Beyond the Darkness

by Angie Fenimore

  As I began telling Richard about my journey to the world of dark spirits, I realized that the ability to see darkness and light remained with me. I could see little pieces of energy everywhere. I felt as though I could put my hand through the wall, and the molecules would part if it was my will. My potted plants had a visible glow to them. Richard had a great aura of energy about him.

  Seeing this energy, I could feel the presence of God in everything in the room. I could see that every object's purpose was to worship God through serving us—the books, the bookcase, the pillows propped on the couch and love seat. Everything was answering God's voice and praising Him on its own level. And I realized that this energy was their true essence, that their physicality was much less significant than the light they contained.

  Now I opened up to Richard for the first time in many years and told him how I had been feeling unable to control my behavior. At once the words I needed to say came to me with crystal clarity. The moment I spoke the words, light filled my spirit. I suddenly realized how long I had been imprisoned and why.

  Just as God and Jesus Christ are real, a being of darkness, Satan, truly exists. He has conclaves of dark angels, and we are their prey. These dark spirits, I understood, had surrounded me and had run rampant in my home, affecting my entire family. It was all so clear to me now. I was the one who had invited them in to promote their chaos and contention. I had been so filled with darkness that I denied the evil company I was keeping.

  I could see that the music I had loved had been directly inspired by Satan and his angels, that the heavy, brooding melodies and pulsing beats had been almost constantly filling my mind with darkness. Antitruth messages had been pumped into me, influencing my thoughts and behavior. And I had not only listened, I had danced.

  Then the door swung open again. "Mama, are you better now?" came my sweet Alex's voice. Jacob's golden hair bounced as he came toddling in behind Alex and flopped himself across my lap. I scooped him up as Alex wrapped his arms around my neck. I held my boys tight and silently prayed, "Thank you."

  My friend Jennifer trailed in after the boys and stopped in her tracks when she saw me. "Angie, you look terrible," she said. "Is there anything I can do? Should I take the boys for you?"

  "No, I'm okay, but I have to talk to you," I said. As Richard took the boys into the kitchen to make lunch, Jennifer helped me climb the stairs.

  We sat on my bed together as she studied my scarred wrists. Then I told her about my experience. Hugging me, she said, "This is incredible. Are you okay? You should have called me."

  "I know, I know, I can't believe I would do something so stupid!" I said.

  She urged me to go to the hospital, but I refused, explaining my fear that I'd be shipped back.

  "Yeah, you're probably right. And it would somehow get into Richard's permanent record that he had a psycho wife."

  Then as I continued to fill her in on the details of my journey, I was flooded with new revelations. I could see even more clearly that I had been Satan's puppet. While opposites exist—light and darkness, truth and deception, love and hate— there are also myriad possibilities in between, contortions and distortions of the truth that are made of darkness. To love is the most important thing we come into this world to learn, yet Satan had twisted this simple truth to persuade me to perform a terrible act of darkness in the name of love for my husband and children. How could it be love that prompted me to leave them, without even fully considering how it might affect them to discover my dead body in the house? Suicide was the most selfish act that I could ever have been capable of. It was an act of vanity, stemming from the belief that I couldn't open up to anyone, that I had to solve my problems on my own. These were Satan's lies.

  God loves us and calls to us. He cannot force us to choose light.

  As I reflected on these things, a powerful energy rose in me, confirming that my new insights were true. And the revelations continued: I now saw that I was never forced to come to this earth. I could see that before my birth, I knew what I would face, and that with God, I had co-authored the course of my life. I knew that confusion and heartache would be my companions. I chose my parents and even several of my friends before I came to earth. The option to have an easier life was always mine, but I volunteered, I sacrificed, because I loved the people who were to become my family and I wanted to be with them. I knew what to expect, and still I chose to come. We all make that choice.

  I also realized that, even when I was far beyond God's touch, He had been sending helpers to me. A Sunday school teacher had taught my son to pray, and because of the faith of my four-year-old, my family had survived when many don't. I never met that woman, and she probably has no idea of the good that her simple act of charity—teaching little boys and girls for an hour a week—has done. Yet the results of her small kindness will undoubtedly be felt forever.

  Later I would see clear evidence of those results. A year or so after my suicide attempt, Alex and Jacob were watching an animated movie called Watership Down. There is a rabbit in the story who has a vision that something terrible is going to happen if all the rabbits don't leave their warren right away. Alex didn't understand why the rabbit was rolling on the ground, so Richard explained what a vision was. Alex then said, "I have visions sometimes. Not all the time, though." I gently corrected him, telling him the difference between imagining the future and having a vision of it. "No," Alex replied. "I had a vision when we were still living in America. I saw that we were going someplace far away where there was a church, and friends, and a new place that would make our family be okay." Now Richard chimed in to remind him that he had a vivid imagination, which was not the same as a vision. But Alex stood firm. "I did have a vision. I saw lots of people singing," he said. In that moment I felt a burst of energy and the certainty that his words were true. The "new place" Alex had seen was Okinawa, which had become a sacred healing ground for my family. It was here that my truest friends came into my life. It was the support of the congregation of our church—probably the source of the "singing" Alex saw—that gave me strength and faith.

  •

  What God and His Son taught me on my journey didn't make me perfect. I have continued to struggle over the years. This life is hard. It's supposed to be hard, but I am a far more attentive student now. In the years since my experience, I have engaged in a continuous and intense study of the Word of God. I try to seek out that which is made of light, surrounding myself with music that opens my mind to the spirit of God. I seek forgiveness from those I have offended so that they may be less inclined to be hindered by my weakness. I kneel in prayer often and find that when I am receptive, it can bring me reassurance, showing me that the pain in life has a purpose. Suffering is often the price we pay so that we might have the desire to help others. When this motivation to give of ourselves leads to action, our service to other people is exchanged for an increase in light. The manifestation of this light is true happiness and peace.

  I can see the effects of increased light in my family, which are often revealed quite poignantly. For example, each night before I tuck Alex in bed, we kneel together to pray. One particular night something was bothering him, and I asked him what was wrong.

  "Mama," he said, "how come I can't see God?"

  "God lives in Heaven," I explained, "but that doesn't mean He isn't with you all of the time."

  "Well, what if you have something really important that you need?" he asked.

  "That's what we are doing when we pray, Alex. We're talking to God. You can tell Him what your problem is and ask for His help, and He'll give it to you."

  After some prying I finally learned that he needed help in dealing with a boy in the neighborhood who had been picking on him.

  "He hits me with sticks and calls me names," Alex confessed. "He won't let me play with other kids either." Then he started to cry.

  Jacob toddled in and headed for the toybox.

  "Let me put Jacob down in his room, and then we'll talk a
bout it, okay, sweetheart?" I said as I scooped Jacob up.

  "Okay, Mama."

  A few minutes after I sat down in the rocking chair with Jacob, I could hear Alex getting up, his sheets rustling briefly as he slipped out of bed. As Jacob drifted off to sleep, I could hear Alex praying reverently.

  He had climbed back in bed by the time I successfully laid Jacob in his crib. "So how did it go?" I asked.

  "Just fine," he said. "God told me that I should pray for Jerome, that whoever is being mean to him will stop. He said that I should come and get you when Jerome is being mean to me."

  The Spirit whispered an assurance that my son had truly received an answer to his prayer.

  TWENTY

  I've seen tremendous changes within myself as a result of opening my spirit to God's light. I deal with challenges with new hope and confidence. I know now that I can choose my destiny rather than allow events of the past to direct my life.

  Once I moved beyond the darkness into the light, it became obvious to me that it was fear that kept me in Satan's clutches throughout my years of abuse. One residue of this fear was a terrible self-consciousness. Fear of being laughed at and fear of mediocrity convinced me to hide my God-given talents.

  One of those talents is the ability to sing, which I share with my sister, Toni. We had performed a duet that went poorly during a Sunday church service. When we stood up to sing, I got a nervous twitch in my cheek that she thought was quite humorous. Being as nervous as I was, she burst out in uncontrollable laughter. As Toni hunched over trying to compose herself, I had to warble alone through the most humiliating two minutes of my young life. After that I decided I would never sing in public again.

  A year or so after my experience with death, a close friend who loved music with a passion equal to mine discovered me singing along with an opera while I was cleaning the house. A talented violinist, she persuaded me to prepare a duet with her to be performed at church. For months we practiced, and I procrastinated. At last I worked up the courage to schedule our performance, taking consolation from the fact that my friend would also be on display. And guess what? It went well!

  As a result I was asked to sing at a special church service with the warning that I wouldn't have a chance to rehearse with the pianist until the evening of the event. I hesitated but eventually agreed.

  Well, everything went wrong that night. Both the accompanist and I were late, and our practice session was horrendous. She kept hitting wrong notes, and my voice was pinched with nervousness. When it was time to begin, I had a huge lump in my throat and a stomach tight with tension. Silently I pleaded with God to help me calm down enough to do a good job. No relief came.

  Finally I leaned over to whisper to the church leader that I just couldn't sing that night. But then a voice came into my mind, saying, "It would have been selfish of you to say no." Suddenly I was filled with calm reassurance, and I sang almost as comfortably as if I were at home doing the dishes.

  Around that time I was once again gripped by the cycle. As early as a few months after my experience with death, long-suppressed memories of my childhood came flooding back in, threatening my new security. I thought that surely I would die from the pain as these visions of my childhood came back to me. As I reacted to the parade of injustices, I could feel the prodding of my past—dependencies, the urge to escape—and I began to fear for my spiritual welfare. It was pure agony for me because I knew that I had to pass through the pain of these memories, but this time to rely on God. It took all of the energy I possessed to be strong as I endured the waves of past and present anguish.

  I waited until my family had all gone to bed so that I could have some privacy before I opened the Scriptures. The words that usually brought me soothing comfort barely touched this gaping wound in my emotions. After pouring out my heart in prayer for help and guidance, I went to bed, where I lay awake, next to my sleeping husband, sobbing into my pillow. I was yearning to feel the love and security that had filled me so completely during my visit with God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, when suddenly I felt a tiny hand gently pat me on the back. A quiet peace filled me. I believe that the touch came from a messenger of light, who had been trying to comfort me for many years. But only then, in that moment of humble supplication, had I been within reach.

  The undeniable truth that I now know with certainty is that death is but a passing. It is a momentary change. There is suffering and anger so thick in our troubled world that for some it is almost unbearable, but the moment we cross into the next life, the pain of this world dissipates. It's like waking up from a nightmare. What seemed so real and terrifying is gone and forgotten in a moment, unless we take matters into our own hands. Then it's like waking up to find that the monsters are real. Hell is real and far, far more terrifying than we can comprehend.

  The absolute, all-encompassing love that I felt when I stood there within the light taught me that, regardless of what we must pass through, life is good. It is the gift of God, who loves us. He sustains us with words of encouragement, but we must be open to hearing Him. He sends messengers—people and spirits—who can help us, but we must recognize them.

  Immediately after my experience I sought qualified, enlightened, professional help. Mercifully, my counselor didn't dismiss my experience as a hallucination. He understood the power of darkness and of light. For the gentle and supportive guidance he provided me in overcoming the ravages of darkness in my life, I will be forever grateful.

  Ultimately it was personal tragedy that taught me to love— to give. Through my trials I have developed strengths and talents that have enabled me to help those around me. It shocks me to think that I had come so perilously close to surrendering that which was most precious to me, to have risked damaging my loved ones' destinies, to have threatened them with the same darkness in which I had imprisoned my spirit. Today, every day when I wake up, I am filled with happiness that I was given another chance at life, with such profound gratitude that I was taught to transform despair into hope and truth and light. This, not the absence of pain, is true joy.

  EPILOGUE

  In the years since that January when I took my life, I have felt inspired to share my story with a few close friends from time to time, though in general I have kept this most sacred experience to myself. But a few months after I returned to the States from Okinawa, I began to notice a dangerous trend. Marvelous stories of the love and light that greeted those who ventured into death and returned to tell of it were the subject of almost every talk show. Those accounts have greatly increased our knowledge of the "life beyond life," and I am grateful that many have had the courage to share their experience. Yet at the same time we have been seeing political figures, rock stars, doctors, and even children embracing suicide as a kind of heroic exit from this world. I began to fear that if people didn't hear the other side of the near-death experience, they might interpret these marvelous accounts to mean that suicide could bring release from their problems.

  As I learned, nothing could be further from the truth.

  Still I resisted telling my story, recognizing that some people would view it with skepticism and even suspicion, as well as the fact that it would require me to reveal some of the most painful and private details of my life. In time, however, I found it impossible to remain silent.

  I hope that through my experience, people will be able to take comfort in the fact that death is but a passing—that we are eternal and we will live forever. And I hope that they will recognize that there are only two directions we can take: Either we must progress out of our imperfect existence here, or we will take our earthly baggage with us. One way or another we all must learn the hard lessons of life. Finally, it is my fervent wish that all who read this book will find in it a source of hope and will find courage to live. For as I have had the privilege of seeing with my own eyes, God is with us always. The Scriptures tell us, "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . . Thou art with me." Even through the ultima
te darkness, if we are only willing to believe, none of us need ever walk alone.