Back from Beyond: Chosen for a Second Chance

The last thing I felt was pressure, a crushing vise around my throat, stealing the air I desperately clawed for. Then, nothing. A blessed, terrifying void. No pain, no anger, just… gone. It was the kind of nothingness you read about in science articles explaining how the brain shuts down, a cold, clinical end. Except, it wasn't.

I woke up in black. Not metaphorical black, but actual black, the kind that swallowed light and whispered of eternity. I was floating, rising slowly, a strange sensation of weightlessness and dread pulling me upward. Then, a voice, a command: "Turn around and look."

I obeyed, and the blackness receded, not in a rush, but like a curtain being drawn back. Everything appeared like the dollhouse view in an apartment finder website. Below me was my bathroom. My dead body lay sprawled on the bathroom floor, my father still looming over me, his face contorted in a rage I knew all too well. "Oh, he really did it," I said aloud, detached, as if narrating a particularly gruesome true crime documentary. My younger sister, Marie, stood frozen in the doorway, her face a mask of silent fear. Rae was hiding under her covers in the room crying. My baby sister was just in the other room. It was a gruesome scene from a horror movie. This was so messed up.

I saw the science behind it all in that moment. The lack of oxygen, the trauma, the final release. But I felt… nothing. Just morbid curiosity. Like I was peering into someone else's life.

Then, the voice again, sharper this time: "Turn around."

The blue was all-encompassing, a gentle, endless sky stretching in every direction. No sun, no clouds, just…blue. Peaceful. I felt strangely weightless, detached from the pain, the fear, the end. And there he was. God. Not the white-bearded, benevolent grandpa I'd seen in Sunday school pictures. He was a man in his mid-forties, dressed like the nice church elder who always smelled vaguely of sandalwood and seemed to be there to make sure everything stays perfect. His eyes, though, were something else entirely - an intense, piercing blue that seemed to see right through me. Next to him stood my grandpa, younger than I remembered, his large ears prominent even in this… place. He looked sad, defeated. Not the warm welcome I'd expected. More like I was a disappointment.

"Do you want to go back?" God asked, his voice resonating in my mind, not through my ears.

I glanced down at the tableau of horror. My father, still lost in his rage, hadn't even noticed I was gone. I turned back to God. "No!" I said, the word a defiant whisper in the silent expanse.

I could sense a flicker of... not surprise, but something close to it, in God's eyes. She's going to be hard to convince, I heard in my head, like an echo. So, this was a negotiation?

"If you go back," God continued, "you will be a Queen."

I scoffed internally. A Queen? What did I need that for? "I don't want that," I said flatly. All that power and responsibility. I had enough to worry about.

He tried other things: fame, respect, a life of ease. All the things people supposedly craved. But I'd learned early on that those were empty promises. They never filled the hole inside.

Then, his voice softened, and He said, "If you go back, you will have two children."

The world tilted. Everything else faded away. Kids? Mine? It was the one thing I'd always wanted, the one dream I'd dared to hold onto, even as my life crumbled around me.

"I have children?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He described them to me: a headstrong boy with long hair, and a girl with a heart overflowing with kindness and large blue eyes. He told me about their lives; a life I could give them.

Without another word, I turned, ready to face whatever awaited me. "Send me back!"

I was about to jump back into my body, no matter how broken, when the God stopped me. "But I must tell you everything before you go." He didn't need to tell me anything. The abuse, the pain, the constant walking on eggshells, it was all so exhausting and traumatizing. How could it get worse? I was already dead. "Send me back," I pleaded, defeated. He simply nodded.

The return was…surreal. Imagine every nerve in your body firing at once, a jolt of pure electricity forcing its way back into a system shut down. My eyes were still open, that's how I had died. I saw him, my father, standing over me, his face a mask of horror. Then, understanding dawned. He realized what he had done. My eyes bore into his soul. Then, the breath. A deep, guttural gasp that ripped through the silence. A Frankenstein moment. His panic curdled into hate. Before I could even process it, I was thrown out, banished into the cold night. I took with me the words from Isaiah 26:19: "Your dead shall live; their bodies shall rise. You who dwell in the dust, awake and sing for joy! For your dew is a dew of light, and the earth will give birth to the dead." It echoes the very essence of my experience. God, in His infinite power and wisdom, can indeed bring the dead to life. He can send us back, resurrected from the darkness, if He has a purpose for us to fulfill. This verse reminds me that my return was not an accident, but a deliberate act of grace.

My life became a before and after. I had senses others didn't. I felt things, saw things, knew things. God spoke to me, always. A constant, unwavering radio signal only I could hear. I didn't tell anyone, of course. Who would believe me? "Crazy, traumatized girl," they'd whisper.

The blue of that "waiting room", that surreal calm, it clings to me still. It's a stark contrast to the chaos that has defined so much of my life since. Sometimes, late at night, when the house is quiet and the world outside is holding its breath, I can almost feel the pressure returning – the suffocating grip that stole my voice and dimmed the lights behind my eyes. Funny, isn't it? To have died so young, so violently, and then to be yanked back, kicking and screaming, into the very life I was so desperate to escape.

Meeting God… that's the part that truly haunts me. Not in a bad way, not really. His stoic blue eyes – intense, knowing – they bore into my soul, past the fear, past the resentment, and saw something worth saving. Or, perhaps, something He needed. I still don't know. And that voice, that strong, silent voice in my head, it's been my constant companion. A one-way radio, feeding me truth when I desperately craved lies. I've swam in the oceans of dark humor. What else can you do when you've literally been to the other side and come back with a vengeance?

The weight of years settles on me now, a grandma tracing the wrinkles on my hands, each line a testament to a life both blessed and scarred. That night replays endlessly, not as a horror show, but a bizarre, surreal film. I died, met God, and came back. I guess you could call it the ultimate "undo" button. Now, I see the world differently, feel things others miss. Sometimes, I wonder if it's a gift, other times a curse. Sometimes, I'm angry. Why send me back to that? Why make me endure more pain? The abuse I endured, the boy and girl I raised—it all unfolded as He foretold. It confirms his truthfulness. He doesn't sugarcoat. He lays it all bare, and I chose to return. So, I pray. A lot. I don't understand His plan, but I trust it. I remember His words, the chilling accuracy of His predictions. And I cling to this: I was brought back for a reason. I may not understand it, I may not even like it, but I have to trust. I have to have faith. I've seen too much to deny it.But, I trust God's reason, even when faced with my own.

My life, every life, is a testament to His power. He holds the keys to death and life and He can bring the dead to life and send you back with a purpose. That's all there is to it.

I find solace in Hebrews 11:1: "Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see." This verse isn’t just words on a page; it's a lifeline woven into the tapestry of my existence. It reminds me that even when the path is shrouded in darkness and the questions loom large, faith is my guiding star. The blue room, the encounter, the return – these are the things I cannot fully grasp, yet they are the very experiences that have anchored my soul to a deeper understanding of God's unwavering presence. It reminds me to trust in what I cannot see, and to find strength in the hope that His plan is greater than my understanding.

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AUTHOR: Sarah Lester

LOCATION: United States