Welcome to a page that tells a story.  This is the story I wrote about my last NDE I had.  NDE stands for Near Death Experience.  We are the people who have had something traumatic happen to us.  We have gone to and seen the light.

This story was published in a GUIDEPOST BOOK called

"All Night, All Day Angels Watching Over Me"

“It’s Not Your Time” by Linda Johnston Shortly after my Thirtieth birthday, the mailman delivered a package from my mother who lives more than five hundred miles away in Springfield, Missouri. I let my young daughters, Marla and Sandra rip off the wrapping. When I saw what was inside, I was as excited as they were. It was an eight-by-ten copy of a small print that has hung on the wall of my bedroom, back in the fifties. In the painting a girl and boy are cowering on a bridge. They think they’re lost and alone, but they’re not. In the background an angel hovers near, present in the night. I called and thanked my mother for the print. “When I saw that, I just had to get it for you.” she said. `“I’ll hang it in the bedroom, Mom. Right next to my bed.” Every Mississippi morning I awoke strengthened by that artist’s silent message. And strength I needed: as a manager of a fast-fool restaurant; as volunteer extrodinair, always saying yes to anyone’s plea for help; as a wife and mother who was “there.” Eager to go hiking or hunting with my family. I’ve always been energized by being in - and painting - the great outdoors. In grammar school, inspired by this angel painting and other art, I took an interest in drawing. Pictures, I discovered, describe a scene better than words. With pencil and paints I worked to re-create the world I loved, out-doors in the country near my grandparents’ farm: the apple trees and fences I climbed; the rivers I rowed and waded in: the goldenrod fields where my grandfather and I watched the deer feed; the ponds and streams I fished, sometimes with Grandpa, sometimes alone. Out in the wild I had time to think about angel. Not just what they looked like in pictures, but what they sounded like, because I’d heard them..At least I’d heard one of them for certain. The first time, I was fishing alone in one of Grandpa’s three farm ponds when I heard someone call my name. “Linda?” I thought it was my grandmother calling from the back porch. “I’m coming, just a minute.” I hollered back. Then, at the house, “Yes, Grandma. What do you want?” Grandma insisted she hadn’t called me. The same thing happened again on another day, and the third or forth time, Grandma said, “It must be the angels calling.” Angels? That was the first I knew that such a thing could really exist. They were there to watch over me, Grandma explained, and want a fortunate little girl I was to have heard them speak. Did Grandma know what she was talking about? It seemed so. That is the only way I could explain a number of childhood days shrouded in mystery. Like the school morning in the second grade when I walked several blocks and crossed a boulevard before boarding a Springfield city bus. My mother has taught me well. I looked both ways. And when I saw a clear street, I stepped out. Screeeeech. I heard the high-pitched grinding of brakes just as I saw a car’s front bumper. Instantly someone behind me grabbed my shirt collar and yanked me back to the sidewalk. I spun around to see who had pulled me out of the street. But no one was there. Someone had saved my life. But who? Five hears later my mother and I walked in the house from an afternoon of shopping, our arms full of groceries. Inside the kitchen door, we stopped and stared at each other. The house was full of the most beautiful, soothing choir music I had ever heard. There were no actual works; many choirs in perfect harmony sang music like a hymn. I could distinguish the soprano and alto singers. The basses joined in sometimes, then they had dropped out. I set the groceries on the kitchen table and went into the living room, then through the bedrooms. Mom was right behind me. The TV was off. So was the radio. The hi-fi was still. No one else was in the house. Defiantly, the sound was loudest in the living room. “You hear it too” I asked Mom. “Yes, a big choir.” Then came the sound of a director’s baton, hitting a music stand. It seemed as though we were hearing a rehearsal; the choir shopped and then began again, as if starting over - to get it right. The music did not last long, less that a minute. At the finale, the director said something like, “Okay, we will go on now’” as if it were time to practice a new number. Both Mom and I heard this, a whisper that faded away while he was still talking. Then we stood there. Just the two of us. In silence. When I told my seventh-grade science teacher what had happened, he said it was probably some phenomenon of bouncing sound waves. I listened to him respectfully, but I knew something else was going on. My grandma had told me to listen for the angels. Until I was thirty-eight years old, I had no clear exclamation for these mysteries. But, on September 27, 1992, my world shattered. On the bridge between life and death, I had a conversation with my guardian angel. It started with a seemingly inconsequential slip of the hand. Out in our garage-turned-art-studio, cutting a cardboard stencil for my husband’s hunting gear, I slashed my left wrist, a deep gash almost four inched long. Pressing back the gushing blood, I yelled for my husband and headed for the kitchen. He found me there, hunched over the sink. “Herb, hurry, get me a towel. I have cut myself with that new roller-blade knife. It is going to need stitches.” Herb and the girls, sixteen and ten, gathered round. Herb called the emergency room at Methodist Hospital in Jackson, telling them to expect us in about twenty-five minutes. The girls begged to ride along. I think they were afraid of that might happen if they let there wounded mother out of their sight. “No, no,” I insisted. “It needs to be sewn up. But I have not cut an artery. It is not serious. We will be home in a couple of hours. You need to stay here and finish your homework.” I climbed into the fount of our Toyota pickup that doubled as a camper. What you might call a nervous driver, I was always willing to let Herb drive. But tonight there was no question. I continued to press against my wrist and brace myself against the throbbing pain. I hated pain. I didn’t dwell on the prospects, but in the past when I have seen or thought about the possibility of dying, I had breathed one prayer: “God please don’t let it hurt.” We were more than halfway to the hospital and were just crossing the overpass on Highway 18 when I felt a strange jolt. Herb cried out,”Hold on, Babe. We’ve been hit’” I prayed my short prayer: “Dear God. Please don’t let it hurt.” I heard something like a shotgun blowing out the glass windows. I heard the breath rush from my lungs and then. . . I felt myself rising - as if I were standing in a Ferris wheel - far above the pavement, and going so fast I could feel the wind rushing by my face. Up. Up. Up. When I stopped, I sensed but couldn’t see a floor and walls, as if I were in a very large room..Dark and peaceful, warm and soft, yet not a frightening enclosure. Though I didn’t know where I was, I knew what had happened. Our truck had been hit hard from behind. Where am I? What’s going on? Oh, this is really weird. I can see colors and light and dark. I can smell flowers. I can hear music, yes, choir music. I can think. I can talk, but I am not talking. I am warm. I’m not afraid. But I don’t know where I am. I turned my head. To the left I saw only a dark blue hue that turned to black. To my right the blue was lighter, a cobalt blue so bright you’d think it would hurt your eyes, but its beauty captured my amazement. For a second I turned back to the left, into the utter darkness. And then to the brighter right, where a shimmering angel floated down from above. I felt dwarfed in her presence. She could have cradled me in the crook of her arm as a mother holds a baby. Despite her size, her demeanor radiated a peace that, as the Bible says, passes beyond human understanding. Her hair was pulled back and covered by a blue shaw that fell down over her folded arms. Her long white gown blew as if there were a wind, though I felt none. Maybe it was the artist in me that started to analyze things, like the movement of her robe. That’s not a left-and right-or front-and back-wind. It’s blowing from inside, going our in every direction. The light that broke into the darkness was above and it came from the angel herself. It was like hundreds of small lights all coming from one spot but each with its own wavelength; it included rays of flourescent blue and yellow. Where is the light coming from? It’s her heart, I soon figured. It’s as if the light breaths along with her. Finally she spoke. “You know me.” she stated. The voice was calm, distinct, familiar. I looked her up and down, “Yes,” I said softly. Though I’d never seen her before, I knew the voice, the feminine voice that had called my name as a child, fishing at my grandparents, swinging in my own back yard. I knew she’d grabbed my shirt collar and pulled me out of the street when I was in second grade. She’d been part of the choir singing in my Springfield living room. And she’d been silent at my side thousands of nondescript days. I heard her voice, but she also spoke with her hands, in a universal sign language I immediately understood. “Do you want to go for a brief minute?” Go where? My silent question was answered with her hands. She pointed up, wanting me to look to my left at a point at two o’clock on a clock face. There a doorway cut through the dark, and bright light beamed down. Beyond the door an unseen choir sang and sweet fragrances wafted down, a subtle cross between the scent of a magnolia blossom and a gardenia. The angel then pointed downward. My eyes followed her fingers and the line of a spotlight shone down into the Mississippi night. At the end of the light was my mangled body laying in a pool of blood. Below my short, my right leg was unnaturally twisted. My sandals were knocked off my feet. I turned back to the angel and saw an overwhelming sorrow in her face. I felt the urge to reach up and with a tear from her cheek. When she saw my compassion , she said, “It’s not your time, but do you want to come with me? I know the choice was mine to make. “No,” I quickly answered. “I want to stay with my husband and children.” “That’s okay. It’s not your time,” she repeated. “You still have work to do.” With that, from the far end of a cave, I heard another familiar voice calling my name, louder and louder. “Linda. Linda. It’s me, Herbie.” I was back inside my body, sprawled face-down in the roadside gravel. My arms were spread our. My butt was sticking up in the air. My right leg was turned all the way around. And I felt the pain of external wounds; first, second, and third degree road burns from the waist down to the bottom of my feet, from my body sliding on the road and in the rocks. Through pained by a broken rib and compressed vertebrae, Herbie walked away from the accident. I didn’t. Over the nest few days in the critical care unit I heard details of my internal injuries; a crushed hip; my pelvis shattered like eggshells; multiple leg breaks - seven breaks above my right knee - and compressed vertebrae. And then Herbie stood over my bed, relaying the grim prognosis. “Babe,” he said, “you need a lot of surgeries. A lot of repair. But...the doctors don’t think you’ll ever walk again.” I stared at him. Every bone and unbroken bone in my body revolted. I gritted my teeth and went to war. “No way,” I said. “I’m going to lick this.” A sad smile fell across his face. He knew I was a fighter. But was my goal to ambitious? Later Marla and Sandra tiptoed in, weepy and uncharacteristically quiet. “Mama?” I had chosen life on this earth to complete my mission: to raise my daughters and made a home for my family. And I desperately wanted to assure my girls that we were a family. “Mom’s here,” I said. “I’m awake and I’m here for you. You’ll have to help me out now - for a while - but I’ll be back for you. Nothing is going to stop me from being there for you and your dad.” With my good arm I pulled Marla close, down onto the bed that was laced with tubes to machines. I ignored the nurse on the other side of the glass wall, eying us with disapproval. I held on to my dear one for dear life, and we cried together. In those first days I didn’t fully understand that my life still teetered on the brink of death. On Thursday evening I lay alone, half asleep, lulled by the morphine and the rhythmic bleep of the heart monitor rigged to my chest. But suddenly the rhythm stopped. I closed my eyes and drifted off. From afar I heard one extended beeeeep of the machine, and at that instant I say my beautiful angel - she was smaller now, the size of a tall man - standing at the foot of my bed. She wore the same white robes, still blown by an internal wind, still illuminated by an internal light. As she walked closer to me, she displaced the end of the bed; I could no longer see the traction pulley that supported my right leg, and yet the tension stayed taut. Again her dainty hands spoke as clearly as her voice: “Linda, I’m here. You have a long want to go but I am with you. Things will be alright. There will be much to endure, but I will be with you.” I smiled at her and blinked my eyes in gratitude. I reached out my right hand to touch her, but with a smile on her face she faded like mist. She was gone, and two wide-eyed nursed towered over my chest. One frantically checked the monitors. The other wielded electronic paddles that jolt a heart back to beating. “Oh, Linda...We thought...the monitor...your heart flat-lined...cardiac arrest.” I heard what the nursed said, but I didn’t reply with medical talk. “I saw her again,” I said. “Who honey?” “The angel.” “Where?” “In here with me. She tole me not to worry, that things would be all right.” That second angelic message has given me the strength to fight a battle that has raged linger and more fiercely that I ever imagined: fifty-eight days in the hospital; five months bedridden at home; six months in a wheelchair. I gained ground inch by inch - learning to sit , to stand, to take baby steps while clinging to a walker, to steady my gait with two canes, not with must one cane. I can’t trudge through the woods or hike a hillside trail, but I can walk! Every victory came with pain, which continues to taunt me. It hides deep in a bunker that I cannot dig out. In the moment of te accident, my life changed forever. I will never again romp from one high-action activity to the next - playing ball with my children, running in the sand at the beach, trudging through thick woods. And yet every morning I wake, thankful that my deepest prayers have been answered; In the face of death - at the time of the accident impact - O felt no pain. And with the gift of extended life on earth, I am able to guide and be a cheerleader for my family. This year Marla graduated from high school, and I was at the graduation. Sandra is in the band. And Herb - he’s out back cleaning his gun, getting ready for opening day of deer season. That guardian angel print still hangs over my bed, and remains my inspiration. It’s reminder of my own angel, and it inspires a new style in my painting. I no longer sketch unpeople nature scenes. My paintings now tell stories - most often my story, which isn’t complete without my guardian angel. I portray my angel as I saw her, very different from the broad-winged angel of the traditional painting on my wall. My bright angel hovers in the dark. I struggle to capture the luminescence of her robe, the slight curve hf her wrist, the silkiness of her skin. I can’t get it quite right, but I keep going back to the sketch pad and easel, eager to try again to capture her essence - the love that overshadows any sorrow. Since seeing my angel face to face, I’ve taken on another venture; For the first time in my life, I’m reading the Bible through, beginning to end. I want to know what it says about life and death, about humans and angels, about the Lord of the universe. I shouldn’t be surprised at what I read, but I am. From those ancient writings I find confirmation for my experience. Some of it is subtle, but it is there - in Psalm 55:6 (KJV): “Oh that I had wings like a dove! For then would I fly away and be at rest.” And in Psalm 36:9 “For with thee in the fountain of life: in thy light shall we see light.” And I was reminded that some women, men, and children have always been blessed to hear some nonhuman voices speak their names. “Hagar.” “Samuel.” “Zacharias.” “Mary.” A few months ago, nearly two years after the accident, I was working on an angel painting. It was about time for me to go pick up my children from school, so I set my paints aside and soaked my brushes. I walked to the kitchen to wash my hands. Just as I had lathered them up, scrubbing at the paint, I heard my name called. “Linda, I am here!” The voice came from one of the bedrooms, down the hall. Knowing it’s hard for me to get in and out of a vehicle, the girls sometimes catch a ride home. They must have come in, I thought, eager to greet them. “I’ll be right there, girls,” I quickly answered. “I’m just cleaning up.” I rinsed and dried my hands and walked the length of the house, looking in each bedroom. No one was there. No TV. No radio. But I heard a voice. A female voice. If not my kids, then who? Oh my! Yes, it was the same familiar voice. “I am here,” She assured me. “I am here.” The God of Love will not leave me comfortless. His messenger is with me. I left to pick up the kids from school. We got back home before I told them I had heard my angel - right in our house, in one of the bedrooms, maybe theirs. Neither Sandra or Marla looked at me with disbelief. They smiled, reached arms around my shoulders, and whispered the words I’d lived to hear: “We love you, Mom. We’re so glad you’re here.” Linda Johnston

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