Last thing I remembered was driving home with my mother. Now I was surrounded by twisted metal and broken glass. We’ve had an accident, I thought. I must have passed out. I tried to get up. Pain shot through my body.
I looked outside the car and saw a sunny green field alive with vibrant yellow buttercups. I felt a pair of hands gently push me back into my seat, but I didn’t see anyone. “Lie back,” a voice said. “It’s not your time to go to the field yet.” I passed out again.
My husband, Jimmie, was by my side when I woke up again in the hospital, in a full body cast. The doctor explained that I’d been unconscious for three days. “It was critical that you didn’t move before the EMTs arrived,” he said.
Jimmie waited until we were alone, and then leaned in close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Your mother didn’t survive.”
I thought back to the details of that day. The comforting hands, the sunny green field full of buttercups.
“When I tried to get out of the car someone kept me safe,” I told Jimmie. “A field of buttercups off the side of the road looked like a heavenly landscape in bright, glorious sunlight.”
Jimmie shook his head. “No, honey. The car went off the road by a cornfield. And it was raining.”
Jimmie showed me newspaper articles about the accident. The photographs proved him right: Mother and I had been hit head-on near a cornfield on a rainy day. But how had I seen that sunlit vision of buttercups? Whose invisible hands had guided me back into my seat?
Perhaps I’ve been given a glimpse of Mother’s heavenly home. Surely the angel who kept me safe guided her into that glorious field.
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