In 1982, I was a severely depressed thirty-two-year-old in a loveless marriage who also suffered from chronic anemia and had just been told I would never bear children. I wanted to end the pain forever, so I attempted suicide.
I didn’t believe in God, Jesus, or angels, much less an afterlife. But suddenly, in the midst of my attempt, I was immersed in a love and light that was infinite beyond all description. The love was unconditional, and I wanted to stay in that light forever. The light gently receded, and I was back in my bedroom. Jesus was next to my bed. He said, “Don’t waste your life, thinking you’re not loved.”
With that message, all went dark again, and I was sucked back into my body.
I had a new life to live and Jesus’s message to live up to. I had some kind of purpose to figure out. I didn’t even know my experience had a name: the “near-death experience.” Little did I know then how my NDE would someday allow me to help others, including the person I loved most.
I tried telling my then-husband and loved ones about my experience. They all thought I was crazy, so I stopped talking about it. I moved back to my home state, got a divorce, and, some years later, fell in love with a research scientist named Dr. Charles David “Dave” Stout. I didn’t want to marry Dave if I couldn’t share my secret with him. I needed to know he could accept that important part of me.
Not only did Dave not think that I was crazy, but he shared his own spiritual experience of praying for his mother after she had a terrible car accident that could have taken her life. On his way to the hospital, he felt compelled to pray for her. He stopped at a grove of cottonwood trees to pray, and suddenly, he felt transported. The leaves of the cottonwood trees began to glow. He got the unmistakable sense that his mother would eventually heal and be fine. She did.
I knew then that Dave was the one for me. Throughout our long marriage, we talked about God, life’s purpose, the afterlife, and unconditional love. Music lifted our souls. And every summer Dave went hiking in his favorite mountains, the eastern Sierras. He read from his well-worn Bible every day. Dave read every edition of Guideposts magazine cover to cover. He shared the dog-eared pages and underlined passages with me. This precious man was my true soulmate.
Then, in June of 2013, Dave was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. It was inoperable. They gave my dear husband three months to live, best case scenario fourteen. We vowed to fight it with everything we could. But most of all, we prayed.
We had three more years together. One day in January 2016, Dave fell into a coma. His sons and I rushed him to the hospital. The nurses set up a bed for me in his room. Finally acknowledging that God would soon be calling my beloved husband home, I fervently prayed for a deathbed vision that would comfort him and bring him peace.
The next morning, I found Dave sitting up in bed, smiling. He was pointing to the ceiling. Speaking was difficult; while he understood everything I said, I didn’t know what he was trying to tell me. Then he asked clearly, “You can’t see that? It’s real.” My prayers had been answered. He was having a heavenly vision. I wanted to hear everything about it.
“What do you see?” I asked.
He pointed from one edge of the ceiling to the other and said, “Mountains.” Dave’s spiritual home. “White, feathers, music.”
“Angels?” I asked.
“Yes, angels!”
“Are they singing?”
“No.”
“Are they playing instruments to make the music?”
“Yes.”
“Is it beautiful?”
He gave me a big smile and said, “Oh, yes.”
Three months later, on April 30, Dave was taking his final breaths. He could no longer talk. His eyes were wide, moving from one end of the ceiling to the other.
“Are you seeing your mountains again?” I asked Dave. He nodded. Yes.
“Do you think God is calling you home?” Yes.
“Do you want to go home? Yes!
Within a few hours, he was gone from this life. Only then did I allow myself to break down.
The angels knew how much my husband loved instrumental music. They knew he loved the mountains. They chose to give him this experience in a way that would bring him the most comfort and help guide him in his transition.
By bringing my husband comfort, they brought me comfort as well.
