Grief
“Your time is not yet…”
“The collision did – but it didn’t, kill me. Along with two later incidents, I have died and come back to life three times.”
My hands are hard, calloused, scarred. Last night I stroked my wife, Catherine’s, shoulder, but couldn’t feel anything through my fingertips.
We laughed then, speculating as we have over the seventeen years of our marriage, about why the desensitization – yet, sensitivity to touch at other times. Was it the multiple incidents of frostbite, suffered from my 30+ years as a telephone Installer/Repairman working in the Alaskan Interior at temperatures that sometimes plummet as low as –60 degrees? Or could the lack of feeling in various nerve groups in body, face, and hands be attributed to the automobile accident I had in the 1960’s that should have killed me?
I use the term “should have” loosely. The collision did – but it didn’t, kill me. Along with two later incidents, I have died and come back to life three times.
In 1969, prior to my dying the first time, I was still a boy, only 17. It was about the middle of June, and I was joy riding with another guy. Being kids.
It was warm, a great deal more so than I like. We were kidding around, driving down the highway. I can picture the other boy’s face, his sideways looks, hear his laughter – as he responded to whatever I said – just prior to the crash.
When I opened my eyes, an annoying beeping, along with everything being white – white sheets, white walls, white uniforms – told me I was in some sort of hospital room. I heard voices, words spoken in hushed tones by those scurrying about caring for my body, saying, “He’s split his skull open.”
That discovery alone, disconcerting as it was, was minor compared to the next. I was floating above it all, looking down on myself – the whole bloody lacerated mess. Strangely, I felt at peace. I wasn’t afraid, just curious.
How did I get there? Why? Where was I going? I wanted to speak to my parents, to tell them I was fine, but that wasn’t an option.
There I was, looking down upon everyone in the E.R. room, the doctors and myself and my parents. Then suddenly, I shifted into a tunnel of light.
It was bright, but not blinding, warm, comforting. I didn’t want to leave, but I was told at that time, “Your time is not yet.” It felt like it was God, or Jesus – it just felt that way.
The next thing I knew, it was about a day later. I woke up – this time back in my body, and not feeling particularly good about it. I was painfully aware of my fractured face, skull and all kinds of abrasions over my body from the car accident.
That should have been, for me, a wake-up call. But, it wasn’t. I recovered, went back to my life, and left the experience behind. Not particularly religious, or prone to think too deeply about things, I simply moved on. I was young; I had my life ahead of me. The last subject I wanted to dwell on was death.
I’d always been an escape artist. Since discovering at three years old how to escape my playpen, then to be returned home by the police who found me on my tricycle exploring, some distance from home, I’d avoided the inevitable consequences of my actions. My childhood came to an abrupt end when, in 1970, I challenged my parents for the last time.
Dad, who spent more time away than at home, but still maintained a very strong presence, gave me an ultimatum. With the cop standing looking on, he said, “Son, you will join the military, or you’re going to jail. It’s your choice. Choose.”
I wasn’t stupid, nor was I born yesterday. Images, like a movie, moved through my mind. I pictured myself confined to a room, looking through bars, and gulped. That would be slow death to me.
Being shot at didn’t hold much appeal, but holding a gun did. I was a hunter. I knew guns.
There was no question - risk and adventure versus being restrained, trapped. Shortly after that, I joined the army, as an enlistee.
That forced decision changed my life in many ways, some for the better, some not. It didn’t make me any more spiritual, nor did it cause me reflect over my own mortality. Death was all around me; it was the last subject I wanted to dwell on.
Then, one day, during a simple maneuver while walking in the fields of Viet Nam, I took a step that would again change my life. It was warm, sultry. Except for the muted sounds of my comrades’ quietly pushing through the tall grasses, the only other was that of birds calling to each other.
Viet Nam was a dirty war; we often know who the enemy was, man, woman, or child. The enemy would sometimes turn hidden claymore mines, set up by our side – the Americans – against us with the trip mechanism shifted, ready to catch the unsuspecting.
I stepped forward, through the groundcover, and didn’t see it. I heard the explosion, and the next thing I knew, I was in a military hospital.
Ironically, as if the resulting wounds weren’t enough, other developments tied me to my bed and kept me from returning to active duty. I was not only recovering from spinal meningitis, but also from an upper respiratory infection.
I guess my body couldn’t take anymore, even young as I was. One day, like the other not so long before, I woke and there I was, again in the tunnel of light. It was bright but not blinding, the same as before. This time I was told, “It’s not your time. You have work to do,” by the same Voice as before.
Now, that did get my attention. After that, I was in and out of military chapels. I would go there when I needed peace and solitude, when I was hurting, lonely, or looking for answers. I knew I was lacking something in my life and would sit there and cry out to God, but nothing happened.
After this second back-to-life experience, I began to really look at each day differently. I started appreciating every moment – what God had created. I especially enjoyed sunsets and sunrises, God’s artistry always being new. I photographed hundreds of them.
I also started attending Sacred Heart Cathedral in Fairbanks and went for several years quite regularly. There were several priests there that when they spoke, their words would hit home for me.
By 1977, I was working in the remote harbor of Valdez, Alaska as a diver, in the civilian sector, making underwater electrical repairs. There were networks of scaffolding and docks, some quite high, some not, built for us.
While standing on one of the structures, about ten feet above another flat surface, I fell. I landed directly on a 4x4 piece of wood standing upright. It ruptured my left lung, and basically I was drowning in my own blood, when in the hospital, I again died and found myself in that same tunnel of light.
I was given the same message that I was given in 1970. The Voice said, “Your time isn’t yet; you have to go back. You have work to do.”
Unbelievably, I continued blithely along in life, fat dumb and happy for quite some time, without giving the experiences much thought. It still didn’t strike home what happened on any one of those three occasions.
But, then things began to change, when in 1993 I was going through a divorce and began to constantly talk to God. Though I wasn’t going to church, I poured my heart out to Him, begging for his help to save my family.
He didn’t seem to answer me, so at that time I walked away from God, feeling like I wasn’t important to Him. He didn’t restore my marriage and He didn’t keep my family together. I was flat disappointed, feeling as though he’d deserted us altogether.
I was still interested in spiritual things, so I became very spiritual, but not with Jesus Christ or as a Christian. Since God hadn’t listened to me, I was searching for a Supreme entity. It didn’t matter if this entity was Wiccan, or whatever. I needed something to give me a spiritual connection with something or someone.
In 1997, I met the lady I am currently married to. Being a Universalist who believed that eventually all religions led to God, I didn’t hesitate when she invited me to attend church with her. I was still having issues with who Jesus was; I thought of Him as just another good teacher and the Bible as another good book – corrupted by man. In spite of the fact that I didn’t have any confidence in the Bible, it’s words still spoke to me week after week.
My wife Catherine refused to take the bait I tossed to her, to debate religion, God, and the Bible. I would say, “God the Father, and the Holy Spirit, I believe in, but who is Jesus, and where does He fit in?” She would respond, “God is a big God. He doesn’t need me to defend Him. When your heart is open to Him, right and ready, He will introduce Himself to you!”
About seven years into our marriage, while in crisis over a major personal matter, I went to see the pastor of the University Community Presbyterian Church (U.C.P.C.). He had scheduled a Dunamis “power of God” Retreat for that weekend. His response to me was to say, “Grab a bed roll and don’t worry about anything else. Go to the Retreat.”
I prayed all the way out to the camp, for God to show Himself to me. The crisis I was in still had me in a very rattled state. The first workshop I attended was about prayer.
Well, I want to say, God answered my prayer. I’m uncertain how, but Jesus Christ showed himself to me both physically, and relationally.
I got to see Him, physically, instantly understanding Who He was. I saw His face. I could see every line of pain and suffering, all the character of His face - his tears, his sorrow - and his happiness. For the first time ever in my life that I could recall, I knew Jesus. I knew his presence.
I was filled with joy and total repentance; He gave me peace from all the things I had been plagued by. For the next two or three years, my wife would hand me a tissue every time I heard Jesus’ name.
When I did, I would just weep. I discovered Jesus Christ is real, as genuinely alive as I am, sitting here telling this story. For me, his claims are true. I began encouraging everyone to check the Bible out.
Today I am a much different person than I was then. I look upon the Bible truly as a God-inspired book, a living Book. It’s as relevant today as it was when it was written. It is not just another good book.
While recently speaking with Father Tom of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in Cordova, Alaska, I shared my story with him, reflecting over what the work might be that I was to complete, and how I would know what it is. He answered something to the effect, “When people do God’s work, most often they aren’t even aware of it.”
Am I doing God’s work today? Have I found out exactly what “it” was? No, not specifically. However, this I know. Jesus is real, and when I get the opportunity, and have the nerve to do so, I tell others about Him.
Is this His work? I believe so.
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This is a Great Story and a Very Good read! I felt the spirit move when I read it. An incredible journey for this man. When God decides he needs you, he doesn't let go. Thank you for sharing this story.
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