When I Died

Father,
You remember, it was three years ago today. Or was it yesterday? I went into the hospital for a routine appendectomy. My 11-year-old daughter, adopted from China and who has some pretty significant cognitive developmental issues, looked at me as I was being wheeled away on the gurney and said very straight forwardly, "Daddy, you're going to die." Remember, I replied, "Honey, I'm not going to die," holding onto the last word for emphasis. She waited with her mom and sister until I returned to "recovery" where I mumbled to her. "See, you're daddy's fine. I didn't die."

But, Father, she was right, wasn't she? Just an hour or so later, a nurse heard an alarm go off in my room and they found me not breathing and in full cardiac arrest. For twelve minutes, a nurse named Jane applied CPR while other technicians applied seven sets of electrical shocks. And then you let me stay, didn't you? Not that it was easy though. It took two and a half more days before anyone knew for sure you were letting me stay, and I wasn't awake for any of it. I guess you could say I was a goner. Some even said I was clinically dead, at least for those twelve minutes.

You probably remember this too: I was confused. The doctor had to repeat again and again what had happened, and then I asked Paula, my wife and a nurse, to explain it again.

During the time I was battling to stay, many of your children prayed that I would survive. One of them, my old friend John (he has to be one of your favorites too because he trusts you more than anyone I know) prayed. He said at first he didn't think you were going to do it. He thought I was a goner. But as he turned to leave the room, he said he could feel a very bright light descend over my bed around the others who were there also, and that as he left the room, he knew I would be healed. Two days later I woke up. You let me stay.

I don't know how John knew but I believe he did know. I believe you told him even though he didn't stop to tell anyone in the room. Thank you for my brother, John, and thank you for all the others who prayed over those days. One of these friends liked to call me the Miracle Man.

As you know, I'm not always sure why you let me stay. I haven't made the most of these last three years. In fact I've made some real blunders. You must shake your head and wonder if you made a mistake. But I thank you mostly for the extra time with my girls and my other children (and their children) and, of course, with Paula, my angel. Thank you for these last three years. I'm going to try to do better. Really. Amen.