By Kim Hanson 
One chilly, wet, March day, our kind, compassionate, gentle son passed away. Although he suffered from schizophrenia and had related health challenges, his death was a shock. Mike was 38 years old. My heart was shattered. Waves of grief and regret washed over me stinging my soul. I had no idea how I would live without him.
It’s said that when one is in mourning, sleep is plentiful. That was certainly true in my case. My slumber each night had been sound. That is, until one pre-dawn morning, four days after Mike died.
I sat straight up in bed. I was desperate to hear our son’s voice just one more time. As much as I tried, I couldn’t hear his voice! Tiny rivulets of perspiration ran down my body making me shiver in my cotton pajamas. The house was dead quiet; the darkness of the night fueling my fear. There was a sharp ache in my chest, in my heart.
Padding downstairs in bare feet, I dialed into voice mail on both the landline and my cell phone. I already knew there were no saved messages from our son. But maybe I’d missed one? I had to check. My husband walked downstairs to see if I was alright.
“Can you please check your cell phone again for a message from Mike?”
Rick’s shoulders slumped and his chin went to his chest. But, he did it anyway. Dialing into his phone, he said, “No. Still nothing.”
We always had saved messages from Mike. Always. He called multiple times a week, about the Toronto Blue Jays scores, about hockey and football, and about what we were having for Sunday night dinner. But, today . . . nothing.
I put the kettle on the stove and paced the floor until it boiled. Honestly, at this point, all I could think to do was to make tea. Rick and I sat on the sofa in the darkness, speaking softly and drinking tea. Although my chest still ached, emotionally, I’d calmed down. It was hours before sunrise, so we decided to go back to bed.
Lying down on my right side, knees to chest, I closed my eyes. Almost immediately, my chilly body felt warm–heat rose slowly from my toes to my torso to my head. It felt like I was submerged in a steamy, hot, eucalyptus bath. My shoulders, hunched up to my ears, fell naturally to a place of relaxation. Squeezing my eyes tightly, I lay there another moment.
Through closed eyelids, I experienced something ethereal, something sacred, something spiritual. Suspended in front of me in my mind’s eye was a heart. Unlike a human heart, this heart was perfectly symmetrical, pink, smooth, and glowing around the edges. Afraid to open my eyes, lest it would disappear, I lay very still. There in the nautical twilight, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace, the likes of which I’d never known. Was I touched by the hand of God or by my son? My breathing became free and easy, my body relaxed and calm. My chest didn’t hurt! From head to toe, I felt wrapped in the glow of healing, of compassion, of love. Miraculous healing, over in seconds.
Feeling astonished and blessed and amazed, all at the same time, I told my husband what had just happened. He said, “Awe. Mike just paid you a visit.” He took my hand.
We knew our sweet son was there with me that morning. He was, and is, my angel. In an instant, he mended my shattered heart and gave me hope for the future. I felt his encouragement. He wanted me to heal and move forward with my life. I felt Mike’s boundless love and God’s heavenly healing. It was extraordinary, beautiful, and stirring. A few seconds in time that I will treasure and remember forever. A pink, glowing heart for healing, for compassion, and for heavenly love.
I still long to hear my son’s voice. I still long to hug him just one more time, to touch his face or kiss his forehead. But, I know Mike is home. I know he is okay. I know I will hear his voice again one fine day.
by Charmaine Johnson-Fuller 
