In the spring of 1976, I was a young interior designer working in a large store in Macon, Georgia. One early afternoon, an elegant, impeccably dressed woman entered my office.
“Hello,” she began, “I would like to make an appointment for someone to come to my home to design new window treatments for my living room area.”
“I will be happy to help you,” I replied.
After briefly describing what she desired, she quietly said, “However, if you could be on time at 11:30, I would appreciate your promptness. Please don’t ring the doorbell; I will await you, but be as quiet as possible.”
I must have looked a bit puzzled, so she explained. “My daughter is staying with us and doesn’t awaken until noon. She is recovering from brain surgery and needs rest. Her husband is a pilot, so she stays with us when he is away.”
I assured her I understood and said, “I pray your daughter will recover soon and all will be well.”
She responded with a stoic, startling sentence. “No, she will not recover. Her tumor is malignant, and they could not fully remove it during surgery. She has been given limited time.”
Her home was nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac in a serene, well-established area of town. The brick ranch was surrounded by a profusion of blooming pink, white, and fuchsia azaleas, creating a picturesque scene.
I was on time when she met me at the door and escorted me around the corner to her living room.
The large bow-front window framed the spectacle of Southern springtime outside. Two large wing chairs, upholstered in a stunning shade of yellow, were positioned beside the fireplace, facing a sofa. She sat on the couch while I occupied one of the beautiful chairs. We discussed, just above a whisper, the décor and fabrics for the window.
When a door opened behind me, I knew her daughter was joining us. Her mother was surprised she was awake, but she introduced us when the young woman sat in the yellow chair beside me.
I could not take my eyes off her. Her beauty was indescribable. The scars within her shorn hair were unmistakable but did not distract from her exquisiteness.
At first, I thought I saw a shadow of color off the yellow chair or maybe from the sun’s rays streaming through the window. I shifted slightly to adjust my vision, but the light around her remained. Until then, I had never seen anything close to a halo or aura, but I will go to my grave knowing I did that spring day.
Mary Ann must have sensed my awe when she said, “Would you like to hear my story?” Little did I know that her words would change my perspective on life and death forever.
After nodding positively, she began.
“I am 27, and I am dying, yet I have no fear. During my surgery, my heart stopped, and when it did, I left my body. I floated above my body and watched the team working to revive me. Just before exiting the operating room, I noticed a large clock on the wall showing it was 11:05 a.m.
Suddenly, I left the hospital, entering a space I didn’t comprehend, but soon, I recognized an old friend approaching me who was killed in an accident when we were thirteen. I was so happy to see she was well and beaming.”
Mary Ann continued, “She took my hand as we entered a peaceful freedom I cannot describe because no one experiences it here. My friend introduced me to a man who was waiting for us. His eyes were captivating, and his voice so calming that I knew who he was. Just as I took his hand, I felt a pull that forcefully pushed me away from him.
I drifted further and further away until blackness set in. My serenity was gone.
I woke up in the recovery area, fighting and yelling to be let go, to go back.
Initially, the nurses couldn’t comprehend my agitation, but when my surgeon arrived, I told him my story, and he seemed to understand.
“Do you recall the time it was on the clock?” he questioned.
I quickly answered, “It was exactly a few seconds past 11:05 a.m.”
He looked at his notes and realized that was when they recorded my life stopped.
In her final months, Mary Ann shared her story countless times with churches, groups, and anyone willing to listen. She wanted to address our greatest fear: death and the unknown we all must face. She returned to remind us that paradise and peace wait for those who believe.
Christ lived 33 years and died on the cross to send us the same beautiful message.
