Reaping Joy
Stories
Vision Stories
True Accounts Of Visions, Angels, And Healing Miracles
May those who sow in tears reap with shouts of joy. Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, carrying their sheaves. (vv. 5-6)
When I was thirteen, my maternal grandfather died very suddenly. It was a great shock to my whole family. In the days before small towns such as mine had EMT's and ambulances, it was the undertaker who responded to the need for emergency transport to the nearest hospital. Needless to say, an undertaker is not trained in speed and efficiency in caring for the dying, only the dead. My grandfather, suffering from a major heart attack, didn't survive the trip to the hospital.
Being thirteen, with all of the normal hormonal peaks and valleys ravaging my life, I took Grandpa's death very hard. His is not the first I remember in my family; I had attended funerals for a little second cousin and an uncle by marriage. But his was the most personal. At that time in my life, churchgoer though I was, I felt crushed by the loss. I felt abandoned by both Grandpa and God.
As a result of seeing his death as a personal affront, I refused to attend my grandfather's wake. My parents, brother, and sisters pleaded with me to reconsider, but I was very sure that I did not want to see my grandfather laid out in a casket with a whole lot of people around. I insisted that I wanted to remember him as I had last seen him: alive, a little loud, laughing. However, I did agree that I would go to the funeral, as long as the casket was closed.
We all made it through the funeral, the burial in my hometown cemetery, and the funeral lunch with our whole family and many friends and neighbors. Everyone helped look after Grandma, who was also devastated, and time began to heal the wound. But I never stopped taking Grandpa's death personally. I had a "thing" about funerals after that, and I never really let go of the hurt.
After I had completed high school and beauty culture training, and was out on my own, I had a dream one night. I don't remember any circumstances surrounding that time, except that I was sharing an apartment with two beauty school friends and trying to make a living. There was no reason that I can think of for this dream to have happened at that particular time: no traumas, no deaths, no yearnings. But one night, out of nowhere, Grandpa came to me in a dream. He told me he was okay. He looked good, like I had wanted to remember him: alive, a little loud, laughing. Grandpa told me not to be sad for him anymore, and he assured me that everything would be all right. I woke up from that dream smiling, comforted and happy. I couldn't wait to tell my mom, and have her tell Grandma, that I was certain Grandpa was okay.
My grandfather's visit not only reassured me that he was taken care of, it changed my concept of death. I no longer doubt that those who die are alive, not just in our hearts, but indeed, with God. I'm forever grateful for that dream. Grandpa's visit was a reassurance of what is to come for all of us.
When I was thirteen, my maternal grandfather died very suddenly. It was a great shock to my whole family. In the days before small towns such as mine had EMT's and ambulances, it was the undertaker who responded to the need for emergency transport to the nearest hospital. Needless to say, an undertaker is not trained in speed and efficiency in caring for the dying, only the dead. My grandfather, suffering from a major heart attack, didn't survive the trip to the hospital.
Being thirteen, with all of the normal hormonal peaks and valleys ravaging my life, I took Grandpa's death very hard. His is not the first I remember in my family; I had attended funerals for a little second cousin and an uncle by marriage. But his was the most personal. At that time in my life, churchgoer though I was, I felt crushed by the loss. I felt abandoned by both Grandpa and God.
As a result of seeing his death as a personal affront, I refused to attend my grandfather's wake. My parents, brother, and sisters pleaded with me to reconsider, but I was very sure that I did not want to see my grandfather laid out in a casket with a whole lot of people around. I insisted that I wanted to remember him as I had last seen him: alive, a little loud, laughing. However, I did agree that I would go to the funeral, as long as the casket was closed.
We all made it through the funeral, the burial in my hometown cemetery, and the funeral lunch with our whole family and many friends and neighbors. Everyone helped look after Grandma, who was also devastated, and time began to heal the wound. But I never stopped taking Grandpa's death personally. I had a "thing" about funerals after that, and I never really let go of the hurt.
After I had completed high school and beauty culture training, and was out on my own, I had a dream one night. I don't remember any circumstances surrounding that time, except that I was sharing an apartment with two beauty school friends and trying to make a living. There was no reason that I can think of for this dream to have happened at that particular time: no traumas, no deaths, no yearnings. But one night, out of nowhere, Grandpa came to me in a dream. He told me he was okay. He looked good, like I had wanted to remember him: alive, a little loud, laughing. Grandpa told me not to be sad for him anymore, and he assured me that everything would be all right. I woke up from that dream smiling, comforted and happy. I couldn't wait to tell my mom, and have her tell Grandma, that I was certain Grandpa was okay.
My grandfather's visit not only reassured me that he was taken care of, it changed my concept of death. I no longer doubt that those who die are alive, not just in our hearts, but indeed, with God. I'm forever grateful for that dream. Grandpa's visit was a reassurance of what is to come for all of us.
