90 Minutes in Heaven (19 page)

Repeatedly, my doctor has told me, “Everything we did for you is the best we can do. Don’t count on being able to live a long, productive life. Because of arthritis and a lot of other complications that will set in, you’re going to have an uphill battle to be even as mobile as you are now.”

He knew what he was talking about. It’s been fifteen years since my accident. I’ve already felt the beginning of arthritis. Weather changes affect me; I grow tired faster. Some of it may be age, but I think it’s a reflection of the fact that I have to use my legs and knees in ways God didn’t design them to be used.

Even today, my left knee hyperextends, so if someone comes from behind and inadvertently slaps me on the back, I have to catch myself or I’ll keep going forward. I can’t lock my knee into place to keep from losing my balance and pitching forward.

I’ve tried to make light of this, quipping, “I’ve fallen in some of the best places in Texas.” Or, “I’ve considered commissioning some little plaques that say, ‘Don Piper fell here.’”

One time I led an outdoor conference in the Texas hill country. The ground was uneven and I’d walk along and all of a sudden, I’d fall. I wasn’t hurt, but I fell three times the first day.

Despite everything they did for me, one of my legs is an inch and a half shorter than the other. That alone makes my backbone curve. The backbone is beginning to show wear and tear, as are my hip joints. My left elbow is so messed up I can’t straighten it out. Doctors did everything they could, including operating on it several times. The elbow was fractured on the inside, and when it knitted back together, it wouldn’t allow me to straighten it. To use the doctor’s expression, “It’s a very gimpy joint.”

An injury like that, he pointed out, is not forgiving. Once it gets messed up, it’s hard to fix it again.

This is part of my new normal.

Once after a visit to Dr. Tom Greider’s office, he asked me back into his private suite. Despite his busy caseload, I felt he was genuinely interested in me, and we talked about a lot of things.

On a whim I asked, “Tom, just how bad was I when they brought me in that night of the accident?”

He didn’t flinch. “I’ve seen worse.” He paused for a moment, leaned over his desk, and then continued, “but none of them lived.”

I’ve had to find different ways to do things. I am alive, however, and I intend to serve Jesus Christ as long as I remain alive. But I already know what’s ahead, waiting for me.

I’m ready to leave this earth anytime.

15
TOUCHING LIVES

All praise to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. He is the source of every mercy and the God who comforts us. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When others are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.

2
C
ORINTHIANS 1:3–4

S
ometimes I still ask God why I wasn’t allowed to stay in heaven. I have no answer to that question. I have learned, however, that God brings people into my life who need me or need to hear my message, giving me the opportunity to touch their lives.

One of the first times I was able to minister to someone as a result of my accident was when I was the guest preacher in a large church. They invited me specifically to talk about my trip to heaven. A woman who sat near the front and to my left began to weep shortly after I began to speak. I could see the tears sliding down her cheeks. As soon as we closed the meeting, she rushed up to me and clasped my hand.

“My mother died last week.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss—”

“No, no, you don’t understand. God sent you here tonight. I needed this kind of reassurance. Not that I didn’t believe—I did, but my heart has been so heavy because of the loss. I feel so much better. She
is
in a better place. Oh, Reverend Piper, I needed to hear that tonight.”

Before I could say anything more, she hugged me and added, “God also sent
me
here tonight because I needed this reassurance. Not that I didn’t believe and didn’t know—because I’m a believer and so was she—but I needed to hear those words tonight. I needed to know about heaven from someone who had been there.”

So far as I recall, she was the first to talk to me that way, but certainly not the last. I’ve heard this kind of response hundreds of times. It still amazes me that I can be a blessing to so many just by sharing my experience.

For those who already believe, my testimony has been reassuring; for skeptics, it’s opened them up to think more seriously about God.

Two years after the accident, when I still wore leg braces and walked with crutches, I took a group of our young people to a conference at Houston’s First Baptist Church. Dawson McAllister, a great teacher to youth, was the speaker. He’s so popular he fills up the place.

As happens when you work with teens, we were late in leaving South Park Church. I didn’t say anything, but I felt extremely irritated with the delay. I had wanted to arrive early because I knew the best seats would be taken if we didn’t get there at least an hour before starting time.

I tried not to let it show, but I was still upset by the time we reached First Baptist Church in Houston. Once we went inside the huge building, we realized—as I had expected—that all the seats on the lower floor were filled. We’d have to climb the stairs.

I groaned at the thought of having to do more walking. Even though I was mobile, wearing those braces and the pressure of the crutches under my armpits tired me out. To make it worse, the elevator wasn’t working.
If that person hadn’t been late,
I kept thinking,
I wouldn’t have to hobble up all those stairs.

It wasn’t just clumping up the stairs, but the auditorium was so full that the only places left to sit were in the top rows. Our young people, naturally, raced ahead to claim those seats. They promised to save one for me on the end. I counted 150 steps as I painfully made my way up.

By the time I finally reached the top, exhaustion had overcome me. I could hardly walk the last flight and across the back of the auditorium to the seat the kids had saved for me. Before I sat down—which also demanded a lot of effort—I rested by leaning against the wall. As I tried to catch my breath, I asked myself,
What am I doing here?

I could have gotten other adults to take the kids, but I really wanted to be with them. I wanted to feel useful again. I also knew this would be an exciting event for the youth, and I wanted to be part of it. Boisterous laughter and shouting back and forth filled the place. The youth were ready to be blessed and challenged, but at that moment, I didn’t think about the kids or how much they would get out of the meeting. I thought only of being worn out.

At that moment self-pity took over. As I continued to lean against the wall, my gaze swept the auditorium. Two sections over I spotted a teenage boy in a wheelchair. He was sitting with his head in his hands, his back to me. As I stared at him, I
knew
I had to go over and talk to him. Suddenly I didn’t question my actions and I forgot about being tired.

I leaned my crutches against the wall and then slowly, painfully made my way across to his section and down the steps. He was a large, good-looking kid, maybe sixteen years old. When I got closer, I realized why I needed to talk to him. He was wearing an Ilizarov frame—which I hadn’t been able to see from where I had stood. My tiredness vanished, along with my anger and self-pity. It was as if I saw myself in that wheelchair and reexperienced all the pain of those days.

He was looking away from me when I laid my hand on his shoulder. His head spun around and he glared at me.

“That really hurts doesn’t it?” I asked.

He looked at me as if to say,
What kind of fool are you?
Instead he said, “Yeah. It hurts very much.”

“I know.” I patted his shoulder. “Believe me, I know.”

His eyes widened. “You do?”

“I do. I had one too.”

“It’s horrible.”

“I know that. It’s just horrible. I wore one on my left leg for eleven months.”

“Nobody ever understands,” he said plaintively.

“They can’t. It’s not something you can talk about and have anyone understand your pain.”

For the first time I saw something in his eyes. Maybe it was hope, or maybe just a sense of peace because at long last he had found someone who knew what he was going through. We had connected, and I felt privileged to be standing next to him.

“My name is Don,” I said, “and you’ve just met somebody who understands the pain and the discouragement you’re going through.”

He stared at me, and then his eyes moistened. “I don’t know if I’m going to make it.”

“You’re going to make it. Trust me, you’ll make it.”

“Maybe,” he said.

“What happened?” By then I’d realized it hadn’t been a voluntary surgery.

“I had a ski accident.”

I noticed that he was wearing a letter jacket. I asked, “You a football player?”

“Yes, sir.”

Briefly I told him about my accident, and he told me more about what had happened to him. “I’m going to tell you something,” I said. “One day you will walk again.”

His face registered skepticism.

“You might not play football again, but you’ll walk.” I handed him my business card. “My number is on the card, and you can call me anytime, day or night, twenty-four hours a day.”

He took the card and stared at it.

“I’m going to walk back up there to my kids.” I pointed to where they sat. “I want you to watch me. And as you watch, I want you to know that one day you will walk too.” I laughed. “And I’ll bet you’ll walk better than I do.”

He reached up, grabbed me, and hugged me. He held me tight for a long time. I could feel his constricted breathing as he fought back tears. Finally he released me and mumbled his thanks.

“You’ve found somebody who understands,” I said. “Please call me.”

That boy needed somebody who understood. I don’t know that I had much to offer, but I had my experience and I could talk to him about pain. Had I not gone through it myself, I’d just be telling him, “I hope you feel better. You’re going to be okay”—well-meaning words that most people used.

When I reached the top row, perspiration drenched my body from all the effort, but I didn’t care. I turned around. He still stared at me. I smiled and waved, and he waved back. The dejection and despair had left his face.

Over the next six months, I received three calls from him, two just to talk and one late at night when he was really discouraged. They were phone calls I will always cherish, one struggling pilgrim to another.

One time, a Houston TV station scheduled me to appear on a live talk show. While I was waiting in their greenroom, the producer came in and began to explain how the show worked and some of the questions I could expect to be asked.

“That’s fine,” I said. “Who else is a guest on the show?”

“You’re it.”

“Wait a minute. You’re going to do an hour-long show and I’m the only guest?”

“That’s right.”

I wondered what I would talk about for an hour. It was fairly early in my recovery, and at the time I had no idea how interested people were in my story. By then the doctor had removed the Ilizarov frame and I was wearing braces and using crutches. I had brought pictures of me in the hospital, which they televised that day. And I brought the Ilizarov device itself.