I was raised in a secular home. There was no talk of heaven or an afterlife. This life was all there was. And yet at the age of five I dreamed I died. My parents and friends circled over me, weeping, their tears striking my face as I released my final breath. But there was no darkness. Instead, a little cloud pushed its way out of my chest and rose to a position above the circle of mourners. Suddenly I was there, looking down. I wanted to tell them, “It’s OK. I’m still here. I’m still me.” But they couldn’t hear. They didn’t understand.
Later, as a confirmed atheist, I tried to dismiss the dream. But I couldn’t. All my life I’ve sensed, both before and after coming to believe in the Author of life (Acts 3:15), that to ignore death is to miss the meaning of life.