The nuns in the hospice for the dying assured her God was waiting to greet her. Bridget was infatuated by God the father, son and Holy Spirit. What a monumental prospect! She felt her life-force being drawn up to her eyes and through these eyes she beheld a balmy light, at the foot of the bed which grew dazzling, fascinating, irresistibly so, and when she gazed into the light she saw a figure, and it was a figure she knew, that excited her, that inspired her. Oh, what joy for Bridget, the mother. When that door opened. She was not alone, and she had been holding on for this final communion. The family of four sat around the bed to witness their mother. Her body was limp, her voice a wisp, but the vulnerability in her eyes could speak volumes.
A lifetime of them. Because she was grieving. And grieving is the fruit of how deeply we have loved and connected. She beheld each one in turn. Gigantic sobs were beginning to emit from the onlookers the ache of parting too huge to contain. Perhaps it was never a mother more left.
Bridget turned the rosary beads around in her fingers, clinging, clutching, treasuring the promise of salvation, yet assenting to what was about to come.
Father, into thy hands I commend my. But earthly words were no longer of her domain. She felt her life force being drawn up to her eyes. And, through those eyes, she beheld a bendy light at the foot of the bed. A light that grew dazzling, fascinating, irresistibly cell. And when she gazed into that light, she saw a figure, a familiar figure that she knew, that excited her, that inspired her.
It was her Jesus in his luminous layman, holding out his arms to her in the most welcoming of welcomes. Uh, lo and behold, her lord had come. Death was a friend. She wanted to go to him. With him. On, into that hypnotising light that limits eternal bliss. Fraily, she lifted back the restraining bed covers and floated out of herself into that light of lightness.
A whiff of flowers, be it earthly or heavenly, filled her senses, because our lady was there, too, drawing back a transparent bluish curtain for Bridget and Christ to pass into the resplendent phosphorins of heaven, while her, earthly family sat on weeping, wiping, choking, as if the walls of their emotions had burst over-her. Her empty body.It was her Jesus in his luminous raiment, resurrected in all his glory, holding out his arms to her in the most welcoming of welcomes. “Father” she tried to pronounce. But earthly words were no longer of her domain. Gingerly, she detached the oxygen apparatus which was hooked to her nose, concentrating on the vision lest he escape, lest something block her. Her Jesus had come; death was a friend.
The storyline of the book is, at the moment of dying, each person sees the vision which inspires them and is stored in their subconscious throughout life.
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