Heaven for Real, I Believe

Thousands of people have related their stories of near death experiences (NDEs), perhaps the most popular in recent years being told by a pastor (Don Piper, 90 Minutes in Heaven, 2004), and by a child (Colton Burpo, Heaven is for Real, 2010), neither of which, though fascinating in their own right, is likely---given the occupation of the first and the age of the second--- to convince those skeptical of such experiences.

But now we encounter the NDEs of Dr. Mary C. Neal (To Heaven and Back: A Doctor’s Extraordinary Account of Her Death, Heaven, Angels, and Life Again, 2011) and Dr. Eben Alexander (Proof of Heaven, A Neurosurgeon’s Journey into the Afterlife, 2012). Neal is a spinal surgeon; Alexander is a neurosurgeon who has taught at Harvard Medical School and other universities. 

Neal drowned while on a trip to Chile; Alexander spent seven days in a coma after being infected with rare E. coli bacteria that penetrated his cerebrospinal fluid and shut down the part of his brain, the neocortex, which controls thought and emotions.

Neal’s account of her actual encounter with death and entrance into heaven is brief. Most of her book is about how the experience affected her life, particularly the manner in which it enabled her to cope with the tragic death of her son years after her NDE. Indeed, while in heaven Neal is told she must return to earth to help her family deal with that loss.

Although Neal was a professing Christian before her NDE (she relates instances when she believes God intervened in her life), at the time of her NDE she had relegated God to the back seat of her life. But all that changed after she drowned. As she approached a great hall in heaven, she felt her soul being pulled toward an entry as she was “physically absorbed” in radiance, “feeling the pure, complete, and utterly unconditional absolute love that emanated from the hall.” Now she wants others to see that it doesn't take a NDE like hers to see that events are not coincidental, that God has a plan for each of us, and that there really is life after death.

Alexander, whose book is to be released this week, describes his pre-NDE spiritual life as that of a “faithful Christian,” who was more so “in name than in actual belief.” His skepticism of NDEs changed after he emerged from his seven day coma: “That dimension---in rough outline, the same one described by countless subjects of near-death experiences and other mystical states---is there. It exists, and what I saw and learned there has placed me quite literally in a new world: a world where we are much more than our brains and bodies, and where death is not the end of consciousness but rather a chapter in a vast, and incalculably positive, journey.” Like Neal, Alexander was told in heaven that he would have to return to earth.

Because he didn't want his experience to be affected by prior research on NEDs, Alexander first detailed his own encounter with the afterlife before thoroughly studying the subject. Alexander is convinced that consciousness exists outside the brain, that the soul is not dependent on the brain, and that “the reductive materialistic model is inadequate to explain what we know about consciousness now.”

Both authors are passionate about sharing the reality they describe as heaven. Is it for real? Most definitely it is. But I say that with eyes of faith; I am a believer.

 It’s for that very reason that I’m also skeptical. While I hope for the best, I doubt that either book will change the mind of the entrenched atheist or seasoned skeptic. Already one scientist has challenged Alexander. “Even if I granted that his brain had been shut down — it’s not shut down now. And there is absolutely no way for him to establish (or even to subjectively know) that he didn’t have his experience as his brain was coming back online. End of debate, as far as I’m concerned,” said Dr. Sam Harris, in Skeptiko.com.

We shouldn't be surprised, should we? Didn't Jesus himself warn his listeners, ‘“If they won’t listen to Moses and the prophets, they won’t listen even if someone rises from the dead”’ (Luke 16:31)?

NDEs can be powerful pointers to another dimension, yet a dimension that in the final analysis must still be received by faith, a faith placed in the One who created that place, One who having risen from a real death experience, promised to return again so his followers can join him in that place.

That place is more real than this place.

After all, it’s heaven, I believe.

                   

Goodbye, Room

“I went back upstairs one more time and said ‘goodbye’ to my room. I’m ready to go now.”

Dave’s words were my signal: Cutting my eyes towards him as he walked to his car, I turned on the headlights in the early morning dawn, put the U-Haul in gear, and we all---Dave, Lori, Madi, and I--- headed south, caravan style.

He had already been away four years in college. But that was less than an hour away. Now, having spent the summer working and living at home, it was time for him to move on, nine hours away, to begin another phase of life. Moving away seemed more permanent this time.

“What did you say to your room?” I asked him, about 300 miles down the road, at the truck stop where we refueled.

His faint smile of resignation required no explanation; I understood, for I’ve said “goodbye” to many a room along life’s way. When we say “goodbye,” we face ourselves, at least the self we think we knew for that chapter of life---and we filter the changes through the lens of time as we exit one room and step onto the next road of the journey.

Months later, back home, I’m driving to visit a friend. Turning down the street, I hear the bark of an auctioneer in front of a house.

In the front lawn of the auctioned house an older couple, maybe in their late 70s,  stand sadly---or so it appears---watching with tired eyes as the whole thing transpires: people bidding for items once treasured by a family, now on the auction block---going, going, gone. And the tall man with slumped shoulders wearing overalls stares at the auctioneer like he is an executioner, while his wife in a simple cotton skirt stares at the ground.

Where are they moving? Where have they been? And have they told their rooms, “goodbye”?

Having arrived at my friend’s home, I notice on the wall a painting of an old house. I immediately recognize it because I drive by it every day. Unaware of its history, I feel like an ignorant tourist unknowingly trampling on sacred ground. It was a beautiful ante-bellum home, built in the late 1850s. Having past through several owners, it ended up in her family. After she had grown up in it, the home was auctioned in 1977. Now, the once stately, proud historical home is dilapidated, covered in trees and vines. Where once there were rooms filled with laughter and life there is now only silence and decay.

Her face brightens at my interest. “Momma took a picture of each room before it was sold.” Now my friend shows me her old home in photographs. One picture shows plates hanging on the kitchen wall. They are painted with the faces of the children; the grandchildren are painted on saucers. “Momma painted each one herself,” my friend informs me.

I wondered if each child said “goodbye” to those rooms before the house went empty, auctioned away. And did those grandchildren know what those rooms meant?

What do rooms mean, anyway?

They carry meaning because a part of us still resides in those rooms, even after the house has been bought, sold, resold, and finally lies in ruins. We enter and reenter parts of ourselves in each one of those rooms, for they carry a piece of our life puzzle, fitting us together, giving us clues of who we are today: They encompass a part of our life---our hurts, our joys, our victories, and our defeats. We can say goodbye to them; we can move beyond them; but they go with us, because part of us happened there.

Maybe you carry it in photographs, but finally, you carry it in your heart---that room where you watched TV,  that room where you ate at that kitchen table, that room where you could be alone, that room where you rocked the baby.  It’s a room that formed your yesterday, shapes your today, and touches your tomorrows.

You can say “goodbye” to it, but it’s never gone. Not completely. It’s still a part of the emotional luggage you carry out the door.

Indeed it is.

Or you wouldn't have bothered to walk back up the stairs.

You wouldn’t have opened the door one last time and said, “Goodbye, room.”

The Miracle of a New Life

When she handed me her baby, my first grandbaby, I could have sworn---even though he had been born less than ten minutes ago---that he raised his left eyebrow, winked at me, smiled, and was about to whisper, “Aren’t you glad I finally arrived!”

Instead he opened mouth real wide and cried. And once again reality nudged me in the side.

I say once again because reality had pounced on the scene in our lives months before when our youngest daughter, Madi, let us know she was going to be a mother. Lori and I had just settled in for the evening, having gotten home from Wednesday night prayer services at church, and were giggling at the humorous depictions of family life on the TV show, Modern Family. “Isn’t it amazing how they make real life situations so funny,” I was thinking.

Then just after the first commercial, I turned the volume back up, readied myself for laughter, when: wham! It was like Modern Family had jumped from the TV screen into our living room. Only there was no humor in this modern family. Not now. We had gotten the news. It felt like someone had punched me in the stomach, knocking the breath out of me.

Madi’s our youngest, still in college: She has high aspirations. And we love her fiancé, John, who is devoted to her and has a good work ethic. But in our minds, the timing was off. Way off.  

Our first response was something like code blue alert. While Lori was trying to breathe, I was walking around the room like an Old Testament prophet trying to tear his clothes. If I could have found dust, I would have tossed that up in the air like the ancients did in a show of desperation.

Regaining my composure, or at least calming down enough to administer some aid to Lori, who was still hyperventilating, we took stock of the situation: Neither one of us was ready for grandparenthood; it was supposed to be out there, maybe ten or fifteen years out there. We’re too young for that. Okay, at least Lori is too young for that. Anyway, this was not supposed to happen. Not yet! And we were enraged that these kids had gotten themselves pregnant so young. “They don’t have a clue about what lies ahead,” I whispered to myself as I drifted off to a fitful sleep.

The months passed. Madi stayed in school, and both of them worked hard. Gradually, I realized that young as they are, and as much as they have to learn, they aren’t clueless. They had a plan and were showing commitment to each other and their unborn.

The sonogram revealed our baby was a boy, who soon had a name, Eli. (When they opted for a name from the Hebrew Bible, I suggested Asher, Ehud, Naphtali, or Gad, as possible middle names, but Madi and John passed on those, settling on Eli Benson.)

They met at our home before going to the hospital. I prayed for an easy delivery and a healthy baby. Waving to them as they drove away, I felt like a piece of my heart was leaving with them, and hoped it would return in full measure.

Soon, Lori and I and John’s mother and sister were waiting for Eli’s arrival. A few hours later, like any wimpy man, I returned home to catch a few winks of sleep while the brave women kept watch over Madi who courageously endured labor.

Then Lori called, “You’d better get here.” It was time. Feeling like the disciples who couldn’t stay awake when Jesus needed them most, I threw on my clothes, sped to the hospital, and stood behind a curtain in the delivery room, praying for Madi one more time.

And then we waited outside the room, in the hallway.

Moments later we heard it: the most beautiful noise in the world, at least for us in that moment: a baby’s cry. Within minutes, someone opened the door, motioning for us to come in. Lori held Eli first. Then it was my turn. Tears welled up in my eyes, and once again, I could hardly breathe.

Heaven descends on earth when you cradle a newborn in your arms. And time stops. Then it starts again, reminding us that God has his timing, beyond our own, that he is in control and can sometimes shower us with droplets of his grace through the birth of a baby. 

Welcome Back

“Welcome back, Mr. Whitlock,” the hotel host greeted me as Lori and I returned from an evening out. I looked down to see if I had a name tag on my shirt. Almost feeling like a celebrity, I whispered to Lori as we got on the elevator, “How did he know my name?”

It’s nice to be welcomed back.

And when someone knows who we are and can even call us by name, like the host at the hotel did to me, it makes us feel even more special.

The actors of Improv Everywhere, a comedic performance art organization whose slogan is, “We Cause Scenes,” has had fun surprising strangers by knowing their names.

 Improv Everywhere performs in public places, carrying out what they call “missions,” with the purpose of creating chaos and joy. In one such mission, dubbed, “Welcome Back,” twenty of them arrived at JFK Airport to welcome back a complete stranger. Having found someone holding a sign with a person’s name on it, the group explained that they too were there for that same person.  After quickly making signs with the stranger’s name on it, they would stand behind a ten foot banner that read, “Welcome Back.”

They did this all day.  When the strangers would arrive, Improv Everywhere would enthusiastically greet them, call them by name, and even give a bouquet of flowers to each stranger. After the initial shock, the strangers would invariably smile, laugh with joy, and express gratitude that somebody had welcomed them back.

It’s nice to be welcomed back.

There is a subtle nuance between “Welcome Back,” and “Welcome Home.” To be welcomed back is lagniappe, that unexpected extra that raises the eyebrows in pleasant surprise. You can be welcomed back to work, school, the gym, tavern, or church and not exactly be home or even welcomed there, as poet Robert Frost seemed to imply in his observation that, “Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.” No one has to take you back; and to be welcomed back is to be favored.

It is nice to be welcomed back.

For the past month I’ve missed writing this column. I’ve wanted to come back but have been editing a book instead, which is tedious work. Thinking I could complete the project with one fell swoop, I took a forced sabbatical from writing the column. But the book remains unfinished, despite my best effort, and so, unable to wait any longer, I’ve come back.

Annie Dillard noted what the experienced working-class French laborers would say of an apprentice who got hurt or tired: ‘“It’s the trade entering his body.”’  Then Dillard drew a lesson for writers: “The art must enter the body, too.”

Whatever we are passionate about becomes part of us; it enters the body. We miss it when we aren’t doing it. We want to come back.

So I’m coming back, and in doing so, I’m welcoming back you, the reader---for you see, a mysterious, unexplainable connection exists between writer and reader--- something like what happens when the Improv Everywhere group welcomes back someone they don’t know, really, but someone they do know, really, because they understand something about people: People everywhere have needs, wants, hopes, dreams, and disappointments. The cast then uses their abilities to bring random occasions of joy to someone---and every someone needs some occasion of joyful surprise.

And then everyone feels better. In coming back I know I do. And I hope you, in some way, do too.

After all, it is nice to be welcomed back.