I enjoy hearing about other people's spiritual beliefs when they are sharing their experience, strength and hope.
I'm going to whisper this really quiet; it is just my interpretation of an experience I had. After a night working at a nursing home, where there was talk of "The Reaper," I am compelled to write for my own selfish comfort.
One time, very early in the morning, I lost so much blood (complications after miscarriage) that I thought I was in my bed dreaming and that I was really on a beach, it was twilight. There were two small radiantly warm suns in the sky. I remember being very thirsty and I felt like I had fallen asleep for a very long time on the beach and was drained, as one feels when this sort of thing happens. I was laying on my side and two or three "people of light" were sort of hovering over me with their hands, like they were massaging my body without "touching" me. I understood they were working. I could hear the water coming onto the sand very calmly, but it was silent, if that can make any sense at all. Then my husband woke me up rather violently and I was so unsettled and disoriented. I was now off the beach and on the floor of my bathroom waiting for the ambulance. That was in April 2003.
On a February day in 2003, different EMTs were rolling me on a gurney into an ambulance and my husband said, "You'll be OK no matter what." I watched him say that, but his mouth wasn't moving and his voice was different. For some reason, I though of Elijah in the rock cave while riding to the hospital. I went from just hoping and believing to knowing there was a power greater than me. I knew I could really just take it easy; that it really was OK no matter what.
After I got home from the hospital in February, my husband said he opened the front door the afternoon before I went to the hospital. He noticed that, for a moment, the wind stopped and it was silent.
Some time before the miscarriage, I felt terrible and had to stay home from work. Stubbornly, I was still trying to get ready for work, anyway. I walked by my mirror and stopped to glance, and it said (not out loud), "You are going to lose this baby." I think I nodded, then I walked to my bed by the window and just laid down on my side watching the field out the window. I felt this deep deep sadness which was melted together with this other feeling of peace or comfort. I didn't cry; I just called work, didn't come in for the day, and took a very long nap.
Then 20 months later, my son was born. When his sister first laid eyes on him she was shaking and said, "oh, mom, thank you so much for the beautiful baby brother."
I'm going to whisper this really quiet; it is just my interpretation of an experience I had. After a night working at a nursing home, where there was talk of "The Reaper," I am compelled to write for my own selfish comfort.
One time, very early in the morning, I lost so much blood (complications after miscarriage) that I thought I was in my bed dreaming and that I was really on a beach, it was twilight. There were two small radiantly warm suns in the sky. I remember being very thirsty and I felt like I had fallen asleep for a very long time on the beach and was drained, as one feels when this sort of thing happens. I was laying on my side and two or three "people of light" were sort of hovering over me with their hands, like they were massaging my body without "touching" me. I understood they were working. I could hear the water coming onto the sand very calmly, but it was silent, if that can make any sense at all. Then my husband woke me up rather violently and I was so unsettled and disoriented. I was now off the beach and on the floor of my bathroom waiting for the ambulance. That was in April 2003.
On a February day in 2003, different EMTs were rolling me on a gurney into an ambulance and my husband said, "You'll be OK no matter what." I watched him say that, but his mouth wasn't moving and his voice was different. For some reason, I though of Elijah in the rock cave while riding to the hospital. I went from just hoping and believing to knowing there was a power greater than me. I knew I could really just take it easy; that it really was OK no matter what.
After I got home from the hospital in February, my husband said he opened the front door the afternoon before I went to the hospital. He noticed that, for a moment, the wind stopped and it was silent.
Some time before the miscarriage, I felt terrible and had to stay home from work. Stubbornly, I was still trying to get ready for work, anyway. I walked by my mirror and stopped to glance, and it said (not out loud), "You are going to lose this baby." I think I nodded, then I walked to my bed by the window and just laid down on my side watching the field out the window. I felt this deep deep sadness which was melted together with this other feeling of peace or comfort. I didn't cry; I just called work, didn't come in for the day, and took a very long nap.
Then 20 months later, my son was born. When his sister first laid eyes on him she was shaking and said, "oh, mom, thank you so much for the beautiful baby brother."
