Cracked Roots & Roses 14: Dancing Lights

That was it. Pat was dead. The same Pat I used to argue with about the Bible. The same one I had just visited yesterday. If I had known he was about to die, I would’ve said something more meaningful. I would’ve sat with him for hours and let him say whatever he wanted. I would’ve listened to any sermon he wanted to preach. I would’ve gone to see him get ordained and licensed the month before. So many things I would’ve done differently. Now it was too late.

This once strong, tall, funny, wise, 20-year-old man with his whole life ahead of him would now be 20 forever.

I didn’t understand this. He was working for God—why did this happen to him of all people? I sat on the couch and silently cried while my daughter watched Toy Story. I didn’t want her to see me crying; she was too young to understand grief. The song “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” was playing in the movie at the time, and to this day, I can’t hear it without thinking of my friend and my daughter’s godfather, Pat.

Jeremy had gotten off work at 7 a.m., so he would be walking in any minute. He hadn’t gone to visit Pat yet; he was supposed to do that today. He walked in, put his coat on the end of the loveseat adjacent to me, and stared. His face cracked. He whispered, “No.” I just stared at him. There was nothing to say. Everything screamed, Pat is gone. He let out a moan, turned, hit the wall, and went to the bedroom, closing the door behind him to weep.

They were unique. If you saw one, you saw the other. Both were very funny, but Pat was also witty. They would walk home from school together until Pat bought his first car. They were even robbed at gunpoint together. Jeremy was angry when it happened; Pat was reflective. Pat was his main friend, and to hear that he was gone was a hard pill to swallow.

The next few days were hell, filled with the anticipation of the funeral. Jeremy and I dealt with grief differently. I wanted to talk about it; he was somewhere else mentally and physically. So I coped the best way I knew how.

Pat’s family had a hard time finding a church big enough to accommodate all the people who loved him. His last year on earth was more meaningful than all of my 49 years combined. He actively won souls. He would preach at funerals, high schools, and anywhere there was an opening. He lived as though the world would end the next day or as though he knew his time was short.

The day of Pat’s funeral was overcast and drizzling. We arrived 20 minutes before the start time, and the church was nearly full. They were starting to fill the balcony. My cousin was already seated in a pew toward the back, so she waved us over. I sat with my cousin on my left, Jeremy on my right, and my daughter on my lap.

The service was beautiful. It wasn’t even sad. I was expecting it to be heavy, like all the funerals I had attended before. Instead, there was laughter, singing, and people telling stories about how Pat led them to Jesus. This funeral told me he was different—he was in glory.

Halfway through the service, I saw what looked like a light. It was dancing way above the casket, halfway between the casket and the vaulted ceiling. There was no window that could reflect light, only a crudely painted depiction of the Last Supper. I watched intently as this white, prism-like light, about the size of a large crow, floated up and twirled until it met with two other lights near the ceiling. Where was it coming from? There wasn’t even any sun outside.

I hit my cousin’s arm and whispered, “Do you see that?”

She looked where my eyes were fixed and said, “I don’t see nothing.”

I then hit Jeremy’s thigh and asked, “Do you see that?”

He looked, shook his head, and said, “What are you talking about?”

After the light prisms made a couple of twirls, they simply dissolved. I continued to stare at the spot, thinking they would reappear, but they didn’t.

At the end of the service, each row was directed to go up and view the body. I didn’t want to see him like that. Every step closer to the light gray shiny casket with sprays of white carnations on either side made me nauseous. Finally, it was my turn to stand over him and stare with pity, as all the people before me had done. But I couldn’t and wouldn’t do it. I didn’t pity him, I low key envied him. 

I closed my eyes, willing the tears to stop or at least slow down. I couldn’t see my friend lying there, all unnatural, in a suit, with that serious frozen look on his youthful face. He was always laughing or smiling. Now he lay there tight, waxy, and lifeless. I decided that would not be my last memory of him. So I stiffened my upper lip, looked away, and walked out.

That night, Jeremy didn’t go to work, and I was thankful. I couldn’t sleep. I was scared. I hated funerals because each one added another mental picture of death to my already full mental rolodex. I lived my whole life thus far expecting someone close to me to be snatched away at any moment and here it was again. 

The next night, Jeremy had to go to work. Alone, I lay in bed with the light on, staring at the bedroom door, too scared to close my eyes or be in the dark so soon after the funeral.

I don’t know if I was asleep or awake, but suddenly I was somewhere else.. I was standing in a crude short limestone doorway. I was mixed in a small part of the crowd in an alcove that lined the stairs. The air was electric but heavy. Some people were having low conversations, others were talking aloud and laughing like nothing was happening, some cried silently while others wailed.

I was trying my best to see what was going on, but the crowd surrounding Him was too thick. Then the faint thud of wood coming down the stairs towards me grew louder. Someone shrieked, I looked to my right, and saw the bottom of a dark plank of wood hit the step in front of me. Then I heard the faint sound of Jeremy calling my name.

His voice became clearer after the second time: “Kim! Get up! What happened?!”

My eyes flew open. He started to come into focus. I realized I was sitting on the floor in the corner of our bedroom, across from my daughter’s toddler bed, with my knees to my chest under my nightgown. My gown was soaked with sweat.

He repeated, “What happened?! Get up! Why are you on the floor?!”

I flatly said, “I was at the crucifixion.”

As the weight of what I said registered, I stood up and repeated slowly, “I was at the crucifixion!”

Now… I had no reference for this. Nothing in my dream said that. It was a knowing. I wasn’t raised in church. I didn’t own church clothes. I didn’t even know Jesus was a Jew, nor did I know He was crucified. Sure, I had seen Him on crosses through the years, but NEVER had I been told anything about Him.

I was invited to church before, but even there, the sermons were about fishing trips and other meaningless things. I was suddenly angry that nobody told me about this Jesus! NOBODY told me I was headed to hell! Nobody told me He was real and that this thing was real and it happened.

Suddenly, the dream yielded a picture in my mind. I saw droves of people coming from miles to witness the crucifixion. It was somber but urgent. They needed to get to the location to see the Man one last time. Many had heard Him speak. They had been fed, healed, and set free by the Man who had been sentenced to die. They wanted to see if this was true! If they would actually do it. 

I was changed. From that moment until now, I cannot speak of Jesus without tears. I have never been the same. That dream—or vision—was my defining moment. Nothing was important anymore. Not food, not TV—NOTHING MATTERED. JESUS DIED and I was living like He didn’t. 

That consumed my life. I can still see the dream. I can still see the stairs. I can hear the people. Most of all, I can hear the wood.

Jeremy rolled his eyes incredulously and said, “It was just a dream.”

I ignored him. He was a fool, and I suddenly had no time for fools. I needed to talk to someone who knew this Jesus.

So, I went to the kitchen, grabbed the wall phone, and called my aunt, who was always in somebody’s church. As soon as she answered, I said, “Who is Jesus?”

She said, “Uhm, hi niece. He’s the Son of God.”

I said, “What happened to Him? Tell me everything you know.”

She said, “You need to read your Bible for that.”

What Bible?! I didn’t have a Bible!

I then said “I need to be saved.. how can I be saved?”

She said, “You need to join a church.”

I got off the phone after she finished her pitch to come join her church. That didn’t sit right. It felt wrong.. so I kept looking. 

I was suddenly in a race against time. I felt I was dying. I knew it. That was the only explanation for what was happening to me. I cried a lot, but now the tears were for Jesus.

Suddenly and all at once, I understood Pat. I understood his urgency. I understood that what he said to me has to be said and was prophetic.

Later, I found out that his younger brother and two other people had similar dreams and turned their lives around instantly. His younger brother stopped smoking weed and became a minister. I saw him years later at my church with his family.