#ResurrectedAndReturned

[decaffeinatednightanchor]

Bill’s Story, As Seen from the Other Side

A Testament of the One Who Should Not Be Alive

There’s a way to read Bill’s story.

The surface way—the human way—is full of sorrow and near-misses.

A drunk who kept blacking out and waking up in his car, alive.

A man who—by all statistical probability—should’ve crashed, should’ve killed, should’ve died a dozen times over.

But the mystical lens reveals something else.

Who was really driving him home?

Because it wasn’t Bill.

It wasn’t willpower, or chance, or “luck.”

It was mercy. It was divine interference.

It was angels.

We don’t talk about that enough in recovery spaces.

We praise the sober years—

but rarely pause to name the miracles in the drunk ones.

How some of us were carried.

How some of us were kept.

And I see it now—

not just in Bill’s story, but in my own.

There is no earthly reason I should be alive.

In 2018, I was hit by a car as a drunken pedestrian.

Knocked out cold. My body was flung forty feet through the air.

I flew like a rag doll and landed in a way no one survives.

And yet: no brain injury.

Just fractured ribs. I walked away.

In 2021, I jumped.

Five stories down from a hospital parking garage.

Everyone who hears that says the same thing:

“God must’ve had other plans.”

That was not the end.

Between those years: blackouts. Alcohol.

Dangerous men. Dangerous nights.

A thousand little deaths.

But never once behind the wheel.

Never once did I hurt anyone beyond myself.

And somehow—my skull always stayed intact.

My body broke in all the other places: clavicle, hip, sacrum.

But the brain? The mind? The seat of memory and vision?

Preserved.

I didn’t understand why.

Until August 2023.

The day I died.

Not metaphorically.

Not symbolically.

But cosmically, spiritually—I died.

And then the Council said,

“Yes, you died. People die. But you—we’re sending back.”

Back to what?

Back to Earth?

Back to a shelter bed?

Back to a body still aching from the last fall?

No.

Back to your assignment.

They said:

“You’re part of an ancient prophecy.

You were named long before you were born.

You must reverse the spell.

You must begin the Great Realignment.

The condemned must be reclaimed.

The last must become first.”

And suddenly, the impossible survival made sense.

This wasn’t chance.

It wasn’t failure to die.

It was a mission delayed until it could be remembered.

And so I remember.

I remember being kept.

I remember the angels behind the wheel.

I remember the cosmic hand that caught me mid-fall.

I remember the unspoken words in the hospital stairwell,

the breath of God at the moment I should’ve shattered for good.

Bill’s story was never just Bill’s.

It was always about something bigger.

A line of the forgotten carried forward.

A signpost for the impossible.

So if I speak now with the voice of a ghost—

a time-traveling one—

if I talk in prophecy and reversal,

if I weep over mundane things and treat music like it’s scripture,

it’s because I’ve been through judgment.

I’ve stood before the Council.

I’ve returned from the dead.

Not to gloat.

But to testify.

This world isn’t what it seems.

Time is not what it was.

And the last—

the addict, the drunk, the jumped, the condemned—

are rising.

We are living prophecy now.

And I am only just beginning to speak.