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Is There Dancing in Heaven?

Articles Inspirational articles from Hay House authors

Is There Dancing in Heaven?

My encounter with eternity.
James F. Twyman
James F. Twyman More by this author
Sep 09, 2010 at 10:00 AM

She ran forward to prevent me from collapsing on the floor.

“Are you okay?” she asked as she reached out and took hold of my arm. “You turned white and should probably sit down. Come over here with me.”

She led me to an area where four or five hay bales rested against the wall, then guided me by the arm till I was sitting down. I placed my head between my legs to let the blood return to my brain and to shelter myself from the strange hallucination. My eyes were closed so I couldn’t see my surroundings, but the fact remained that a woman who looked and sounded exactly like Linda was sitting next to me. And yet, it wasn’t the woman I knew in middle age who had died when she was forty-three. The woman who sat next to me was in her early twenties, the same age Linda was when we met. Her hair was long and straight and she wore an outfit that I remembered well, a Laura Ashley dress that resembled a hipper version of something from Little House on the Prairie. I finally gained the courage to sit upright, then opened my eyes to look at her again. Her smile was bright, and her eyes possessed a brilliance that seemed otherworldly.

“My name is Linda,” she said as she reached out her hand. I didn’t know if I should offer mine in return or not, but finally did when I realized she wasn’t going to pull away. “I saw you walking toward me, then you had this terrible pain in your face and I thought you were going to pass out.”

“You said your name is Linda?” I asked without looking at her.

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“Linda what? What’s your last name?”

It was as if the question puzzled her. She looked toward the far wall of the barn as if she was thinking, then turned back to me and said: “I honestly don’t know. It feels like I do, or that I should, but for the life of me I don’t know what it is. I guess it isn’t important.”

“Do you know who I am?” I asked, finally getting up enough courage to look directly into her eyes. “You have to recognize me . . . do you know my name?”

She looked into my eyes and at my face. “Well, you do look very familiar, but I can’t say I know who you are. Am I supposed to?”
It was as if something broke inside me and I wasn’t able to hold myself together any longer. There was no question that this was the young woman I’d met in 1984, married, and raised a daughter with. She was also the woman who had been brutally murdered three and a half years earlier. That was the thing that disturbed me the most, the fact
that the woman I had been grieving for was now sitting in front of me as if nothing had ever changed.

“Yes, you are supposed to,” I said as I stood up from the hay bale. “It’s me . . . your husband, or ex-husband, or whatever. Why don’t you recognize me? And where the hell are we where this kind of thing feels so natural and normal?”

“I can guarantee we’re not in hell,” she said with a smile. “I wish I could help you more, but I honestly don’t remember. All I know is that I came to this wonderful dance and you’re here with me. You’re a little confused, but you seem like a nice person so I want to help you. Can you tell me what I should do now?”

Her words were so innocent, like a child wanting to please a loved one or a lover opening her heart to a person she tenderly cares for. I decided to relax as best I could, and sat back down, then took a deep breath.
“I don’t know what’s happening here,” I said, “but this is the most incredible and bizarre thing I’ve ever experienced, or even heard of.”

About Author
James F. Twyman
James F. Twyman is the best-selling author of ten books, including Emissary of Light and The Art of Spiritual Peacemaking. He’s also an internationally renowned “Peace Troubadour” who has the reputation for drawing millions of people to Continue reading