My Dream Husband
Please, God,” I sobbed, “I know you can raise the dead. Could you please send my husband back to help me?”
It wasn’t the first time I’d prayed that prayer in the six years since Jesus had called John home to heaven. I found it impossible to let go of my husband because he’d been my faithful hero, buffering me from the hardships of life.
It was wonderful to think that John had been set free from his sufferings caused by the increasing paralysis of multiple sclerosis. But whenever my life got complicated, I’d rattle heaven’s gates again, begging God to send John back to help me.
“Lord, please?” I whined. “John would be able to handle this legal stuff so much better than I can.”
The clock read 10:21 p.m. as I stared at the intimidating piles of paper work. They were growing taller and more confusing with the arrival of each day’s mail. John’s mother had passed away only a few weeks earlier, and I’d inherited the job of handling her estate. Her attorney was an honest, experienced family friend. But I couldn’t understand all of his instructions and legal jargon. I wanted to understand. I wanted to do all the right things for Mom—to carry out even the least significant aspects of her will. Yet I felt intimidated by the enormity of the task.
I might have been less rattled if I hadn’t been facing another huge battle. Only four days after Mom’s funeral, a distracted driver in a large pickup truck had turned left immediately in front of my small car. The accident left me with another mountain of confusing paper work, since my car was nearly totaled and I suffered numerous injuries.
“God,” I begged, ignoring my body’s need for sleep, “John was the one with a master’s degree in business. This stuff would be easy for him. Could you please, ple-e-ease send him back to me?”
I heard only the ticking of my wall clock, reminding me of the late hour and of Jesus’ earlier encouragement to get my rest. After a few more sobs, I fell into bed and drifted into a fitful sleep.
Morning’s light was subdued by cloudy skies as I filled my teakettle at the kitchen sink. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement. Despite the early hour, someone was walking along the sidewalk in front of my house. Turning to see who it might be, I dropped the kettle in shock.
“John!” I gasped.
My husband was hobbling toward the front door on the crutches he’d used during the early stages of multiple sclerosis. He looked remarkably young, not at all like the emaciated man who died in his mid-fifties. The handsome man approaching my door was John at about thirty years old. He wore his favorite outfit—a pair of 501 Levis and a brown T-shirt that accentuated the ever-present twinkle in his deep green eyes.
In a mix of delight and panic, I tried to smooth my uncombed hair. Gazing down in horror at my raggedy bathrobe and slippers, I cried, “No-o-o! I can’t let that handsome man see me like this. I’m more than twice his age and . . . what will he think?”
Nevertheless, I raced toward the front door and flung it open for my beloved husband.
He stood on the doorstep grinning at me.
The only words I could muster were “Oh, John, you’re a sight for sore eyes!”
He cocked his head to one side, looked me up and down for a few seconds, then said, “Well, sweetie . . . so are you.”
While I chuckled, John stepped into the house. At least, I think he stepped in. Astonishingly, I felt him pass right through me like the wind through a net.
Without warning, I was swept into a joyous whirlwind of heavenly love, freedom, and peace. With my arms lifted high, flailing in the breeze, I tossed my head back and laughed aloud while I twirled in that heavenly realm. No longer aware of John, I desired only the presence of my heavenly Father.
When one of my arms struck the bed’s headboard, I bolted awake. The clock read 3:08 a.m.
“John?” I called. My husband had vanished with the dream. Yet my mind still lingered in the delight of my heavenly encounter.
With heart pounding, I tried to distinguish the real from the imagined. Was it only a dream? Or had it really happened?
Regardless, God sent me a message through that experience. While I wondered why John had come to me on crutches, the Holy Spirit revealed what those crutches represented. If my husband were to return to earth, he’d have to face more suffering. Did I wish to see him endure more?
Absolutely not! John lives in that whirlwind of heavenly love, freedom, and peace. I would be selfish to insist that he return from a place of eternal bliss just to coddle me.
As my heart calmed, the path ahead became clear. I had to let go of John.
My compassionate husband didn’t leave this earth without teaching me all he could about legal matters, finances, and the handling of estates, since he knew I’d face those things alone someday. He’d instructed me to lean on my “resource people,” those who had the expertise to guide me through everything: lawyers for legal matters, bankers for money matters, and, of course, my Christian friends for matters of faith.
From professionals to friends, God had surrounded me with individuals who were poised to help. But best of all, God’s Spirit is always with me, sovereignly guiding. All I have to do is follow.
In light of these revelations, I prayed, Forgive me, Lord, for wanting John back rather than looking first to you. And thank you for setting my husband free. With that, I lay back on my pillow and drifted into a peaceful sleep—something I hadn’t experienced for a very long time.