Quite a few years ago, my daughter, after receiving her bachelor’s degree, joined the Peace Corps. For 27 months, she lived in a small town in Romania where she taught English to schoolchildren, became a part of the community, knitted with the grandmothers, and learned a great deal—not only about the history and culture but, perhaps most powerfully, about herself.
One summer, we traveled to visit her. We flew into Bucharest, where she met us, and we explored Romania together. From there, we took a train to Budapest, spent a few days at the mineral spa in Hévíz, and wrapped up the trip in Vienna before flying home.
It was an absolutely breathtaking trip. After being apart for so long, it was wonderful to spend quality time with my daughter. She served as our tour guide, having researched and selected meaningful places and experiences she felt were “must-sees” in that part of the world. She did an outstanding job.
Among the highlights in Budapest was an art park featuring street art and statues from the Nazi and Soviet-controlled years. These works had been reconstructed and placed in a setting where they could still be studied and remembered, but where they wouldn’t serve as jarring reminders of the atrocities committed during those regimes.
In Vienna, we saw a performance of Mozart’s Requiem in a centuries-old cathedral. The orchestra used only instruments that would have been available in Mozart’s time. Requiem is one of my favorite pieces of music, and seeing it performed in Vienna, on what would have been Mozart’s wedding anniversary, took my breath away.
One of the most powerful places we visited in Budapest was the House of Terror. It’s a memorial and museum dedicated to the victims of the fascist and communist regimes that once occupied Hungary. Outside the building, photographs of those who perished there lined the walls. This was a place where countless people were jailed, interrogated, tortured, and executed. The museum does a remarkable job of preserving and presenting this history as a reminder that we must never allow such horrors to be repeated.
My daughter and her mother are avid readers, and they took in every exhibit deeply. I tend to be more of a big-picture person, so while I absorbed the overall impact and was horrified and moved by the countless innocent lives lost, I eventually told them I was going to find a quiet corner to meditate.
What happened next surprised me deeply. The entire multi-story museum felt overwhelmingly full—not with people, but with the disembodied spirits of those who had died there. I was stunned. Despite the decades that had passed since their deaths, I sensed these souls were still lost, unaware of what had happened to them, or why they were still there. I spent the next hour quietly helping—guiding them toward the light, assisting them in releasing their pain, and showing them the way to a more peaceful, beautiful place.
I had never experienced anything like it. It amazed me that I, an American visiting Hungary, could be part of something like that. The gratitude I felt from those souls was overwhelming. They were so appreciative that someone had finally noticed them—someone who could understand and help.
Because the experience was so unusual and outside the norm, I didn’t talk about it with many people. I didn’t want anyone to think I’d lost my mind.
However, I did share the story with a few close friends who share a similar spiritual outlook. They weren’t nearly as surprised as I was, and that gave me some comfort—maybe I wasn’t completely crazy after all.
Then, months later—though I can’t recall exactly how long—a friend from Arizona called me out of the blue. The first thing she said was, “Oh my God! I saw you in Budapest, Hungary, last night!” She described a dream she had where we were working together in the same place I had visited. She had no prior knowledge of what I had experienced, yet what she described matched my experience so closely, it gave me chills. It felt like confirmation that what had happened was real.
Because most of my ancestry is German, I’ve always felt a pull—maybe even a need—to visit the concentration camps in Germany and Poland where millions of people were exterminated. It’s entirely possible I had ancestors or relatives involved on the wrong side of that history. I’ve often wondered if I would encounter similar spiritual congestion there—disembodied souls, lost and confused, needing help to move on.
Over the years, my understanding of how things work has evolved. I now believe I could do this kind of work remotely—without having to physically visit those places. Maybe it’s time I refocus my efforts and explore that possibility.
When I felt drawn to write this post, I questioned my motivation. It’s not about drawing attention to myself or saying, “Look how special I am.” It’s about shining a light for you, the reader—to remind you that we never really know what we’re going to encounter. We don’t always know what role we’re meant to play or what impact we might have on the greater world.
So I encourage you: reflect on your own experiences. Keep your eyes and heart open. Be willing to engage—whether with fellow humans, with the four-legged and winged beings who share the Earth with us, or with those who have already crossed into spirit. Someone, somewhere, may need your help in ways you never imagined.
The possibilities are endless.
Happy hunting.
Author:
Eric Webster
