Dying rooms are Holy Ground

This is an important article for those who have eyes to read and ears to hear. I was with my Father in the hospital in Spokane Washington after his final series of heart attacks that began several days before in Montana. I was told by the cardiologist that he only had 10% heart function left and was not going home. I had some time alone with him for a while and we were talking about spiritual matters when he had a vision. The curtain was drawn around us in the room. There was no one there but the two of us. The author of the article is correct, the dying rooms are Holy Ground.

---

Dad squeezed my left hand with his left hand and gently raised his right arm as if to reach for something or someone, and he was staring at the curtain. Clearly, he was seeing something I could not. I asked what it was. He said he saw three men who wanted to talk to him. Stupidly, I asked if he was seeing his Father and Brothers thinking perhaps that the pain "drip" was causing hallucinations. Dad looked back at me like I was some kind of "maroon," and said, "No!" It was three men he did not know but who wanted to talk. They were dressed in clothing he could not describe. He said, "They want to talk to me." I asked if he wanted me to give him some privacy and he nodded his head. I told him I'd be back in a few minutes. When I returned to Dad's ICU bed he was smiling with an impish smile. I asked if he had a nice conversation and he said, "Yes." He told me, "I talked for a long time with a very nice man who knew all about me. We prayed together. He was very nice" Dad was glowing with color. Now, anyone who knew my Dad would tell you that he never prayed openly [although I knew he had a deep private faith that he did not discuss with anyone except maybe Mom]. He told me this in "matter of fact" fashion, innocently, like a small child would relate a story. After this time, he was at great peace about his future. He only wanted me to cut off his tubes and take him back to the mountains in Troy, Montana. He was disappointed that I could did not think I could do that, but I would try. I plotted with him a short while, but the notion faded. I only wish that I could have done that. We said our goodbyes that day because he was moved to a palliative care center. My Mom sent me home to Montana to make arrangements. I went home and prepared for the inevitable, and the following day I planned for the final details with a man of great gentleness, Niles Nelson, the Funeral Director in Libby Montana, who walked me through everything. I planned to go back to Spokane the next day. I was outside my house painting the soffit when Dad's voice came into my mind. He was reminding me how to fill the paint well in the brush and how to stroke with the least effort... something he taught me as a teen in his shop. It was at this exact time that my Sister Amt called and said, "He's gone." I never made the last trip to see him, but I did talk to him one last time, in a very special place where there is no time. I called Niles to pick up Dad's body in Spokane. Dad was 76 years old when he died. He was free of his pain. Niles called me when he got back and told me that Dad looked very good, peaceful, and in good shape. Niles is a devout Christian and was speaking of the physical and well as the spiritual. [Niles was also gracious enough to lead the singing of "Beautiful Savior" at the gravesite as well.] I think of this often when I hear the occasional nitwit say that there is nothing after this life. I know better. And so does Dad. He would have been 92 yesterday. He is in a great place where he can ponder those mountains and learn about Creation all day long. I need no more convincing evidence that God is near the dying. Jesus and his angels visit every dying person personally.