14-Year-Old Teen Dies and What Jesus Showed Her About the End Times Will Shock You

Sarah Mitchell. I’m 14 years old and on the morning of Saturday, October 12th, 2024, I was hit by a pickup truck while riding my bike through an intersection in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

And I was pronounced dead. What I’m about to share with you will challenge everything you think you know about life, death, and what lies beyond.

Before this happened, I was just like you, scrolling through my phone, living for the weekend, thinking I had all the time in the world.

But 15 minutes changed everything. 15 minutes on the other side showed me things I was never supposed to forget.

Things I was sent back to tell you. And if you’ll stay with me through this story, I believe you’ll understand why every single second of your life matters more than you ever imagined.

Thank you and God bless you as you do. Hello viewers from around the world.

Before Sarah continues her story, we’d love to know where you are watching from, and we would love to pray for you and your city.

Thank you, and may God bless you as you listen to this powerful life-changing testimony and revelation.

When this happened to me, I was 13. Just a regular kid living in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

And honestly, that’s exactly what I was, completely, totally regular. There was nothing special about me.

Nothing that would make you look twice if you passed me on the street. I grew up in a pretty normal family.

My dad, Mike, he works construction. He’s the kind of man who leaves the house before the sun comes up, and comes home with dirt under his fingernails and cement dust in his hair.

He’s quiet most of the time. Not really the type to talk about his feelings or get all emotional about things.

My mom, Jennifer, she’s a nurse at Saint Francis Hospital. She works long shifts, comes home exhausted, but somehow still manages to make sure we eat real food and not just pizza every night.

And then there’s my little brother, Jake. He was 10 when this happened. He’s annoying in the way that little brothers are supposed to be annoying.

Always getting into my stuff, always trying to tag along with me and my friends, always making stupid jokes that only he thinks are funny.

We lived in a three-bedroom house on the south side of Tulsa. Nothing fancy. The kind of neighborhood where everyone knows everyone.

Where kids ride their bikes in the street and nobody really locks their doors. We had a small backyard with a trampoline that was getting rusty, and a basketball hoop in the driveway where the net had been missing for about two years.

It was home. It was comfortable. It was safe. Or at least that’s what I thought.

We went to church sometimes. Not every Sunday, but enough that I knew the basic Bible stories.

Christmas and Easter for sure. Sometimes a few Sundays here and there when my mom would get it in her head that we needed to go more regularly.

We’d go for maybe three or four weeks, and then something would come up. Someone would be sick or we’d have somewhere else to be, or we’d just sleep in, and we’d stop going again.

I believed in God, sort of. I mean, I would have told you I believed in God if you asked me.

I prayed sometimes, usually when I wanted something or when I was scared about a test I didn’t study for.

I figured I was a good person. I didn’t do anything really bad. I didn’t steal or hurt people or anything like that.

I got decent grades, mostly B’s, a few C’s when I didn’t feel like trying.

I played soccer. I had friends. I went to Roosevelt Middle School and dealt with all the normal seventh grade drama that comes with being 13 years old.

My best friend was Emma. We’d known each other since third grade, and we did everything together.

We’d spend hours texting about absolutely nothing important. Boys we thought were cute, teachers we didn’t like, drama with other girls in our class.

We’d have sleepovers almost every weekend where we’d stay up way too late watching movies and eating junk food until we felt sick.

We had all these inside jokes that nobody else understood. She was the kind of friend where you don’t even have to explain yourself because she just gets you.

Looking back now, I can see how distracted I was. How distracted we all were.

My phone was like an extension of my hand. I’d wake up and check it before I even got out of bed.

I’d scroll through Instagram and Snapchat while eating breakfast, while walking to class, while sitting in class when I thought the teacher wasn’t looking.

I’d go to bed looking at it. And I wasn’t any different from anyone else my age.

That’s just what we did. That’s just what life was. My grandma on my dad’s side, Grandma Carol, she was really religious.

Like, actually serious about it. She read her Bible every single day. She prayed about everything.

She’d try to talk to me about Jesus sometimes when I’d visit her, and I’d nod and smile and pretend to listen.

But honestly, I’d just be waiting for her to finish so I could go do something else.

It’s not that I didn’t love her, I did. But I thought she was a little too intense about the whole God thing.

A little too old-fashioned. I figured that was just how old people were, you know?

When you’re young, you don’t really think about that stuff. You think you have all the time in the world to figure it out later.

The youth group at our church invited me once. Emma’s mom had started taking Emma more regularly, and Emma asked if I wanted to come.

I went one time. I remember sitting in this room with a bunch of other teenagers, and the youth pastor was trying really hard to be cool and relatable, making jokes and talking about God like he was our buddy.

There were games and music and pizza afterward. Everyone seemed really into it, but I just felt bored.

It felt fake to me somehow. Like everyone was just playing a role. I never went back.

Emma kept going for a while, but eventually she stopped, too. There were better things to do on Wednesday nights.

I thought I was fine. I thought my life was exactly what it was supposed to be.

I had a family who loved me, friends who cared about me, a future ahead of me.

I’d go to high school, then college, then get some kind of job, probably get married someday, have kids of my own.

I had it all mapped out in this vague, distant kind of way that teenagers do when they think about the future.

And somewhere in all of that, way down the line, maybe I’d get more serious about God.

Maybe when I was older, like my grandma’s age, I’d read the Bible more and pray more and all of that.

But not now. Not when I was young and had my whole life ahead of me.

I remember one time, it must have been about a month before the accident. My grandma asked me a question that I didn’t really know how to answer.

We were sitting in her kitchen, and she’d made me hot chocolate the way she always did, with the little marshmallows floating on top.

She was asking me about school and soccer and all the normal grandma questions. And then, out of nowhere, she got this serious look on her face and asked me if I knew Jesus.

Not if I knew about him, but if I knew him. I didn’t really understand what she meant.

I told her, “Yeah, of course I believed in Jesus. I went to church sometimes.

I was a good person.” She just looked at me with these sad eyes and said that wasn’t what she was asking.

She said knowing about someone and actually knowing them are two completely different things. She said she prayed for me every single day that I’d come to really know him before it was too late.

Before it was too late. I remember those words specifically because they bothered me. Too late for what?

I was 13 years old. I had all the time in the world. I kind of laughed it off and changed the subject, and she didn’t push it.

But sometimes late at night when I couldn’t sleep, I’d think about what she said.

There was something about the way she said it that stuck with me, even though I tried not to let it.

October 12th started like any other Saturday. I woke up around 9:30, which was early for a weekend, but Jake was being loud downstairs and I couldn’t sleep through it.

I came down in my pajamas, eyeing these old sweatpants and a t-shirt from a soccer tournament two years ago that was getting too small for me.

Mom was in the kitchen making breakfast. Dad was already gone. He had to work on a construction site even though it was Saturday.

Jake was at the table eating cereal and watching videos on his iPad way too loud.

Mom made scrambled eggs and toast. I remember sitting there eating and scrolling through my phone, barely paying attention to anything.

Jake kept trying to show me some stupid video he thought was hilarious and I kept telling him to leave me alone.

Mom asked me about soccer practice from the day before and I gave her one-word answers while texting Emma about absolutely nothing important.

This was normal for us. This was every Saturday morning. After breakfast, I went upstairs to get dressed.

I put on jeans and a hoodie, pulled my hair up into a messy ponytail.

I brushed my teeth, stared at my face in the mirror for a minute, hating the pimple that was forming on my chin.

I went back to my room and flopped on my bed. Back on my phone, losing myself in the endless scroll of other people’s lives.

I probably would have stayed there all day if my mom hadn’t called up the stairs around 11:00.

She needed me to run to the store. We were out of milk and eggs and she was planning to make cookies later.

The store was only three blocks away, an easy bike ride. I groaned and pretended I didn’t hear her the first time she called.

She called again, louder. I yelled back that I’d go in a minute. She yelled that she needed me to go now.

I didn’t want to go. I was comfortable. I was in the middle of a conversation with Emma about this boy in our class that she thought liked her.

It seemed so important at the time. Like the most crucial thing happening in the world.

Looking back now, I can’t even remember that boy’s name. I dragged myself off my bed, shoved my phone in my hoodie pocket and went downstairs.

Mom was in the kitchen and she already had $20 sitting on the counter for me.

She reminded me to get a gallon of milk and a dozen eggs and to get the good eggs, not the cheapest ones.

I rolled my eyes, not in a mean way, just in that teenage way where everything your parents say seems slightly annoying.

I grabbed the money and headed for the garage. My bike was blue, kind of old with rust starting to show on the handlebars.

The seat was a little too low because I’d grown over the summer and hadn’t bothered to adjust it.

I wheeled it out of the garage and down the driveway. It was a beautiful day.

I remember that clearly. The kind of perfect October day where the air is cool but the sun is warm and the leaves are starting to turn all these incredible colors.

Deep reds and bright oranges and golden yellows. The sky was this perfect blue without a single cloud.

I started pedaling down our street. I knew this route by heart. I’d done it a hundred times.

Down our street, take a left on Maple, then a right on Fifth Street and the store was right there on the corner of Fifth and Main.

Three blocks, five minutes maybe. Easy. I wasn’t paying much attention to anything around me.

I was thinking about that conversation with Emma, about soccer practice on Monday, about homework I hadn’t finished that was due on Tuesday.

My phone buzzed in my pocket and I thought about stopping to check it, but I was almost to the store and figured I’d just wait.

The leaves were crunching under my bike tires. There was this older man working in his yard raking leaves into a pile and he waved at me as I passed.

I waved back without really looking at him. A dog was barking somewhere. Someone’s sprinkler was going even though it was October and probably didn’t need to be.

Normal neighborhood sounds, normal neighborhood sights. Everything was so perfectly, completely normal. I turned onto Fifth Street.

The store was just ahead, maybe another block. I was already thinking about what I’d do when I got back home.

Maybe Emma and I could hang out later. Maybe I’d just spend the afternoon in my room on my phone.

Maybe I’d see if there was anything good on Netflix. Just normal, boring, regular Saturday thoughts.

There was an intersection ahead, Fifth Street and Main. I’d crossed it a thousand times.

There was a stoplight and my light was green. I remember seeing it was green and not even slowing down because I had the right of way.

I was maybe 20 ft from the intersection when I saw the truck out of the corner of my eye.

It was a big red pickup truck coming from my left and it wasn’t slowing down.

For just a split second, my brain didn’t process what was happening. My light was green.

He should have been stopping, but he wasn’t stopping. He wasn’t even slowing down. I didn’t have time to scream.

I didn’t have time to swerve or brake or do anything at all. One second, I was on my bike pedaling through an intersection and the next second everything exploded into chaos.

The impact was like nothing I can even describe. There was this massive sound, this terrible crunch of metal and breaking and crushing and I felt myself flying through the air.

I remember the sky spinning, the ground spinning, everything spinning all at once. And then I hit the pavement and everything went black for just a second.

And then I was looking up at that perfect blue sky and I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t breathe. My chest felt like someone had dropped a building on it. There was a sound coming from somewhere that I realized was me trying to gasp for air but not being able to get any.

The pain was everywhere and nowhere all at once. My leg was bent in a way that legs aren’t supposed to bend.

My arm was wrong somehow. My head felt like it was splitting open. There were sounds all around me.

Tires screeching, someone screaming, footsteps running toward me, voices shouting things I couldn’t understand. The sky above me was still that same perfect blue, but it was starting to get darker around the edges.

Like someone was slowly turning down the lights. I tried to move, but nothing worked.

I tried to call for my mom, but no sound came out. The pain was starting to fade now, which I thought meant I was getting better, but actually it meant something much worse.

The darkness around the edges of my vision was growing, creeping in from all sides and I couldn’t fight it.

I couldn’t hold on. The last thing I remember from that moment was someone’s face above me.

I don’t know who it was, just someone looking down at me with this expression of absolute terror.

And then the darkness swallowed everything and I didn’t feel anything anymore. I was gone.

I didn’t know it then, but my heart had stopped beating. I’d stopped breathing. Medically, clinically, in every way that mattered, I was dead.

Right there on the corner of Fifth and Main, surrounded by strangers and broken glass and the twisted metal of my bike, I died.

But that wasn’t the end of my story. That was just the beginning. The first thing I need you to understand is that dying didn’t feel like dying.

I know that doesn’t make any sense. When you think about death, you think about it being the end of everything, right?

Darkness and nothing and just being gone. But that’s not what happened to me. What happened was so much stranger than that.

So much more real than anything I’d experienced in my entire life up to that point.

One second, I was lying on that pavement unable to breathe, pain screaming through every inch of my body, and the next second I wasn’t in my body anymore.

I don’t know how else to explain it. It was like stepping out of heavy coat you’d been wearing your whole life and suddenly realizing how much it had been weighing you down.

I was still me. I could still think, still see, still feel, but I wasn’t in that broken body on the street anymore.

I was floating above it. I know how crazy that sounds. I know this is where some of you might start thinking I’m making this up or that it was just my brain doing weird things because of trauma.

But I’m telling you what I experienced and this is exactly what happened. I was looking down at the intersection from about 15 or 20 ft up in the air and I could see everything.

I could see my body lying there on the pavement. That’s the strangest thing to try to describe.

Seeing yourself from outside yourself. My blue hoodie was torn. There was blood on the street spreading out in a dark pool.

My leg was bent at this horrible angle that made my stomach turn even though I couldn’t actually feel it anymore.

My bike was about 10 ft away, completely mangled. The front wheel still spinning slowly.

The red pickup truck had stopped at an angle and I could see the driver getting out.

He was a young guy, maybe in his 20s, wearing a baseball cap. He looked absolutely terrified.

His hands were shaking. He was saying something, but I couldn’t hear him. Actually, that’s not quite right.

I couldn’t hear anything at all. There was no sound. Everything was completely silent. Like watching a movie with the volume turned all the way down.

There were other people gathering around. A woman in yoga pants who’d been jogging stopped and pulled out her phone.

An older couple from the car that had been behind me were getting out, moving toward my body.

The man was taking off his jacket, probably to cover me with it. More people were coming out of their houses, drawn by the accident.

And then I saw Mrs. Patterson. She was Emma’s mom and she’d been in the car right behind me.

She must have seen the whole thing happen. She was out of her car and running toward me and even though I couldn’t hear anything, I could tell she was screaming.

Her face was twisted in horror. Her mouth open wide, her hands up near her face.

She dropped to her knees beside my body. I watched all of this and the weird thing was that I felt so calm.

I should have been terrified, right? I should have been panicking, trying to get back to my body, trying to do something, but I just felt this overwhelming sense of peace.

I wasn’t scared at all. I was just watching, curious about what was going to happen next.

The silence broke suddenly and I could hear sirens in the distance getting closer. I watched as an ambulance turned onto the street, lights flashing red and blue.

Paramedics jumped out before it even fully stopped. They moved quickly, surrounding my body, blocking my view.

I could see them doing things, checking for a pulse, putting something over my face, doing compressions on my chest.

They were moving fast, but everything looked like it was happening in slow motion to me.

I should mention that during all of this, I wasn’t thinking about my family yet.

I wasn’t thinking about my mom or dad or Jake. I wasn’t thinking about Emma or school or any of the things that seemed so important just minutes before.

I was just existing in this strange, peaceful state of observation. Time felt different somehow.

Like it was there, but also wasn’t there. Like it didn’t matter anymore. They loaded my body onto a stretcher and into the ambulance.

Mrs. Patterson climbed in with them. The ambulance pulled away, sirens wailing and I followed it.

I didn’t decide to follow it. I just did. I was moving with it somehow, still floating, still observing.

We raced through streets I’d known my whole life, past houses and stores and places I’d been a thousand times.

And it all looked different from up here. Smaller, less important. The ambulance pulled into the emergency entrance of St.

Francis Hospital. The same hospital where my mom worked. They rushed my body through doors that opened automatically, down hallways with bright fluorescent lights, into a room with machines and equipment everywhere.

There were more people now, all dressed in scrubs, all moving with purpose. They transferred my body from the stretcher to a table.

Someone was cutting off my hoodie. Someone else was putting needles in my arms. There were machines beeping and monitors showing numbers I didn’t understand.

And then I heard someone say it, the first words I actually heard. A doctor looking at a monitor said something about no pulse, no heartbeat.

And someone else said something about how long I’d been down. They were doing compressions on my chest again, hard and fast.

Someone was squeezing a bag connected to a tube in my mouth. Everyone was moving quickly, but I could see it in their faces.

They were starting to lose hope. I watched them work on me for what felt like a long time, but probably wasn’t.

I watched my mom come running into the room. Someone must have called her since she worked there.

I watched her face go white when she saw me on that table. I watched my dad arrive a few minutes later, still in his work clothes, covered in dust, his face showing more emotion than I’d ever seen from him.

I watched them hold each other while the doctors kept working on my body. And then something changed.

It started as just a feeling like someone was gently pulling me backward. Not a scary pull, not forceful.

Just a gentle tug, like when someone takes your hand and leads you somewhere. The hospital room started to get darker, not because the lights were going out, but because I was moving away from it.

I was being pulled into something else. The darkness came quickly after that. One moment I was still watching the hospital room and the next moment I was surrounded by complete blackness.

But it wasn’t a scary darkness. I can’t stress that enough. It wasn’t like being afraid of the dark when you’re a little kid.

It was more like floating in warm water at night, peaceful and safe and quiet.

I couldn’t see anything, but I wasn’t afraid. I felt like I was moving through this darkness, being carried along by something or someone I couldn’t see.

And then far ahead of me, I saw a light. It started small, like a pinprick in the distance, but it grew larger as I moved toward it.

Or as it moved toward me, I couldn’t really tell which. The darkness around me started to take shape, forming into what I can only describe as a tunnel.

Not a tunnel like you’d see in a cave or underground. It was made of the darkness itself, like the darkness was folding and shaping itself into a passage.

The light at the end was getting bigger and brighter, but it didn’t hurt to look at.

That’s one thing I remember so clearly. It was the brightest light I’d ever seen, brighter than the sun, but it didn’t make me squint or look away.

I wanted to look at it. I wanted to move toward it. Every part of me was drawn to it.

I was moving faster now, or the light was coming toward me faster. The tunnel was filled with this incredible warmth, not hot, but perfectly comfortable, like the best possible temperature you could imagine.

And there was something else, too, a feeling of being loved. That sounds weird, I know, but it was like the tunnel itself was made of love.

Like love was a real thing you could touch and feel and move through. And then I came out of the tunnel and into the light and everything changed again.

The light was everywhere. I was standing in it, or floating in it. I couldn’t really tell.

It was all around me and through me and part of me. And it wasn’t just light.

It was alive somehow. I could feel it, not just on my skin, but deeper than that, like it was touching my soul or my heart or whatever part of me was really me.

That’s when I saw him. I knew immediately who he was. I don’t know how I knew, I just knew.

Like when you recognize someone you love, even if you haven’t seen them in a long time.

Like a memory that’s deeper than your brain, deeper than your thoughts. Jesus was standing in front of me.

I can’t really describe what he looked like because I wasn’t focused on his appearance.

I mean, he looked like a man, but also more than a man somehow. But what I remember most, what I’ll never forget as long as I live, was his eyes.

When he looked at me, I felt like every single moment of my entire life was being seen all at once.

Every thought I’d ever had, every action I’d ever taken, every secret I’d ever kept.

He knew all of it. He saw all of me. The real me, not the version of me I show to other people, but the actual me that I sometimes try to hide even from myself.

And here’s the incredible thing. He loved me anyway. I know those words don’t seem like enough.

I know they sound too simple for what I’m trying to explain, but there’s no better way to say it.

The love I felt coming from him was bigger than anything I’d ever experienced. Imagine taking every good feeling you’ve ever had.

Every time someone hugged you when you needed it. Every time you felt proud of yourself.

Every time you felt safe and happy and content. And multiply it by a million and you’d still be nowhere close to what this felt like.

I fell down. I didn’t mean to. My legs just gave out or maybe I didn’t have legs anymore.

I don’t know, but I was on my knees in front of him and I was crying.

The tears were coming so hard I couldn’t stop them. Everything I’d ever done wrong came flooding into my mind.

Every time I’d been mean to my brother. Every time I’d ignored my grandma when she tried to talk to me about God.

Every time I’d lied or cheated or been selfish or unkind. Every time I’d known the right thing to do and did something else instead.

I kept saying I was sorry over and over again. That’s all I could say.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. He didn’t speak out loud, at least I don’t think he did.

It was more like I could hear his thoughts or feel his words or something like that.

Communication that went deeper than just sounds and language. And what he communicated to me was forgiveness and love and acceptance all at the same time.

He showed me my life. Not in a judging way, but in a way that helped me understand.

I saw moments I’d completely forgotten about. I saw myself as a little girl. Maybe 6 years old refusing to share my toys with another kid at the playground.

I saw myself at 10 lying to my mom about finishing my homework so I could watch TV instead.

I saw myself at 12 making fun of a girl at school who wore clothes that weren’t cool.

I saw the way her face fell even though she tried to hide it. But he also showed me good moments.

Times when I’d been kind without even realizing it. A time when I’d helped my brother with his homework when I could have just done my own thing.

A time when I’d complimented a girl who always sat alone at lunch and how her whole day had gotten better because of it.

A time when I’d hugged my grandma extra tight and she’d gone home and thanked God for me.

The thing is I’d forgotten most of these moments, both the good and the bad, but he hadn’t forgotten any of them.

He’d been there for every single one. And seeing it all laid out like that, seeing how my choices affected other people in ways I never even knew.

It broke something open inside me. But here’s what destroyed me, what made me cry even harder.

He showed me all the times he’d been trying to reach me and I’d ignored him.

Times when I’d felt that small voice in my heart telling me to do something or say something and I’d pushed it away.

Times when I’d felt drawn to pray or read the Bible. And I’d chosen my phone instead.

Times when he’d put people in my path to tell me about him and I’d brushed them off.

He showed me my grandma sitting in her living room in the early morning praying for me every single day for years asking God to save me, to reach me, to help me know him before it was too late.

I saw her tears as she prayed. I saw how much she loved me, how much it hurt her that I didn’t understand what she was trying to tell me.

And through all of this Jesus was just standing there looking at me with these eyes full of love.

Not angry love or disappointed love or conditional love. Just pure, complete love. The kind of love that doesn’t make any sense, that I didn’t deserve, that I hadn’t earned.

He told me or communicated to me or however you want to say it that he’d always been there.

Every moment of my life. He’d been right there with me watching me, loving me, waiting for me to notice him.

He said he’d been knocking on the door of my heart my whole life and I’d just never answered.

Those words hit me harder than the truck that had hit my bike. Because I realized in that moment how much I’d wasted.

How much time I’d spent on things that didn’t matter at all. How I’d been so busy with my phone and my friends and my tiny little problems that I’d completely missed the most important thing in the entire universe.

I asked him and I don’t remember my exact words because I wasn’t really using words.

But the meaning was clear. I asked him what was going to happen to me now.

Was I dead? Was this heaven? Was I going to stay here? What he showed me next changed everything.

Jesus’ presence seemed to shift somehow. The overwhelming love was still there. But there was something else now, too.

Something more serious, more urgent. He told me that he wanted to show me something, that there was a reason I was here, a reason he’d brought me to this place.

He said that what I was about to see I needed to remember. I needed to tell other people about it when I went back.

When I went back. Those words confused me because I still didn’t fully understand what was happening.

Was I going back to my body? Was I not staying here in this place of perfect love and peace?

But before I could ask anything the light around us changed and suddenly we were somewhere else.

I was seeing things but not like watching a movie. It was more like I was there but also not there.

Like I was experiencing it and observing it at the same time. I can’t explain it any better than that because nothing in normal life works this way.

The first thing he showed me was churches. Lots of them. Different kinds. Big ones, small ones, traditional ones with steeples, modern ones that looked more like warehouses.

And they were full of people. That should have been encouraging, right? All these people going to church worshipping God.

But something was wrong. I could see inside the churches and inside the people at the same time.

I could see their hearts. Most of the people sitting in those pews were distracted.

They were thinking about lunch. They were thinking about their problems. They were thinking about the football game later or what they needed to buy at the store.

Or an argument they’d had with their spouse. They were physically there but their hearts and minds were somewhere else completely.

And then I saw something that made my heart hurt. I saw Jesus standing outside these churches knocking on the door.

He was trying to get in, trying to get their attention but nobody was listening.

They were so busy with their programs and their music and their routines that they couldn’t hear him knocking.

The pastors in some of these churches were preaching but what they were saying was wrong.

They were telling people what they wanted to hear instead of what God wanted them to say.

They were talking about prosperity and success and having your best life now. But they weren’t talking about sin or repentance or the cost of following Jesus.

They weren’t talking about the truth because the truth made people uncomfortable and uncomfortable people don’t come back and don’t give money.

I saw people in these churches taking selfies during worship. Actually using their phones to take pictures of themselves with their hands raised.

More concerned about what they looked like to others than about actually worshipping God. I saw teenagers sitting in youth group playing games on their phones while the youth pastor tried to teach them about the Bible.

I saw people coming to church just to be seen, to check off a box, to feel like they’d done their religious duty for the week.

And the worst part was seeing how this made Jesus feel. I could feel his grief.

His heart was breaking for these people who thought they were fine, who thought they were Christians because they went to church and said the right words but who didn’t actually know him at all.

They knew about him but they didn’t know him. Just like my grandma had tried to tell me.

Jesus showed me one image that I’ll never forget. It was a Bible sitting on a shelf in someone’s bedroom.

It was covered in dust because it hadn’t been touched in months. Right next to it was a phone charging.

The screen lighting up over and over with notifications. And Jesus said to me and these are the exact words I remember.

He said this was the state of his church. His word gathering dust while everyone stayed plugged into everything else.

Then the vision changed and I saw disasters. Natural disasters happening all over the world.

I saw earthquakes. Massive ones that made buildings crumble like they were made of sand.

I saw skyscrapers swaying and then falling crushing everything beneath them. I saw the ground literally opening up.

Cracks spreading through cities swallowing cars and houses. I recognized some of the places. I saw Los Angeles.

I saw buildings I’d seen in pictures of Tokyo. Other places I couldn’t identify but knew were real places somewhere in the world.

The earthquakes weren’t just in one or two places. They were everywhere. Different cities, different countries all shaking at once or in rapid succession.

And they were getting stronger and more frequent. I could somehow sense the timeline of it.

Like they were building toward something getting worse and worse. Then I saw floods. Water rising higher than it should.

Faster than anyone expected. Coastal cities being swallowed by the ocean. I saw people on roofs of houses surrounded by water waving for help.

I saw cars floating down streets like toys. I saw entire neighborhoods underwater. Just the tops of trees and telephone poles visible above the murky water.

I saw fires. Massive wildfires that consumed everything in their path. Forests burning so hot and fast that animals couldn’t escape.

Towns being evacuated but some people waiting too long getting trapped. The sky turned orange and red from the smoke and flames.

Firefighters trying to fight it but being overwhelmed by the sheer size and speed of it.

But what struck me most wasn’t just the disasters themselves. It was people’s reactions to them.

Some people when these things happened, they turned to God. They fell on their knees and cried out to him.

Finally understanding that they needed him. But many more people became angry. They shook their fists at the sky and cursed God.

Blaming him for what was happening. They became harder. More bitter. More convinced that if God existed, he was cruel.

And I understood somehow that these disasters weren’t God being cruel. They were warnings. They were like alarm bells trying to wake people up.

Jesus showed me that the earth itself was groaning like a woman in labor. Everything was crying out that time was short.

That things were coming to an end. That people needed to get ready. The vision shifted again and this time I saw wars.

Soldiers in different uniforms that I didn’t recognize fighting in places I couldn’t identify. Explosions.

Gunfire. Missiles streaking across the sky. Cities bombed into rubble. I saw something that terrified me.

Mushroom clouds rising in the distance. Nuclear weapons being used. I don’t know where or when or which countries.

But I saw the distinctive shape of those clouds and I understood what they meant.

The destruction was beyond anything I could have imagined. There were refugees everywhere. Massive groups of people walking with whatever possessions they could carry trying to get away from the violence.

Families separated. Children crying for their parents. Parents searching desperately for their children in crowds of thousands.

I saw people fighting over food and water. Stores being raided. Violence in the streets.

Not just in war zones but in places that had been peaceful. People were scared and desperate.

And fear makes people do terrible things. The fear was everywhere. It was like a thick cloud hanging over everything I was seeing.

People were afraid of the disasters. Afraid of the wars. Afraid of running out of food or water.

Afraid of what was coming next. And that fear was pushing them to do things they never would have done before.

Neighbor turning against neighbor. People hoarding supplies while others starved. Violence and chaos spreading like a disease.

Jesus didn’t tell me exactly when these things would happen or every specific detail about them.

But he showed me enough to understand that they were coming. That the world as we know it was going to shake.

That everything people thought was stable and secure was going to be tested. And then he showed me something that scared me even more than the natural disasters and wars.

I saw deception spreading everywhere. Lies that looked like truth. False teachers who seemed so genuine.

So sincere. So convincing. They performed miracles. Actual supernatural things that I could see happening.

But they weren’t from God. They were leading people away from Jesus while claiming to lead them to him.

I saw people following these false teachers in massive numbers. Stadiums full of people hanging on every word.

Believing everything they said. And these teachers were saying things that sounded good. They were talking about love and unity and peace and tolerance.

They were saying that all paths lead to God. That it doesn’t really matter what you believe as long as you’re sincere.

They were saying that the Bible was old and needed to be updated for modern times.

That some of the things it said weren’t really meant to be taken seriously anymore.

And people were eating it up because it made them feel good. It didn’t require anything difficult from them.

It didn’t ask them to change or repent or surrender their lives. It let them feel spiritual without actually having to follow Jesus.

I saw Christians. People who really did love Jesus being labeled as hateful and intolerant just for believing what the Bible said.

I saw them being mocked and ridiculed and pushed out of jobs and schools. I saw some of them cave under the pressure.

Watering down what they believed to fit in. To be accepted. And I saw others standing firm.

Refusing to compromise. And paying a price for it. The persecution was getting worse. In some countries I saw Christians being arrested just for gathering together to worship.

In other places they were being killed. But even in America. Even in places that had been safe.

There was a growing hostility toward anyone who truly followed Jesus. Not the casual cultural Christianity that didn’t challenge anyone.

But the real faith that actually cost something. I watched all of this and I felt overwhelmed.

It was too much. Too dark. Too terrible. I wanted to look away but I couldn’t.

Jesus was showing me this for a reason and I had to see it all.

But then everything changed again. The darkness lifted and I saw something beautiful. Something that made everything else worth it.

I saw people coming to Jesus. Not just a few people. Millions of them. Masses of humanity from every nation, every language, every tribe and people group.

Young and old, rich and poor. People from every background you could imagine. All turning to Jesus with their whole hearts.

And the joy on their faces was indescribable. They were experiencing what I was experiencing right now.

This overwhelming love. This perfect acceptance. This complete peace. And they were coming out of darkness into his light.

And their lives were being transformed in an instant. I saw young people, teenagers my age and even younger on fire for God in a way I’d never seen before.

They weren’t ashamed of Jesus. They weren’t trying to fit in with the world. They were bold and fearless.

Telling everyone they met about him. They were in schools and on streets and online.

Sharing the gospel without caring what anyone thought of them. And there was power with them.

Real power. I saw sick people being healed when these young believers prayed for them.

I saw blind eyes opening and deaf ears hearing. I saw people who’d been tormented by demons being set free.

I saw addicts delivered instantly from their addictions. I saw broken families restored. I saw people who’d been suicidal finding hope and purpose.

The Holy Spirit was moving in a way that I understood was like nothing the world had seen in a long time, maybe ever.

This wasn’t just normal church stuff. This was supernatural and undeniable and powerful. I saw gatherings of believers, not in fancy church buildings, but in homes and parks and anywhere they could meet.

They were praying together with an intensity and faith that was shaking things in the spiritual realm.

They were seeing answers to prayers immediately. They were experiencing God in real tangible ways.

And all of this was happening in the middle of the chaos and disasters and wars I’d just seen.

While the world was falling apart, God’s people were rising up. While darkness was spreading, the light was shining brighter than ever.

The worst things got in the natural world, the more powerful God’s presence became in the lives of those who truly followed him.

Jesus told me, and again, I can’t explain exactly how this communication worked, but I understood it clearly.

He told me that this was the great harvest. That all the shaking and all the trouble was to wake people up, to show them that they needed him, to strip away all the distractions and false securities so they could see the truth.

He said that this was the generation that would see the greatest harvest of souls in all of history.

That more people would come to know him in this time than in all the previous generations combined.

That the youth, the young people who the world had written off as being too distracted or too lost, would be the ones leading this movement.

But he also said something that made me understand why I was seeing all of this.

He said that time was short. That everything I was seeing was going to happen soon.

Not hundreds of years from now, soon. In my lifetime. Maybe even in the next few years.

He told me that he was coming back. That this world wasn’t going to go on forever the way people thought it would.

That there was an end coming and it was closer than anyone realized. And then he looked at me with those eyes full of love and said something that changed everything.

He said that this was why he’d brought me here. This was why he was showing me all of these things.

Because I needed to go back and tell people. I needed to warn them. I needed to tell them that time was running out.

That they needed to get serious about their faith. That they couldn’t keep playing games with God and thinking they’d deal with it later.

Because later might not come. I immediately felt afraid. Not afraid of him, but afraid of what he was asking me to do.

I was just a kid. I was nobody. I didn’t know the Bible well. I wasn’t a preacher or a teacher or anyone important.

How could I possibly tell people about this? Who would even listen to me? I tried to tell him this.

I tried to explain that he had the wrong person. That there must be someone better he could send.

Someone older and smarter and more qualified. The words tumbled out of me in a rush of fear and inadequacy.

But he just looked at me with such gentleness and such confidence. And he told me that he didn’t need my ability.

He just needed me to be willing. He said that he’s always used the weak and the small and the unlikely to do his greatest works.

That when someone who’s nobody by the world’s standards does something powerful, everyone knows it’s God and not the person.

He reminded me of young people in the Bible who he’d used. David was just a teenager when he killed Goliath.

Mary was probably only about 14 when she said yes to bearing the son of God.

Timothy was young when Paul told him not to let anyone look down on him because of his age.

God has always used young people in mighty ways. And then he said something I’ll never forget.

He asked me a simple question. Would you do this for me? Everything in me wanted to say no.

I wanted to stay here in this place of perfect peace and love. I didn’t want to go back to a world of pain and difficulty.

I didn’t want to face the challenge of telling people things they didn’t want to hear.

I didn’t want to be different and set apart and probably mocked. But I couldn’t say no to him.

Not after everything he’d shown me. Not after experiencing his love. Not after understanding what was at stake.

So I said yes. I told him I would do it. I would go back.

I would tell people everything I’d seen. I didn’t know how and I didn’t feel ready, but I would do it because he was asking me to.

The moment I agreed, everything began to change again. The light started to fade. His presence, which had been so close and so real, started to feel distant.

I tried to hold on to it. Tried to stay in that moment. But I was being pulled away.

It felt like being ripped away from home. Like having the best thing you’ve ever experienced torn away from you.

I’d only been in his presence for what felt like minutes. But the thought of leaving it was unbearable.

I didn’t want to go back. Even knowing what I was going back to do, even agreeing to do it.

I didn’t want to leave. Every part of me wanted to stay there with him forever.

But I’d made a promise and he had a purpose for me. So even as I felt myself being pulled away from that beautiful place, from his presence, from the light and love and peace, I held on to his words.

I held on to what he’d shown me. I held on to the mission he’d given me.

The tunnel was back, but I was moving through it in the opposite direction now.

Away from the light. Back toward the darkness. Back toward pain and struggle and difficulty.

Back toward life. Coming back hurt worse than dying did. That’s the honest truth. Leaving that place of perfect peace and love.

Leaving Jesus’ presence and being slammed back into my broken body was the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced.

And I don’t just mean physical pain, though there was plenty of that. The physical pain hit me all at once.

Like every injury I’d sustained in the accident suddenly turned on at the same time.

My chest felt like it was being crushed. Every breath was agony. My leg was screaming.

My head throbbed with a pain so intense I thought it might split open. My arm felt wrong in a way that made my stomach turn.

But worse than the physical pain was the emotional and spiritual pain of being separated from him.

I’d experienced perfect love. And now I was back in a place where that love felt distant.

I’d been in his presence. And now I was back in a world that felt dark and heavy in comparison.

It was like going from the most beautiful sunrise you’ve ever seen straight into a cold dark basement.

I couldn’t open my eyes yet. Everything was sounds and sensations and pain. I could hear machines beeping frantically.

I could hear voices shouting medical terms I didn’t understand. I could feel hands on me doing things to my body.

Trying to help but causing more pain with every touch. Someone was doing chest compressions, pushing down hard on my rib cage.

Each compression sent lightning bolts of agony through me. I wanted to tell them to stop.

That I was back. That they didn’t need to do that anymore, but I couldn’t make my voice work.

And then I gasped. A huge, desperate gasp for air that felt like I’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.

My lungs filled and it hurt so badly, but it also felt like the best breath I’d ever taken.

The voices around me changed. The frantic urgency turned into shock and confusion. Someone said something about a pulse.

Someone else said my name. The chest compressions stopped. I still couldn’t open my eyes.

My eyelids felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. But I could hear more clearly now.

I could hear my mom’s voice crying. Saying my name over and over. I could hear my dad’s voice.

Deeper. Also saying my name. Also crying. I’d never heard my dad cry before. I tried to move my hand and managed it just slightly.

I felt my mom grab it, holding it tight. She was afraid I’d slip away again if she let go.

I don’t know how long it took before I could finally open my eyes. Maybe minutes, maybe longer.

Everything was blurry at first. Bright lights above me, faces hovering, looking down at me with expressions of disbelief.

Machines surrounding me with their cords and tubes. My mom’s face came into focus. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying.

Mascara was running down her cheeks. Her hair was messy, her nurse’s scrubs wrinkled. She looked more scared than I’d ever seen her look in my entire life.

When she saw my eyes open, she let out this sound that was half sob, half laugh.

She squeezed my hand so tight it would have hurt if I could feel anything besides the overwhelming pain everywhere else.

My dad was right next to her. And when he saw me looking at him, his face crumpled.

This strong, stoic man who never showed emotion was crying openly. Tears streaming down his face, mixing with the construction dust that was still on his skin.

I tried to talk, but there was something in my throat. A breathing tube, I later learned.

My mouth was so dry. All I could manage was a small sound. A doctor was there, checking my vitals, looking at monitors, saying things to the nurses that I couldn’t quite follow.

But I could see the shock on his face, too. The confusion. Later, I’d learn that I’d been clinically dead for 15 minutes.

They’d been about to stop trying to resuscitate me. They’d been about to tell my parents there was nothing more they could do.

But then my heart had just started beating again on its own. No medical explanation.

No reason it should have happened. It just did. They eventually removed the breathing tube, which was almost as bad as having it put in must have been.

When I could finally speak, my voice came out as barely a whisper, raw and painful.

The first words I said were simply this, “I saw Jesus.” My mom’s eyes went wide.

My dad looked confused. The doctor and nurses exchanged glances. But I said it again, louder this time, even though it hurt to speak.

“I saw Jesus. He’s real. He’s real and he sent me back.” My mom started crying harder, nodding, squeezing my hand.

My dad just stared at me like he didn’t know what to say. Later, he’d tell me that in that moment, looking at my face, he knew something had changed in me.

He could see it in my eyes. I wasn’t the same kid who’d left the house that morning to go to the store.

The next 3 weeks were spent in that hospital. My injuries were severe. Fractured skull, three broken ribs, collapsed lung, internal bleeding that required surgery, broken femur in my right leg, fractured ulna in my left arm.

The doctors said it was a miracle I survived at all. The impact should have killed me instantly, or at the very least left me with severe brain damage.

But I was alive, broken and hurting, but alive. Jake came to visit me that first day once they moved me out of ICU and into a regular room.

He was so scared. He stood in the doorway, not wanting to come closer, just staring at me with huge eyes.

All the tubes and machines and bandages must have been terrifying for a 10-year-old. I managed to smile at him, even though it hurt.

I told him to come here. He slowly walked over to my bed, and I reached out my good hand to him.

He took it carefully, like he was afraid he might break me more. I told him I loved him.

I told him I was sorry for every time I’d been mean to him or ignored him or treated him like he was annoying.

He started crying and said he was just glad I wasn’t dead. Over the next few days, I had lots of visitors.

Grandma Carol came. And when I told her what I’d seen, when I told her about Jesus and his message, she wept.

She sat by my bed and held my hand and thanked God over and over.

She said she’d been praying for this moment for years. That she’d asked God to reach me before it was too late.

And he’d answered her prayers in a way she never could have imagined. Emma came with her mom, Mrs.

Patterson, and could barely look at me without crying. She felt responsible somehow, even though the accident wasn’t her fault at all.

Emma sat on the edge of my bed, careful not to bump any of my injuries, and just stared at me like she was seeing me for the first time.

I tried to tell her about what happened, about Jesus, about what I’d seen, about the message I was supposed to share.

She listened politely, but I could tell she didn’t really get it. She kept asking about the accident itself, about what I remembered, about the truck hitting me, about whether it hurt.

She was approaching it like it was just a crazy thing that happened, not understanding that it was so much more than that.

That’s when I first started to realize how different I was now, how differently I saw everything.

Things that used to matter so much to me, what people thought of me, whether I was popular, what was happening on social media, none of it mattered anymore.

It all seemed so small and temporary compared to what I’d experienced. I had an overwhelming hunger for the Bible.

I’d never really read it before except for the occasional verse here and there. But now I couldn’t get enough of it.

I asked my mom to bring me a Bible, and I read it every moment I wasn’t sleeping or in pain or having medical procedures done.

The words came alive in a way they never had before. It wasn’t just ancient text anymore.

It was God speaking directly to me. Every page, every chapter, I was finding things that connected to what Jesus had shown me.

Prophecies about the end times, warnings about deception, promises about his return, instructions for how to live as his follower.

The nurses noticed the change in me. Several of them would stop by my room just to talk, saying there was something different about me, something peaceful despite all the pain I was in.

I told them about Jesus. Some of them listened politely and changed the subject, but others really heard me.

One nurse, a woman named Maria, gave her life to Christ right there in my hospital room after I shared my testimony with her.

The local news had covered the accident. It was a big story. 13-year-old girl dies for 15 minutes and comes back to life.

They wanted to interview me. My parents were protective at first, not sure if I was ready for that kind of attention, but I wanted to do it.

I wanted to tell people what I’d seen. The reporter came to my hospital room with a camera crew.

She asked me questions about the accident, about what I remembered, about my recovery, and I answered those questions.

But then I steered every answer back to Jesus. I told her about what I’d experienced, about the tunnel and the light, about seeing him face-to-face, about the visions he showed me, about the message he sent me back to share.

You could see the reporter getting uncomfortable. This wasn’t the feel-good miracle story she’d been expecting.

She tried to redirect the conversation a few times, but I kept bringing it back to Jesus.

Finally, she wrapped up the interview earlier than planned. When it aired, they’d edited out most of what I said about Jesus.

They kept in the miraculous survival part, the emotional family reunion part, but cut almost everything about my spiritual experience.

I wasn’t surprised, but it did make me realize how hard it was going to be to share this message.

The world didn’t want to hear it, but I’d promised Jesus I would tell people, and I was going to keep that promise no matter what.

Physical therapy was brutal. Learning to walk again with a healing femur, building strength back in my arm, dealing with the lasting effects of the head trauma.

There were days when the pain was so bad I just cried. Days when I wondered if I’d ever feel normal again.

But even in those hard moments, I had something I’d never had before, a sense of purpose, a reason for all of it.

This wasn’t just random suffering. I was here for a reason. God had sent me back for a reason.

And that made every painful step, every difficult therapy session, every frustrating setback worthwhile. Three months after the accident, I was finally able to go to church again.

My youth pastor asked if I’d be willing to share my testimony with the youth group.

I was nervous, more nervous than I’d been about the news interview. These were my peers, kids who’d known me before.

They’d know if I was being fake or exaggerating. I sat in front of about 30 teenagers, a piece of paper in my trembling hands, where I’d written out some notes.

But when I started talking, I barely looked at the notes. The words just poured out of me.

I told them everything. About how I’d been living before the accident, distracted, focused on things that didn’t matter, believing in God, but not really knowing him.

About the accident itself. About dying and what came after. About seeing Jesus and feeling his love.

About the visions he showed me. About the warning he wanted me to share. I cried multiple times while telling the story.

Some of the kids were crying, too. Others were just staring at me with wide eyes.

A few were on their phones, which hurt, especially after what Jesus had shown me about distraction.

But I kept going. When I finished, there was silence for a moment. Then the youth pastor asked if anyone wanted to respond or had questions.

One kid raised his hand and asked if I was making it up. Just straight out asked if it was real or if I was lying for attention.

I looked right at him and said, “I wished I was making it up. I wished this was just a story, because then I wouldn’t have to carry the weight of it.

I wouldn’t have to stand up here feeling like everyone thinks I’m crazy. But it’s real.

Jesus is real. Heaven is real. And everything I saw is really going to happen.”

After the meeting ended, a girl came up to me. I didn’t know her well.

She was a year younger than me, quiet, always sat in the back. She was crying.

She told me she’d been thinking about killing herself, that she’d actually been planning how she was going to do it.

But hearing my story, hearing about Jesus’s love, made her realize there was hope. We prayed together right there, and she gave her life to Jesus that night.

That’s when I understood what Jesus had been trying to tell me. It wasn’t about me being special or qualified.

It was about being obedient. When I just told the truth about what I’d experienced, he did the work.

He touched hearts. He changed lives. Word started to spread. Other youth groups wanted me to come speak.

Small churches started inviting me. At first, it was just local, within Tulsa and the surrounding areas.

My parents drove me to these places, both of them still amazed at what was happening, at how God was using their daughter.

Every time I shared my testimony, people responded. Not everyone. Some people thought I was crazy or delusional or seeking attention.

But many people were moved. Many people gave their lives to Christ or recommitted their lives to him.

Many people told me afterward that they’d been living lukewarm Christian lives, and my story woke them up.

I was still recovering physically, still limping, still dealing with pain, still going to physical therapy twice a week.

School was different, too. I’d missed so much that my parents decided to homeschool me for the rest of the year, so I could catch up at my own pace.

It also made it easier to accept speaking invitations, but homeschooling meant I was even more isolated from my old life.

My old friends didn’t really know what to do with me anymore. Emma still called sometimes, but our conversations were awkward.

We didn’t have anything in common anymore. She wanted to talk about boys and drama at school and TikTok videos.

I wanted to talk about Jesus and the Bible and eternity. We were living in different worlds now.

It was lonely sometimes, really lonely. I’d gone from being a normal teenager with a normal life to being this girl who died and came back and now talked about Jesus all the time.

People at church looked at me differently. People my age either avoided me or treated me like I was some kind of celebrity.

I wasn’t normal anymore, and I’d never be normal again. But whenever I felt sorry for myself, whenever I missed my old life, I’d remember what Jesus showed me.

I’d remember the urgency of the message. I’d remember all those people who needed to hear the truth before it was too late.

And I’d remember that he chose me for this. Out of everyone he could have sent back with this message, he chose me.

Six months after the accident, I spoke at a youth conference for the first time.

It was in Oklahoma City, about 500 teenagers from all over the state. Standing on that stage, looking out at all those faces, I felt the old fear creeping in.

Who was I to stand up here? What if they didn’t believe me? What if I messed up the message?

But then I felt something I’d been feeling more and more lately, a sense of Jesus being right there with me.

Not like I’d experienced in heaven, but a gentle presence, a quiet strength that wasn’t mine.

And I remembered what he’d told me. He didn’t need my ability, just my availability.

So, I told my story. And I gave the warning he’d told me to give.

And when I finished and gave an altar call, asking if anyone wanted to give their life to Jesus or get right with him, over 100 teenagers came forward.

They were crying, falling to their knees, surrendering their lives to Jesus. That’s when I knew this was real.

This was what I was called to do. This was why I came back. I’m 14 now.

It’s been just over a year since the accident that changed my life forever. Just over a year since I died and came back.

Just over a year since Jesus sent me back with a message that I’ve been sharing ever since.

I’m speaking to you right now, whether you’re sitting in an audience somewhere listening to me, or reading my testimony, or watching this video, because I believe God arranged for our paths to cross today.

Out of everyone in the world, out of everything you could be doing right now, you’re here.

And that’s not an accident. My life looks completely different than I ever imagined it would.

I’m homeschooled now, which gives me flexibility to travel and speak. Almost every weekend I’m somewhere different.

Youth conferences, churches, schools where they’ll allow me to come, even online platforms where I can share my story with people all over the world.

In just over a year, I’ve spoken to thousands of teenagers and adults. I’ve had messages from people in other countries who heard my testimony and gave their lives to Christ.

I’ve heard from parents whose kids were going down dark paths, but heard my story and turned back to God.

I’ve heard from people who were planning to commit suicide, but didn’t, because they heard about Jesus’s love through my testimony.

And every single time, I’m amazed, because I’m still just me. I’m still the girl who didn’t know the Bible well, who wasn’t cool or popular or special in any way.

I still struggle sometimes with doubt and fear. I still have hard days where I miss my old life and wish things could just be normal.

I still deal with pain from my injuries. I still limp sometimes when I’ve been on my feet too long.

But God is using me anyway. And that’s the whole point. It was never about me being qualified.

It was about me being willing. I want to share Jesus’s message with you now, the message he sent me back to tell you.

And I’m going to be direct, because he was direct with me, because time is short, and this is too important to sugarcoat.

First, if you don’t know Jesus, if you’ve never given your life to him, if you’re not sure if you’re saved, if you’ve been putting it off thinking you have time, please listen to me.

Jesus is real. Heaven is real. Hell is real. I know because I was there.

I stood in his presence. I experienced his love. And I’m telling you that nothing in this world, nothing you’re chasing or worrying about or investing your life in, matters even a little bit compared to where you’re going to spend eternity.

You might think you have time. You might think you’re young and you’ll deal with this later when you’re older.

That’s exactly what I thought. I was 13 years old, 13. I thought I had my whole life ahead of me.

But I didn’t know that morning when I got on my bike that I was going to die before I made it home.

None of us know how much time we have. You could be in an accident like I was.

You could have a health emergency. Jesus could come back today. We don’t know. And that’s why the Bible says today is the day of salvation, not tomorrow, not someday, today.

Jesus loves you so much, more than you can possibly imagine. He’s not some angry God in the sky waiting to punish you.

He’s been pursuing you your whole life, knocking on the door of your heart, waiting for you to let him in.

Every good thing you’ve ever experienced has been a gift from him. Every time you felt that nudge in your spirit to turn to him, that was him calling you.

He died for you. He took the punishment for every sin you’ve ever committed so that you don’t have to.

He made a way for you to know him, to have a relationship with him, to spend eternity with him.

All he’s asking is that you accept his gift, that you surrender your life to him, that you stop trying to be in control and let him lead.

It’s simple, but it’s also everything. You have to mean it. You have to really give him your whole life, not just add him to your life like another app on your phone.

He wants all of you, your heart, your future, your plans, your dreams, everything. If you’ve never done that, you can do it right now.

Just talk to him. Tell him you’re sorry for your sins. Tell him you believe he died for you and rose again.

Ask him to come into your life and be your Lord and Savior. He’ll hear you.

I promise he will, and your life will never be the same. Second, if you’re a Christian, but you’ve been living lukewarm, if you believe in Jesus, but you’re not really following him, if your faith is just something you do on Sundays, but it doesn’t affect the rest of your life, if you’ve been distracted and comfortable and coasting, please hear what I’m about to say.

This is the part of the message that scared me the most to share because I saw how many people in churches think they’re fine, but they’re not.

I saw Jesus standing outside churches knocking, trying to get the attention of people who were too busy with their programs and their routines to even notice him.

I saw Bibles covered in dust while phones were being checked constantly. I saw people taking selfies during worship instead of actually worshipping.

I saw teenagers sitting in youth group physically, but a million miles away mentally. And I felt Jesus’s grief over it.

His heart was breaking for people who think they know him, but don’t really know him at all.

Knowing about Jesus and knowing Jesus are completely different things. You can know all the Bible stories, go to church your whole life, even serve in ministry, and still not actually have a relationship with him.

And when he comes back, he’s going to say to some people who thought they were saved that he never knew them.

That terrifies me. The thought of standing before him someday and hearing those words, “I never knew you,” is the scariest thing I can imagine.

More scary than any of the disasters or wars he showed me. So, I’m begging you.

If you’re a Christian, don’t be lukewarm. Don’t be comfortable. Don’t let the world squeeze you into its mold.

Actually read your Bible. Actually pray, and not just quick prayers before meals, but real conversations with God.

Actually live like you believe what you say you believe. The time is so short.

Jesus showed me that everything I saw is going to happen soon. The disasters are increasing.

You can see it on the news. The earthquakes, the fires, the floods, they’re getting worse and more frequent.

The wars and conflicts around the world are intensifying. The deception is everywhere. False teachers, false doctrines, lies that sound like truth.

These are the signs he told us to watch for. These are the birth pains, and they mean his return is near.

I don’t know the day or the hour. Jesus didn’t tell me that, and the Bible says no one knows except the Father.

But I know it’s close. I know it’s in our lifetime. Maybe in the next few years.

And we need to be ready. Being ready means more than just having fire insurance so you don’t go to hell.

It means actually living for him. It means being so close to him that when he comes back, it’s not a surprise or a shock, but a joyful reunion with someone you already know intimately.

It means using whatever time we have left to tell everyone we can about him.

Your friends, your family, that person at work or school who nobody else talks to.

Everyone needs to hear about Jesus. Everyone needs a chance to know him before it was too late.

Third, if you’re already on fire for God, if you really do know him, if you’re living surrendered to him, if you’re facing opposition because of your faith, I want to encourage you.

Don’t give up. Don’t let the world cool you down. Don’t let people’s mockery or rejection make you doubt or compromise.

Jesus showed me what’s coming, and it’s worth it. He showed me the great harvest of souls, the millions who are going to come to him in these last days.

He showed me young people like us leading this movement, bold and fearless and filled with his spirit.

He showed me miracles and healings and deliverances like the early church experienced. The darker it gets in the world, the brighter his light will shine through you.

Don’t be afraid of the persecution or the difficulty ahead. Jesus already won. The end of the story is already written.

We’re on the winning side. Keep praying. Keep reading his word. Keep gathering with other believers who are serious about their faith.

Keep telling people about Jesus, even when they don’t want to hear it. You’re not doing this alone.

He’s with you, and he’s given you his spirit. The message he gave me is urgent.

I can’t stress that enough. Every time I tell this story, every time I give this warning, I feel the weight of it because I know what I saw.

I know how real heaven is and how real hell is. I know how close we are to the end.

I know how many people are going to be shocked when Jesus returns because they thought they had more time.

I’ve been given an incredible responsibility. Jesus trusted me with this message. He brought me back from death specifically to share it, and I don’t take that lightly.

Some people don’t believe me. They think I made it up or that it was a hallucination or a dream caused by trauma.

That’s okay. I can’t make anyone believe me. All I can do is tell the truth about what I experienced.

But I know it was real. It was more real than anything in this world, and I would rather tell this story and have people think I’m crazy than stay silent and have people miss their chance to know Jesus.

Since the accident, I’ve lost friends who couldn’t handle the new me. I’ve been mocked online and criticized by people who don’t even know me.

I’ve had to give up a normal teenage life. I’ve missed out on things other kids my age get to experience.

Sometimes I feel isolated and lonely and different from everyone around me. But I’ve also gained something infinitely more valuable.

I have a relationship with Jesus that I never would have had otherwise. I have purpose and meaning that goes beyond anything this world could offer.

I’ve seen God work miracles through my weakness. I’ve watched people’s lives be transformed when they encounter him through my testimony.

And I know that when I stand before Jesus again someday, and I will, we all will, I want to hear him say that I was faithful, that I did what he asked me to do, that I didn’t waste the second chance he gave me.

A few weeks ago, I was speaking at a church in Dallas. After I finished sharing my testimony, a man in his 50s came up to me with tears streaming down his face.

He told me he’d been a pastor for 20 years, but somewhere along the way, he’d lost his first love.

He’d gotten so caught up in running the church, managing programs, dealing with budgets and committees and building projects, that he’d stopped actually spending time with Jesus.

He said listening to my story reminded him of why he became a pastor in the first place.

He rededicated his life to Christ that night, right there in his own church. That’s what this message does.

It wakes people up. It strips away all the religious stuff and gets back to what matters, knowing Jesus, really knowing him, and living like we actually believe he’s coming back.

I’ve also heard from people who were complete atheists before hearing my testimony. A college professor emailed me a few months ago.

He’d watched the video of me speaking at a youth conference that his niece had sent him.

He said he’d spent his whole career teaching students that there was no God, that religion was just a psychological crutch for weak-minded people, but something about my story got to him.

He couldn’t explain it away. He couldn’t dismiss it. And after weeks of wrestling with it, he gave his life to Jesus.

He’s now using his platform as a professor to tell students about Christ, and he doesn’t care that it might cost him his job.

These stories encourage me when things get hard. When I’m exhausted from traveling and speaking, when my injuries flare up and the pain reminds me of that day on the pavement, when I feel overwhelmed by the weight of this message and the urgency of it, I remember that it’s not about me.

It’s about him working through me. It’s about lives being changed and souls being saved.

The visions Jesus showed me play in my mind all the time. I see them when I close my eyes at night.

I see the churches full of distracted people. I see the disasters increasing. I see the wars and chaos.

I see the deception spreading. And I see the harvest, millions coming to him. Young people on fire.

The Holy Spirit moving in power. And I understand now why he showed me both the difficult things and the beautiful things.

The difficult things are meant to wake us up, to shake us out of our comfort and complacency.

The beautiful things are meant to give us hope, to remind us that he’s in control and his plan is still unfolding perfectly.

We’re living in the most important time in human history. I really believe that. The generation alive right now is going to see things that no other generation has seen.

We’re going to see prophecy fulfilled. We’re going to see the return of Christ. And the question is, are we going to be ready?

I think about that intersection a lot. Fifth Street and Main, the place where I died on October 12th, 2024.

Sometimes when I’m back in Tulsa, I ride my bike past it. There’s nothing special about it now.

No marker or memorial. Just a regular intersection where regular people go about their regular days.

They have no idea that at that exact spot, a 13-year-old girl’s life ended and began again.

That intersection is a reminder to me that life can change in an instant, that we’re not guaranteed tomorrow, that every moment matters, that the things we think are so important, fitting in, being popular, having stuff, being comfortable, none of it matters compared to eternity.

If I hadn’t died that day, I’d probably still be living the way I was before, distracted, lukewarm, believing in God, but not really knowing him.

I’d be wasting my life on things that don’t matter, thinking I had all the time in the world to get serious about faith later.

But I did die, and Jesus gave me another chance, not just for myself, but so I could tell you.

So I could warn you. So I could share his love with you and let you know that he’s real.

He’s coming back, and time is running out. I want to talk directly to different people for a moment.

If you’re a teenager like me, I know what you’re dealing with. I know the pressure to fit in, to be cool, to not be the weird religious kid.

I know how hard it is to stand up for your faith when everyone around you thinks it’s outdated or intolerant or just uncool.

I know how tempting it is to compromise, to water down what you believe so you don’t stand out.

But I’m telling you, it’s worth it. Being different is worth it. Being mocked for following Jesus is worth it.

Losing friends who can’t handle your faith is worth it. Because you’re not living for their approval.

You’re living for him. And his opinion is the only one that matters. Plus, you don’t have time to waste.

You think you’re young and have your whole life ahead of you. Maybe you do, or maybe you don’t.

None of us know. But either way, Jesus is coming back soon. Why would you want to waste whatever time you have left on things that don’t matter?

If you’re a parent, I want you to know something. Your kids are watching you.

They’re learning about God by watching how you live, not just by what you tell them.

If your Bible sits on a shelf gathering dust while you’re on your phone constantly, they’re learning that God isn’t really that important.

If you go to church on Sundays, but don’t live any differently than non-Christians the rest of the week, they’re learning that faith doesn’t really change anything.

My grandma prayed for me every single day. She lived her faith authentically. And even though I didn’t appreciate it at the time, even though I rolled my eyes when she tried to talk to me about Jesus, her prayers and her example planted seeds that God used.

When I stood in front of Jesus, I realized how much her prayers had mattered.

So pray for your kids. Pray for them desperately. And live your faith in front of them in a way that’s real and authentic.

They need to see that Jesus actually changes lives, starting with yours. If you’re a pastor or a church leader, please hear this.

Jesus is knocking on the door of so many churches trying to get in, but nobody’s listening.

We’ve gotten so focused on programs and entertainment and making church appealing to the culture that we’ve lost sight of him.

Preach the truth even when it’s uncomfortable. Teach the Bible even when it challenges people.

Call sin what it is. Talk about repentance and holiness and the cost of following Jesus.

Yes, some people will leave. But the ones who stay will be the ones who are really serious about their faith.

And those are the people who are going to change the world. The harvest is coming.

The great revival Jesus showed me is going to happen. But it’s not going to come through slick marketing and comfortable services.

It’s going to come through the raw, authentic power of the Holy Spirit working through surrendered lives.

If you’re someone who’s walked away from God, who used to follow him, but got hurt or disappointed or distracted, he’s still waiting for you.

He never left you. You left him. And he wants you back. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done.

It doesn’t matter how far you’ve wandered or how long you’ve been gone. His arms are still open.

His love hasn’t changed. Come back to him. Don’t let pride or shame or fear keep you away from the only one who can truly satisfy your soul.

And if you’re someone who’s on fire for God, who really does love him and live for him, thank you.

Please don’t give up. Please don’t let the opposition or the difficulty make you quit.

We need you. The world needs you. This generation needs to see people who really believe in Jesus and aren’t afraid to show it.

The church is about to go through some intense times. Persecution is coming. Jesus showed me that.

It’s already happening in some parts of the world, and it’s going to increase everywhere.

But don’t be afraid. He’s with us. His spirit empowers us. And suffering for him is an honor, not something to avoid.

Plus, the darker it gets, the more opportunities we’ll have to shine his light. When everything is falling apart around us, when people are scared and desperate and looking for hope, they’re going to be way more open to hearing about Jesus.

The harvest is going to come out of the shaking. I want to close by talking about what happened at that youth conference in Oklahoma City, the one where over a hundred teenagers responded to the altar call.

After everyone had left and I was packing up to go home with my parents, one of the adult volunteers came up to me.

She was probably in her 60s, and she had this beautiful smile on her face.

She told me that she’d been praying for revival among young people for 40 years.

40 years of getting on her knees and asking God to move in the next generation.

She said watching those teenagers flood to the altar that night, seeing them weep and surrender their lives to Jesus was the answer to decades of prayers.

Then she looked me right in the eyes and said something I’ll never forget. She said that I was one of many, that God was raising up young voices all over the world to carry this message of warning and hope, that I wasn’t alone in this calling, that there was an army of young people being prepared by God for this exact moment in history.

And I’ve seen it. I’ve met other teenagers who’ve had supernatural encounters with God. I’ve connected with young people all over the world who are boldly sharing their faith despite opposition.

I’ve watched God do incredible things through people who the world would consider too young or too inexperienced or too unlikely.

This is our time. This is the generation that’s going to see the greatest harvest of souls in history.

This is the generation that’s going to see Jesus return. What an honor to be alive right now, to be part of what God is doing.

But with that honor comes responsibility. We have to be faithful. We have to be obedient.

We have to be willing to be different, to stand out, to be mocked and misunderstood and rejected if necessary.

We have to love Jesus more than we love comfort or acceptance or our own plans for our lives.

I died on October 12th, 2024. My heart stopped beating. My lungs stopped breathing. By every medical definition, I was gone.

But Jesus sent me back. He gave me another chance at life, not for my sake, but for yours.

So, I’m standing here today or I’m sharing this testimony with you today because I made him a promise.

I promised I would tell everyone I could about what I saw, about his love, about his coming return, about the urgency of getting right with him now, not later.

I’ve kept that promise. I’ll keep it for the rest of my life, however long that is.

Whether I live to be old or whether Jesus comes back tomorrow, I’m going to spend every day I have telling people about him.

And my question for you is, what are you going to do with what you’ve heard today?

Are you going to dismiss it and go back to your normal life or are you going to let it change you?

Are you going to keep putting off your decision about Jesus or are you going to surrender to him today?

Are you going to keep living lukewarm and distracted or are you going to get serious about your faith?

Are you going to stay silent about what you believe or are you going to boldly tell others about him?

The choice is yours. God won’t force you. He’ll just keep knocking, keep calling, keep pursuing you with his love.

But someday, and that day might be sooner than you think, the opportunity to choose will be over.

For me, that moment came at an intersection I’d crossed a thousand times. One second, I was alive thinking I had all the time in the world.

The next second, I was gone. I didn’t know that morning would be my last morning.

I didn’t know that bike ride would be my last bike ride. I didn’t know I was about to die.

You don’t know either. None of us do. So, choose today. Choose Jesus. Choose life.

Choose to live with urgency and purpose and passion for the only thing that really matters.

I was dead for 15 minutes, but I’ve never been more alive than I am right now because now I know him.

I really know him. And I’m living every moment for him. That’s what I want for you.

That’s what Jesus wants for you. That’s why he sent me back so you could have what I have, so you could know what I know, so you could be ready for what’s coming.

Time is short. Jesus is coming back. And on that day, nothing else is going to matter except whether you knew him.

Please don’t wait. Please don’t put it off. Please don’t assume you have more time.

Come to him today. Surrender everything to him today. Start living for him today because I died and came back to tell you, he’s real.

Heaven is real. Hell is real. His return is real. And you need to be ready.

I’m ready now. I wasn’t before, but I am now. My prayer is that you’ll be ready, too.

That intersection changed my life. That 15 minutes changed everything. And I’m praying that these minutes you spent hearing my story will change your life, too.

Jesus loves you. He’s calling you. He’s waiting for you. Please don’t make him wait anymore.