This is a sharing of a true story. The names have been changed, but the lesson, the remembrance remains a lesson for each of us

 

"Heather, where is your mommy? Put her on the phone," I panicked from the absence of sound, each lingering moment, begging, praying for an answer. Only unfathomable noises from the tiny voice on the other end whimpered back. Pleading into the cold emptiness of stillness I said, "Please, Heather answer me? What is wrong? What is happening?"

A painful eternity seemed to pass while I waited for some sound, desperate to hear a breath, a scream, any sound indicating life. While thoughts scattering like broken shards of prism cut deep into my flesh, hair stood straight upon my neck. Dropping the phone, leaving the cord dangling to the floor, I sped full speed to the front door, sprinting two blocks, stumbling and puffing up the stairs, trying to avoid the scattered toys strewn across the steps. I burst through the unlocked door, willing a noise to break the quiet that beckoned out.

"Heather! Kathy!" Tension cloaked everything in a clammy, ghastly cold, releasing shivers up my spine. A lightheaded nausea overwhelmed me as the unmistakable aromas flooded in of leftover tequila and stale smoke. Dreading what abhorrent sight that I might see, and then inhaling with great trepidation, I swung the doors open.

Froze solid, wanting to scream, but nothing escaped; wanting to run, but unable to move, unable to swallow, my throat now as parched as a hot day in the Sahara. I was riveted to the horrific scene on the floor, playing out a nightmare worse than any scene I imagined.

"Mommy is so cold. I tried to cover her with my blankie. She will not wake up. Make her wake up," the blue-eyed blonde girl pitifully whimpered gazing at me with swollen, tear-filled eyes.

I managed to utter, "Heather, sweetie, come here," desperately wanting to pull her from the horrific reality. My fingertips brushed the cooling flesh and the touch seared my soul. I whipped my hand back from it like it was a hot flame. Swirling questions and confusion clogged my thoughts. I thought blood was red. Why was it so black? Her hair was matted. She would not want anyone to see her in that dress. God, what have you done? Heather. Oh God .

Clutching desperately to the blonde haired girl, begins rocking slowly unsure of how to console her or me at this moment, thoughts racing erratically. Heather broke the thoughts asking, "Why doesn't God love me?" Who knew what to answer?

"Why don't you think God loves you sweetie?" forming words back to her.

"If God loved me, he wouldn't let Mommy get so cold. Or not wake up. Or not answer me," she said in a voice trembling with doubt and fear.

Every whimper, every sob enraged the fires in my soul further. I willed the woman to be alive again, if only to vent my fiery rage at her. "Look what you have done -- done to Heather. Look! Damn it, why did you take the easy way out! How does one answer a question like that? Tell me? Tell me!"

Instead, I said, "God loves you Heather. He really does. I promise. So do I baby girl. So do I. It will be okay. It will. I promise."

I wanted with every fiber of my being to shake the woman on the floor, make her breath again; make her alive, even if so that the shrills of questions inside could be voiced. How do I explain you chose to grow cold? That you did not think life was worth living anymore. How could you do this to Heather? How could you do this to me? How? Torrents of salty tears cascaded across my tired features, I began a rhythmic rocking, trying to console us both but pandemonium burst through the stillness.

"No!" the shrill of her tiny voice starling. "Mommy is cold. Don't take the blanket off her! Stop!" Unable to hold her back, a slow motion, and silent film played out: A small blonde-haired girl begins fluttering about, carefully tucking in a pale blue blanket with a small yellow bunny in one corner. A close-up shows the features of the woman lying so very still on the floor. Zooming in on the blanket, the bunny reveals smears of viscous vile blackness upon it, a stark contrast of innocence versus the reality of life showing in a still frame. Each silent murmur the young girl utters reverberates inside my soul and echoes about the hollow absence left in its wake.

"Mom you're doing it again," the beautiful blue-eyed blonde standing with hands on her hips waited for me to shake clear memories.

"What did you say, honey?" still lost in thoughts of the day ten years ago when this young woman before me came to be my own daughter.

"Can I go, Mom?" The impatient teenager standing before me asked again. "Go where, Heather?" looking at the teenager, praying that she does know today that God does love her and that I have shown her that love.

Posted by

Carla Goddard

 

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Near death experiencers are often shocked at the level of love that they receive from our Creator during their brush with death.

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