This
is
Kimberly Clark-Sharp's
message from her extraordinary
near-death experience during the
minutes after her heart suddenly
stopped and she lay on the
sidewalk, not breathing and
without a pulse. Swept into a
peaceful, loving place of
brilliant golden light and warm
comfort, she saw, for the first
time, the meaning of life - and
death. After her near-death
experience, she became the
cofounder and president of the
Seattle International
Association for Near-Death
Studies (IANDS). The
following is an excerpt of her
near-death experience as
described in her book,
After The Light.
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The first thing I remember was the
urgent sound of a woman's voice. "I'm
not getting a pulse!" she said. "I'm not
getting a pulse." Though I don't
remember actually seeing her, I turned
in her direction and said, with some
irritation, "Of course you're getting a
pulse or I wouldn't be speaking!" But
she ignored me and continued to talk
about my pulse. This made no sense.
Again, speaking very slowly for
emphasis, I corrected her, "You must
be getting a pulse or I wouldn't be
speaking."
In fact, I said, I felt fine. Really
good. Come to think of it, I'd never
felt better, or more alive. I was
healthy and whole, calm and together for
the very first time in my life.
Though I still couldn't see, I could
hear everything - mostly the scramble of
many voices talking all at once - but
especially the tone of worry in the
woman's voice. It
didn't bother me. Nor was I offended by
everyone's refusal to listen to me or
notice that I was OK. I let it go. I let
everything go.
It was easy to give up and be quiet,
easy to surrender. I just slipped away,
as if I was falling asleep without being
drowsy first. I had no fear, no sense of
alarm or panic. It was like being
carried someplace that was inviting,
comfortable, and safe - like my warmest
childhood memories of being carried to
bed by one of my parents. There was that
same sense of security, of being taken
to a place where I could rest, and be
cared for. Where I would be loved.
My next awareness was of an entirely new
environment. I knew I was not alone, but
I still couldn't see clearly, because I
was enveloped in a dense, dark gray fog
- not a cold fog but a warm one. I was
grateful for that; despite my years in
Kansas, or perhaps because of them, I
despise the cold.
I felt a sense of expectancy, the same
anticipation one feels when waiting for
a plane to take off or arrive. It seemed
natural and right to be here, and for me
to wait as long as it took. Earthly time
had no meaning for me anymore. There was
no concept of "before" or "after."
Everything - past, present, future -
existed simultaneously.
I realized that I could discern the
particles that made up the fog. I could
perceive individual glints of
penetrating light and droplets of
unfathomable darkness, It wasn't black
and white makes gray - it was just light
and dark, without color. I could focus
on one, then the other, and perceive
different patterns, like a 3-D painting.
Suddenly, an enormous explosion erupted
beneath me, an explosion of light
rolling out to the farthest limits of my
vision. I was in the center of the
Light. It blew away everything,
including the fog. It reached the ends
of the universe, which I could see, and
doubled back on itself in endless
layers. I was watching eternity unfold.
The Light was brighter than hundreds of
suns, but it did not hurt my eyes. I had
never seen anything as luminous or as
golden as this Light, and I immediately
understood it was entirely composed of
love, all directed at me. This
wonderful, vibrant love was very
personal, as you might describe secular
love, but also sacred. The only words I
could formulate in the midst of this
incredible Light were from my childhood:
"Homey home." It was something I used to
say when when we had been on an outing
and I had began to spot the familiar
landmarks of our neighborhood.
Though I had
never seen God, I recognized this light
as the Light of God. But even the word
God seemed too small to describe the
magnificence of that presence. I was
with my Creator, in holy communication
with that presence. The Light was
directed at me and through me; it
surrounded me and pierced me. It existed
just for me.
The Light
gave me knowledge, though I heard no
words. We did not communicate in English
or in any other language. This was
discourse clearer and easier than the
clumsy medium of language. It was
something like understanding math or
music - nonverbal knowledge, but
knowledge no less profound. I was
learning the answers to the eternal
questions of life - questions so old we
laugh them off as clichés.
Why are we
here? "To learn."
What's the
purpose of our life? "To love."
I felt as if
I was re-remembering things I had once
known but somehow forgotten, and it
seemed incredible that I had not figured
out these things before now.
Then this
ecstasy of knowledge and awareness was
interrupted. Again, without words, I
learned that I had to return to my life
on Earth. I was
appalled. Leave all this, leave God, go
back to that old, oblivious existence?
No way. The girl who
always did as she was told dug in her
heels. But to no avail. I was going
back. I knew it. I was already on the
way. I was on a trajectory headed
straight for my body, that lifeless lump
on the sidewalk in front of the
Department of Motor Vehicles.
I didn't
quite make it. Maybe it was my
resistance to going back, maybe it was
just that I've never been good with
spacial orientation. I'm so inept at
parallel parking that if I get the car
within four feet of the curb, I consider
it a victory. It was the same for
parking my soul back into my body. I
missed by a good four feet.
That's when I
saw my body for the first time, and when
I realized I was no longer a part of it.
Until this moment, I'd only seen myself
straight on, as we usually do, in
mirrors and photographs. Now I was
jolted by the strange sight of me in
profile from four feet away. I looked at
my body, the body I knew so well, and
was surprised by my detachment. I felt
the same sort of gratitude toward my
body that I had for my old winter coat
when I put it away in the spring. It had
served me well, but I no longer needed
it. I had absolutely no attachment to
it. Whatever constituted the self I knew
as me was no longer there. My essence,
my consciousness, my memories, my
personality were outside, not in, that
prison of flesh.
Then I watched a man lean over that body
and put his mouth to mine. That instant
of physical contact was all that I
needed. This man became the conduit that
I passed through on the way to my own
body, and for a brief moment, I was
observing as well as experiencing what
was happening to us both. I could feel
his nervousness and even discomfort
about performing this intimate, humane
service in front of a gawking crowd. But
it was his compassion, his love for me,
a total stranger, that guided me -
unerringly this time - back into my
body.
(Fade to black. Fade to blacker.)
I heard a woman calling my name, and
though I wanted to respond, I could not
answer her. I wanted to go toward her
voice, but took too much effort. I was
cold now, cold from the inside out, like
a corpse. I felt as were moving through
a dank, dark hallway blocked by heavy
tapestries that I desperately tried to
push aside, to get to that voice. But
was getting nowhere.
A window
opened up on my right and fresh air blew
into that horrid place. Through the
window, I saw a beautiful pastoral
scene, like a calendar photograph of a
Kentucky meadow: emerald grass and
brilliant white fences under intensely
saturated blue skies. Somehow, I knew
that all I had to do, if I wanted to
die, was to slip through the window into
that bucolic beauty. If I went, I would
not come back this time. If I decided to
go through the window.
But at
this very moment, I was made aware of
the potential my life would have if I
chose to continue it. I saw that there
could be a larger purpose for my life -
that I could accomplish considerable
good and be of service to many people.
It was an offer I could not resist.
I chose life.
As I began to
regain consciousness, I received one
last message. A male voice spoke a
single sentence - the only clear words,
besides "Homey, home," that I could
initially retrieve from my memory of
this incredible journey. The voice said
I would forget everything "except as it
will be manifest."
The message
threw me. If I could have, I would have
reached out, grabbed my messenger by the
shoulder, and spun him around, "What are
you talking about?" I would have asked.
"What does manifest mean? And why do I
have to forget? What am I
supposed to forget?"
The.
ambulance ride was uneventful, according
to my father. I wouldn't know. It's as
if a giant eraser wiped away my memory
of the rest of the day. After having
been infused with cosmic knowledge and
universal understanding, having felt the
presence of God and experienced
unconditional love, I recall nothing
else. If I contemplated my transcendent
experience, or made mental notes on the
wisdom I had gained, I don't remember
it. Physically and psychically drained;
I slipped into unconsciousness. Wisdom
would have to wait.
After a
thorough examination and several hours
of observation in the emergency room of
St. Luke's Hospital in Kansas City, I
was sent home with a pat on the shoulder
but no clear explanation for my
collapse. The doctors said I might have
suffered a once-in-a-lifetime cardiac
arrhythmia - a wild fluctuation in
heartbeat.
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