7 Lessons From Heaven Read online

  Time seemed to stop. I sensed my spirit expanding and becoming a part of everything around me. I felt connected to everything. Time for me could have ended at that moment and I would have been more than content. But Jesus was with me. It was during this time that Jesus lovingly showed me the story of my life and reminded me of the great beauty that comes of all events. (In the pages ahead, I’ll talk more about life reviews.)

  While I was basking in the bottomless kindness and compassion of Jesus, my kayaking friends had figured out that I was under the water below the falls. They became increasingly desperate in their attempts to reach me, but nothing was working.

  The dying process seemed to be taking a very long time and, although I had no sense of my friends’ efforts, I could feel the powerful currents pulling my body out and over the front deck of my boat. Eventually, the current ripped my helmet from my head and my life jacket from my body. My knees were forced to bend forward, breaking bones and tearing ligaments in the process, yet I felt no pain.

  As my body was leaving my boat, I could also feel something else happening—Jesus was releasing me, and my spirit was slowly separating from my body. Suddenly, I felt my spirit release with a small pop. The separation felt painless, gentle, and beautiful. I never experienced being conscious one moment and unconscious the next. Instead, I felt conscious and then more conscious. I had a heightened clarity and intensity of consciousness, and I felt more alive than I had ever felt.

  My body finally broke free from my kayak and was dragged downstream, sometimes bumping and scraping along the bottom of the river, sometimes tumbling in the current. But I don’t remember any of that. What I do remember is this: gracefully rising up out of the river, feeling freedom and lightness as the water fell away from my outstretched arms, and feeling the brilliant sunshine that seemed to pull me upward…until I could look down on the entire scene.

  I was not afraid. With God’s perfect love so profoundly present, fear had no room to exist.

  As I hovered above the river, I was welcomed by a group of “somethings.” Perhaps I should call them people, spirits, angels, or soul friends. But these words mean different things to different people, so I am never quite sure what to call the beings who welcomed me. All I can say is that I had absolute knowledge that these beings had known me and loved me as long as I had existed, and that I had known and loved them also. I believe if I had looked closely at those in my welcoming committee, I would have recognized each of them as someone who had been important in my life experience, regardless of whether I had known them on Earth or not. For example, one might have been a great-grandparent who died long before I was born.

  But here’s the important thing. They were radiant, brilliant, and overflowing with God’s love. In that moment, I knew without a doubt that they had been sent by God to comfort, guide, and protect me. In their presence, I felt completely and unconditionally loved by God in a way that is elusive if not impossible on Earth. I was filled with an inexpressible peace and joy that made life on Earth seem pale and unappealing by comparison.

  I felt like I had finally returned home.

  TURNING TOWARD HEAVEN

  But I still hadn’t left Earth. Not yet. I found myself reveling in my new existence but still watching what was happening on the river below. Yes, a different sense of time and dimension existed in this world I had entered. The past, present, and future all seemed to merge into one reality. I seemed to be in a different spacial dimension as well. But all the while, I was able to look down on the scene at the river.

  By now, I had been under the water for almost thirty minutes.

  Downstream, my bright red life jacket bobbed to the surface, catching the attention of Tom’s eighteen-year-old son, Chad, who quickly jumped into the river to retrieve it. As he swam toward shore, he felt something bump into his leg. It was my body. Serenely, I watched as he grabbed my wrist and pulled my lifeless body from the water.

  Later, observing my friends begin CPR, I came to the full realization that I must be dead. Surprisingly, this did not provoke concern or sadness in me—I simply took note of it. On the riverbank, one of the other kayakers encouraged my friends to stop CPR. Too much time had passed since I had drowned, she said. She warned that if they were able to revive me, I would “just be a vegetable.” Another kayaker wanted to videotape everything. Another panicked and ran up the hillside and out of sight.

  My friends below were frantically focused, but I felt calm. I thought about what a delightful and wonderfully rich life I had lived in my body. It had been a life of opportunity, adventure, and growth. I had a loving husband and four precious young children who expanded my heart beyond what I would have imagined possible, dear family and friends, and a fulfilling job. I had loved deeply and been loved deeply in return. But as I watched the events play out on the riverbank, I felt certain that I was now home and that my life in that body was over.

  And honestly, I did not want to return. Today, I am a little chagrined to admit my lack of desire to return, knowing the grief my family would have endured. But if you think about what I was experiencing in those moments, perhaps you will understand. I was getting my first taste of our true home in God’s love.

  Swept up in that love, I gratefully acknowledged the life that had been mine, then silently said good-bye and turned away from the riverbank in the direction of heaven.

  I began to move with my guides up a path to the entrance of a great domed structure that I knew was the point of no return. As we gently traveled, my companions and I communicated without words and moved without walking. We didn’t speak using our mouths to form words, but the communication was pure and clear. I heard the communication in English, my native language, but it was as if the words were being sent from one person to another in their most elemental form, just transference of energy and meaning.

  Our travel was not instantaneous, but we moved gracefully and effortlessly. I don’t know if I actually had feet, and never even thought to look. The path we traveled seemed like a physical surface—it looked like a solid surface—but it existed in the midst of nothing. The indistinct edges of the road, as well as the space above and below the road, expanded into the universe. With no beginning or end, this path was inexplicably beautiful.

  The colors of nature and the magnificent aromas of flowers and trees have always touched me deeply and, not surprisingly, this is what I began to encounter. As I looked more closely, the path we were on seemed to be stitched together with every color of the rainbow and even some colors I’d never seen before. A seemingly infinite variety of flowers sprouted along the edges of the path, and my very being was infused with their sumptuous aroma. The array and vividness of the colors, the intricacies of the flowers, and the allure of the aromas were all far more intense than anything I have seen or experienced on Earth. I not only saw and smelled these things, but also heard, tasted, and felt them. My senses expanded, and I could both experience them and understand them.

  Of course, I realize this description is difficult to fathom, but I felt that I was a part of the beauty, and it was a part of me. And overlaying and saturating all of this was God’s palpable, complete, unwavering, and all-encompassing love. It was a greater love than I had ever understood or experienced. Even now the feeling is impossible to put into words. I never wanted to leave.

  AT THE THRESHOLD

  I may not have wanted to leave, but far below me on the riverbank, Tom, Kenneth, and Chad were doing everything in their power to thwart my intentions. While Tom and his sons performed CPR, I could hear Chad pleading with me to come back and “take a breath.” Hearing his urgency, I glanced backward and was struck by the vulnerable expression on this young man’s face. Overcome with compassion, I traveled back down the path to my body, where I lay down in my body and took a single breath before getting up to rejoin my companions and travel farther up the path.

  But then I heard Chad pleading again. “Come on! I know you are still here. Breathe! Just one more breath!” Again
, I felt compelled to return to my body and take one more breath. My return to take a single breath, which is how I quite literally interpreted his pleading, occurred repeatedly as we slowly made our way up the path. Again and again and again our progress along the path was delayed as I retuned for another breath in response to Chad’s calling.

  The souls accompanying me never scolded me, hurried me, or expressed anything but pure love and understanding at these interruptions. As the journey continued, we finally reached the arched threshold of the great domelike structure.

  This structure was so large that I could not see its edges and, like the path we were walking on, it had no distinct edges. It appeared to be solid, although I never actually touched it or leaned against it.

  Standing beneath the arched opening, I looked around. The archway was tall, but not very wide, and it might have been about ten feet deep. I was able to stand there with one of the people in my group, while the others crowded around us. The archway seemed to be constructed of large blocks woven together with fibers of God’s love. Like everything else, the structure was brilliant but not blinding, nor did its radiance cast shadows. I wonder if these could have been the clichéd “pearly gates”? Although the bricks did not look to be literally made of pearl, I could imagine that someone might use that analogy to describe the lustrous play of iridescent light emanating from within each block, from the core of their existence.

  I looked beyond the arch and into the center of the dome, where I could see a great deal of activity and many, many beings bustling about. They were too many to count and were moving along different pathways, going in and out of other structures. Was I seeing the heavenly Jerusalem mentioned in scripture? Maybe. These other buildings were tall and just as ethereal as the domed structure. They too seemed to radiate love from within their core.

  I had the impression that most of the beings were people, although some seemed to be angels. I’m not sure why I had this impression and can’t specifically identify what the difference really was, but the ones I thought were angels seemed larger and more glorious, if that were possible. I have no idea what everyone was busy doing. Perhaps I was seeing the “thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly” of Hebrews 12:22, because I remember that their pure joy seemed to create a beautiful melodic hum. Like those who had greeted and guided me, these “people” struck me as ageless, healthy, vibrant, and strong. As I stood watching I was filled with awe and wonder.

  Hours passed, or so it seemed to me, and during that time, I experienced a profound sense of universal understanding. Finally, everything just made sense. All I had to do was think of a question or subject, no matter how complex, and I immediately understood the answer. I not only understood the answer, but I understood the basis for the answer. I was able to observe the complexity of the universe, and yet I understood its truth.

  While I no longer remember most of the questions I asked, nor their answers, and did not return with a new understanding of quantum physics, I am left with the memory of how I was able to see that everything is logical, interconnected, and divinely ordered. Indeed, we are all connected, forming one body. Above all, I retained a deep understanding of the truth of many of God’s promises, all of which lead us to joy.

  But something turned me back toward Earth.

  TO STAY OR TO GO

  Ultimately, it was not Chad’s pleadings or anyone else’s efforts that brought me back. It was, I believe, the will of God. Despite my joy at being “home,” the souls accompanying me told me that it was not my time. They said I had more work to do on Earth, and that I would need to return to my body. I assured them, as Jesus had assured me, that everything would be fine if I stayed, but they were adamant. To convince me, they gently began to tell me about some of the work I still needed to do on Earth.

  One of the more heartbreaking things they shared had to do with the future death of my oldest son. I was told that Willie, then just nine years old, would die “soon,” and that I was to use my own near-death experience to help others see the beauty of his life and of his death.

  This did not surprise me, as my son had told me many years earlier that he would die young, and I now believe his telling me was a gift of preparation so I could listen and not panic when the souls shared these things with me in heaven.

  “But why?” I asked with a broken heart. “Why my son? And why so soon?”

  I was immediately taken back to the life review and reminded of what Jesus promised me—that I could always count on God’s love, and trust that His plan for each person, and for the world, is one of hope.

  That’s when I was led back down the path, toward my lifeless body lying on the wet, rocky banks of the river.

  Chapter 2

  SEEING MY LIFE FROM OUTSIDE TIME

  “Hours were made for man, not man for hours.”

  —FRANÇOIS RABELAIS

  Ever since I was born, I had experienced time as flowing in linear fashion from the past, to the present, to the future. Like most people in the Western world, I’m a linear, schedule-driven person who relies on clocks to organize my busy life. Thinking about time in this way always provided me a sense of control and a way to map out a path to the future I desired.

  Time has been a commodity to be used, spent, budgeted, and saved. Sometimes I have felt like I have a timer in my head. Not literally, of course, but seconds continually tick off, just as they do after the start of a race. Sometimes that is helpful, like when I am beginning a precisely planned surgical procedure where efficiency is important and timing is crucial, but sometimes it can interfere with the experience of the moment.

  One…Two…Three…It’s an almost physical sensation.

  If you are like I am, then I’m guessing that you’ve already been internally timing my story, subconsciously testing it at every turn.

  So how many minutes was she in the kayak before she drowned?

  When she had that conversation with the heavenly beings, how much time did that take?

  And, let’s see, does this really add up?

  But heaven doesn’t work that way. My journey to heaven and back turned my understanding of time inside out. Time as I had always known it really did end the moment I passed from my earthly life to the afterlife. What had been counted out in seconds, minutes, hours, or years—all in a straight line from the past into the future—became something else.

  It felt more like a vast web, where time and space were connected. Counting time didn’t make sense anymore. Everything past, present, and future seemed to be happening in the here and now. Let me try to explain.

  PART OF ETERNITY

  While trapped underwater, I was still quite conscious of linear time, perceiving its passage and recognizing that I would likely die as a result. But I also simultaneously felt like I was a part of the past and the future. I felt a part of eternity.

  Eternity is a very long time, and some people anxiously worry that heaven will be terribly boring. After a few centuries of exploring heaven’s wonders, won’t we start to get bored? Popular imagery—often so egregiously misguided—depicts heaven as an endless church service, where we will listen to organ music and sing dirgelike hymns forevermore. Or, worse yet, we’ll sit on clouds all day playing harps. Some might think this is a perfect way to spend time without end, but not many. No wonder so many people are uncomfortable thinking about eternity.

  What I discovered is that heavenly time—the thing we call eternity—is more like a place in which you dwell rather than a line down which you walk. It blossoms rather than passes. It’s something to be experienced rather than spent. (Are you still with me?)

  So, for example, eternity isn’t really an infinite number of years lined up in a row where one year turns into the next, and one century into another—like chapters in a history book. All of time—past, present, and future—is right here, right now.

  For me, every moment contained its past, present, and future as it expanded into all of eternity, and I experienced all of eter
nity in each single moment. I instantaneously felt a part of nothing and of everything.

  I discovered that time is enjoyed completely in this moment. So there are no thoughts in heaven about what might happen tomorrow or next year or next century. The present moment is as rich and satisfying as we can possibly imagine.

  Time ended for me when I was under the water. You could say I realized experientially what Albert Einstein realized intellectually—that time is relative and should be considered a fourth dimension. One biblical writer put it this way: “With the Lord, a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day” (2 Peter 3:8).

  If your internal clock is working, you’ve already experienced some anxiety about time passing as I’ve told you my story. Down on the riverbank the seconds never stopped ticking away, while at the same time my experience in heaven seemed to unfold in complete serenity and with little bearing on what was happening around my body.

  For me, the differences in how we experience time were never more clear than during my so-called “life review,” which occurred while I was underwater, slipping across the threshold between life and death.

  REWIND AND REVIEW

  Everyone is familiar with Judgment Day. Most of us assume it will be a time when good deeds are rewarded and bad deeds are punished. This image fills most of us with dread at one time or another. We imagine God sitting on an enormous jewel-encrusted golden throne meting out judgment to an endless line of cowering humans, each waiting his or her turn. This is the fear and frustration reflected in humanist Walt Whitman’s statement that “God is a mean-spirited, pugnacious bully bent on revenge against his children for failing to live up to his impossible standards.”