90 Minutes in Heaven (22 page)
One time I preached at the Chocolate Bayou Baptist Church, south of Houston. They had asked me to share my death-and-heaven experience.
I was getting my final thoughts together. Typically, in Baptist churches, they have a soloist or some kind of special music just before the guest speaker comes to the pulpit. A woman, who had not been in the service and apparently didn’t know what I was going to talk about, came in from a side door to sing.
She had a lovely voice and began to sing a song called “Broken and Spilled Out” about the alabaster jar the woman used when she washed Jesus’ feet.
As soon as she sat down, I stood up and began to tell them about my accident. I didn’t make any connection between her song and my message, but I noticed that several people kept frowning at the woman.
After the service, I heard someone say to the soloist, “That was an interesting song about being broken and spilled out for you to sing before Don talked.” The way he said the word
interesting
really meant
tasteless.
“Oh!” she said. The shock on her face made me aware that she hadn’t known what I was going to speak about. Obviously, she hadn’t made the connection either.
Our eyes met and she started to cry. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Really, it’s all right.” I started to walk on.
“Broken and spilled,” someone said. “That’s what happened to you, wasn’t it?” At least a dozen people made similar comments. A few assumed we had planned for her to sing that particular song.
I stopped and looked back. The soloist stood next to the piano, and she was crying. I excused myself and walked back to her. “That’s a beautiful song about a wonderful experience. You didn’t know what I was going to talk about, but that’s all right, because I can’t think of a better song.”
She smiled in gratefulness and started to apologize again. “It’s fine. Really, it’s fine,” I assured her.
As I walked away, I thought maybe I had been broken and spilled out. But I smiled at another idea:
I’m also being put back together again.
I am convinced of this, so I will continue with you so that you will grow and experience the joy of your faith.
P
HILIPPIANS 1:25
B
rad Turpin, a motorcycle police officer from the Houston suburb of Pasadena, almost lost a leg. His police motorcycle crashed into the back of a flatbed truck. He would have bled out on the concrete if the EMTs hadn’t applied a tourniquet to his leg.
Sonny Steed, the former minister of education at our church, knew Brad personally and asked me to go see him. “Absolutely,” I said, especially after I heard that he would be wearing a fixator. I called and made sure he’d let me come. I don’t know why, but just before we left, I picked up pictures showing my accident and my recovery.
Sonny drove me to the officer’s house. Once we had walked inside, it was almost like seeing the way my living room had looked for months. Brad was lying in a hospital bed with the trapeze bar above him. His device was similar, but not quite the same as mine, because in the dozen years since my accident, technology had improved.
Other people were there, so I sat down and joined in casual conversation. He was nice enough, but I knew he’d seen so many people he was tired of visitors. As soon as the last visitor left, I said, “You really are tired of talking to people aren’t you?”
Brad nodded.
“I understand. You almost feel like you’re on display here. The phone never stops ringing. Everybody wants to come by to see you.”
He nodded again. “I appreciate them coming, but I need some peace and quiet.”
“I apologize for interrupting you, but Sonny brought me by to see you because I wanted to talk to you about what to expect. I pointed to the Ilizarov and said, “I had one of these external fixators.”
“Oh, you did?”
I showed him my pictures, beginning with those taken the day after they put on the Ilizarov frame. Each one showed progression to the next step. He stared at each one closely and saw that I had been worse off than he was.
“And you recovered, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did, and so will you.”
“That’s good that you made it all right, but I don’t think I’m going to make it. They can’t give me any guarantee that I’m going to keep this leg. The doctors are pessimistic, so that makes it harder for me.”
“Well, that’s just the way they are,” I said, remembering so well my feelings in those early days. “They try to err on the side of being conservative and try not to get your hopes up. Months from now, they know, you could have this fixator and everything could be working fine and then your leg could get infected and you could still lose it.”
“That’s what I mean. I’m just not sure it’s worth all this pain.”
“The good news is that the pain will ease up as you get better.”
His wife had walked in during the conversation and listened. “I’m just so tired at the lack of progress, and nobody will tell us anything,” she said. “We’re about ready to change doctors.”
“You might find a better doctor,” I said, “but wait a bit. Be patient. I’m sure your doctor is doing his best.”
Then I told them about the time I reached the end of my patience:
“When my doctor came in to see me I was fuming.
“‘Sit down,’ I yelled.
“He did, and for maybe five minutes I complained about everything that bothered and upset me. As I watched his face, I realized I had hurt his feelings. I hadn’t been thinking about him, of course. I was hurting, never pain free, couldn’t sleep, and I wanted answers. ‘I get tired of all this not knowing. I ask you how long I have to wear this, and you say, “Maybe another month, maybe two months, maybe three months.” ’ I wasn’t through yet, and my anger really burst out with another round of complaints. I ended with, ‘Why can’t you give me a straight answer?’
“He dropped his head and said softly, ‘I’m doing the best I can. I don’t know the answers. That’s why I can’t tell you.’
“‘I’m just looking for—’
“‘I know you are, but this isn’t an exact science. We’re reinventing the wheel. We don’t have that much experience in this area, and this is all new technology for us. We’re doing the best we can.’”
After I told Brad and his wife about that incident, I added, “Please be patient with your doctor. He can’t give you answers he doesn’t have. He’ll also tell you things to do and load you down with prescriptions. He’s going to put you in a lot of therapy, and you’re just going to have to learn how to deal with it—with all of it.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, “but I just can’t control my emotions anymore. I’m a cop. I’ve seen a lot of hard, bad, difficult stuff. I find myself just breaking down—I mean, real emotional. Know what I mean?”
“Absolutely. Just go ahead and break down. It’ll happen again.”
“I feel out of control.”
“You are out of control!”
Brad stared at me.
“Think about it. What can you control? Nothing.”
“I can’t even wipe myself.”
“That’s right. You’re totally helpless. There’s nothing you can do or control.”
“Before this I was a weight lifter and a bodybuilder,” he said. “I had a physique you wouldn’t believe.”
“I have no doubt about that.” I could see that he had once been muscular and strong. “But you don’t have that now. You may have a great body again someday, but the inability to get up and do the things that you used to do will cause you to change. Be prepared to change. You’re going to lose weight; muscles will atrophy. You can’t control your body the way you did before.”
His wife was obviously feeling all the stress as well, and she was on the verge of tears. “He just feels so bad, even with medication. I just don’t know what to do.”
“I can suggest a few things. First of all, manage the visits and phone calls. You don’t have to let everyone come whenever they want,” I said. “Be firm. If you allow everyone to come, you’ll wear yourself out trying to be nice. Your friends will understand.”
Then I turned to Brad. “Be prepared for all your therapy, because you’re going to have to do all kinds of difficult things. Do them if you want to learn to walk again. Be patient, because it will take a long time. Probably one of the best things I can tell you is this: Don’t try to act like the Lone Ranger.” I paused briefly and almost smiled, because I remembered how I had been. “Let people know where you hurt and how they can help—especially the people you trust. Let them know so they can do things for you. Let them pray for you. You’ve got a lot of nice folks coming by here, and they want to bring you a cake, cook a meal, or do something for you. Let them express their friendship and love.”
After I had talked a few minutes, I got up to leave. I wrote down my phone number. “Call me. If you’re struggling to go to sleep at three o’clock in the morning or you’re angry, call me. I’ll listen. I’ll understand because I
can
understand. It’s a small fraternity, and none of us joined it by choice.”
Before I left, Brad said, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your coming by. Just visiting with somebody who knows about the pain helps me a lot. You’re the first person I’ve met who understands what it’s like to live with pain twenty-four hours a day.”
“It’s not something I set out to do—visiting people who are where I was,” I said, “but I’m willing to do it. I want to help, but you’re going to have to make the effort to call me. Remember—don’t try to tough it out alone.”
Brad’s wife followed me out to the car and said, “He needed this. In public he tries to be the source of strength and sound positive. In quiet moments he’s frustrated and emotional, and he falls apart. I’ve been really worried about him. Never in our lives together have I seen him this way.”
“I remember my wife working hard all day teaching school and then coming to spend the evening with me,” I said. “Just hang in with him. He will get better.”
I told her that one time when I was at my worst, Eva had tried to encourage me and had said something like, “Just give it time. You’re going to be fine.”
I had exploded with frustration and rage—“What makes you think I’m going to be fine? What are the odds of my ever being fine? Nobody can ever tell me that. Nobody can promise me that.”
To her credit, Eva hadn’t argued. She’d wrapped her arms around me. I had wept. I had never done that before in her presence.
After I told that story to Brad’s wife, I said, “Be prepared for changes in your life and his. He can’t control his emotions, but don’t take it as a personal attack when he yells or screams. It’s the pain and the frustration, not you.” I shook her hand and said, “And for goodness’ sake, call me if you need me. Push Brad to call me.”
After that, I saw Brad four or five times. Weeks later when he was able to get out of the house with his walker, I spotted him in a restaurant. I went over to his table and sat down. “How are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m doing okay. Really okay.” He thanked me again for coming at one of his lowest moments. He still wasn’t in top shape, but he was getting healthy again. When he clasped my hand and held it a long time, I knew it was his way of expressing his appreciation in ways he couldn’t put into words.
I felt grateful to God for being able to help Brad in his dark time.
About two years after my accident, I heard that Chad Vowell had been in a serious car accident. He had been a member of our youth ministry at South Park, and his parents were among the most supportive parents I had at the church. His mother, Carol, was on the committee that came to my hospital room with others to plan youth retreats. I hadn’t been very helpful, but it had been their way of making me feel useful and needed.
Chad had been an outstanding soccer player and was with our youth group about a year before he went to college.
When I called his mother, she told me they had helicoptered Chad to John Sealy Hospital in Galveston. I had no idea just how serious he was until she added, “The report is that he has mangled his lower leg and is in a fixator.”
When I heard the word
fixator,
I knew I had to see him. I would have gone anyway, because he was a member of South Park. But the word
fixator
gave extra urgency.
When I walked into his room, Chad lay there depressed, and he obviously didn’t want to talk. This wasn’t the Chad I knew. Before that, he’d always been glad to see me, and his face would light up in recognition. This time he acknowledged my presence but made no effort to engage in conversation.
“Are you okay? Are you going to be all right?” I asked and then looked at his leg. “I see they gave you a fixator.”
“Yeah, they did,” he said.
“Chad, you remember when I had my accident? That’s the same thing they put on me.”
“Really?” he asked. For the first time he looked at me with interest. I don’t know if he’d never seen me with mine or if he just didn’t remember. I leaned closer and said, “Just remember this: I know what it feels like to have one of them.”
His injury was on the lower leg. Because there are two bones in the lower leg it’s less difficult to heal. As I learned before I left, his prognosis was very good.
