Today was supposed to be my daughter Janell’s sixteenth birthday. We’d planned quite a party with a few close friends—presents, pizza, a “sweet sixteen” cake and ice cream. Now there was nothing to celebrate. Janell had died two months ago, her congested heart finally too weak to go on.
Every day since, I’d grieved for her. But today was the worst day yet.
I slumped across my daughter’s bed, burying my face in her comforter. I didn’t know what I hoped to find in this room, surrounded by the memories that were all that was left of Janell’s life.
I looked over at the horses she’d collected since she was little, each one arranged just so on the book shelf. One made of bronze. And a speckled Paint. Several made of hard plastic. But her favorite was the big white stallion, nearly twice the size of the others. Strong and majestic.
I could understand why Janell loved him so much. He looked so free, running unbridled as if he would never stop. Janell’s heart condition had limited her physically, though she had always pushed herself, an inspiration to everyone who knew her.
Still, this beautiful white horse represented freedoms she hadn’t known on this earth.
Does she have that freedom now, God? I wondered. I tried to picture it in my mind: Janell running and laughing with no chest pain or shortness of breath. But it couldn’t lift the sadness I felt. I wanted Janell to be here with me, to see her with my own eyes. I missed her so much.
Janell was four months old the day my husband and I first rushed her to the doctor. “She can’t stop coughing,” I told him. “Can’t hold down any food.” The doctor listened to her heart, his face tightening. An X-ray and a heart catheterization confirmed his suspicion.
“Your daughter has a defective mitral valve,” he said. He explained how the valve released blood from the left atrium to the left ventricle. “Janell’s isn’t closing properly so the blood is building up in her heart. For now we can treat it with medication, but at some point she’ll need surgery.”
That day came when she was nearly five. The surgeon replaced her valve with an artificial one. I’d never forget the words Janell told her doctors a day or two after the surgery. “My heart!” she said. “It doesn’t bump anymore.”
We were overjoyed. I thanked God for his blessings. Janell was alive and happy. That was all that mattered. I’d treasure every day we had together.
I let my eyes drift around the bedroom, over the pictures of Janell and her friends, her many academic trophies, her ventriloquist dummy, May. May was like Janell’s alter ego. Where she was quiet and thoughtful, May was sarcastic and impulsive.
Together they filled our home with laughter, our days busy with church and after-school activities, even in the face of new challenges. The new valve wasn’t perfect. The pain would return. Janell fighting to get a breath. Trips to the hospital. The doctors adjusting her meds.
Most of the time the incidents weren’t life threatening, but always there was the reminder of how everything can change in an instant.
When she was 13 we thought we were going to lose her. I sat at her bedside, listening to the hum of the machines. “Please, God, not now. I’m not ready,” I said. “I’ll let her go when I have to. I promise. I trust you. Just give me a little longer with her.”
Janell recovered from that crisis, but I never forgot my prayer, even as the hour arrived for her time on earth to end. I was heartbroken. A few days after her death, I thought I heard God speak to me. “I will not leave you comfortless.” But what comfort could there possibly be?
Now I lay down on the comforter and stroked the pillow. It still smelled like Janell. I wanted to be happy for her. I knew she was in heaven. Still, it couldn’t take away the pain of missing her here on earth.
I closed my eyes , but all I saw was darkness. Then, at the edges, light trickled in, turning blackness to gray. An image slowly came into view, the colors faded at first, like a watercolor painting.
I could just barely make out a magnificent green tree, thick with leaves, atop a hill, rising out of the mist. A place I’d never seen before. I felt Janell’s bed under me. I hadn’t left her room. And yet—this place, it seemed so real.
And then I saw it. The head of the most beautiful horse I’d ever seen, coming over the hill through the mist. A huge white stallion. As it approached the tree it held its regal head high. My eyes turned to the rider. A graceful figure in a gauzy, flowing, white gown sat majestically astride the horse.
An angel, I thought. Young and strong. Who else could look like that?
Then through the mist I caught a glimpse of her face. Her eyes were focused straight ahead. She was smiling, as if seeing something incredible. She looked almost like—Janell! It was her. My own daughter on a horse carrying her to someplace amazing, breathtaking. Heaven. I knew it, with absolute certainty.
I looked after her, but she was gone, the hill and the tree fading from view. All that was left was a warmth, a comfort I’d longed for.
I didn’t have to try to conjure up an image in my mind. God had granted me a glimpse of a world with no pain or sorrow. A place where there are no hearts in need of healing. A kingdom where Janell was even now, her body strong and healthy. Janell was finally free.
Today, Janell’s white horse stands on a shelf in my study, a daily reminder of that special, unforgettable day, my daughter’s sixteenth birthday, and the freedom and beauty she enjoys still, a precious gift that can only come from God.
Download your FREE ebook, Messages from the Hereafter: 5 Inspiring Stories Offering Proof of the Afterlife
