Margaret Ellis: A Message from Beyond

My name is Margaret Ellis. I’m 64 years old, and on the morning of September 11th, 2025, I died on my kitchen floor while the news played in the other room.

I lived in a small town in Ohio. For forty years, I was a nurse at the county hospital, caring for the sick and comforting the dying. After retirement, my days became simple—tending to my little garden out back, growing tomatoes and cucumbers, enjoying a cup of coffee in the morning, watching birds at the feeder, doing crossword puzzles, and saying my prayers over the kitchen sink while I washed the dishes. I never wanted a big, loud life. My happiness was found in my quiet corner of the world.

My daughter Jessica lives just ten minutes away, and her two children, Leo and Grace, are the light of my life. I’ve always been a worrier. As a nurse, you see so much pain. As a grandmother, you worry about the world you’re leaving behind.

The night before I died, I couldn’t sleep. The news was on all day and all night—the assassination of a young political man, Charlie Kirk. It broke my heart, not because of his politics, but because of the hate that filled the screen. Angry voices, reporters, people blaming each other, full of poison for the other side. I sat in my old recliner and cried—not just for his family, but for the person who did it, and for our country. It felt like we were tearing ourselves apart, piece by piece. I prayed for hours, asking God to bring peace. I finally fell asleep in my chair around 2:00 AM.

The next morning, I woke up feeling heavy. The house was quiet, but the dread from the night before still sat on my chest. I went into the kitchen to make coffee. I remember the smell of the old grounds, reaching for the mug my grandson Leo had painted—blue and green streaks. Suddenly, a sharp pain struck the center of my chest, like a hot poker. My breath left me. I couldn’t even cry out. My hand went to my chest, the mug slipped, shattered on the floor. I saw the blue and green pieces scatter as I fell. The world tilted sideways. The last thing I saw was the ceiling light, fuzzy and distant. The last thing I heard was my own heart beating one frantic time—and then, silence.

But it wasn’t the end.

Suddenly, I wasn’t on the floor anymore. I was floating near the ceiling, looking down at my body in my old housecoat, surrounded by broken pieces of the mug. There was no pain, no fear, just a strange detachment. I saw my gray hair fanned out on the floor, the worry lines on my face. My first thought was, “Oh, Jessica is going to be so upset about this mess.” A mother’s thought, I suppose.

From the living room, I could still hear the television—muffled voices, still arguing, blaming, talking about the assassination. That river of anger was still flowing, even as I drifted somewhere else.

Then I felt a gentle pull, like a current in a slow-moving river. The kitchen faded, the TV, my body—all shrinking, as if I was looking through the wrong end of binoculars. I moved into a tunnel—not dark or frightening, but made of soft, swirling light like sunrise clouds. The angry voices vanished. For the first time in a lifetime, there was only silence—a deep, perfect, holy silence. It was the most peaceful feeling I’ve ever known. All the worry I’d carried as a nurse, mother, grandmother, lifted off me, like shedding a heavy winter coat. I didn’t know where I was going, but for the first time, I wasn’t afraid.

At the end of this silent journey, the light opened up. It wasn’t a place you could describe with words like “room” or “sky.” It was pure existence. And he was there. I knew instantly it was Jesus.

He didn’t look like any painting I’d seen in church—no stained glass, no golden halo. His form was made of light that didn’t hurt your eyes, but felt like truth, like home. But the first thing I felt from him was not joy—it was sorrow, deep and profound. It radiated from him like warmth from a fire. The grief was so pure and deep, it made my own seem shallow. It was the grief of a father watching his children hurt each other. I felt it in every part of my soul. The air around him was still, heavy with sacred sadness.

He didn’t speak with a voice I could hear. His thoughts arrived inside me—clearer than words, gentler than a whisper. The first thing he communicated was, “Margaret, you see.”

I just stood in his presence, overwhelmed by peace and sorrow. Tears filled my eyes—not of sadness or happiness, but of understanding. I was sharing his heartbreak.

Then he showed me. The light shifted, and we were standing on a balcony, looking down—not at places, but at hearts. First, a family dinner table—a mother, father, son, and daughter. But there was no peace. The father’s face was red with anger, the son yelling back, fists clenched. The mother stared at her plate, heartbroken as her husband and son threw terrible words at each other about politics, about right and wrong. They weren’t talking about ideas anymore—they were attacking each other.

Jesus’s thought entered my mind again, full of pain. “The enemy doesn’t need to break down the door when he is invited to the dinner table.” I saw the hatred—a living thing, a dark, ugly thread pulling them apart.