We Never Die Alone

Mar 31, 2020

“There is one Universal Mind, common to all, and wherever you are, it is with you, always.”
– Sydney Banks, The Missing Link.

My husband had died alone three days before on an icy road that curves through the mountains of West Virginia.

I stood at the counter buttering toast. Bright sunlight reflected into the kitchen off the snowy hillside beside the house. A cascade of tears blurred my vision.

I was stricken that a man who had loved bear hugs, had laughed without reserve, and had given uncommon warmth died with no one familiar to hold his hand.

We had been robbed of “thank you”, “I love you”, and “good-bye.”

The shrill ring of a phone interrupted my crying. I didn’t recognize the husky voice on the line. “Are you the wife of the man who was in an accident on Route 33 outside of Ripley?” a woman asked. Time stopped. Jim’s body was still in Charleston sixty miles away. His accident had occurred on Christmas Eve and the medical examiner, like everyone, was taking a holiday with family. I wore my blue chenille robe. My hair was tousled from tossing and turning during a sleepless night. Members of my family who had driven from Michigan to stand by me through this time were still asleep. The aroma of coffee, a sign of normalcy in a time that was anything but, hung in the air.

“Yes, I am,” I said, on guard. Others had called to inquire about the nature of Jim’s injuries. I had not wanted to know, nor do I know to this day about their extent.

“Is he ok?” she asked. “I was at the scene of his accident.”

“He didn’t make it,” I said. “He died.” The caller cried. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” Her sincerity was clear.

She explained that the accident had occurred across the road from her small bungalow next to a creek. She explained that she’d covered my husband with a blanket because he was shivering. She explained that she’d noticed the simple gold band on his left hand. She’d asked him if he had family and he said that he had a wife and daughter.

She asked if she could pray for him.

“No,” he’d said. “Please help me pray for my wife and daughter.” She told me that his breathing slowed as they prayed. He went to sleep. He died with love on his mind.

A couple of days ago, Pope Francis spoke with empathy about the losses occurring because of the coronavirus. He said, “The pain of those who left without saying goodbye becomes a wound in the heart of those who remain.”

The story of the Good Samaritan who sat in the car seat beside my husband, holding his hand as she prayed with him, sweetens empathy with Truth.

Love helped my husband to die. Love is always with us when we die. We are NEVER alone.  We experience it in the thoughts that help us make the transition from this life to the next.

I have felt privileged to be with several people as they were dying.  I have also listened to countless stories of other deaths.  Every single person seems to find what they need to transition.  My father-in-law saw loved ones who reached out to help him climb a long staircase. He spoke with them.  My father imagined a party and asked us to get him a top-hat and tux to help him get ready.  Others saw angels. My husband thought of me and his precious daughter.

Thought is a spiritual gift we use to have a psychological experience of life. In death, Thought comforts us. The spiritual gift of Thought creates courage as we make our great, final leap into the unknown. Love, the Mind of God, is always with those who leave. It is always with those who remain. To comfort. To calm. To give courage.

Copyright 2020: Linda Sandel Pettit, Ed.D.

Photo by Grant Ritchie on Unsplash


Dr. Linda Sandel Pettit, a priestess-at-heart and retired counseling psychologist, can be found at www.thedrspettit.com. She loves putting her intuitive nature, spiritual understanding and clinical experience in service to others. She is available for on-line or phone consultations. For information about fees and packages, visit BOOK NOW. Email her with questions or to request fee assistance at linda@thedrspettit.com.