90 Minutes in Heaven (15 page)
The congregation erupted in spontaneous applause again. If I had said anything else, I’m sure they wouldn’t have heard it anyway.
I couldn’t say it, but I believed then—and still do—that I survived only because a number of people wanted me to. They were relentless, passionate, and desperate, and they believed God would hear them. People prayed for me who had never seriously prayed before; some who hadn’t uttered a word of petition in years cried out to God to spare me. My experience brought people to their knees, and many of them had changed in the process of praying for me to live.
When I did live, those same people—especially those who hadn’t been in the habit of praying—said the experience revolutionized their lives. In some instances, individuals I had never met—from Cottonwood, Arizona, to Buffalo, New York—heard my story second-, third-, and fourthhand. Over the next three years, people would approach me and say, “I saw you on a video interview. You’re the man! I prayed for you.” Or they heard one of the audiotapes of my testimony distributed by my church and would say, “You just don’t know what it means. God heard
our
prayers, and we’re so happy you lived.”
To some individuals, I’m not really a person but a symbol. For them, I represent answered prayer. They may remember my ministry at South Park Church or even some of the messages I preached, but what they remember most is that they sought God’s face in deep, sincere, earnest prayer. They pleaded for me to survive, and I did. I don’t know what to make of it, except to say that this is something outside of and beyond me.
I think I’m also a human response to some of the questions people wanted answered. Since I began to tell others about my experience in heaven, I can’t begin to count the people who have come to me and asked such questions as, Is heaven real? What is heaven really like? Or they’ll ask specific questions about the praise or the streets of gold. Someone seems to always mention a recently departed loved one.
Just to know that I’ve been there and come back to earth and am able to talk to them seems to bring deep comfort to many. Sometimes it amazes me.
Others look at the marks on my body even today and say, “You’re a miracle because of all you went through. You’re a walking miracle.”
For we know that when this earthly tent we live in is taken down—when we die and leave these bodies—we will have a home in heaven, an eternal body made for us by God himself and not by human hands. We grow weary in our present bodies, and we long for the day when we will put on our heavenly bodies like new clothing. For we will not be spirits without bodies, but we will put on new heavenly bodies. Our dying bodies make us groan and sigh, but it’s not that we want to die and have no bodies at all. We want to slip into our new bodies so that these dying bodies will be swallowed up by everlasting life.
2
C
ORINTHIANS 5:1–4
G
od used my closest friend, David Gentiles, to keep me alive, and I’m grateful. He also used David again in my life nearly two years after the accident.
Until then I had never talked to anyone about my heavenly experience. In a general sense, I had talked to Eva, but I always closed off the conversation before she asked questions. She tacitly understood that part of my experience was off-limits. To her credit, she never pressured me to say anything more.
It wasn’t that I wanted to withhold anything from Eva; I just couldn’t talk about the experience. At times I felt that it had been too sacred and that to try to explain it would diminish the incident.
Nearly a year and a half after my release from the hospital, David came to the Houston area for a discipleship weekend. He used that as an excuse to come to the house and spend time with me.
When the two of us were alone, I had a flashback to the time when I had been lying in ICU and had told him that I couldn’t go on. That’s when he had told me that he would pray me through. We talked about that day, and I thanked him again for his friendship and relentless commitment to prayer.
“How are you feeling now?” he asked.
“I’m in pain.” I tried to laugh and added, “I’m always in pain, but that’s not the worst part for me right now.”
He leaned closer. “What is the worst part?”
“I just don’t know where I’m going. I lack any clear direction about my future.”
David listened as I talked about the things I would like to do, the things I couldn’t physically do, and how I wasn’t sure that God wanted me to continue at South Park. I felt loved and needed there, but I wasn’t sure that was where I should be.
He listened for a long time and then asked gently, “What did you learn from your accident and recovery experience?”
For three or four minutes I shared several things, especially about letting other people inside and allowing them to help me. Then I said, “But in the midst of all this suffering and despondency, I have learned that heaven is real.”
He raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean by that?”
Slowly, hesitantly, I shared a little—very little—about my brief visit to heaven. “Tell me more,” he said, and I didn’t hear it as prying. He was my friend and wanted to know. I also sensed that I could speak about heaven to David and that, as much as any human being was able, he would understand.
“I died in that accident. The next moment I stood in heaven,” I said.
He leaned forward, and although he waited silently for me to continue, I saw the excitement in his eyes.
The more I shared, the more animated he became. In retrospect, I believe David’s exuberance was a combination of my personal confirmation of heaven’s reality and his relief in knowing something good had come out of my long nightmare.
After I had shared my experience in heaven, he said nothing, and a peaceful silence filled the room. Our friendship was such that we didn’t have to fill the gap with words.
David finally nodded slowly and asked, “Why haven’t you talked about this before?”
“I have two very good reasons. Number one, if I go around talking about having been in heaven, people will think I’m nuts.”
“Why would you think that? I heard you, and I didn’t—”
“Number two,” I said, interrupting him, “I don’t want to go over that experience again. It’s . . . well, it’s just too personal. Too special. This is something I haven’t even processed enough to understand it myself. It’s not that I don’t want to share it, but I don’t think I can.”
“Why do you think you experienced heaven if you’re not supposed to share it?”
“I don’t have an answer for that question.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you a better question I’ve asked myself—Why did I experience it and have it taken away from me? What was that all about?” Months of pent-up anger burst forth, and all the interior pain spewed out. “Okay, why did I have to go through this? I saw the glory and the beauty—the most powerful, overwhelming experiences in my life—and then I had to come back. Why? For this?” I pointed to my arm and leg. “Listen. I was in an accident that took my life. Immediately I went to heaven, and it was greater and more wonderful than anything I’ve ever imagined. I had a magnificent taste of heaven, and then I was pulled back to this life again. My body is a mess. I’m constantly in pain. I’ll never be healthy or strong again. I’m still processing this because—because, frankly it all seems cruel to me.”
David stared at me and asked again, “Why do you think you experienced it if you’re not supposed to share it?”
“Like I said, I don’t have an answer for that question.”
“Is it possible that God took you to heaven and brought you back for you to share what happened to you? Don’t you realize what a powerful encouragement you can be to others?”
His words shocked me. I had been so focused on myself, I hadn’t thought about anyone else.
I broke down as I tried to relate to him how I felt and to explain it to myself. I cried in his presence, and I knew it was all right.
For perhaps twenty minutes we discussed it. David nudged me, and although I knew he was right, it still wasn’t easy for me to share my experience.
Finally David said, “I want you to make a covenant with me.”
“What kind of covenant?”
“Simple. Pick two people you trust. Just tell them a little of your experience and gauge their response.” He went on to explain that if they thought I was crazy or that I had hallucinated, then I would never have to speak about it again.
“But if they rejoice with you,” he said, “and if they urge you to tell them more, I want you to take this as a sign—a sign that God wants you to talk about those ninety minutes you spent in heaven.”
After considering the matter carefully, I covenanted with him. “I can do that much.”
“When?”
“I promise to do it soon.”
“Very soon, right?”
“Okay, I promise I won’t put it off.”
David prayed for me, and as I listened to him speak, the certainty came over me. It was no longer a choice—I had to speak out—but I would do it my way.
First, I decided on those I could trust with my holy secret. Once I had narrowed it down to a handful, I still took a cautious approach. I made sure it was a one-to-one conversation. I’d wait until the matter of my health came up—and it always did—and then I’d say something simple such as, “You know, I died that day. And I woke up in heaven.”
The reaction was the same each time: “Tell me more.” They didn’t always say those words, but that’s what they wanted. I could see their eyes widen, and they wanted to know more.
As I shared a little more, no one questioned my sanity. No one told me I had hallucinated.
“You have to tell people about this,” one of them said.
“That experience wasn’t just for you,” another friend said. “It’s for us as well. It’s for me.”
As I listened to each one over the next two weeks, I realized I was right back where I had been in the hospital the time Jay had rebuked me. That time I wouldn’t let anyone help me, and it was selfish. This time I wouldn’t share what had happened to me—and it was also selfish.
“Okay, I’ll talk about it,” I vowed to myself.
Since virtually everyone already knew about my tragic auto accident, I used the occasion as the natural catalyst to speak about my time in heaven—cautiously at first. As people responded with overwhelming support, I became more open and less careful about the people with whom I shared my story.
I want to make it clear that even though I knew it was what I was supposed to do, it wasn’t easy for me. Even now, years later, it’s just against my nature to talk deeply and personally about things in my life. Today, I only discuss my glimpse of heaven when someone asks, and then only because I feel that person really wants to know. Otherwise, I still wouldn’t talk about it.
That’s part of the reason it’s taken me so many years to write this book. I didn’t want my experience in heaven and my return to earth to be my sole reason for being alive. On the contrary, it was such an extraordinarily personal and intimate experience that going back over it repeatedly isn’t something I feel comfortable doing.
I talk about my experience both publicly and to individuals. I’m writing about what happened because my story seems to mean so much to people for many different reasons. For example, when I speak to any large crowd, at least one person will be present who has recently lost a loved one and needs assurance of that person’s destination.
When I finish speaking, it still amazes me to see how quickly the line forms of those who want to talk to me. They come with tears in their eyes and grief written all over their faces. I feel so grateful that I can offer them peace and assurance.
I’ve accepted that my words do bring comfort, but it was never something I thought about doing. If it hadn’t been for David Gentiles pushing me, I’m sure that even to this day I wouldn’t have told anyone.
I’m also grateful for his urging me, because I’ve seen the effect not only in worship services but also when I’ve conducted funerals. In fact, my experience has changed many things about the way I look at life. I’ve changed the way I do funerals. Now I can speak authoritatively about heaven from firsthand knowledge.
Besides my own miraculous experience, four things stand out from my heavenly journey. First, I’m thoroughly convinced that God answers prayer. Answered prayer is why I’m still alive. Second, I have an unquestionable belief that God still is in the miracle business. Too many people read about the supernatural in the Bible and think,
That’s the way it was in biblical times.
I’m convinced that God continues to do the more-than-ordinary. Every day I thank God that I’m a living, walking, talking miracle.
Third, I want as many people as possible to go to heaven. I’ve always believed Christian theology that declares heaven is real and a place for God’s people. Since my own experience of having been there, I’ve felt a stronger sense of responsibility to make the way absolutely clear. Not only do I want people to go to heaven, I now feel an urgency about helping them open their lives so they can be assured that’s where they’ll go when they die.
I’ve actually thought about the people who get killed on the highways. In evangelistic services, some have used such stories as a scare tactic to manipulate people into making commitments to Jesus Christ. But because of my experience, I see such accidents as definite possibilities of death at any moment in our lives. I don’t want to see others die without Jesus Christ.
Finally, one time, Dick Onerecker and I talked about this urgency. He understood why I felt that way. Then I told him, “Again, Dick, I want to thank you for saving my life. I obviously can’t thank you enough for your faithfulness in obeying God that rainy day.”
“It was what anybody would have done,” he said, and then he started crying.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said, feeling bad that I had said something to make him cry like that. “That’s the last thing on earth I’d ever want to do.”
“That’s not what I’m crying about.”
Several minutes lapsed before he finally pulled himself back together again.
“What were you crying about?” I asked.