Promised by Heaven: A Doctor's Return from the Afterlife to a Destiny of Love and Healing - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Mary Helen Hensley is a chiropractic doctor. She divides her time as a healer and seminar facilitator. She lives in Los Angles with her two daughters, Jada and Jemma Skye, who are also blessed with metaphysical gifts.

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Promised by Heaven

Chapter 1

“YOU’RE ONE lucky little lady.” The voice seemed to float in from beside me with a deep, soothing Southern drawl. “Are you feeling strong enough to tell me what happened?” My nose burned with the smell of disinfectant, and every square inch of my body ached as if I had been trampled by a herd of wild elephants. I opened my eyes and tried to focus on the man standing next to me. As my sight adjusted to the harshly lit room, I realized that I was in a hospital. The man who was speaking to me was not a doctor but a policeman. There were nurses walking in and out from behind a curtain, constantly checking monitors, smiling, but saying nothing. I could hear a woman’s voice requesting assistance in the ER over a loudspeaker.

I looked over at the officer, careful not to make any sudden movements, because it felt as if my head would split in two if I did. In a raspy voice, sounding as if I hadn’t had a drop of water in days, I said, “Hey, I know you. You were at the accident.”

“That’s right,” he replied, with a slightly puzzled look on his face. “Can you remember any details that might help me figure out how all of this happened?”

I swallowed and grimaced with pain, unaware that I had fractured a bone in my neck and that the rest of my spine was now shaped like a backward letter C. I thought back to earlier in the afternoon, when I had set out on a short drive to town, and suddenly blurted out, “You should talk to my friend from college. She was only a few cars behind me when it happened and saw the whole thing! Did you find the piece of paper on the front seat of the car? A lady put it there, and it had her name and number on it, but then she ran away. There was a guy in some kind of uniform who turned the engine off. Surely he saw something!”

The officer became visibly uncomfortable and confused. “Young lady,” he queried, “how do you know about the lady who put her phone number in the car?”

“I saw her, of course.”

“And just how did you know that your friend was at the scene of the accident?”

“I saw her, too,” I replied, starting to get a little agitated.

With a tone much less confident than when our conversation had begun, he wrestled with his words. “Miss, there is no way you could have seen any of that happen! Your friend . . . the lady with the phone number . . . the man in uniform. All of those things were going on while you were still unconscious and pinned in the car.”

It was at that moment the penny dropped.

I struggled to pull myself up so that I could look my inquisitor in the eye. What I was about to share was going to change me in ways that I could scarcely imagine. I immediately became emotional as I proceeded to tell him what had really happened that afternoon. He listened carefully as I described exactly how the accident had taken place and the unusual circumstances that surrounded it. He stared at me with his mouth partially open, his brow furrowed as he listened on in amazement and confusion. It all seemed so clear to me, but he was obviously very disturbed by the uncanny way in which I was able to describe the incident. When I had finished speaking, he asked no more questions. In fact, he didn’t say another word and quietly left the room.

As I sat on the hospital bed, I looked around at my sterile surroundings and reflected on what I had told the policeman but more so, things I hadn’t told him. The day had started out like any other, but what had transpired that evening was nothing short of miraculous, and until now, no one has ever heard it in its entirety.



An elderly man dressed in dirty overalls and worn-out work boots got into his car to run a few errands in the afternoon. He drove down Highway 17, one of Charleston, South Carolina’s, busiest motorways, and proceeded toward his destination. No one will ever know if he simply didn’t see the red light, or if he sped up in an attempt to make it through the intersection before the oncoming traffic entered. His speed would indicate the latter, and his collision with a young couple earlier in the year suggested his deteriorating driving skills and slow reaction time should have taken him off the road permanently. We never met face-to-face, but this man’s life was now forever entangled with mine. He shot through the red light, smashing into me, broadsiding my car, and hurtling me into oncoming traffic. The violent impact literally knocked me out of my body.

My first memory of death was that no matter how we die—in an accident, a murder, or even from an illness—we can exit the body just prior to its actual demise, if we choose to do so. Time means nothing during the transition from this form to the next.

The day had been unusually warm, even for the South. It was December 14, 1991. I was on my way to a Christmas party and just two months shy of turning twenty-two. Dressed in a Santa Claus T-shirt and bright-red Bermuda shorts, I had just left my apartment and reached the major intersection at the end of my road. Little did I know I was about to become the newest member of the old statistic that states: “Most accidents occur within two miles of home.” Waiting for my light to turn green, I had no idea that the crossroads before me was to be the metaphorical and metaphysical crossroads of my life. When the light finally changed, I moved slowly through the intersection, safely making it past the first few lanes of cars that had stopped at the light. Just as I was passing by the last lane before turning toward town, I looked left, immediately realizing I was about to die.

Time ground to a halt as I felt my body brace for the collision. Then a funny thing happened. I became consciously aware that not only was this accident waiting to happen, it was waiting for me to make a decision as to how it would take place. I was consumed with a clarity that I am still unable to adequately describe. I had the distinct choice of remaining in my body, experiencing the horrific impact with all senses intact, or I could simply exit, allowing the remainder of the scene to unfold without feeling the sensation of having my body crushed.

It all seemed very natural, and it felt as if I had all the time in the world to make this decision. Its deceptive illusion is so obvious when faced with death. I was so overwhelmed with a certainty that I had “been there and done that” so many times before, I sensed I had nothing to gain from experiencing this impact inside my body this time. This time. . . . It was this choice that has shaped the rest of my life, because this time, unlike the countless times before, I remembered dying. Call it evolution of the spirit or an old soul finally figuring it all out again. At that moment, I became engulfed by the peace that passes all understanding. I was comfortable with the familiarity of it all as I recognized that I was not about to become a helpless victim of death, but an active contributor in my own passing.

Time resumed at an explosive rate as I catapulted upward and out of my body, moving instantly from participant to spectator. I watched the driver make no attempt to swerve as he slammed his car into mine, like an old sea captain, purposely steering his ship of fate into the waters of my destiny. I could hear the festive jingle-bell necklace I wore around my neck banging out an eerie tune at the instant I...