When Heaven Opened for a Moment

In the darkest stretch of grief, I was given a dream so vivid and holy it felt like God’s hand reaching through the veil.

Grief can strip the world of its color. After my son’s death, I lived in shades of gray, carrying silence where there should have been his laughter, and guilt where there should have been peace. The ache followed me everywhere, whispering of all the things I did not do, the words I could not take back, the prayer I once spoke when I felt too weary to go on.

And then came the dream.

It was not like any dream I had known before. This one felt lit from within, alive with a holiness that pressed against my skin and filled the air around me. I believe it was not a dream at all, but a divine gift. For one brief moment, God parted the veil of heaven and allowed me to see my son again.

I was in a car with my other children, lulled by the hum of the tires against the road. When I turned to the back seat, there he was. My son. My beautiful boy. His face shone with light, his eyes brighter than I had ever seen them in life. He looked strong, whole, and utterly at peace.

I gasped and asked my children if they saw him too. They did. Their eyes widened with recognition. He was no shadow or imagined figure. He was real, as real as the air in my lungs and the tears welling in my eyes.

I wanted to ask how this was possible, but before the words left my mouth, his thoughts filled my mind. We were not speaking with lips, but with spirit. He told me God had sent him to reassure me. He said this was my chance for last words and a goodbye. I knew our moment together would be brief, and he confirmed it. Yet gratitude rose in me like a tide.

I told him I was sorry. Sorry for the words I wished I had not spoken, for the visit I had not made, for the times my exhaustion dimmed my love. He told me I was forgiven. His knowing reached into my marrow and smoothed the jagged edges of my grief.

I began to cry, but he soothed me, not with hands, but with a gentleness that moved like spirit across my skin. My tears slowed, as though he had wiped them away. I asked if I could hold him. He said yes. I wrapped my arms around him and was startled by how light he felt, as if he were made only of peace.

Image credit: Author

That was when I noticed the mark. At the base of his neck, below his hairline, there was an impression in his skin. Not ink, but more like a scar, a stamp pressed into him. I tried to read it but could not. My spirit recoiled and a chill spread through me. He shook his head and told me it did not matter. His voice was steady, and I knew this was not mine to carry.

Then he was gone.

I thought that was the end. But later in the dream, as my children and I walked out of a small store, he appeared again, waiting. His presence filled the air like light entering the night. He told me God had sent him back with one more message. He said, “Stay the course.”

I wanted to ask what it meant. Did it mean to keep my faith? To keep telling my story? To keep walking forward in my calling? I opened my mouth to ask, but he repeated the words, anchoring them inside me. “Stay the course.”

Then he was gone, and this time I knew it was final.

When I woke, the dream did not fade as dreams usually do. It lingered with a clarity and weight that felt holy. I believe with all my heart that God gave me that night, not as a puzzle to solve but as a gift of grace. My son was safe. He was at peace. And I was given the reminder that my path is not finished.

“Stay the course.”

I do not yet know all it means, but perhaps that is the point. Faith is not certainty. Faith is trust. And so I hold on to those words like a lantern in the dark. I will stay the course.

Author’s Note
This dream changed me. It felt less like sleep and more like a door opened by God, allowing me a moment of grace with my son. If you’ve ever experienced a dream that felt sacred or like a visitation, I would be honored to hear about it. Feel free to share your story in the comments or reach out privately. Sometimes these glimpses are small lights we carry for each other.