As a child, I was irresistibly drawn to mysticism and miracles. I spent long afternoons examining the otherworldly illustrations on the covers of my father’s Carlos Castaneda books and rereading Jonathan Livingston Seagull and The Little Prince. My natural fascination with the ethereal realm may have been boosted by a childhood tragedy: the sudden death of my sister, Henrietta. Within the space of an ordinary Saturday morning two weeks before my sixth birthday, heaven went from being an abstract concept to a real place where my sister now lived, and where I would join her one day.
Shortly after Henrietta’s death, I dreamed that she and I were visiting a petting zoo together. It was a gentle and cozy scene; just me and my big sister playing with fluffy little chicks and baby goats. When we stepped out of the barn and into the sunshine, I was temporarily blinded by its intense white light. When I was able to see again, she was gone, and in her place was a handwritten note that read: I can’t play with you now, but I’ll play with you later. As I sobbed in my parents’arms the next morning, we all agreed it was no ordinary dream but a real visitation.
Atheist friends with whom I’ve shared this story over the years have chalked it up to a child’s self-protective imagination in a time of grief. Their doubt could not dent my certainty that my sister had communicated with me from beyond the veil, but their skepticism tugged at me. I knew what I knew. I know what I know. But how do I know it?
