Before I begin, I must say that I encounter things in my hospice work that I do not pretend to understand or explain or defend. Much of my career I spend at the edge of not knowing. Often, I feel like Sorcerer’s Apprentice doing my best in the face of profound powers and mysteries to simply not to do any damage. Before I came to work at hospice, I wouldn’t have believed half of what I am about to say. Which is mostly why I haven’t said it very much or at all. So as I debated with myself about whether to publicly share this story, two friends separately sent me a link to a recent interview with Barbara Ehrenreich, an atheist who just published a book exploring her own visionary experience as a teenager. I figured if an atheist can honestly wrestle with moments of mystical weirdness in her life then I could, too. But  if you are inclined to become frustrated with woo-woo stories I would suggest skipping this essay all together. I understand. And I won’t take it personally.

This particular moment of mystical weirdness happened the afternoon I made my very first visit to a new hospice patient who was in the last 24 hours of his life. And he was not peaceful. From his bed, he flailed his arms and though his eyes were open it was clear that he was looking in on a reality to which we were not privy.  The nurse was already at his bedside when I arrived administering comfort medicines to alleviate his agitation but nothing seemed to be helping. She spoke gently and reassuringly to him, encouraging him to rest his arms. But he continued to fight off an invisible assault.

Not having enough information yet to make a spiritual assessment, I asked her if we could simply let him thrash for awhile without trying to intervene. She said we could as long as we kept him safe from hitting the railings on his bed. So we positioned ourselves on each side of his hospital bed to keep guard as he flung his arms. I began to breathe in time with him and attempted to quiet my own mind.

A veteran of WWII, his military insignia was prominently displayed throughout his home. And as I stood watch at his bedside that afternoon, it felt to me like he had been thrown back onto the battlefield. His state of terminal agitation–an intransigent kind of suffering some people experience at the end of life–may or may not have been directly linked to the trauma he experienced during WWII but it strikes me how many patients I’ve witnessed endure similar struggle at the end of their lives who were also veterans or survivors of war. Perhaps my mind was grasping at explanations for this man’s suffering but my imagination began to create fiery images and planes falling out of the sky.

The nurse left the room for a minute as I continued to keep watch over our patient, breathing in time with him, trying to remain centered so that I could offer compassion instead of my own anxiety at watching him suffer. Over the years, I am learning to wait in moments like these, to realize that those first impulses to act may be more about my desire to not feel uncomfortable in the presence of another’s suffering than it is about offering what is truly helpful to the person in need.

The planes continued to fall out of the sky. But as I watched and breathed and prayed silently, another image arose in my mind from this backdrop of fiery destruction. Also surrounded by flames, I saw what appeared to be the figure of Jesus. And given the negative associations with such an image–judgment, hell, etc–I thought: Oh no, that can’t be good.

(Now, before you think this is going to get all Jesus-y, let me clarify: it will get Jesus-y. But probably not in the way you expect.)

I didn’t do anything. I kept sitting and breathing and watching, not knowing what I was seeing, not knowing what to do. But whether it was my imagination or something more, I  saw the figure of Jesus begin to change, expanding into a more cosmic expression of the divine. Brilliantly ablaze, his light was immense and all-consuming and full of love. I wasn’t afraid as I beheld this kind of fire. I was in awe.

It was then that I took a risk that I know sounds crazy. Leaning down, I whispered in the man’s ear: “It’s the fire of love.” And what happened next still leaves me in a state of wonder and amazement every time I think of it. To my astonishment, he dropped his arms. And within a few minutes he was resting comfortably.

The nurse returned to the room prepared to give the patient a dose of Haldol but was taken aback by the sight. She asked what had I done. I wasn’t quite sure.

The patient died overnight. I never saw him again and I can only hope the rest he found in that moment held in the last hours of his life.

Over the years, I’ve tried to make sense of what happened that day. Similar experiences since then have pushed me to consider that the material world as I once understood it is less like concrete and more like a dream. This isn’t to say that I don’t think this reality isn’t real. There is plenty of concreteness in this reality to keep me motivated to wear my seatbelt.

But this reality has also been penetrated by something I cannot explain or control. I would doubt it existed except that happened and I was there to witness it. And it continues to happen. Although I cannot tell you why or when or under what circumstances it will do so. And this frustrates me when I want to help but nothing I do or say seems to matter to relieve the suffering of a person who is making that transition between life and death. (I’ve written about some of those experiences, too.)

And though this mystery showed itself in the face of Jesus that day, it doesn’t seem to have a favorite deity. Mother Mary, Kwan Yin, and Amitabha–among others–have all “shown up” at different times to the same effect–bringing peace. Once, I even “saw” a redwood tree. As I’ve come to believe, divine love will take any form it needs to in order to be seen. And we all see differently. Of course, I almost never speak out loud what I’m seeing but instead try to let myself be guided by the energy of the moment.  Oh God, how much more can I sound like I live in Northern California?

Now, it’s very possible that I just have a very good imagination. And maybe a good imagination mixed with good intuition is enough to occasionally “guess right.” I can live with that. I’m definitely not going to fight to the death defending these mystical moments as true and solid as the bench I am sitting on as I write this. But neither can I deny what I’ve seen and experienced.

Not too long ago, I was the first person on the scene to a motorcycle accident. From my car a half a block away, I saw what appeared to be a black tarp flapping against the side of a house. As I got closer, I saw that it was, in fact, a motorcyclist– dressed in black–violently seizuring against the side of the building into which he crashed. I pulled to the curb and was the first to reach him. From my first aid training, I knew not to move him. I couldn’t see his eyes through the visor of his black helmet. As other bystanders called 9-1-1, I crouched down near him and started to talk to him in a calm voice. I gently rested my hand underneath his as his body jerked and seized hoping he could feel that someone was with him even if he couldn’t see or hear me. Waiting for the ambulance to arrive, I told him that help was on the way. I didn’t know whether he was going to make it. And I didn’t want to give him any promises or empty words of comfort. So I told him what I believed to be true. Though I couldn’t know what form it would take, something in me spoke with the faith that whether he lived or not that help was on the way.