar pattern of thinking I had to do it all myself, as if healing the ancestors—or myself—could ever be a solitary act.

And then there was my Dad, reaching for me with an expression of love so pure it carried the weight of generations. In taking his hand, I was reminded of the truth: reconciliation is a collective practice.

All we ever have to do is reach out. There is always an ancestor’s hand reaching back.

If you’re feeling called to explore this kind of connection with your ancestors, you’re warmly invited to join my Sacred Roots class at any time. Modules one and two are out now. In December, we’ll begin the process of containing the lineage of focus and witnessing its original wounding—a profound step in understanding and healing the echoes of the past. Then, in January, we’ll move into the transformative work of forgiveness and attuning to the lineage’s positive resources, uncovering the gifts waiting to be reclaimed.

How might you act as a vessel of reconciliation in your life today? What hands are reaching for you, waiting to meet you in love?