Visions, Trips, and Crowded Rooms (15 page)

After taking a final breath, he uttered, “I’m going through the clouds. Is this heaven?” Then he died in his wife’s arms. Although fleeting, the vision was very powerful. Nicole was comforted that the clouds parted and heaven welcomed her husband, as if John’s faith in eternal life was being validated for her.

This is only one of many stories I’ve heard or experienced firsthand throughout my career that go beyond a medical or scientific explanation.

A V
ISIT FROM
A
BOVE

by Theodore

As a hospital chaplain, I never know what the day will bring. I consider my work to be about connecting patients to God in whatever form that may take: prayer, confession, discussion, Bible reading, and so on. Sometimes when people are sick, they naturally turn to a higher power; others forget that He is there, and I remind them. I want everyone to know that the Lord never leaves our side.

One day, I was called in to the ICU to spend time with a woman named Sally who was from out of state. She’d come to the area to visit her daughter, son-in-law, and only grandchild; but a few days after she arrived, her daughter noticed that her mother didn’t seem well and brought her to the emergency room.

They immediately admitted her to the ICU, which wasn’t a good sign. After numerous tests and workups, the doctors determined that Sally was experiencing multiple organ failure. She’d been fighting diabetes most of her life, and her kidneys hadn’t been functioning properly. Now, as it often happens, a domino effect was occurring: as one organ began to fail, it put more strain on the others. Eventually, this patient’s lungs, kidneys, heart, and liver were beginning to lose precious functions.

When I arrived, I was told that Sally wasn’t expected to live much longer. I found the family outside in the waiting area, and told them that while helping her say good-bye was the hardest thing they’d ever have to do, it was also the most important.

It was about 10 A.M. when we went back to Sally’s bedside. She was still awake and alert, but it was obvious that her body was rapidly shutting down. I was able to encourage the family to shower her with love and speak words of appreciation. Sally, who hadn’t uttered a word in the last few hours, suddenly sat up and said in a clear voice, “Jesus, you’re here.”

I noticed that she was looking past me and slightly upward. Then she lay back down, saying, “It is done,” and closed her eyes and was silent. Her daughter and I looked at each other, although neither of us said anything. It was obvious that we both felt we’d just witnessed something pure and profound. Within hours, Sally took her last breath and died.

Afterward, I approached the doctor who had treated her and asked, “Was Sally on any pain medication?”

“No, she wasn’t,” he replied, but then he assured me that if he’d seen any signs of her discomfort, he would have administered the necessary drugs.

“Was she on any medication that might have caused her to hallucinate?”

The doctor took a quick look at her chart and said that she wasn’t. I pictured myself telling this story to colleagues and wanted to be a step ahead of any points they could conceivably bring up to discredit Sally’s vision. If what she’d seen wasn’t a result of medication, I thought that people would assume it was caused by a lack of oxygen, so I asked the doctor if she was at all oxygen deprived when I was with her.

Looking at me curiously, he remarked, “Okay, something’s up. What are you getting at?”

I told him the story, and like a detective, he began to examine Sally’s medical chart more closely. Her vitals had been compromised, but the pulse-oximeter reading had been satisfactory. The doctor then said, “I can tell you for sure that there were no medications administered that would have caused hallucinations, and her oxygen flow appeared adequate.”

He paused a moment and continued. “Chaplain, you’ve said that you help people find God. Maybe today, Jesus found
her,
and you were just a witness. By the way, this happens all the time, but no one wants to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s like this: I want other doctors to refer their patients to me; and I want to be seen as competent, technically astute, and on top of cutting-edge treatments. If I went around telling people that my patients were having deathbed visions, do you think I’d be taken seriously?”

He patted me on the back and smiled. “Now don’t go telling the whole hospital we had this conversation.”

I appreciated this doctor’s kindness and the fact that he shared his secret with me. It’s too bad that although many physicians acknowledge that visions occur, no one will talk about them. In the big picture, however, what mattered most was the expression on Sally’s face when she saw Jesus. It was beautiful to see someone look so genuinely at peace. For me, that said it all.

I D
ON’T
Q
UESTION
W
HAT
H
APPENS

by Daniel

Before I became a rabbi, I was an optometrist with a strong background in science. Years ago, if people had told me about deceased loved ones visiting their living relatives, I would have thought they were crazy. But times have changed, and I’m older and wiser. I know I don’t have all the answers. All I know for sure is that rational men and women, whose words I’d believe in any other situation, tell these stories. They’ve taught me that the more I experience, the more I know deep in my heart that the soul lives on.

My story is about a member of my congregation named Aaron. At 92 years old, he was still very active in our temple. He resided at a nearby assisted-living facility and would walk over three to four times a week. He attended services every Friday night and would show up for most of the events we held, from speakers to classes, and he also loved playing cards.

Aaron had three brothers and one sister, and they’d all lived well into their 90s. He was the youngest, and although his brothers had all died, one had even reached 100 years old. His sister, Rose, was 94 and lived in a nursing home in Florida, but they hadn’t seen each other in more than five years. Aaron said they’d been focused on their own children and grandchildren, and he and his sister only spoke once or twice a year.

One day I noticed that Aaron seemed unsteady on his feet. His visits to the temple became less frequent, and eventually, I only saw him on Friday nights. The decline occurred over a two-year period, and he explained to me that he just didn’t have the energy anymore. At his age, I didn’t think that was unusual.

Around this time, Aaron’s eldest daughter, who had dinner with him every Sunday, told me that she’d noticed that her father’s appetite wasn’t what it used to be. After noting that he also seemed to be losing weight, she took him to the doctor— and after a number of tests, the news wasn’t good. The doctors suspected cancer and wanted to hospitalize Aaron for further testing. He objected, saying, “It’s just getting a bit harder for me to walk, and I’m not hungry that often. My body is telling me that my life is almost over, and I have no complaints. I’ve been lucky! I have a daughter, two sons, and five beautiful grandkids. What more do I need?”

His daughter pleaded with him not to give up. With a smile, he told her, “No one gives up at 92. It might be considered giving up at 75, but I’m approaching the finish line of this race. I can see it and you should, too. Many people my age are in nursing homes like my sister, Rose. Attempting chemo in your 90s may be an option for some, but it isn’t for me.”

The doctor prescribed a medication to help increase Aaron’s appetite, but six months after his 93rd birthday, he really began to decline. His children took him to the doctor to run additional tests to see if there was anything else going on. The doctor still suspected cancer, but believed that it was slow growing. In addition, a test revealed that Aaron’s heart was weak, and he needed a pacemaker. He objected again, and this time the doctor didn’t try to argue. Between a weakened heart and his other health issues, there was no getting this elderly fellow back to his old self.

Within two months, Aaron was on his deathbed, and his daughter and sons were by his side. One day when he was resting, they all heard him say, “Rose, you’re here.”

His children exchanged confused glances, and his daughter asked, “Dad, are you talking about Aunt Rose? She’s in a nursing home in Florida—remember?”

He paid no attention; instead, he smiled and said, “Rose, you’re here! It must be time for us to go.”

Aaron died shortly thereafter. When his daughter called to break the news to her cousin in Florida, she found out that her aunt Rose had died in her sleep the night before.

The family was shocked. They turned to me, their rabbi, wondering if it was possible that their aunt had really come to visit their father on his deathbed. “Why not?” I responded.

“It’s possible. She’d already passed when he had the vision.”

They all seemed skeptical. I explained that they could spend their lives questioning it, but why not just accept it as part of their father’s dying experience?

Then the eldest son spoke up, saying, “Well, we don’t need to be telling anyone else about this.”

“Why not?”

“Rabbi, my father was a good man, a smart man. I don’t want his last words to make others think he was crazy.”

“Your father was an incredible man who lived a wonderful life. I’d hate for his last moment to be labeled by anyone as ‘crazy.’ I see the concern on your face, but I don’t want you to think he had a weird experience that you’ll now have to keep secret or feel ashamed of. That isn’t who Aaron was.
I
believe that Rose came to him.”

“But there’s no logical explanation for this.”

“I don’t question what happens,” I replied. “I just pay attention to it. Do you think people would question
me
if I talked about someone’s vision?”

“No. They’d believe you.”

“With all of your permission, I’d like to tell the story of who Aaron was at his memorial. I’d love to talk about his integrity, his generosity, his belief in his family, and his love of Judaism. But I also want to bring up his vision, and I want all of you to watch everyone’s reactions.”

The family consented.

During the funeral service, I talked about Aaron’s life and shared how Judaism says many things about the afterlife, including “from dust to dust,” reincarnation, and the Kabbalistic approach. Just as there are Conservative, Orthodox, and Reform Jews, there are numerous interpretations of what happens when we die. Then I went into the story of Aaron’s vision of Rose and explained that over the years, several families have shared similar stories with me that they were afraid to tell others. Then I asked the congregation, “How many of you have ever witnessed or heard of someone being visited by a deceased loved one?”

The room was packed with more than a hundred mourners, and Aaron’s family watched as many hands raised and heads nodded, confirming that they’d also had this experience. After the service, I told Aaron’s children how many people had approached me and shared their stories.

It seems that we tend to isolate ourselves when we could be more deeply connected to our friends and families. We want to know that our lives continue after we’re gone. I assured Aaron’s daughter and sons that their father’s “story” didn’t end at death, and neither did Rose’s. Perhaps he’d even come back to greet his own children when it’s their time.