We live pretty much in the middle of the US, where the Great Plains meet the Bible Belt. We’re only a few hours south of the exact geographic center of the country in Kansas. The land where we are in Oklahoma is broad and flat and beautiful. We’re surrounded by thousands of acres of raw and rugged prairies, most of which probably look the same today as they did back when it all began. In the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge, where we like to take the kids when we can, you can see so many of God’s great creatures – elk and longhorns, black-tailed prairie dogs and white-tailed deer, mallards and hawks and lizards, and, of course, the proud buffalo. The Native American Indian poet N. Scott Momaday said that when you gaze out on this ancient land ‘your imagination comes to life. And this, you think, is where creation was begun.’
There is so much beauty on this earth, and in every bird and blade of grass we can see the hand of God. I know how lucky we are to be here, among His many gifts. But even so, there came a time when I forgot to be thankful for the amazing blessing of being here.
You see, I’d been to a place even more beautiful, and all I wanted to do was go back.
All in all, I stopped breathing on my own for nine minutes. There were two minutes between when my face turned blue and when the first nurse rushed into my room, and another seven minutes during which doctors worked to revive me after my lungs shut down. I went into full respiratory arrest, and if my mother hadn’t been in the room with me when it happened, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be reading these words.
Why did it happen? It’s one of those things where no one can say for sure. The most likely explanation is that my pain pump wasn’t set up properly, which meant I was receiving more of the painkiller Dilaudid than my body could handle. What painkillers do is basically block the receptors in your brain that signal your body you’re in pain. But too much medicine can shut the receptors down altogether, and your brain stops telling your lungs to function. And if your lungs stop getting oxygen to your heart and your heart stops pumping blood to your brain, all your organs quit.
Did I actually die? That’s another hard thing to say. I couldn’t breathe and I had no pulse. And certainly if no nurses and doctors had rushed in when they did I would have died sometime during those nine minutes. But you aren’t considered clinically dead until a doctor officially calls your time of death, which usually happens five minutes after they stop trying to revive you. Some people say that when your heart stops beating and your lungs shut down you’re basically dead, but as long as your brain is still functioning there’s a chance you can be pulled back from the brink. That’s what happened to me. The doctors blasted my lungs with oxygen and got me breathing on my own before my brain – and me – were dead.
Still, I always tell people that I died and came back. I’m not a doctor and I don’t know if technically that is 100 percent right, but I do know I was no longer in my human body. I know without any doubt that I passed on to another world. And, hey, it’s easier to say I died than start explaining patient-assisted analgesia and brain receptors.
All things considered, my mother had a harder time in those nine minutes than I did. I was no longer in that hospital room, but she was stuck there watching her daughter turn ten shades of blue. My mom remembers one doctor climbing on top of me and pounding my chest, and she remembers all the doctors working so hard they were sweating straight through their scrubs. It must have been terrifying. At first she stayed away from my bed and prayed quietly in the back of the room, but after a few desperate minutes she said, ‘This is all in your hands now, God,’ and found a spot where she could touch my hair and tell me she loved me. ‘Please, Crystal, stay with us; don’t go,’ she begged me over and over. ‘If you can, please come back. Please come back.’
My mother always says my nine minutes in heaven were her nine minutes in hell.
The first good sign for my mom was when she heard a doctor say, ‘Her eyes fluttered.’ That’s when she started yelling my name. As soon as the doctors saw I was back in my body, they sprang into action. They gave me a shot of Narcan, which is used to counter the effects of an overdose. It basically blocks any narcotics from reaching your receptors so that your lungs and heart get the signals to start working again.
But it also frees up the receptors to start sending pain signals again, which is why my body was instantly wracked with unbelievable pain. And once that pain subsided, I started to feel the really sharp pain of my pancreatitis again. They moved me to the Intensive Care Unit and eventually put me back on painkillers, and I spent the next few days slipping in and out of a deep, medicated sleep. I was so out of it the nurses had to wake me up and force me to eat Jell-O; I lost something like fifteen pounds in ten days. I only vaguely remember everyone coming to see me – Virgil, of course; and JP and Sabyre; and my brother, Jayson; and even my father, who came down from Illinois. But I was so groggy I don’t remember much about those visits at all.
What I do remember clearly – and what lingered for a long time – was how I felt about being back in my human form. To put it mildly, I was pretty ticked off. I simply loved being with God so much and wanted to go back so badly that I came to resent all the people who saved my life. The doctors, the nurses, my mother, even Virgil – anyone who wanted me to come back had, in my mind, prevented me from returning to heaven. ‘Why did you make me come back?’ I asked them over and over in those first few hours. ‘This was not my choice.’
Now, some of you may say, ‘Hold on a minute, weren’t you thrilled to be back with your husband and your children?’ Some of you may even wonder, How could you choose to stay in heaven when you knew your family would be so crushed to lose you? Those are good questions, and I’ve thought about them a lot in the last three years. And the answer I come up with is always the same: more than anything, I wanted to be with God.
Believe me, before this happened I could not understand how it was possible to love anyone or anything more than your own children. But that was before I found myself in the presence of God. Like I said, that changed everything. I understood instantly that the love of God is greater and more powerful than any other kind of love. And I didn’t only understand it; I felt it and heard it and saw it and tasted it with every fiber of my being. When I was in my spirit form, there was simply no other conceivable option for me but to be with God. I know it sounds funny to say, but not even my babies made me want to return to my human form. I’ve discussed this with my children, and, honestly, I think it hurts their feelings a bit. Once in a while they like to tease me about it, sort of how they tease me about being late to pick them up at school. ‘Gee, thanks a lot, Mom,’ they’ll say. ‘Thanks for choosing us.’
But in my first days back from heaven, that’s just how I felt. Even though I’d been blocked from returning, I still felt incredibly infused by God and by the whole miraculous experience. I still felt far more connected to my spirit form than to my human form. But beyond that, I just really, really missed God. I longed to be with Him again, and I felt like I was still bathed in the glow of His greatness. When Moses came down from Mount Sinai after speaking with God, his face glowed so brightly he had to cover it with a cloth so the people wouldn’t be afraid of him. That is something like what I was feeling inside. I mean, it wasn’t like I had met the president or a celebrity or something. This was the Creator of the universe! The Lord God of Israel!
That is not something you can just shake off.
Gradually, over the course of a few days, I did begin to feel grateful I was with my family again. They all rushed to be with me, even the ones I had tried so hard to push away. I still missed God, but being around my loved ones made me realize again that life is a wonderful gift to be cherished and treasured. It wasn’t like a switch being flipped where suddenly I was thrilled to be back. It happened over time, as I got my human legs back and began to see glimpses of God’s guiding hand here on earth. For instance, just a day after I was discharged from the hospital we celebrated Sabyre’s birthday in our home. We had a lot of friends over, and we served ice cream and opened presents. I sat with my tiny twins in my arms, first one and then the other, and right there in my living room I felt grateful to be back with my family again. I felt blessed to have such beautiful children and such a wonderful husband. For the first time since coming back, I felt happy.
Then, one week later, it was Christmas. My brother asked if we could come up to Oklahoma City and spend the holiday with him, so we bundled up the kids and hit the road. We put all the wrapped Christmas presents in the back of the van beneath a blanket, so Sabyre wouldn’t see them and start asking us about Santa Claus. It was smooth driving for maybe five minutes before another one of those nasty Oklahoma storms rolled in. Freezing wind, sheets of ice and snow. Virgil could barely see five feet in front of him, so we couldn’t drive much faster than ten or fifteen miles per hour, and even that felt treacherous. We noticed huge snow drifts building up alongside the highway, and we pulled over in a nearby town to figure out if we should keep going. But the bad weather was in front of us and behind of us, so we had nowhere to escape to. We decided to keep moving forward as carefully as we could.
The two-hour trip wound up taking thirteen hours. The windshield wipers kept freezing and getting stuck and Virgil had to hop out and fix them. We kept passing people who spun out or were stuck in a snow bank, and Virgil would stop and give them a push so they could get back on the road. We couldn’t see any highway signs because of the dense snow, so after a while we didn’t even know where we were. We were terrified a stretch of highway would be shut down, stranding us in the middle of nowhere, but, luckily, the roads stayed open. After a few hours the kids were starving, so I broke into the picnic basket of sausage and cheese and crackers I’d packed. A few hours later, when that was all gone, we ate the candies and chocolates out of our Christmas stockings.
At one point we got stuck ourselves, near a parking lot in Oklahoma City. Cars were stalled out everywhere, and other cars were skidding on ice and crashing into them. It took us two hours to dig our way out of the snow, but with the help of some other drivers, Virgil wedged boards under the tires and managed to move the van. Then we got stuck again just a few blocks from my brother’s house. I was so scared and so tired at that point that I just wanted to grab the four kids and start walking. Fortunately, three men appeared out of nowhere and helped Virgil dig out the van again. We eventually made it to my brother’s home in one piece.
It had been a really trying thirteen hours, and there were times when I was really afraid something bad was going to happen. But the fact is, we were all warm and cozy in the van, we had plenty of food, and the kids had a blast eating their Christmas chocolates. For much of those thirteen hours we actually had fun. The highways stayed open, we didn’t run out of gas, and we made it to my brother’s house safe and sound. Perhaps most striking of all, I got to see the very best of the human spirit at work. I watched Virgil selflessly get out of our warm van time and time again to help people dig their cars out of snow, and I watched total strangers come over and help us when we needed them most. I felt deeply moved by the incredible acts of kindness I had witnessed.
And when that realization struck me, I felt truly happy to be back here on earth. Remember, I described Oklahoma’s great plains and rugged mountains and beautiful wildlife and all its many gifts from God? Well, I forgot a big one – Oklahoma’s people. That dark night on the dangerous highway, I saw the hand of God at work again, this time in his human creations. And that touched my heart and stirred my soul and made me feel blessed once again to be here among His many wonderful gifts.
After I got past being upset with everyone I felt had dragged me back from heaven, I realized all the grudges and grievances that had cluttered my soul for so long had disappeared. It was like God wiped the slate completely clean. And the big stuff – the resentments I’d lived with for so many years – just melted away. I’d been angry with someone who owed Virgil money, but afterward I told him, ‘I know we’re never getting that money back, and it’s okay. We have to pray for them.’ Virgil looked at me funny, because he knew I didn’t part with money easily. He says that’s when he truly believed I’d been with God – when I was okay with writing off a debt.
I don’t know. I just felt liberated from all the baggage I’d carried my whole life. I asked Virgil’s mother to forgive me for pushing her away. I asked Virgil to forgive me for making him choose between his family and me. I asked my brother to forgive me for not paying enough attention to him when we were young, and I asked my mother to forgive me for always making her the target of my anger. I even called my father in Illinois, and I asked him to forgive me, too.
‘Oh no, you don’t need to apologize for anything,’ he said.
‘But I do,’ I told him. ‘I need you to forgive me for being so hard on you.’
I also stopped being so attached to my possessions. I’d always been very sentimental about objects that meant something to me, but after I died I no longer cared much about material things. I told my friends, ‘If you ever liked anything in my house this’d be a good time to ask for it, because I’m ready to give it all away.’ Honestly, I wouldn’t have cared if we did give everything away and moved into a one-room shack. After I died I came to realize that my fortune was my family and friends and the love of God, and the rest didn’t matter all that much.
I found I loved and cared about everyone. People I’d been furious at – like JP’s dad and Sabyre’s dad – I suddenly felt deep love and compassion for. I was filled with sorrow and pity for anyone who had ever wronged or hurt me, and I prayed for them because they were God’s perfect creations. I knew that just as that happy little girl in the light had been hurt badly in her lifetime, so too had those who had hurt me. They, too, were once innocent children, and that’s how God still saw them – as children He loved no matter what. Knowing what I knew, I didn’t want a single person in the world, not even my worst enemy, to stand outside God’s radiance – I wanted everyone to be there with me in the glory of His greatness. I’d held my share of grievances, and I’d been a judgmental person. On occasion after I died I’d catch myself judging someone again, but I’d quickly tell myself, No, Crystal. Remember what He did for you. And the judgment would just go away.
My disappointment at leaving God’s side eventually lessened, but this elation and joy I felt at having been in His presence never did – it only got stronger. Nothing bothered me or made me angry anymore, and I overflowed with compassion and love. I had been powerfully transformed by those nine minutes, and in every way that mattered I was a new creation.
After a lifetime of doubt I was now a loving child of God, and nothing would ever be the same again.
I realize now I began telling my story just a second or two after I returned. ‘I am in a beautiful place,’ I told the nurse, and then I told the same thing to my mother. My mom says no sooner had I come back from heaven that I told the doctor who revived me I had been with God, and she remembers the doctor hearing those words and beginning to cry. He was a man of faith and believed I had been to heaven, so he wept with joy.
I was drugged up pretty heavily the next few days, but once I felt better I found I couldn’t wait to talk about what happened. I wanted to tell everyone where I’d been and what I’d seen. Naturally, I told Virgil the whole story, and he was moved to tears. I told my mother, and I told every doctor and nurse who wandered anywhere near my room. Finally, when they moved me out of the ICU and into a regular room, I got the chance to tell someone who was not a relative or a doctor or nurse.
I was alone one evening when an elderly cleaning woman walked into my room. She was mopping the floor and humming some old gospel song. I was still in a lot of pain, but I turned my neck as much as I could to look at her and cleared my throat.
‘Do you believe in God?’ I asked her.
‘Oh yes, honey,’ the cleaning woman said.
‘I just died and saw God,’ I said. ‘I was in His presence.’
The woman kept mopping and said, ‘Yes, child, praise to God.’
I was surprised by how nonchalant she was, and I asked her if she believed me.
‘Oh yes, child, I believe. Oh yes, I believe.’
And then she went right back to mopping and humming her song.
It wasn’t that she didn’t feel my time in heaven was a miracle. It’s just that she had believed in God’s greatness for most of her life, and I’d only been sure of it for a handful of days. Her faith was so great she wasn’t the least bit surprised by what God had done for me. And I found that to be incredible. My spirit was lifted by the strength of her belief, and I couldn’t wait to tell more people about what happened to me.
Eight days after I died I was finally released from the hospital. My pancreatitis was gone, but my body was still sore as heck. I felt like I had a whole rack of cracked ribs. I had to hold a pillow against my stomach any time I coughed or laughed just to dull the pain.
A couple of days after I came home I got a call from a bill collector. I interrupted him in the middle of him telling me about my overdue account.
‘Do you believe in God?’ I asked.
‘Um, yes,’ he said.
I launched into my story of dying and going to heaven and standing with God. When I was done, there was a long pause before he spoke again.
‘So,’ he said, ‘can we expect your payment this week?’
Everywhere I went, I looked for opportunities to tell my story. One time, Virgil and I were in a meeting with four or five other Christians we knew. I had already told someone there my story, and they asked me to share it with the group. I’ve never been comfortable speaking in public, but there weren’t that many people at the meeting. So I took a deep breath and got right to it. When I was done, I expected someone to ask me for more details about my time with God. I assumed they’d want to know everything. But not a single person in the room asked me a question. There was just silence and a few thank-you’s, and then we moved on to another topic. And in that moment a terrible thought popped into my head:
They think I’m lying! Or they think I’m crazy!
For the first time, I felt stupid for telling my story. It had never occurred to me that anyone wouldn’t believe what I was saying, and I’d assumed everyone would be as excited about it as I was. But the people in that meeting either didn’t believe me or didn’t care. That was a shocking realization. My face turned beet red, and I sat there feeling utterly embarrassed and mortified. I wanted to jump up and say, ‘You’re all missing the point. Don’t you know why we’re here?’ I could feel myself withdrawing deeper and deeper into my shell.
Still, I couldn’t contain my urge to share what happened with the world, so I picked my times and I kept telling my story. I truly wanted to express the passion I was feeling for God. But more often than not, the reaction I got was not what I expected. Sure, some people seemed genuinely moved, but others just kind of listened and smiled and moved on with their lives. I got another chance to share my story with a small group, which included one person who’d heard me tell it before. When I finished, this person looked at me and said, ‘Gosh, you talk about that a lot.’ I was stunned. It wasn’t like I was telling them how I’d met a celebrity or the President. I was talking about being with God! Why weren’t these people as moved and overjoyed as I was? What was I doing wrong?
The last straw came about three weeks after my release from the hospital. I was with a group of people in an informal setting, and the discussion turned to God. I started telling someone what I had experienced and how wonderful it had been to be with God. Nearby I noticed a woman roll her eyes – you know, that look that says, ‘Oh no, here she goes again.’ I immediately stopped talking and shuffled out of the room. I felt stupid and embarrassed, and worst of all, I felt like no one believed me. I decided then and there I wouldn’t tell another soul about what happened. I was going to go back to teaching soon, and the last thing I needed was for the town to start buzzing about how crazy I was. I just shut down.
It was that moment when I became totally human again.
For the next few months I cried at night, because I missed God so much and because I could no longer share my story. ‘Tell them what you can remember,’ God had said, but when I tried to do that I just wound up looking and feeling foolish. I still didn’t have the answer to the one burning question I had left: Why did God send me back? If He wanted me to tell everyone about His glory, why was He making it so no one believed me? I still had the strong desire to talk about Him non-stop, but I also felt that everywhere I turned, doors were shutting on me. I didn’t know what to do anymore.
But during this trying time there was one person who listened to my story. Every night, Virgil would turn to me in bed and say, ‘Tell me about it again. Tell me everything that happened again.’ Not once in a while – every single night. And so I’d face Virgil and wipe away my tears, and I’d say, ‘Well, I closed my eyes and went to sleep, and then I remember waking up in heaven.’ Virgil would hang on my every word, and together we would praise God.
And Virgil might have been the last person to ever hear my story, if something remarkable hadn’t happened a few months later in, of all places, our kitchen.