DO I BELIEVE?

A True Story by Tamara Lafarga-Joseph

Do I believe?

Do I have hope?
Do I have faith in life after death?
The answer is unequivabically—NO.
But, I do have the knowledge of a life after death.
How is that possible one might ask?
In response, for me it is not a mystery or an unanswered question of the ages.
It is a fact.  YES, there is life after death.

To prove this point, allow me to relate a series of experiences, which I had between the ages of 19-23. In 1974 and 1975, I was a college student. One Thursday morning at 1:00 am on a chilly winter day I was awakened by an unpleasant dream. Alarmed by the dream and its disturbing likeness to real life, I sat straight up in my bed.

I replayed the dream in my mind. In my dream, the phone rang awakening me from my slumber. Upon answering the phone I heard my parent’s voice. They informed me that my Grandfather had passed away. They also told me that I must take the 11:00am flight home to Wisconsin, in order to attend the funeral. I realized that this meant that I would miss my midterm. Consequently, I called my boyfriend, Jack Walker, requesting that he inform my professor that I would be unable to take the exam due to my Grandfather’s death.

My roommate was awakened as well. (The dorms were so small that no movement went unnoticed.) She asked if I was okay. I related my dream to her. After some time she convinced me that it was just a dream and I should attempt to go back to sleep. I followed her advice.

One week later to the day, on a Thursday, at 1:00am on yet another chilly winter night, I was abruptly awakened from my sleep. The phone rang and I sprang out of bed to answer it. The call was from my parents. My grandfather had died. They had a ticket for me, departing at 11:00 am. that same day. I had a midterm scheduled that day. So, I immediately called my boyfriend and asked him to inform my professor that I would not be able to take the midterm. I then packed and flew home to Wisconsin to attend my Grandfather’s funeral.

Three years later, I was a health missionary in Guatelmala. I was one of the first women to learn the Mayan dialect- Quiche, and to have the privilege of working in the mountains with the Mayan Indians.

I was living high in the mountains of a remote area called Santa Ana. It was approximately a two-hour hike up the dirt mountain from Momostenango. Rarely did jeeps attempt the rocky, rough terrain.

I shared a hut with my companion, Hermana Rosa. She was 100% Mayan Indian. She spoke only Quiche and some Spanish. We were companions during the six month long, rainy season. In the mountains of Quiche Guatemala, there are only two seasons, the rainy season and the dry season.

The dry season is hot and the trails are extremely dusty. The rainy season is the opposite. The trails are muddy and slippery, and the air is chilly. A walking stick is essential during the rainy season, if one wishes to travel from hut to hut. Without the assistance of a stick, the thick mud easily swallows up one’s feet and shoes and a slippery fall is inevitable.

One wet, chilly morning at 5:00a.m. I arose to the call of Mother Nature. Our self- constructed toilet was at the top of a small hill outside of our hut. The ground was wet and muddy. I put on my shoes and instinctively grabbed my walking stick-- which as always, was leaning against the side of the door. Leaving the hut without one’s stick would be analogous to getting in your car without the keys.

As I trudged up the slippery hill, shivering in the chilly morning air and depending upon my walking stick for assistance, I inadvertently slipped on a rock. Unable to regain my balance (I was still quite sleepy), I crashed to the ground.

Suddenly, there was complete and utter darkness. It was unlike any darkness I had experienced in the past. I recall the inability to move, the inability to speak or create any sound, yet I felt no pain. I felt nothing at all.

Instinctively, I knew that I was in trouble. I knew that I was seriously injured, and I realized that I had no way of communicating to anyone my desperate situation. I also knew that I was a minimum of one mile from the nearest hut or human being. It occurred to me that my companion would not be waking for several hours.

As I lie there in the mud, it was clear to me that (1) An unconscious person has very conscious thoughts (yet the inability to express those thoughts) and, (2) It was obvious that I required medical attention and quickly. Due to the fact that there was no hope of an ambulance, passer byers, etc., I realized that I needed to draw on another source.

I recalled a scripture that stated that in times of need and desperation, you only need call upon the Lord, and He will send his angels and His angels would lift you up and carry you, to safety.

I asked Heavenly Father to help me. I did not plead or beg. I made no bargains or elaborate repentances. Rather, it was a very matter of fact request-which I somewhat both arrogantly and innocently, fully expected to be answered.

Instantly, I found myself floating down the hill. Everything was still completely dark. However, I looked to my right and noticed a man. He was brilliantly glowing and appeared to be wearing a white suit. I recognized him immediately. He was my Grandfather. He was not 71 years old, but rather 24-26. He looked exactly as he did in the wedding photo of my Grandparents. I had always treasured that wedding photo. Consequently, when my Grandfather passed away, my Grandmother had gifted me the treasured photo.

Then turning to my left, and expecting to recognize yet another relative—I was a bit shocked. The gentleman on my left was unfamiliar. He was however, as brilliantly bright and also wearing what appeared to be a white suit.

They seemed to carry me down the hill, although it felt as though I were floating. Gently they laid me on my cot. At this point the two of them stood on each side of me at the head of the bed with their hands above me. They then moved to the foot of the bed. I could see that they were communicating with one another. However, I could not hear or understand them. They then proceeded to the head of the bed, and once again to the foot of the bed. To the best of my recollection, this occurred three times. As quickly as they had appeared, they vanished.

The next event, which I recall, is the terrified voice of my companion. Her voice trembled with panic and she was shouting, “Hermana Lafarga, Hermana Lafarga.”

Slowly opening my eyes, I saw her fear filled face above me. She asked me if I knew where I was.

I replied, “ No.”

She asked if I knew what day it was.

Once again I replied, “No.”

She asked if I knew my name.

I answered, “Were you not just shouting it?”

She proceeded to tell me that it was Sunday, and that we were in Sebastian’s Hut.

Somehow hearing that it was Sunday sparked my memory. As I reviewed in my mind what must have happened, I thought—I must have been dreaming.

Curious as to whether or not I was losing my mind, I inquired of Hermana Rosa,

“How did I get here?”

She replied in Quiche, “I do not know. I woke up at 8:00 and there you were, in the bed, covered with blood and mud.”

She was fighting back the tears, and was obviously, very shaken.

Concluding that I was unsure of what had happened, Hermana Rosa grabbed a mirror and held it over my face. As though I were not feeling faint enough—the sight, which greeted me, was gruesome and unpleasant to say the least.

My jaw had been split wide open, exposing bone, muscle tissue and other unsightly human anatomy. I was literally coated with a mixture of mud and blood.

She preceded to hand me a filthy cloth, in an attempt to cover my gaping wound.

I pushed the dirty cloth away, and requested a clean one--- realizing that she must have used the same cloth to wipe the mud off of my face before I regained consciousness.

My background as a First Aid Instructor, and years of work in the Emergency room of a University hospital screamed out to me---“You require immediate medical attention, and you are still in shock.”

I told Hermana Rosa that we must find the nearest hospital. The nearest hospital was a six-hour ride on a chicken bus from Momostenango. Momostenango was a 1-½ hour hike down a slippery, muddy mountainside. This was not an appealing scenario.

There was little, if any, strength left in my body—but I had no alternative. Hermana Rosa assisted me in assuming a sitting position, and helped to dress me.

We prepared for the hike. She went to the door to retrieve our walking sticks. However, my stick was not there.

“Where is your walking stick?” She asked.

I responded, “I used it to go up the hill.”

Hermana Rosa left the hut to search for my stick. She went to the foot of the hill, but did not see it. She returned to inform me of this fact. Together we walked to the hill. There were definite footsteps going up the hill. There were none coming down. There were no skid marks or evidence of sliding. As we looked up, we could see the stick laying at the top of the hill-- where I had slipped on the rock.

We both looked at each other in amazement.

She asked, “How did you get down the hill?”

“It is an amazing story” I responded, “However, I am too weak and tired to talk right now. I will tell you later.”

As she climbed up the hill to fetch my stick, my exhausted mind raced and a shiver ran down my spine.

It was true! I had been carried down the hill. My Grandfather had come to my rescue. The evidence was compelling. It may as well have been concrete rather than mud. There were no footprints coming down, no marks or evidence of a miraculous slide. The essential and necessary instrument for descending, “The Walking Stick”, lay at the top of the hill.

For a brief moment I considered the consequences had I not been miraculously rescued. Imagine lying face down in the mud, unconscious, bleeding profusely. I most likely would have bled to death. No more time for reflecting. I needed immediate medical attention.

Hermana Rosa cautiously descended the hill, and handed me my stick. We walked slowly down the mountain toward the village. She supported me on one side, and the walking stick supported me on the other side..

Upon entering a wooded area, we were suddenly confronted by a pack of wild dogs. They appeared out of nowhere. Not to be theatrical- but they appeared to be possessed or demonic. During my stay in Guatemala, I had never before been attacked by a wild pack of dogs.

I was too exhausted to attempt to allude the dogs, and too tired to speak. So, I raised my stick to the wild pack and thought, ---my thoughts so strong and so concentrated that they seemed audible-- “Be gone-in the name of Jesus-be gone.”

As quickly as the wild, demonic dogs had appeared they disappeared. At this point I was totally spent. I was physically incapable of taking another step. We sat down to rest on a nearby rock.

Like a mirage in a desert to a thirsty man, we heard the sweet sound of a vehicle rumbling up the mountainside. Impossible, it was Sunday and even more so it was the rainy season. Who would be so foolish as to ascend the mountain during the rainy season? Bless their daring souls, it was two missionaries. They had never attempted to drive the mountain during the rainy season. They had come up the mountain to check on a very sickly woman. They gave us a ride to Momostenango. Once in Momostenango, we took the first chicken bus to Xelaju. It was a long and miserable bus ride. The roads were bumpy and dirty. The bus was filled with chickens and pigs going to market. I believe that I may have gone in and out of consciousness during the long ride into town.

Six hours later we arrived in Xelaju. I was guided into a small room, which was purported to be a health center. Aqua colored cement walls and three people in faded white jackets surrounded me. At this point, I was too weak, dehydrated and exhausted to care about anything. However, the colors of the room grabbed my attention. I remember being mesmerized by the peeling, chipped, green and aqua paint on the ceilings and walls. I spent several hours gazing at those walls.

The three people in white cleaned my gaping wound, and began to suture it. Mind you, this was done without any anesthesia or a local. I felt every suture go in, and then prayed for it to come out. I vividly recall singing to myself—the lyrics running through my head. I sang, Count Your Many Blessings—count them one by one (it was better than counting the sutures). Count your many blessings, see what God has done. For some reason, I recall singing in Spanish.

At the time, I do not know why that particular hymn dominated my thoughts. Although, in retrospect it was apropos. I should have been counting my blessings. My life had been saved by what seemed to be an act of God and perhaps more than once.

Two days later my jaw and chin were monstrously large and swollen. The green skin tone indicated an infection, and the pain was horrific. Two missionaries gave me a blessing and I purchased a type of antibiotic that had not been used in the U.S. for many years. The only portion of the blessing, which I recall, was, “Your chin will heal completely, but you will continue to have great pain.”

This is not exactly what I had hoped to hear. The pain portion of the blessing was disturbing. The prediction of pain haunted me. The swelling in my chin finally dissipated after several days. The prediction of pain came to fruition. I suffered tremendous toothaches.

Eager to return to Santa Ana, I finished the remaining months of my mission high up in the mountains. Naturally, I was extremely cautious when walking in mud. I appreciated more than ever all life that surrounded me.

Each day I would rub aspirin on my teeth, with little if any relief. The pain throbbed so intensely that I could not sleep at night. Finally, I was forced to go into town, and visit a local dentist. He extracted one tooth, and preformed an unsuccessful root canal on another. (Upon returning to the states, I required yet another root canal and a false tooth).

Reviewing my near date with death, and the consequential pain and suffering I incurred, it was all a small price to pay for the knowledge, I acquired.

YES, there is life after death, and YES, there are guardian angels that will rescue our lives here on earth.

I think that when I was lying unconscious on top of the mud hill in Guatelmala, Heavenly Father determined that it was not yet my time to pass on to the next life. God had meant for me to bring three beautiful children into this world.

Therefore, I dedicate this writing to them. I would like to share my knowledge of life after death with my children, so that they will know that I will always be watching over them.

I thank my Grandfather, who was the only real father in my life. And, I thank God for answering my prayers.

My advice to all of you is:

Live life and enjoy all that it has to offer.

Fear not death when your time comes. It will bring you yet another opportunity to live and perhaps an opportunity to help others live.

You need not merely hope or believe in life after death—but rather, KNOW that YES—it is a fact of life, just like birth is a fact of life.

Life continues after death. We are eternal.

xactly what I had hoped to hear. The pain portion of the blessing was disturbing. The prediction of pain haunted me. The swelling in my chin finally dissipated after several days. The prediction of pain came to fruition. I suffered tremendous toothaches.