A good friend recently related what is probably a common story. It was about his young nephew, a five year old boy at the time. One morning the little boy got up and told his father that grandma had died in the night. She had come to him in a dream and told him that she had died, that it didn’t hurt, that she was all right, and there was no reason to worry or be upset about her.
The boy’s father (my friend’s brother) was angry and scolded the little boy for telling such an outrageous, offensive story. He asked the little boy to take it back, but the little boy wouldn’t do it. He saw what he saw.
The kid’s father tried calling grandma (what better way to disprove his son’s wild story), but the phone just rang and rang. Finally, the father decided to drive over to grandma’s and check on her.
He arrived at grandma’s house, let himself in with a key, and found grandma sitting in a love seat, wrapped in a towel as if she had just stepped out of the shower. She was dead, apparently of a heart attack.