“God Let Me Come Back” by Rue Geishecker

I was four years old when I died.

It sounds dramatic, I know—but it’s true. My appendix ruptured, and without penicillin, I wouldn’t be here. For a few minutes, I crossed over. I remember it so clearly—the welcome, the warmth, the color of the sky. It looked like a sunset. Ever since, I’ve been drawn to sunsets. It wasn’t until later that I pieced it all together: I had been to the other side, and I had come back.

God let me come back.

From that day on, I never doubted the reality of heaven. And as a child, when I sat in Sunday school and the teacher spoke about eternity, I didn’t need convincing—I already knew. That deep knowing became a thread through my life, one of the few constants in a world full of changes.

I was born in Massachusetts, though I rarely claim it. My family moved to Atlanta when I was small, but the segregation of the 1940s was hard to stomach, even for a child. We came back to Maine after two years, and that’s where I found my roots. My father was a generous man—quietly so. We only found out after he passed how much he had given, how many people he helped without fanfare. Those teachings from Scripture, lived out in service and humility, became part of who I am.

We joined the Congregational Church in Windham, and that became my spiritual home. I started singing in the youth choir, and from then on, music was woven into my faith. I’ve sung in church choirs my whole life—until recently, when I’ve tried to gather others to sing on special occasions. Worship through song is not optional for me. It’s part of me. It’s how I talk to God.

I had a bit of a rebellious streak in high school—loved boys, loved being involved in everything. God gives gifts unevenly, and I’ve often felt I received more than my share, maybe because He let me come back. I’ve always felt a sense of mission. I wasn’t sent back just to drift through life. I had things to do. I took that seriously.

My first husband didn’t share my faith. He had been baptized Catholic, but his family didn’t pray together or attend church. Ours was a house of conflict, not peace. He was prone to anger and violence, and I, naively, believed I could change him. I tried—for 22 years.

But the breaking point came during a trip to see our son Mark perform in a theater workshop. His father thought acting was foolish and made the whole trip miserable. I cried for 200 miles, asking God for clarity. That day, I made a vow: six months to change, or I would leave. He didn’t change. I kept my vow.

And God blessed the next chapter.

I met Phil. The very first thing he said to me when he proposed was, “Will you share my faith?” That’s how I knew this was different. We were married when I was 40. He was 15 years older. He hadn’t raised his children with faith, which saddened me. But from the beginning, we built our life around church, around music, around service.

We bought a laundromat and started a business. I sewed and designed; he handled the rest. We worked side by side, cleaning, scrubbing, building a life together. Everywhere we lived, we joined a church. I sang in choirs. He served on committees. We moved up north and eventually settled in a place God clearly prepared for us—even the way we found our home felt like divine orchestration.

Phil had his struggles—his past, his guilt—but his favorite hymn was “Just As I Am.” He came to know grace through that song. He had a tender heart under the rough edges, and he gave so much to others. We cooked for neighbors, hosted gatherings, adopted elderly friends. We were a team, and we made each other better.

I taught music in schools and private lessons for 15 years. I joined the local orchestra. I played for weddings and funerals. I gave myself to my students and to the community. It was in that first concert, standing before my students, that I felt my dad’s presence and thought, This is why God brought me here.

I’ve faced hard times, yes. My first marriage was a daily trial. My son’s dreams were often dismissed by his father, but he persevered. Today, Mark is a theater professor, deeply respected, and still grounded in faith. My daughter went through a painful divorce and a difficult settlement. I pray for her daily, as I do for all my grandchildren. My greatest hope for them is simple: that they return to church, that they know Christ’s love, and that they walk in faith.

Forgiveness is the most important life lesson I’ve learned. Without it, you can’t be free. I had to forgive Phil again and again—not because he was cruel, but because he struggled. I’ve learned to forgive people who ignore me, who misunderstand me, who hurt me. Jesus forgives me, so how could I not forgive them?

Looking back, I’ve known sorrow. But I’ve also known joy. The joy of singing “In the Garden” or “It Is Well with My Soul.” The joy of watching a student overcome stuttering through performance. The joy of seeing Mark’s sons grow—one a violinist, another a graduate of the Air Force Academy. The joy of marrying a man with whom I could pray.

Even my first husband—he changed. After we divorced, he remarried, stopped drinking, stopped smoking, became a father again through adoption. He grew into the man I once hoped he’d become. And his wife and I? We’re friends. We travel together. We share the family we both love. That’s nothing short of a miracle.

How do I want to be remembered? As someone who loved. Deeply. Constantly. Unapologetically. I want people to say I was full of love for others—because I was. And because I believe that’s what being a Christian really means.

If I’ve done anything good in this life, it’s because God let me come back. And I’ve tried—every day since—to live in a way that says thank you.