90 Minutes in Heaven (20 page)

Once the TV interview started, I told my story, and then the host asked me questions. The hour passed quickly. While we were still live on the show, a woman called the TV station and insisted, “I need to talk to Reverend Piper immediately.”

They wouldn’t interrupt the program, but as soon as the program ended, someone handed me a slip of paper with her telephone number. I called her.

“You’ve got to talk to my brother,” she said.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“He was involved in a fight in a bar, and another man pulled out a shotgun and blew his leg off. He’s wearing one of those things like you used to have on your leg.”

“Of course I’ll talk to him,” I said. “Where is he?”

“He’s home in bed.”

“Give me the address and I’ll go—”

“Oh no, you can’t go over there. He’s angry and mean. And he’s violent. He won’t talk to anybody who comes to see him.” She gave me his telephone number. “Please call him, but he’s so mean right now, I guarantee that he’ll cuss you out.” Then she added, “And he may just hang up on you, but try him anyway. Please.”

As soon as I got home, I called her brother and introduced myself. Before I had spoken more than three sentences, he did just what she had predicted. He yelled at me. He screamed and let me have it with just about every swear word I’d ever heard, and he repeated them several times.

When he paused I said quietly, “I had one of those things on my leg that you have—that fixator.”

He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, so I said, “I wore one of those Ilizarov devices on my left leg. I know what you must be going through.”

“Oh, man, this is killing me. It hurts all the time. It’s just—” and he went off again as if he hadn’t heard me, peppering his anger with a lot of profanity.

When he paused again, I said, “I understand what it feels like to have one of them.”

“You don’t have it anymore?”

“No, I finally got it off. If you do what you’re supposed to do, you can get yours off one day.” That didn’t sound like much, but it was the only thing I could think to say.

“If I had some wrenches I’d take it off right now.”

“If you take it off, you might as well cut your leg off, because it’s the only thing that’s holding your leg on.”

“I know that, but it’s just killing me. I can’t sleep—” Then he went on again, telling me how miserable he was and how much he hated everything.

Then something occurred to me, and I interrupted him. “What does your leg look like? Does it seem to be hot near the pinholes? Is it the same color up and down your skin? Are there certain holes that hurt more than others?”

“Yeah, that’s right. One of them especially—man, it hurts real bad.”

“Is your sister there yet?” When he said she was, I ordered him, “Put her on the phone.”

He didn’t argue and she picked up the phone. “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate so—”

“Listen to me,” I said, interrupting her. “I want you to call an ambulance
right now.
Take your brother to the hospital as fast as you can get there. He has a serious infection in that leg. If he doesn’t get there soon, he’s going to lose his leg.”

“You think so?”

“I’m telling you. He has all the symptoms. He’s probably got a fever too. Have you checked?”

“Yes, that’s right. He’s running a fever.”

“Get him to the hospital immediately. Call me afterward.”

The next day she called. “Oh, you were right! He has an infection, and he was in terrible shape. They gave him all those antibiotics. They said he got there just in time, and he’s doing better today.”

“I assume he’s still in the isolation unit.” When she said he was, I added, “I’m going to come and see him.”

As a minister I could get in to see him. I went to the hospital, talked to him, and prayed with him. Eventually that young man turned to Jesus Christ.

If I hadn’t been on that TV show and his sister hadn’t watched it, he might not have only lost a leg; there is a strong possibility that he would have died. Not only had God used me to save the young man’s physical life but I had been an instrument in his salvation. That was just one more instance of my beginning to see that God still has things for me to do here on earth.

I had immediately recognized the problem because it had happened to me when I was still in the hospital. I had gotten an infection and began hurting badly. I thought it was just part of the pain I’d have to go through. Then a nurse discovered that I had infection in one of those pinholes.

I remembered then how days before, one of the nurses apparently had cross-contaminated the pinholes. She was a surly type and never showed me compassion like the others. She came in and did her work, but she acted as if she resented having to work with me.

They used Q-tips, and they had been instructed to use a new one to clean each hole. I had noticed that this time, the nurse didn’t get a fresh Q-tip each time, probably because it was faster not to reach for a new one. I didn’t think anything about that until after the hole became infected. My added pain had come about because of her laziness. Once they discovered the infection and my elevated temperature, they rushed me into the isolation unit, where I stayed for two weeks. While I was there, no one could visit me.

Eva complained and told the doctor what happened. I never saw that nurse again, so I don’t know if they fired her or transferred her.

As much as I enjoy public speaking, few opportunities excite me more than speaking at my alma mater, Louisiana State University (LSU). My wife and I met at LSU, and two of our three children also studied there.

One of the on-campus organizations where I have spoken on several occasions is the Baptist Collegiate Ministry (BCM). While Nicole was a student at LSU and served as one of the officers in that group, the BCM invited me to speak. Knowing she would be in the audience made the experience even more delightful.

Among the many campus activities the BCM sponsored was a Thursday night praise and worship service called TNT. The committee asked me to speak to them about my accident.

The students advertised my talk all over campus as “Dead Man Talking.” Because so many showed up, they scheduled two back-to-back services. As I spoke, the audience seemed mesmerized by the story of a man who died and came back to life. I spoke of heaven, answered prayer, and miracles. I told them about singing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” in the car with Dick Onerecker.

As each service ended, the praise band led us in a chorus of that meaningful song. I didn’t know they were going to do it. While I have no doubt they were led by the Spirit to do so, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” remains a difficult song for me to hear or sing.

Afterward a large number of students waited around to ask questions. Among them was an African-American student named Walter Foster. He asked many questions himself and stayed and listened to the other students’ questions as well. When I left the auditorium, Walter followed me. Although I didn’t mind, I felt as if he pursued me with dogged determination—as if he couldn’t get enough details about heaven or hear enough about my experience.

A few months later, Nicole called me. “Do you remember Walter Foster?” Her voice broke and she started to cry. As soon as I said I remembered him, she said, “He . . . he died. He suffered a heart attack! Just like that—and he was gone.”

Apparently Walter had known about his serious heart condition and was under medical care; everyone assumed he was doing all right. Obviously his death shocked all the students who knew him.

“Twenty-year-old students aren’t supposed to die,” one of his friends had said.

After I hung up the phone, I thought back to the day when Walter and I met. I wondered if he had had a premonition about his death. The fact that he followed me the whole time I was at LSU and plied me with endless questions about heaven caused me to wonder. His questions seemed more than just curiosity.
Maybe,
I thought,
even then God was preparing him for his homeward journey.

His sudden death devastated his friends, especially those involved with the Baptist Collegiate Ministry. They were a close-knit group and mourned the loss of their dear member. The night following his death, they gathered at the BCM building—the place Walter loved most.

During an emotional meeting that night, a number of his friends spoke at length about how much it had meant to Walter that I had shared my experience about heaven. Many mentioned the excitement he expressed to them over what he had heard. He talked about it for days afterward.

“Several times during the day when Reverend Piper was here,” one of them said, “Walter told me, ‘One day I know I’m going to be in heaven myself!’”

Pressing church business kept me from being at Walter’s memorial service at First Baptist Church of Baton Rouge. Nicole represented our family and reported that evening about the celebration of W alter’s life. Two special requests from his friends were that the preacher would share the gospel message and that someone would sing one particular song. Of course, it was “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” The audience learned the special significance that hymn held for Walter.

Nicole, a music major at LSU and an excellent soloist, sang the song to the assembled mourners. They responded with both great sadness and glorious hope. Tears flowed and many smiled peacefully.

After the service, many students lingered to talk about how much Walter’s unwavering belief in heaven had comforted and encouraged them.

One of the other bright things to emerge from my testimony at the BCM and Walter’s later passing was the construction and dedication of a prayer garden at the LSU BCM. That seems appropriate to me, because each time I share my story, I stress the paramount importance of prayer. After all, I’m still alive because of answered prayer.

Like many others whose lives have divinely intersected with mine since my accident and my return from heaven, Walter represents those who will be waiting for me the next time God calls me home.

Sue Fayle’s first husband died of cancer. His long torturous passing took a lot out of her. She assumed she would live the rest of her life as a widow. But her neighbor Charles, also without a spouse, changed that. They were not only neighbors, but in their common sense of loss, they became good friends. As time passed, they seemed to fulfill needs for each other in a way that only those who have loved and lost seem to understand. Their friendship evolved into love, and they cautiously considered marriage.

Sue had serious reservations about marrying Charles because he came from what she called a rough-and-tough working-class neighborhood. He had a history of hard drinking, and she said, “I can’t live with that.”

As their love continued to grow, however, Sue issued one simple condition for marriage: “I won’t marry a man who gets drunk.”

Charles not only stopped getting drunk, he quit drinking altogether. Now they were ready to talk of marriage.

One day they talked about the death of their spouses—both of whom had died of cancer. “If I’m ever diagnosed with cancer,” he said, “I’ll kill myself.” He knew that not only did the person with the disease suffer but their loved ones went through deep agony as well. “I couldn’t put anyone through that ordeal.”

They did marry, had a good marriage, and Charles never drank again. Sue had already been active in our church, but after their marriage, Charles also became active.

One day, however, he received the one diagnosis he feared most of all: He had cancer. Now he had to face his deep-seated terror. He was afraid that his diagnosis would put Sue through the same terrible ordeal she had faced before.

He also faced another fear after he received the diagnosis: The news forced him to confront his own mortality. “I’m terrified of dying,” he confessed. Although Charles was a church member and said he believed, he was one of those individuals who doubted his salvation. Sue assured him that while she was dedicated to seeing him through this crisis, she was concerned about his lack of assurance of his salvation. She had heard my testimony about heaven on several occasions and had retold my story to others.