About two decades ago, I met James[1]. He was one of my first patients in hospice. After talking a few moments, he said, “I haven’t been in church for many years. But, I was a Sunday school kid. Every Sunday, until I was a teenager, I was happy to go to church. Then there just wasn’t a lot of thoughts going on about God.”

 Mostly our conversations were around his picturesque recounts of fishing as those trips were obviously the highlight of his life. I did enjoy hearing the stories but mostly savored how, at the very ending days of his life—with an IV in his arm—he was finding solace in those memories. Not at any point within my two home-hospice visits did James talk about his illness or dying.

This was a bit concerning. I had been trained to believe doctors always prepared a patient for entering hospice, telling them medical treatment would stop as it no longer held any promise for saving one’s life. Hospice teams are experts at treating pain and fostering the highest level of comfort possible. Still, while with James, what seemed the right thing to do, was to just be there for him, letting him know I was enjoying what he was sharing. I could hear the “rivers roar,” in places . . . yet, also envision his fly fishing in the calmer, peaceful waters. He was that good with these stories.

Before my next scheduled visit to James’ house, I got a call from his hospice nurse. She said, “James was hospitalized. We don’t expect him to live beyond 48 to 72 hours.”

Arriving at his hospital room, I figured James would want to talk about this part of his journey. But, no. After rousing a bit to speak, he said, “Let me tell you about the next fishing trip I’m going to make!”

Again, I found listening was the only thing to do. Upon leaving, I did have some difficult feelings, telling myself, “The doctor has failed to tell this man the truth—he is dying!”

Early the next day I got a call from his wife, Sally. She said James had passed, then told me of their last moments, “I was sitting by his bedside while holding his hand. We were telling one another how much we love each other. Then James pulled his hand out of mine. I reached for it. But, James pulled it back. Suddenly he lifted both of his hands toward the ceiling and with a wide, wide smile, said with verve, ‘I’m going home!’”

While officiating at his memorial service I shared this exceptional story of how Sally witnessed the moment of his being “beckoned in.” Facing heaven, James found what “going home” truly means.

Children who go to Sunday school usually learn what it takes to have their names written in “God’s Book of Life.” It might have been Daniel 12:1 that James’ teacher had shared within his class, “Everyone who is found written in the book—will be rescued.”

James’ story makes me think of the Scripture in Proverbs 22:6, “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.”

For James, the seeds of truth about eternal life were planted in his soul at an early age, in Sunday school and perhaps by his parents. God gave him a long and enjoyable life—then, “beamed” him up.

A child may forget a prayer uttered long ago, but it is certain that God does not forget.  James’ “remembering” may have begun long before I arrived at his door, to sit a spell, and offer “a prayer.” He no doubt felt care and concern. Maybe the most precious gift we can give to one another is listening to each other’s stories, truly hearing what is said.

Humans have an inner voice (or feeling) that prompts us—guides us toward right behavior and away from bad behavior. Abundant trouble comes when a person ”sears” her or his conscience, by completely ignoring it, living only to promote one’s self. This hardens the conscience and results in our lying to ourselves, saying, “It’s OK to do it my way.”

James’ story is one of many indicating that people do at times, gain upfront evidence of what is ahead for believers after their time on earth, then to remain, yet a while, knowing “heaven is for real.”[2]

[1] Names are changed to protect identities.

[2]  “My near death experience” can be read at healing-with-Joy.com.

Carol explored various religions, yet said, “None fit the bill for me.”  She liked believing only in what she could solidly see, touch, taste and smell . . . along with what she felt in her heart.  So I simply shared the journey with her, offering prayer at points, which she did not oppose. For sure, praying helped me, in my determining to “walk alongside” my friend on this, her last journey.

Carol loved books and had great interest in researching topics, one of which was cuneiform writing. Discussing these helped occupy her dexterous mind. Pain was present.

We talked on many topics of interest, fairly often agreeing with one another. Disagreements came and went, but failed to slow us down. Carol was “rich”—not monetarily, for sure, but in depth of soul. Much time has passed, yet, I still remember her laughter.

As the end of her days grew closer, Carol showed me the gown in which she wanted to be buried.  She was a grand and beloved person, attending closely to the things in life that triggered her interests. The story of Carol’s last days on earth was published in our hometown daily newspaper, the Idaho Statesman, in Boise, ID. It carried the words of her family members, the hospice staff and mine, revealing how death can be when everyone pulls together while reckoning with the ins and outs of dying.

I was with Carol often those days before her death, even on the evening she left us. She knew acceptance was the key to moving through it. I recall being worried, though, as she decided being an atheist best described what she felt.

Weeks before her leave-taking I gave a note to Carol while sitting at her bedside. It read:

“My dear friend, tuck this away for when you are too curious and must read.

Just in case. Would you please say this little prayer to God?

“God, if there is a heaven and Jesus’ words are true, ‘I am the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father, except through me,’ would You please be there when I die and take me to your home in heaven?

“If I am wrong in not believing and you are there for me—I want to know you, love you and join my friends who have believed. If this comes to be, please have mercy on me and take me in. I just don’t have what it takes to believe. Perhaps you can yet bring it to be?”

Carol read the note immediately, then looked up with a big smile on her face, saying, “Oh, Joy, I have already done that!”

The laugh was on me; but today, I savor that moment.

At a viewing of Carol’s body, I sat alone in the room. Something unusual was felt. It was as if a golden glow filled the room. I thought of concerns that plagued after that last night with Carol . . . now wondering, was I as helpful to her as I could have been? Knowing the Scriptures well, did I share passages with her that could assure her that she would make it to heaven? Was I right in inwardly rejoicing over her response of “having covered that?”

Sometimes our surmising, when heartfelt, are all the guidance we need while seeking to discern something. Still, there were moments while sitting in that room with her body, during which I questioned, “Did I do enough for her?”

It is true, always within grief we experience some elements of guilt.

Many years have passed. Today, I think of the things I learned through relating with Carol. Sometimes relationships don’t end well. And, there, too, we meet with self-doubt.

And how do we work our way through self-doubt? By giving it room, deciding what’s true, and learning what we can from it.

Inside the cover of The Interlinear Bible Hebrew, Greek, English, with which she gifted me, Carol wrote, “Joy, Hope you enjoy this Book. I found your friendship very refreshing. Keep making good choices. Lots of love, Carol. Thank you.”

Within the golden glow sensed I held the essence of Carol and our friendship. My spirit was quickened by a Scripture passage, “Be still and know that I am God.” What a blessing it is to believe God takes us right  where we are. God’s love for us is grand—and knowing this is glorious!