by John Edward
CROSSING
OVER
The Stories
Behind the Stories
JOHN EDWARD
STERLING and the distinctive Sterling logo are registered trademarks of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Published in 2010 by Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.
387 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10016
Preface © 2010 by John Edward
Text © 2001 by John Edward
First edition published in 2001 by Hay House/Princess Books
“Precious One” reprinted by permission of Annie Haslam/Annie Haslam,
Michael Dunford, March 8, 1999.
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MY THANKS TO ALL WHO UNDERSTOOD
AND ENCOURAGED ME ON MY JOURNEY.
CONTENTS
Preface
Prologue
CHAPTER 1: Great Expectations
CHAPTER 2: My Three Signs
CHAPTER 3: The Producers
CHAPTER 4: Proving Grounds
CHAPTER 5: Six Lies and Videotape
CHAPTER 6: Legends of Rock
CHAPTER 7: Medium Cool
CHAPTER 8: Crossing Over
CHAPTER 9: Camera One Closes In
CHAPTER 10: The Medium and the Media
Epilogue
Postscript: September 11, 2001
About the Author
PREFACE
I began my journey as a psychic medium in 1985. Looking back, one reading with psychic Lydia Clar put me on my path of development and ignited what seems like a spiritual renaissance. Now I know that sounds kind of cocky and egotistical but it really has a lot less to do with me (I think) as the person and more to do with what I was able to accomplish with a lot of help from above, and that was to launch an internationally syndicated television show called Crossing Over. This book chronicles that journey and my transformation during that time.
When I first began writing books on metaphysics, I really wanted to write fiction. I noticed through my readings that people from all over the world shared similarities when dealing with life, loss, and love. Quite honestly, I couldn’t get arrested with that concept. Every publisher that I sat with looked at me with incredulity. In hindsight, I now realize that the look really was one of, “And you are? And we would publish an unknown’s material why?” Stephen King I was not. I was just John. But every publisher said the same thing, “I would be more interested in you telling your story.”
My story? I didn’t even think that I had a story. Yes, I knew that we all had a story, but I wasn’t sure mine was worth reading. The idea of writing something autobiographical in my late twenties sounded funny and slightly eerie. It wasn’t until my fourth publishing meeting, when the executives I was sitting with called in one of the higher-ups in sales and marketing. That’s when I really started to understand. Her name is Corinda Carfora, and she seemed to be able to communicate in the language of “just John-speak.” She completely saw and felt my lack of desire to speak about myself and helped me to understand that my first foray into publishing was just that, my first.
Corinda explained—in the best possible way—that in order for someone to understand the concepts I am so passionate about teaching, I had to really explain who the teacher was. It made sense. I would not make it about me, but I would explain me, and subsequently it became about the work. That became a recipe for great teaching, whether it was a book, radio show, TV show, or seminar. Teach and lead by example. It was this mentality that I applied to Crossing Over with John Edward the TV show.
I would love to say that my first book (One Last Time) was a runaway best seller at first. It would become one over time. However, this book, Crossing Over, was. It spent a number of weeks on the New York Times bestseller list and gave readers a voyeuristic look at the development of the TV show Crossing Over, while I helped to share some of my metaphysical nuggets of understanding.
It’s ten years to the month that I began working on preproduction for the debut of Crossing Over. I look back on that period of time and I am really not sure where the time has gone. I know I have a seven-year-old son and two-and-a-half-year-old daughter now and they certainly help to mark time differently, but Crossing Over was also a baby for me. I nurtured it and watched it grow and bring about a shift in popular culture in dealing with mediumship and psychic phenomena, some of which was extremely flattering and some, well . . . not so much. But to hear your name used on game shows like Jeopardy! and Trivial Pursuit: America Plays, and on comedy shows like Saturday Night Live and MADtv, and to be invited to play yourself on Will & Grace . . . that was fun. One of my funnier moments was having my cousin call me from Florida and tell me to turn on MTV. When I asked why, she told me that Ms. Cleo, the 1-900-dial-a-psychic was kicking my ass on Celebrity Deathmatch! That, quite possibly, was not my finest moment, but one that I look back and laugh at.
When the television show Crossing Over began, it was launched on the Sci Fi Channel (now SyFy). After its incubation and testing period, it was decided that it was going to be rolled out, or syndicated, during the day. Within two weeks of the show’s debut . . . my country’s greatest tragedy of MY TIME hit and that was September 11 . . . 9/11, as it has become known.
When this book was released in paperback, I added an additional chapter about one of the families I met through Crossing Over, a firefighter and a hero named Michael Kiefer. During my career I’ve been moved by many different energies, but this Michael and a little boy named “Mikey,” who I wrote about in my first book, were the reasons why I named my son Justin Michael. I admired their strength of spirit and the passion they shared in letting their families know they were “all right” on the Other Side. There were a few people that I shared my reasoning with, and they looked at me like I was insane. “Why would you give your baby the name of two dead boys?” I have to say the reactions were interesting. Most looked at me confused, while others were inspired. But when someone didn’t get it, they expressed it. My personal response was always the same: “If my son could reflect the determined energy and love for me and my family as these two boys, then I am a lucky man.”
Michael’s story was inspiring and I wanted to share it in this book since he made his “debut” to me on international television. Years later, I would host a new show called John Edward Cross Country, where I did readings and followed up with the families in their home. Some of the show was taped in a studio, and I brought in a colleague by the name of Char Margolis. When the producers asked me what I would have Char do, I explained that I wanted to show her doing a private reading and how her style of reading is so different than mine. They agreed to it as the format of her appearance. The next question was “Who would she read?” That was easy for me to answer. She would read the Kiefers. It was like watching my family get read as Michael brought through his loving energy to his family once again.
I hope that as you rea
d this book, you are entertained by some of the experiences that I share, but most importantly, I want you to know that your family and friends are ok and are with you. Death is only final in the physical sense . . . when it comes to love, it’s undying.
I am excited that this book might be the first of many that you read on your spiritual quest. I hope that you honor your journey and try to leave people better than you find them each and every time.
For those of you who are interested in experiencing more, check out the new network that I launched called www.Infinitequest.com.
All the best,
John Edward
PROLOGUE
Unitel Studios, New York City
June 14, 2000
I’m standing in shadows, waiting to walk out in front of a hundred people and explain that I’m about to connect some of them with their departed relatives. To your side means husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, above you parents, grandparents . . . appreciate the messages . . . just answer yes or no. . . . I’ve given this litany a thousand times before, in living rooms and offices and Holiday Inns in states I can’t even locate on a map. But this is different. This is like nothing I’ve ever done before. It’s not something I’ve ever really aspired to. But here I am.
Across the dimly lit set, I see Doug Fogel watching me. He’s the stage manager, a Martin Shortish man with a twinkle in his eyes who’s done Cats and The Lion King, Radio City and the Metropolitan Opera. Now he’s working on a TV show about a guy who talks to dead people. He’s in control of what’s happening, unlike the person he’s looking at, the person whose name is in the title of the show. I’m told that this studio was the original home of Big Bird, Bert, Ernie, and Oscar the Grouch. They shot Sesame Street right where I’m standing. And right before me, Chris Rock did his HBO show here. So I guess I fit right in. I like to think that this show is going to be educational. I won’t break the news to the network just yet. I’m sure they think it’s entertainment.
Doug hears the cue from the control room over his headset and begins counting me down with one hand. Five, four, three, two. . . . He points to the irregularly shaped white screen that plays the opening montage of the show. He looks at the audience, extends his arms, and begins clapping with a purpose, turning himself into a human APPLAUSE sign. Then he points to me. It’s showtime. Time for me to walk out from sidestage, make a quick left as I reach the middle of the screen, and bound onto the illuminated disk that will be my new home.
Something tells me we’re not in the Holiday Inn anymore, Toto.
I scan the audience—the gallery, as it’s being called—and try to smile the way I think a TV host is supposed to smile. Regis? Jerry? Oprah? I’m not comfortable. I am extremely un comfortable. I’m not wearing clothes, I’m wearing wardrobe. I have makeup on. There’s all this stuff around me. Up there, a constellation of lights. Over here, a contraption that looks vaguely like a camera. Back over there, a rolling screen that feeds me little bits of monologue to wrap around the taped segments.
And there’s, like, an entire industry of people laboring over a cosmic version of something I’ve been doing for years by myself. Up until now, I’ve been pretty much okay with just God’s help. Now I’m relying on Doug. Everywhere I look there are people in headsets talking to the producers and the director who’s in a room somewhere staring at fifty-two TV screens with my face on more of them than really seems necessary. It’s called the control room, and that makes me nervous. I’m a control freak—ask anybody. And I don’t like surrendering so much control that they need an entire room to hold it.
Will I be able to do what I do under these conditions? Will I get swallowed up like that mad-as-hell-and-not-gonna-take-it-anymore guy in that movie that came out when I was in, like, second grade? Was this really such a good idea?
How the hell did I get here?
— CHAPTER 1 —
Great
Expectations
A Psychic in Ladies’ Lingerie
I was not a happy medium in 1998.
An example: Denver in November. I’m sitting in a radio studio, near the end of a two-week, city-a-day tour to promote my first book, One Last Time. The night before, at a signing at a bookstore, I spoke for about twenty minutes, then asked if anybody had any questions. A woman raised her hand. “Can you start over?” she asked. “You talk way too fast.”
It’s been that kind of tour right from the start. Back in New York, the publicity people booked me at a Bradlee’s department store—in the ladies’ underwear section. Attention shoppers, come see the psychic in ladies’ lingerie on the lower level. I’m standing among the bras and panties, talking about dead people. Uh, the lady by the I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-a-Girdle girdles—did your father pass? My spirit guides—The Boys, as I call them—have one fine sense of humor. They’re just hilarious.
No, things are not going well. Bookstores where I’m appearing bring out plenty of copies from the back room, but the others—one or two stashed in the New Age section, or no books at all. In a town on Long Island where I live, I went to a bookstore and they tried to sell me James Van Praagh’s latest. The sales clerk said it was way better than the one by that John Edwards guy. And this one by Sylvia Browne’s good, too. I ask if she’s read the one by the Edwards guy. She says no. I introduce myself. Doesn’t help. It’s still Edwards to her.
There have been worse days lately. Last month, Montel Williams and Larry King canceled on the same day—my birthday. Definitely a message from The Boys. But what were they trying to tell me? The Larry people said we’d reschedule, but the Montel producer said I’m been-there-done-that. Yet another psychic, another guy who talks to the dead—so what else is new? They need a new angle. I don’t think I have one.
So now I’m doing this radio show in Denver. “Last week we had a psychic on, and he was a big phony, a total fraud,” says one of the hosts. “We don’t believe any of this crap.” That’s my introduction. There are times when I can handle the cynics, take all the slings and arrows in stride. And then there are other times. By this point on the book tour, I am, shall we say, a little cranky. I’m so drained, so frustrated with the entire publishing industry, that I’m pretty much a man without a personality.
I love doing radio. I like the exposure it gives my work without making my face—by that I mean me—the focal point. As long as I have a headset on—for some reason, handsets don’t cut it—I’m good to go. And nobody can accuse me of reading facial expressions or body language. So for me, radio is the medium’s medium. But the last thing I want to do on this particular day in Denver is another call-in show, with hosts who are giving me the morning-zoo treatment, even though it’s four in the afternoon.
I’m pretty good with the first few callers, although a couple of them seem to take the hosts’ cue and don’t make this easy for me. A man to the side comes through for one caller. He’s saying he had a brain tumor. I pass on some other details, and I ask the caller if he understands that.
“Well,” he says, “is there something, you know, something you can tell me that’s a little more detailed?”
He’s neither validating the brain tumor nor denying it. He’s just ignoring it. I repeat the messages I’ve given him, and ask him again if he understands them. It seems he doesn’t want to say yes. The host asks him who he’s trying to connect with. He says a friend with a brain tumor. I snap.
“Did I not just say that? What’s wrong with you people in Denver? Is it the altitude?” I actually say that on the radio. At which point Kristen Green, the book publicist accompanying me on my tour, comes flying in from the control room with her face wrapped in an extremely tight smile. “Do you think you might have been a little short with that last caller?”
I’m fuming, ready to leave, but the Rocky Mountain DJs think this is fantastic. Hey, this is a New York psychic! He’s like a psychic with an attitude!
SOMEWHERE ON THE ROAD, it hit me like a punch in the face. Things are not turning out as I thought they would. No,
as I knew they would. Go ahead, say it: Some psychic you are.
I was about to turn thirty, and I could look back across the years and see where I came from and how I got here. And I had thought I could see around the bend, because my spirit guides had given me glimpses. They had told me years earlier that I would be a teacher in this field. What they didn’t tell me was when or how. I would have to find that out on my own. Not that they didn’t shine a light. They always had.
Years ago, the summer I was fourteen, my Aunt Joan took me on my first real excursion, a cruise to the Caribbean. Docking in St. Thomas, we spent hours shopping, eating, and walking along the shore. Mostly walking. And walking. And walking. After seven or eight hours, we thought it might be a good idea to turn around and head back. About twenty minutes into our return hike, my feet tired and burning, I looked across the horizon and saw our ship in the far distance—about half an inch wide in my perception. “Oh, my God,” I said, “look at how far we still have to go.”
My aunt laughed, reminded of something her mother, my paternal grandmother, Mary, used to always say: “Don’t look at how far you have to go. Look at how far you’ve already come.”
My grandmother’s favorite saying was prophetic—she didn’t know she was passing down from her daughter to her grandson nothing less than words to live by. Trying to look too far ahead, worrying how and when and even if you’re going to get where you’re supposed to go, can stop you in your tracks. It’s a lesson I would have done well to remember fifteen years later, when all I could do was squint at the half-inch ship across the horizon and stop to rub my burning feet. I wasn’t in much of a mood to look back and appreciate how far I’d already come.
There was irony in this, because I had spent a lot of effort recalling my earliest years for the opening chapters of One Last Time—how, as a young child, I had experiences that only years later would I realize were not part of the average childhood. How I knew things I shouldn’t have known, family events that happened before I was born that no one had told me about. How I knew who was going to call on the phone or walk through the door. And how I could spell complicated words I’d never heard by actually seeing them in front of me. My dad, a cop, thought this was very cool—his boy was a genius. From an early age, I also had several experiences where I found myself momentarily outside my body, transported to another place in my house, or outside on the street, and then brought back. And I had the sense that I’d had a prior life, of having done things “before I came down here,” as I explained it to my family. In elementary school, I saw auras around my teachers, and sometimes told them so. Not a great idea. My mother was always telling me I was “special,” but only later did she tell me she wasn’t just being a mom. So let me get this straight. You’re telling me having out-of-body experiences in nursery school is not normal?