Three Days in Heaven

8-21-14

by Mark Anthony Waters

Copyright © 2015 Mark Anthony WatersAll rights reserved.

ISBN: 1501079662ISBN 13: 9781501079665Library of Congress Control Number: XXXXX (If applicable)LCCN Imprint Name: City and State (If applicable)

“Three Days in Heaven” is fun, interesting and a bit mysterious.

“Three Days in Heaven” is one of those books that you continue to think about

once you've read it. It is a well-written encounter with our great Creator. It'll make you

smile and think about your faith and life after death. Fran Babler

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Excellent book, read it in a day with a few tears and a lot of laughs! Marty Skovlund, Sr.

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“It is God for the modern world.”

For years, I have had a fear of death. It is hard for me to discuss it or read about it.

Death remains an uncomfortable topic, but Mark's lighthearted way of looking at it made

his book a comfortable read. We have an opportunity to see the human side of God— not

to be feared but loved. It is God for the modern world. Streets of gold have been

transformed into plush, green fairways, and text messaging have replaced stone tablets.

"Three Days in Heaven" shows us a personal relationship with God is possible without

the interference of Mega churches or TV evangelists telling us otherwise. A very thought-

provoking and enjoyable book. Greg Banker

Mark's book has forever changed how I look at life and the after-life. It is truly a

literary masterpiece. One for the ages.

Carla Michale Edington - Gold Winner “Ma Murray Award” for journalism.

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Upbeat and mysterious, funny and tear jerking, spiritual and gently irreverent. I

enjoyed the story, the story behind the story and the message of hope. Worth a read. Lili

Nealon

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“The story is a delightful and well-written encounter with the Almighty.”

“Three Days in Heaven” by Mark Anthony Waters is one of those books that once

you finish, you think about it for the next couple of days. I recommend this book for

anyone who wants a great story, enjoys humor, a little suspense, and a great plot.

John W. Howell - Author of “My GRL”

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As a life long friend for nearly forty years, I always knew Mark had a spark of

genius! His book “Three Days in Heaven” highlights his love of life, more importantly

acceptance of a death we must all face one day. Read with me of the victories and the

sorrows. Tears really do fall from Heaven. Michael Helm

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A beautiful read that will make you smile and if necessary, restore your faith.

Wonderful point of view that you can entirely relate to. This book facilitates just how

easy it is to believe! Kelli Knupp

Dedication and Acknowledgments

For Beth, my partner in life and beyond.

To my boys, who have grown into wonderful men, thanks for always believing in

me when sometimes I didn’t. To my daughters-in-law, thanks for marrying my boys.

There are so many friends who supported me, but one stands out: My lifelong pal,

Jody. Your guidance and wisdom throughout this project was appreciated.

And to my lead editor, Belinda, my literary rock, teacher, and friend.

Foreword

In Three Days in Heaven, Author Mark Anthony Waters gives an introspective

insight at life after death. Is there truly a heaven? As Mark says, “The Bible speaks little

of it, and when it does, it's usually in cryptic language and symbolism.”

Mark has a profound talent of taking what may be perceived as a grim situation

and examines it from a different perspective—with wit, humor, and sometimes an absurd

point of view. His tongue-in-cheek story is of a man that dies and ends up in Heaven,

playing golf—with God! The reader is immediately mesmerized by the obscurity of such

a concept and is pulled into a book that can’t be put down.

I have never met Mark, in person that is! I bumped into him on the internet,

perhaps by divine intervention. Over the past year, we have become social media buddies,

showing up in many of the same writer’s circles, discussing varied techniques of

literature, form and prose. My belief is, everything happens for a reason; there’s no such

thing as coincidence. He has become a great partner in the world of composition, but I

also consider him an infinite friend.

I found Mark’s book to be inspirational, poignant, and many times laugh-out-loud

funny. By way of example, one part of the book where the main character and God are

having a serious conversation about sin. The reader may think the subject matter is going

in one direction, and then it takes an incredulous twist that makes this book so

motivating.

"I see little difference between stealing a banana and shooting your neighbor in

the back of the head. Sin is sin.” God continues to casually poke around at a small stone,

and then it broke into pieces.

Pointing to the little pile of a shattered pebble, Tony asks,“Does the broken pebble

symbolize something?”

“Not really, I guess I poked it too hard.”

I highly recommend reading Three Days in Heaven. Mark’s inspiration, creativity,

and purpose make this book well worth the read.

Foreword written by Author Cyndi Williams-Barnier

(Co-Author in the Task Force Novel Series / PDMI Publishing)

Author Notes

Before publication, I reached out to a Catholic priest and asked him if he wouldn’t

mind reading my manuscript. He had already seen the cover, read some of the comments,

and said he was curious about the book itself. When I first met him, I took a copy of my

manuscript with me. He is a nice guy and I'm convinced that he's in the right line of

work. We visited for a while discussing some theology and talking about golf. To you

golfers, he’s also a three handicap. I challenged him to a game of miniature golf; I might

have a chance. I began to think a few moments into our chat, I’m off to a great start and

was grinning from ear to ear, at least in my mind I was. I had hoped if he liked what he

read, he’d offer a comment for the book. To have a man of the cloth like a Catholic priest,

sign off on my book would be a homerun! My friends and author buddies said it would

be a literary coup and a public relations dream come true.

I’m not holding my breath.

Some referred to Three Days in Heaven as a religious fiction, and one of my

editors called it a parable-style novel. I didn’t even know what a parable-style novel was!

(I’m still not sure I do.) The greater majority called it an inspirational story of faith. As

the book evolved, I began to make my heavenly hosts more human, just like you and me.

God uses everyday language to teach the main character about faith and its meaning. This

is not Bible study; though the Bible is referenced. It’s also not a child’s Sunday school

story. (Flip through a few pages, and you’ll see why.) It is a straight-to-the-point

examination of the faith I understand, believe in and inspired to write about. Some of the

stories are about my life around the time of my open-heart surgery and told it as best I

recall. The rest of the book, I let the main character tell it.

I was raised in a churchgoing family and remain part of the faithful to this day.

That upbringing did not influence the way I wrote the book, nor was it written toward any

certain theological or religious point of view.

I have received many encouraging words from test readers. One of them was

especially touching. A young woman wrote me a message and said that her father died

over five years ago by his own hand. She said that one of the stories in the book helped

her with a clearer understanding of the question we always ask when faced with such a

loss of that nature; Why? My best answer—God only knows.

It is trite to say, but if I only helped one person, then my job is done. It made me

feel good that my few, simple words were of some comfort to her. As a book writer, it

doesn't get much better. My prayer for her is to have a peaceful heart and also be assured

that her dad still watches over her from above.

One comment I had to wrestle with for a while: “It’s beautifully irreverent…” I

studied and stared at those two words for days. “Beautiful,” that’s good. “Irreverent,” not

so good. But together they made sense, especially with the added line at the end of her

quote: “To the point of teaching a lesson that sticks” In the end, I decided to use the

comment, and of all places,—smack-dab on the front cover! I get the picture why those

two words combined will probably be a deal killer as far as a comment from the priest

goes. But who knows, maybe I’ll get a little surprise. Others seem to be stuck on a

particular religious standpoint and won’t budge. I believe the last comment sums up how

a reader should approach this book: “Open your mind to another perspective.” I think

what he meant was, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.” My book, “Three Days in

Heaven” is a story about my interpretation of faith; I merely delivered it from a different

perspective.

There is a belief that a bit of controversy is a good thing, and you guessed right; it

has. I've already “stirred up the pot,” and the book hadn't been printed yet! It might sell

more books but was never my intent, but either way, I could care less and here's why. The

day before my surgery, my doctor told me that I was lucky they found the problem and

without a coronary bypass I was a few days from death. With news like that, you tend to

take a deep breath, pause for a moment and re-examine your soul. After the operation, I

started to reorganize my priorities and began to put things in clearer order. To quote a line

from Indiana Jones: “My soul is prepared, is yours?”

On my way out of the priest’s office, we shook hands and mentioned that I hoped

my book would intrigue and inspire those that read it. Tongue-in-cheek included, and

maybe irritate others. I couldn’t help chuckle when added, “Probably all three!”

As I was leaving, I glanced at his Bible on a nearby end table. “You know, Father,

that is the most powerful, perfectly written book humanity has ever read, and not

everyone is a big fan.” He just grinned. As I got into my car, and by no means comparing

the significance of the two, I smiled and thought, I’m in pretty good company.

As many of you are aware, this is my second edition print. There were some

minor issues that needed to be corrected and took the opportunity to add a few things as

well. One addition that was especially touching was the loss of our beloved pet, Aspen. I

included a special tribute in honor of her toward the end of the book. The decision had

been made to “put her down” because of the spread of cancer throughout her body.

Aspen's usual visits to the vet’s office were always a concern to her, but on this day, she

was calm and seemed at ease; just happy to be with me. Within moments of our arrival,

she was sedated to get her more relaxed. Her doctor, my friend, Rick, excused himself so

the two of us could be alone. She continued to sit by my side, but soon the effects of the

sedative took over and she slid down and curled up around my feet like a sleepy kitten.

Her head came to rest on my foot like she always did. I was wearing flip-flops and tried

to wiggle my toes under her head, but by now she was almost asleep. Rick returned and

gently picked her up and placed her on the examination table. Both of us spent a few

moments petting her, then he asked if I was ready. I sadly nodded yes. He made the final

push of the lethal drug, then me and Aspen said our final farewell. Within seconds, he

examined her and told me that her heart had stopped. Hugging and weeping over her

lifeless, outstretched body, my only reply was, “Mine too”.

Preface

My name is Tony Stanford, and this is my story.

To kick things off, let’s assume you died. For argument’s sake, let’s further

assume there is a Heaven (we’ll leave “you know where” alone for now). Most of us have

heard stories of “near-death” experiences, known as NDEs. No matter who you talk to

about an NDE, you’ll get differing accounts of what their experience was or wasn’t.

The interviews I remember reading or seeing on TV, most of them seemed to say

the same thing. The first thing they saw was a bright tunnel of light, followed by the

usual cast of characters sent to greet the recently departed. Usually first on the list are

long-deceased friends and relatives.

Depending on religious and cultural beliefs, Jesus sometimes makes an

appearance, and on occasion, others claimed to have had a brief chat with the Almighty

himself. Some reported seeing a hellish world filled with demons and fire. In either case,

naysayers, those of a “science-y” background, will say a deteriorating brain is the

explanation. That it is a misfiring of neurons in your brain during those last seconds of

death which causes the experience. They say it is more akin to a hallucination than a

heavenly family reunion, or on the flip side, a weenie roast in the fiery pits of hell! What

they fail to explain, is how dead people miraculously come back to life, most of the time

with no apparent brain damage. The heavenly visitors were often saddened to return

while the other crowd couldn’t wait to get back!

Regardless of which direction people reportedly traveled, critics continued to

explain that an NDE was due to a rotting brain but had few words about the experiences

of firsthand witnesses. Most NDE folk reported that their journey lasted from a few

seconds to several minutes. After a brief recovery and a hospital news conference, the

enterprising survivors sign a publishing deal, followed by a book tour and several rounds

of church testimonies. Finally, it’s off to the talk-show circuit for the conclusion of their

fifteen minutes of fame.

What is your vision of Heaven? The Bible speaks little of it, and when it does, it’s

in cryptic language and symbolism. Are there streets of gold? Perhaps. Big fluffy clouds?

Probably. A nonstop chorus of singing angels? I hope not! My vision? It’s a free-for-all!

And no, I don’t mean a heavenly frat party lasting an eternity. I liken it more to an all-

inclusive vacation package tailored to what I want and the things that made me happy. I

like golf and had some of the best times playing. Guess what? God likes golf too! He told

me there must be a lot of religious people on the course because they mention His name

quite a lot. The point is; I believe one size does not fit all. You can do everything

imaginable— within limits. The word is anything goes in Heaven except what He refers

to as “those worldly things.” No hanky-panky goes on there if you know what I mean.

God nudged me and said, “They should have gotten that out of their systems before they

got here.”

It is said death and taxes are the only two realities of life. Not true. You can avoid

taxes, and you’ll go to jail, but it won’t kill you. Death is a certainty for all of us, and

sooner or later, tax cheats as well.

My wife took a statistics class in college, in her opinion the most skewed science

known to humankind. All they do is keep asking the same question over and over again

until they achieve the desired result. Remember the toothpaste commercial that raved that

“four out of five dentists surveyed recommended…?” I don’t need a survey result for one

particular stat, and you can take it to the bank. One out of one of us will die.

Death comes in all shapes and sizes. Some die moments after conception, and

sadly, sometimes between then and birth. Others may meet their “maker” in an instant,

and some will “check out” on the “installment plan” with a painful and prolonged illness.

A lucky few last for more than a hundred years, but the majority of us seem to “die off”

somewhere in the middle. The only ones with any inevitability of when they will “cash in

the chips” are the folks on death row—for the rest of us, it’s a crapshoot!

Recently in the news, I became aware of how many famous and influential people

who have died, and it occurred to me that death really is the great equalizer. Never once

did I witness a U-Haul being towed by a hearse. So, it must be added, wherever it is you

travel and in whichever direction, “you can’t take it with you.”

Like so many, there was a time in my life when I felt ten feet tall and bulletproof.

All of that changed a while back. Unless you own a bulletproof, mortality vest,— you,

me, and everyone we know, sooner or later, is going to kick the bucket! I am at an age

and have been through enough for one lifetime, especially heart-related issues. I'm

impressed when I wake up in the morning! And thank God when I do—every morning. I

had a close friend, Larry, who was the most religious and spiritually devout man I ever

met. He considered this life “the warm up act” before going to Heaven, and he couldn't

wait to get there. Me, on the other hand, given the choice, would like to live forever; well

maybe not forever, but a long time. Things are going pretty smoothly, and I’d like to keep

it that way. I have a successful law practice, and as a bonus, a lucrative contract with

Saint Grenadine Hospital. I'm married to a loving wife and have three great kids, and

somewhere along the way, made some lasting friendships. With all that I have, I'm aware

that one day this life will end, and a new journey will begin, and perhaps catch up with

Larry.

Here’s a question to toss around in your brain: Is death the end or a whole new

beginning? I have a spiritual faith, not as much as I should, but I hope enough. I figure

it’s better to be safe than sorry. If I’m wrong about my belief, who cares? I’ll be a

memory and rot in my grave, and that’s about it. But if I’m right, you, the unfaithful, to

quote Ricky Ricardo, “Will have a lot of ‘splainin’ to do!”

Chapter I

The emergency room is calm and peaceful for a place usually full of chaos. Call it

divine intervention, the luck of the draw, or whatever, but on this day I am the last patient

admitted during the late-afternoon shift. It's as if they were preparing for my arrival

before they knew a thing about me. Bev calls for an ambulance and begins CPR. One of

the side benefits of her working at the hospital, she’s also a volunteer CPR instructor. The

kids are out of control, and our next-door neighbors come over to help round them up.

We live a couple of short blocks from the fire station, and within seconds, you could hear

the ambulance coming from the nearby distance. With the siren blaring and emergency

lights glaring, the ambulance arrives in just over a minute. The EMTs take over for Bev

and put me on a stretcher and continue doing CPR. They load me in the back of the

ambulance like fragile freight and hook me up to a monitor to check my heart rhythm so

the techs can determine what meds to start. They also use an Ambu bag to help breathe

for me. When they determine my heart rhythm, what little I had, they start an IV and load

me up with the appropriate cardiac medication. The EMTs radio the hospital to give a

heads-up of a suspected sudden cardiac arrest.

The ambulance arrives at the ER entrance and comes to an abrupt halt. The

relative calmness of the ambulance is replaced with the organized mayhem, which is

typical in a hospital ER. The EMTs empty their cargo, and wheel me into the emergency

room; unconscious and barely breathing, but still alive thanks to Bev and the EMTs.

The entire medical team rushes into action, taking over and doing everything their

education and expertise taught them to do. These people are experts at communicating in

one and two-word sentences:

“Crash cart?”

“Ready doctor.”

“BP?”

“Fifty over thirty.”

The doctor shouts over everyone in the room, “Be alert people!”

Someone nearby frantically shouts, “We're losing him!”

As the doctor is working away, he asks for another reading. “Pulse?”

A nurse next to me replies, “Faint.”

The doctor again asks, “Respiration?”

“None.”

Within seconds, they shove a tube down my throat, and hypodermic needles are

everywhere, and all of them seem to be intruding into my body! The team follows the

medication protocol as ordered by the physician. They work on me for over an hour,

never letting up. During all the commotion and chatter from the medical team, one sound

stands out from the rest. For a few moments, my heart regains a weak but steady rhythm,

and everyone breathes a sigh of relief— especially me. The familiar tone of the heart

monitor comes to life and echoes the room with an endless beep beep,…beep beep,…beep

beep. Though my heart rate is starting to come around, the ER doc continues his work

making every effort to get us both to the finish line with the aid of everyone in the room.

It looked like I was going to make it. Unfortunately for me, and without warning, another

familiar sound. This time it is the sound of silence; just a long, smooth tone coming from

the heart monitor. For a moment, everyone is frozen in position like they were posing for

a photograph.

The doctor snaps back into action and barks new orders. “Defib!”

“Standing by.”

He positions the paddles and yells, “Clear.” Then he zaps me. My body contorts

with the electric shock. Nothing. Again, he commands everyone to “Clear!” He hits me

again. Nothing. He sets the paddles aside and checks for a carotid pulse. After a brief

pause, he takes an inventory of all the medical knowledge he has and comes up short. He

shakes his head, pauses again, then lets out a sigh and asks for the time.

A nearby nurse glances at the clock. “6:33 p.m., Doctor.”

Everyone in the room knows what this means: I was finally at rest. My time card

got punched. Or the classic, I just bit the big one. To help end the confusion with the

euphemisms, I was as dead as a doornail.

Throughout the silence, the next word I hear the doctor say is…

“Foooore!”

I’m not sure how or why, but I’m standing in the middle of a fairway as a line-

drive tee shot is fast approaching, and my head is in its path! All of this happens in an

instant. I was paralyzed in place and no time to avoid this impending disaster. Right

before impact, the ball stops in mid-flight, turns to the right, circles around my head then

continues its flight landing safely on the green.

I stand there in complete shock trying to make sense of what just happened.

Shaken by the averted disaster, I stare toward the tee box. As I squint down the fairway, I

can barely make out three players approaching me. One of them is in a faster stride. It's

his ball that almost beheaded me.

When he gets to me, he asks, “Are you OK?”

I do a quick scan using a hand to check my head. “I think so.”

“That was a close one!” Laughing, he runs to the green to see where the ball

landed. The other two, not in as much of a rush, reach my spot on the fairway. I haven’t

moved an inch since my arrival. The pair stands in front of me. The first one smiles at

me, and the other one, a little bit cranky says, “You play?”

Not knowing what to say, I utter, “A little.”

“Well, pick'em up. You can join us.” Out of nowhere, a set of golf clubs appears

beside me. “You’ll make a fourth. We need to pick up the pace; we're in a hurry. Let's git

along little doggies!” Then he kicks my bag and heads for the trees; he hooked his tee

shot.

The other fellow stays with me for a moment as I make some attempt to collect

my thoughts. He seems very patient, not saying a word, unlike the other guy, who’s

already yelling in the trees searching for his ball. I gather my composure enough to

attempt an introduction. I extend my hand and stutter, “Hi, my name is T—T—T…”

He clasps my hand. “Relax, Tony. I know who you are.” Then He pats me on the

back. “I’m glad you showed up. Let’s play some golf.”

I grab my bag, and we walk down the fairway at a slower pace than normal. It

doesn’t matter because we’re the only ones on the course. Not a word is spoken between

the two of us as we continue down the fairway. This place is tranquil and mellow; the

only exception is the noise coming from the fellow in the woods, who’s yelling at a still-

missing ball.

“He is such a grouch. He’s still mad about that forty years in the wilderness deal.

It’s not my fault he couldn’t read a map.”

Forty years in the wilderness? Memories of Sunday school begin to pop into my

head, and then I look over at him. All I can do is stare at my partner’s gentle face.

“What is it, Tony?”

I am still gazing at him and say, “Not too sure. Have we met? You remind me of

someone, like a long lost friend.”

“Perchance we met somewhere in passing.” Maybe he’s right, somewhere in

passing. We continue our way to his ball, which is perfectly nestled in the middle of the

fairway.

“Watch out for him,” he says, pointing to the trees. “He’s the only one with a foot

wedge and an eraser.” The fellow in the woods peeks out from behind a tree and taunts us

by waving his pencil in the air and pointing to the eraser. Suddenly a ball pops out. “Told

you so—foot wedge.”

We reach my partner’s ball, and he grabs a nine-iron from his bag. He doesn’t set

up or address the ball, and not a single practice swing either. He doesn’t even look down

the fairway—he just whacks it! After a brief flight, the ball lands on the green, inches

from the cup.

Amazed, I say, “That was incredible! How did you do it?”

“Practice and a firm left grip.” He smiles and points to the ground next to his

divot. “Since you showed up late, you can drop your ball here. We’ll call this your drive.”

OK by me because “my” drive is almost three hundred and fifty yards! My best was

about two-eighty with the help of the wind and a concrete cart path.

“We’re only playing nine today, and this is the first hole.” It is my turn to hit, and

address my ball to set up for the shot. I take a couple practice swings, glance down the

fairway, take another practice swing and look down the fairway one more time.

The “grump” reaches his ball, gives it another nudge with his shoe, and yells, “We

don’t have all day! Hit the damn thing!” My jaw nearly hit the ground, and my partner

knows it.

“Don’t pay any attention to him. He says ‘damn’ to be annoying” —then he does

air quotes—“because it’s in the 'Bible'. He's got a whole list of words that he feels like he

can get away with.” He continues, “Your new buddy is the only golfer around who

refused divine intervention.” That would explain the eraser and the foot wedge. After the

brief interruption, I hit my ball with perfect precision and hole-out; not to be confused

with a hole-in-one, which are saved for the next three!

The guy who nearly took my head off yells, “Nice shot, Tony!”

After the best shot in my life, I recall the “divine intervention” comment from my

partner and ask, “Where in the hell am I?”

“Mr. Attitude” humorously and sarcastically yells out, “Not yet! But the day is

young.” Up to this point, I didn't realize he had other emotions except anger.

During the last three holes, we never say a word to one another, we simply enjoy

each other's company. We completed our round and finished the last hole. The three of us

are tied at minus eighteen and “Scrooge” is at plus twelve. Breaking the silence, my

partner leans in and whispers, “Maybe he should keep his clubs in the bag and just use his

foot.”

For the first time since I got here, wherever here is, his comment made me laugh.

After our round, I place my putter in the bag and say, “I had a wonderful time today, but I

don’t know your name.”

Again my playing partner looks at me and smiles. “You know who I am.” Then a

cool breeze blows across the fairway followed by a bolt of lightning.

Now I’m shaking inside, probably on the outside as well. I saw that coming a mile

away! And He’s right, I did know who He was. I’d put it in the back of my head the

moment I laid eyes on Him. That’s just great! After an afternoon of peace and tranquility,

fear and panic sets in. I’m in the presence of the Almighty, and I feel naked, humbled,

and not worthy.

“Sorry about the wind and lightning. Lately, it seems to happen every time I

introduce myself. I think your new playmate has a hand in it.” I’ve met a lot of important

people in my day, even the President of the United States. This one takes the cake.

Sensing my anxiety, He says, “Simmer down, Tony. You can call me Frank if it

makes you more comfortable.”

Stunned, I turn to Him and stare, and my voice goes up an octave. “Comfortable?

Are you kidding me?” With some effort, I return to my normal voice. “Let me get this

straight. You created all there is, separated the light from the darkness, set apart the land

from the sea, and did this all in six days, and you want me to call you Frank?”

He stands there tall and proud and says, “I don’t mean to brag, but I did it in three.

And let's not forget about all the planets, distant galaxies, fleas, ticks, and golf.”

“You created golf?”

“I had a hand in it. In the beginning, we called it bowling, but it didn't sound quite

right. We tried to pick something else.” Then pointing says, “Your pal over there thought

we should call it football.” He laughs and says, “Get it? Foot ... ball? Foot … wedge?”

“Yeah, got it.”

Anywho, the 'what should we call this ridiculous game' debate ensued, then

someone shouted out, 'how about golf'? That didn't sound right either, but we were tired,

took a vote, and it stuck. I’m pooped; take a seat.” I look around for something to sit on,

and when I turn back, there are two lawn chairs, and He is already sitting on one of them

reading a copy of Golf Digest. I go over and sit beside him.

My hands are clasped together and say, “I don’t feel right calling you…I can’t

even say it.”

“You said it a minute ago.”

“That didn’t count! I was caught off guard.”

“It’s only a name, Tony. I happen to like the name, Frank. I think it’s, I don’t

know, sort of macho. Sure beats 'what’s-his-name'.” God continues reading the magazine.

To this day, I can’t come to terms calling my mother-in-law by her first name.

Now that I think about it, I can’t remember her first name. I have been introduced to the

Creator of all that is, was and will be, and He wants to be called Frank? Still not

convinced I should ever, or would ever, call Him—that name, we head to the clubhouse.

He reaches over, puts an arm around my neck in a weak headlock and ruffles my

hair. “You know Tony, aside from the fact I’ve been around, let me think for a sec—

forever, created all of the laws of physics, and everything living in nature, we’re really

not that much different. And for the pièce de résistance—I’m omnipresent.

I pull away from Him and straighten my hair. “Thanks for clearing it up, but let’s

not forget about distant galaxies and golf. What's omnipresent?”

Not paying too much attention, He continues filtering through the pages of His

magazine. “Look it up. You'll find it somewhere around Omnipotent and Omniscient.”

“I'm curious about something. How did you manage to get a copy of Golf Digest

up here?”

“A hundred-year, paid-in-full subscription.”

“That'll do it.”

Several moments pass before I ask, “Can someone explain to me where I am and

how I got here?” Though I’m having a blast, I’m still in a daze. Fragments of the events

preceding our golf game enter my mind. The last thing I remember was being rushed to

the hospital, and all I can recall for sure was the ambulance ride. An amount of reality is

setting in, and in a nervous stutter, I ask, “Am I in Heaven?”

Calmly He replies, “No Tony, you are on a golf course.” Then pointing to the

right, He says, “Heaven is that way, but you aren’t allowed, at least not yet. I’ll show you

the ropes later.”

I glance over in the direction He pointed, then turn back to Him. “Why not? Why

won’t you let me see Heaven?”

The grouch, “Mr. Congeniality” says, “Because you can’t!”

Confused about, —oh, I don’t know, —everything, I ask, “Am I...dead?”

God gets up from the chair, grabs a driver and takes a few practice swings. He

swings the club back and forth thrashing through tidbits of grass with each swing, then

asks, “Do you feel dead?”

I'm beginning to recover from the day’s events and say, “Not really. Come to think

about it, I feel great! Better than ever!”

To confirm that statement, I begin touching my head, and then I grabbed both of

my arms in a criss-cross fashion, just to make sure I still felt…well…like me. “I feel

'solid'—shouldn’t I be supernatural, invisible or something?”

He chuckles, “We’re all solid, Tony.”

The other guy couldn't resist and gets in a few words. What seems to be his usual

ill-tempered style, says, “Hey, Tony! Look at me, you’re not dead! You’re a zombie!” He

begins to comically stumble about, both arms outstretched and moans like a zombie.

I turn back to Him and say, “He really is a creep.” After several holes of golf, and

getting to know the other guy, I figure out who he is. I use the occasion to take a swipe at

him. I'm beginning to return to my natural, normal, cocky self, and after spending a day

of torment with him, I say, “Hey, old man! Aren’t you about five thousand or so?”

His response is equally as cocky at my little swipe and asks in sort of a De Niro-

esque way, “You talking to me?” Then drops to the ground and does ten one-armed push-

ups! After he finishes, he jumps up. “Ha! There’s your five-thousand or so—smart-ass!”

My partner places his driver back in his bag. “Don’t let him get under your skin.

Once you get to know him, he’s all right, just stay clear when he’s mad. He has a

reputation for breaking things when angered. I worked hard on the Nine

Commandments.”

Rummaging through my 'répertoire' of Sunday school memories, I'm trying to

remember how many Commandments there were. “Was there ten or twelve?” I say

quietly to myself. Then, I suddenly recall and ask, “Don’t you mean ten?”

“Oh yeah, but originally there were only nine. If you haven’t already guessed, I

like golf a lot. So, I thought to myself, golf is relaxing, and Sunday is one of my favorite

days to play, so I figured, what the hay, let's add it to the list somewhere between three

and five. I had to spice it up a little, you know, give it some pizazz and make it more

dramatic to fit in with the others. Besides, the tablets are, or in his case, were more

esthetically pleasing to the eye with a perfect balance: five on one side, five on the other.”

“Makes sense to me.”

A few moments pass, and now He's a little irritated. “You don’t put something like

the Commandments together willy-nilly. It took a lot of thought and effort. “Then he,”—

pointing to the clubhouse, —“gets an attitude because of those knuckleheads he was

leading around and busts them up in a childish fit. I could have dealt with the situation,

but noooo, he had to make a scene!”

To lighten the mood, I say, “I guess he was the first to 'break' the

Commandments.”

Now He is in a lighter mood and says, “Not really, but he was the first one to

break them all at once!”

I respond with, “I guess it’s a good thing he had them memorized.”

We get to the clubhouse, and inside “Crabby” is giving the club pro a ton of grief

about what garbage the irons are. The pro suggests that he take a few lessons. After the

pro’s comment, he tosses the clubs, bag and all, through the window, shattering it into a

million pieces.

“Told you so. He’s also the inventor of tantrums. Do your kids ever throw

tantrums?”

“Sure they do. Don’t they all?”

Again pointing over at Moses, God says, “Yep, and it all started with him.”

“What a surprise.”

“Tantrums, the inventor he is.” I wasn't too sure what he just said, so instead I

repeat Him in my mind using my best “Yoda” impression. Tantrums, the inventor he is.

He asks, “Who is Yoda? And why are you talking so weird?”

I look at Him and say, “Wow, you're good!” Responding to his apparent mind-

reading ability.

“Here's another one for you and your friend Yoda: Mock Thee not again.”

“Sorry.”

“Thou art forgiven.” Then he laughs.

“Mr. Sunshine” storms out of the clubhouse and yells at the two of us, “I’m outta

here! I’m going to do something more entertaining, like watch a burning bush!”

Both of us wave and the other guy returns the favor. But if I didn’t see it with my

own two eyes, it looked like he… no, he couldn’t have!

Several more minutes go by, and He asks, “Do you want something to drink?

How about a Shasta? Jesus loves His wine, but I’ll take a Shasta any day of the week.”

His favorite is black cherry, coincidentally mine too, but He likes it with an

umbrella sticking out the top of the can. I must say one thing for sure, there are many

surprises up here. Out of nowhere, a ghostly creature flies right above our heads like a jet

fighter. I duck and nearly fall to the ground. Looking up and following its path toward the

horizon, I exclaim, “What was that?”

“He doesn’t have a name. We all have a spirit, and He is mine. He is the wind and

my breath, but when He does his little flyby routine, we call Him 'Maverick.' Me, Jesus,

and my spirit pretty much work as a team.” More Sunday school memories pop into my

head.

“That clears it up. The Father, Son”—then I point at the vapor trail— “and the

Holy Maverick. Am I right?”

“My goodness, aren't we the quick study!”

Somewhat confused, I say, “I thought you said we were all solid.”

“Sorry about that, I forgot about Him.”

I continue to watch Maverick's flight path and say, “I’ve always had a tough time

wrapping my arms around the whole ‘three in one’ concept.”

“It’s not difficult. Did you ever hear of General Motors?”

I have no clue where this is heading, and it's clear I’m about to find out.

He takes a pencil from his bag and grabs a score card. God draws three circles,

then a bigger one around them. “The big circle is GM, and the ones within are Chevy,

Buick, and Ford.” I don’t bother to correct the Ford blunder.

“You see, all are General Motors cars, different, but still the same, yet one.

Comprendo?”

“Si, señor.” He does have a way of explaining things even a lawyer like me can

grasp.

“Tony, I've got a joke for you.”

“Fire away.”

“It's a humdinger. Are you ready?”

“I can't wait.”

“OK, here it goes. Stop me if you've heard it.”

Doing some more thinking, I say in my mind, “I wouldn't even if I had; I'm not

taking any chances.”

“May I please begin?”

“Go for it.”

“Thank you, Tony.”

“Here we go.”

A man was having a conversation with God,— “That would be me,”

Then he asks, "Tell me, God, I am curious, what is a million years to

you?”

I answer, "A second, my child.”

“Well then," the man continues, "what is a million dollars to you?"

I again reply, "A penny, my child."

So the man asks,"Can I borrow a penny?"

"Certainly, in just a second."

God busts out laughing and slaps me on the back. “That's the funniest joke I

know.”

Reeling from the slap, I say, “Yeah, that's a real rib-tickler. Jack Benny better step

aside.”

We spend a few minutes doing much of nothing. Then I say, “You don’t look like

I expected.”

“What were you expecting? Long gray hair and a robe? Oh yeah, let’s not forget

the halo.”

“Now that you mention it, yes. You seem so gentle and frail.”

In an instant, He laughs. “Frail? I’m not the one who croaked!”

“Good point.”

We are standing around enjoying our sodas, then He casually asks, “You know

who I can’t wait to play golf with?”

I begin to peek around as if looking for someone. I turn away from Him, and in a

low tone reply, “I'm not too sure, but I bet they can.”

He takes a sip from his Shasta, then answers his own question. “John Daly. I like

his style.”

I start to laugh. “That would be fun. The way he's been living, you might not have

to wait long.”

Curiously, He asks, “What do you mean?”

“Oh, it's nothing. Forget about it.”

Then He says in a sort of a pout, “Every day I check with the pro shop to see if he

made it. The best I can do is hope and wait. I have a pair of plaid slacks just like his.”

Pointing to a golf cart beside the clubhouse, says, “We reserved a spot just for him and

left it parked and ready just in case he arrives. Look over there. See the name plaque?

John D. I had it hand-lettered in gold, and not that cheap stuff either.”

“Good planning, and a very nice sign.” I noticed the cart moments earlier; it

included cigarettes and a six-pack. Pointing at them, I say, “I thought those things weren't

allowed.”

“Usually they’re not, but playing with John wouldn’t seem right without them. I

guess it’s for the ambiance. They’re more like decorations.”

“You’re right. It wouldn’t be the same without a smoke and a cold brew when he

plays.”

He stands up and walks over to the golf cart. “You mentioned something about

'how he'd been living'. I haven’t kept up, but is John doing alright these days?”

“He’s been playing some impressive golf lately.”

He solemnly utters, “That's nice.”

I pick up this strange gizmo, like some kind of collapsing practice club. I’d never

seen one and begin to play with it. It clangs and clatters with every move I make trying to

figure out what it does.

In a huff He says, “Excuse me,” then reaches over and tries to snatch it from me,

but I jerk it back away from His reach. “Please put that down and listen to me.”

I cradled the little device like a newborn out of His grasp and said, “OK, I'm

listening.”

God leans in close and asks, “Hoooow is he doing?” It finally occurs to me that

He is wondering about his health.

As I was turned away for just a second, he snatched the little device away from

me and started messing with it in about the same way I was. “I'm checking with security

and find out how this little annoying thing got in here.” Then He rattles and shakes it in a

bit of a fit. He is still fidgeting with it, and I could hear Him say to Himself, “You would

think that I could figure this thing out.” He stops doing what He was doing and then looks

me square in the eyes and impatiently asks, “Well?”

I replied, “I read a while back he's cut way back on his smoking and drinking.”

God turns away, tosses the contraption into a nearby trashcan and sighs. “You

could have gone all day long without telling me that depressing news.”

“You asked.” I chug the rest of my Shasta, toss the empty into the same trashcan

and retrieve the little gadget. It immediately turns into a snake and begins to strike at me.

Both my arms immediately start flailing about, and the snake is flying all over the place

in unison with the flailing. During this melee, I keep the beast an arms' length away and

hold a tight grip with both hands. It continues its hissing and attempted strikes, hopefully

missing its mark. I must have looked like a crazed snake handler! I freed myself from the

reptile and threw it back into the trashcan. God is laughing hysterically as I carefully

inspect myself for snake bites. Still shaking, my sarcasm came through loud and clear.

“Ha, ha, ha, very amusing, Frank.”

Regaining His composure, but still laughing, God said, “I can't figure out what it

does, but now I know what it is!” The monster crawled out of the trashcan and slithered

away, then He busts out laughing again.

We make our way over to the cart and grab our positions. He sits on the driver’s

seat, and I plop down on the passenger's side. For a few seconds, God begins to tap the

top of one of the beer cans lightly with a pencil, pinging it with each tap. Then He speeds

up the tapping, turning the subtle pinging into a snare drum solo! He stops then stares out

into the distance.

He turns to me and says, “You know if I wanted to, I could speed things up a

little.” Then He turns back away and continues to stare out into the distance.

Right then, and in an instant, His voice turns into an irritated, elevated pitch, and

again, looks right at me. “You mean to tell me he doesn't even have a cold?”

“Nope. According to the papers, he's as fit as a fiddle and stronger than an ox.”

Quietly He says, “We'll see about that.” He turns back away from me and

continues to gaze at an open field. “Someday…someday. Perhaps I should practice what I

preach and be patient.”

I place my hand on His shoulder and offer some support. “There, there, it'll be

alright. If we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it.”

“I was wondering when those words were going to come back and haunt me.”

Then He perks up. “By the way, very impressive! Romans 8:25, I do believe. Am I

right?”

“Not a clue. I read it on the back of the scorecard. You're not going to turn me into

a toad or something, are you?”

“Don't push it, Mister.”

A short while later after some more silence, I mention the shot that almost killed

me…I mean, almost killed me again.

“I’ve never seen anything like it! The way his ball stopped in mid-air and went

around my head! It was incredible! Who does he think he is—Jesus Christ?”

Moses peeks from around the corner holding a charred stick and a flaming

marshmallow and says, “No, he thinks he’s Arnold Palmer!”

Chapter II

“I’m calling it.” The ER doctor glances at the clock, not to contradict or second-

guess what the nurse reported, but for confirmation. Details like the time of death is an

important piece of information on the death certificate. Then he spoke those final words:

“Time of death, 6:33 p.m.”

It seems that most of the time, all a clock does in an emergency room is to let

people know when their shift is over, or when to pronounce a patient dead. These people

are trained professionals and used to this kind of stuff on a routine basis. However, on

this day, there are tears and some faint sniffles. It’s safe to say that I have a fair amount of

respect at the hospital, not the most-loved, after all, I am the hospital’s lawyer. I’ve had to

throw a few doctors, nurses and others under the bus to avoid costly malpractice and

wrongful death suits, but that’s what I got paid to do.

Kent, the hospital administrator, is a long-time family friend. He used to be our

pastor but said the hospital paid him more than God could afford. Kent got his job when I

had his predecessor terminated for taking kickbacks and bribes from vendors and

pharmaceutical companies. All of my life, I grew up hearing about my father's charity

work and fundraisers he’d done for the hospital. To show their gratitude for his years of

service, they dedicated a floor at the hospital in his honor: The Stanford Psychiatric Unit.

Considering my family’s involvement with the place, I guess it was destiny I’d work

there one day. But after working as their lawyer for years, I never expected a response

like this from the hardworking ground troops. I underestimated that some of them liked

me, probably the ones I didn’t have to sue or fire.

After the tension fades in the ER, extra equipment is removed, and spent

instruments are taken from the room as well. The heart monitor is the last detail and is

switched off, and that’s that. But is it? Though the staff has plenty to do, for whatever

reason, a few do not leave the room. They stand in place just looking at me and saying

nothing. There seems to be an eerie presence as everyone’s eyes are glued to the corpse—

mine!

New arrivals show up, including the medical chief of staff and two clergymen.

Father Lucci is doing that sign of the cross deal, and Brother Bob holds a Bible close to

his chest and offers a prayer. I've met both of them. I like Father Lucci, but surprised

Brother Bob doesn’t pass around an offering plate. It is quite a crowd.

Bev and the kids must be here as well, in the waiting room. Everyone’s on hand as

witnesses to this ongoing event.

I still can’t comprehend how a man by all medical standards is dead, yet feel so

alive. I’m that man; stuck in a place somewhere between walking and talking among the

living, or conversely, being a snack for the worms.

Wait a doggone minute! Hold the phone and let's backup. Ongoing event? What

ongoing event? Let me explain as best I can. When you are somewhere between dead and

alive, you can bet there will be an ongoing event. This one will last three days.

The room is cleared, and all that remains is a dim light and me, complete with the

dramatic sheet pulled over my head. All of the i’s are dotted, and t's crossed. Every detail

has been tended to, except one—no one signs the death certificate.

Chapter III

In 1979, the wheels were put in motion that set the tone for the rest of my future.

For a while, I’d been dealing with what they call an “inverted T-wave.” During a routine

examination, which included an EKG, they discovered this pesky anomaly. As it was

explained to me, my abnormal was my new normal and I had nothing to worry about.

However, it raised its ugly head one day almost twenty years later in 1998. It was

summertime, and I headed my way to work. Another day, another dollar. I had a

successful law practice that kept me and a staff of twelve very busy.

I am a real estate lawyer, with an emphasis on corporate law and dealt with most

of the hospital’s legal work. My practice focused on patient and medical law. Just for

grins, I hired an attorney fresh out of law school to handle traffic tickets for my friends

and their idiot kids.

But on this day, while shuffling through some paperwork, I wasn’t feeling my

best. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought because I’m in pretty decent health. I

never get the flu, and rarely a cold. My life is relatively active, but I don’t exercise on a

regular basis unless riding a golf cart counts. So on the rare occasion I get a little puny,

especially with the thought it may be cardiac related, I become a little concerned. I called

my doctor’s office and told them I wasn't feeling very well. The nurse got on the phone

and asked a routine series of questions.

This is my favorite, “Tony, are you in pain?”

Scouring through a contract, I said, “No.” I say it’s my favorite because if I were

in pain, I’d have to play the pain-meter game and state my pain level from one to ten. I

always say five so we can move along to the next question. During this medical version

of the Spanish Inquisition, I interrupted her.

“Slow down, Sandy. It’s not a big deal, just some pressure in my neck.”

But in the back of my mind, I was concerned that my heart was going south. So,

to be on the safe side, I wanted to get it checked out. My concern escalated when Sandy

told me to come in as soon as possible. My personal physician, Dr. Ronald Stewart,

shows little favoritism. It usually takes a week to see him, even for a big shot like me. By

the time they get to you, you’re already cured!

As soon as I arrived, the nurse escorted me to an exam room for a checkup. The

first stop—the scales. I hate those things because they always lie. It rattled as I stepped on

it. The nurse tapped the balancing weight thing back and forth until it became level. Her

bifocals had been swinging around her neck the whole time. She slipped them on that big

“honker” of hers and checked my weight. She tilted her head up slightly to peek through

the reading part of her bifocals, and with a hint of a smirk, she asked, “Gained a little

weight, Tony?”

“Maybe a couple of pounds, not sure.”

Her smirk turned into a giggle. “Well, you’ve gained more than a couple of

pounds. Come with me, fatty.”

“Very cute.”

We got to the exam room just a few steps down a hallway, and I sit on the

examination table. “Open wide.” She took my temperature, then hooked me up to the

EKG. Sure enough, my T-wave became the topic of conversation. There's a knock at the

door. “Hello, Tony.” Dr. Stewart entered the room and glanced over the EKG; again

reminded me I had nothing to worry about. Pointing at the print-out, Dr. Stewart said,

“Tony, I assure you this has nothing to do with the other”—meaning my EKG result had

nothing to do with my visit today.

Dr. Stewart told me everything was up-to-snuff. He suggested that I go home and

rest, adding that today’s event probably had more to do with stress than anything else. I

wandered off in my mind and thought, Fan-damn-tastic! A complete waste of time and

money. Sounded like an excuse for a round of golf.

The next day arrived, and I’d hardly started my morning routine at work. My day

was interrupted with the same symptom as yesterday, except this time, with the added joy

of a little chest pressure. Again, no pain, only discomfort, and more worry. Again, I called

Dr. Stewart's office; this time with a little more anxiety. His secretary handed the phone

over to him right away.

“Tony, this is Ron. What’s going on?”

“Same as yesterday, but a little worse.” Even over the phone, I could tell that my

doctor was concerned. When he sat up in his chair, I could hear the squeakiness

resonating from it. Ron asked if I had developed any chest pain since yesterday. I told

him it was more pressure, but still no pain.

“Tony, in my opinion, the best thing for you to do is to go straight to the ER. You

stay put. I’m calling an ambulance.”

“Ron, I don’t need an ambulance. I can drive myself.”

“OK, hard-head, do what you want, but if you drop dead on the way, don’t blame

me. Get going, and I’ll call Bev.” Wow, this was serious! Dr. Stewart was more interested

in me going to the hospital rather than being the middleman for his next car payment!

“Nothing to worry about” had quickly turned into “something to worry about.”

I laid down the phone and plopped in my chair. I felt my heart begin to race. I

took some deep breaths and tried my best to calm down. My mouth began to dry up, and

whatever moisture was there, made its way to my face. I could feel beads of sweat trickle

down my forehead and wiped them away with my tie. I sat there, thinking and staring

into space. I collected my thoughts, sat up in my chair, and finished my coffee in a single

gulp contemplating all of the “what-ifs”. I didn’t say much to my secretary, only that I

had to leave for a while. I got to my car, climbed in, and loosened my sweat-stained tie.

On my way to the hospital, more “what-ifs” occupied my mind. “What if this is it? What

will Bev do? What about the kids? And my car! I love my car!” Who wouldn’t? It’s a

brand-new Porsche. She thought it was the dumbest thing I ever bought. Bev's jealous

because she’s stuck with a minivan. I’ve joked that I wanted to be buried in my car and

began speculating if it was even possible. As soon as I arrived at the hospital, my phone

rang. I waited in the car long enough to take the call.

“Tony, this is Bev. Are you all right?” To this day, she always introduces herself

when she calls me. This time thought I’d have some fun.

“Bev who?”

“Bev who my ass! I just got off the phone with Ron, and he told me he sent you to

the hospital.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal? You’re at the ER! I’d call that a big deal!”

“Bev, I’ll be in and out in no time. I’m OK. When I’m done, I’ll give you a shout.

I have to go. This call is costing me thirty-five cents a minute.”

She exclaims, “You drive a sixty-five-thousand-dollar toy, and you’re concerned

about a thirty-five cent phone call?”

“If I don't hang up soon, it’ll be a seventy cent phone call. Bev, I have to go. I’ll

call you later—from my office.” I ended the call before she could carry on with any more

of her worrying. I got out of my car and walked to the ER.

Near the entrance, an ambulance flew by me and I could smell burning rubber

from the tires as it screeched to a halt. An EMT leaped out, ran to the back of the

ambulance and opened the rear door with so much force I was amazed it stayed on its

hinges. He pulled out the stretcher while the other tech was pounding the hell out of the

guy's chest. A bottle of saline swung back and forth with every blow. The hospital trauma

team, already in full stride, joined the EMTs and took over. I didn’t get a clear view of the

patient, but he seemed familiar.

Chapter IV

After all of the morning's excitement, I made it to the front desk.

“Hello, Mr. Stanford, this is an unexpected surprise. Got someone on the

chopping block today?”

Not humored, I told the receptionist Dr. Stewart had called ahead. She shuffled

through some papers. “I don’t see anything. Do you know who he talked to?”

“Gee whiz, Sara Ann, I’m not too sure. I wasn’t around when he made

reservations.”

“What’s the problem, Tony? I hope you’re not sick. We have a crowd, and you

might have to wait awhile like the regular folk.”

On a side note, if you ever want to move to the head of the line, say these words

at the emergency room: I have chest pain. A nurse was immediately summoned and

appeared with a wheelchair.

“Hop on, Tony.”

“I can make it on my own.”

The polite request turned ugly. “Sit in the damn chair, Tony, and shut up!”

“Nurse Ratched” wheeled me back to one of the examination rooms and started

all the standard procedures they undertake when they presume you’re having a heart

attack or about to. After the ER doc reviewed the results of a few tests and blood work, he

told me I hadn’t had a heart attack—yet. However, a debate ensued with my cardiologist

and his junior partner over whether “I did or didn't.” I would have loved to have been “a

fly on the wall” during that conversation, but both agreed that further testing needed to

done. The ER doc urged me to stay the night for observation, and at the request of my

cardiologist, do a few more tests in the morning. With some hesitation on my part, I

agreed. They did another blood draw and kept me in the exam room while I waited for

the results.

I grabbed a nurse and asked her who the guy was they just brought in. She told me

she wasn't sure and that they were still working on him in the ER.

By now, it is late afternoon, and after hours of fidgeting and waiting, they moved

me to a regular patient room. Bev had been in the lobby for most of the time and was

finally allowed to see me. When she came into the room, I could tell she was upset.

I grinned at her from the armchair where I was watching TV. Why choose a bed

that felt like a slab of stone when you could sit in a creaky armchair instead? In an effort

to calm her, pointed to my tray and said, “I saved you my ice cream.”

“Thanks.” She gave me a peck on the forehead, then swiped my ice cream.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

“Besides the Nazi nursing staff and my tray of gruel, I’m hunky-dory.” The only

decent thing on the plate had been my ice cream, and unfortunately Bev took me up on

my offer.

Using that flat, wooden paddle deal, Bev starts chomping down on what used to

be my frozen dessert. Between bites, she says, “So far everything is still ticking. I talked

to the doctor, and the good news is they don't think you had a heart attack.”

Relieved I said, “That is good news.” Then, a bit aghast, I ask, “What do you

mean, 'they don't think'?”

With a mouthful of ice cream, she is barely able to mutter, “Sorry. They said you

'did not' have a heart attack.”

Relieved by the sudden correction, I said, “Bev I wish you would improve on

those communication skills of yours. There is a big difference between 'don't think you

had' and 'didn't have'.”

“I'll work on it.” She went back to mauling the last few bites. “The doctor says it

may be stress. The tests in the morning will tell him more.”

Changing the subject, I asked, “How are the kids?”

“They’re all right. The boys are concerned about you, especially Jake. You know

what a worrywart he is.”

“I’ll call them later and let them know everything is alright.” She gobbled down

the last bite, licked the spoon clean and tossed the empty cup onto the tray, followed by

the wooden spoon, which landed in the cup.

“Nice shot. The EMTs brought in some guy the same time I got here. They were

in such a rush I didn’t get a close look. I swear I’ve seen him. I just couldn’t make out

who he was.”

I’ve got enough on my mind, and Bev had been reluctant to break the news to me.

“Tony, it was Clark. He had a massive heart attack.” Bev put her hand on mine and said

he didn’t make it. I turned my head away from her and gazed out the window. An already

cloudy day turned to rain. Clark had been a friend and colleague for many years. I

became his partner not long after I graduated law school. A few years later, we went our

separate ways. He quit the practice and gave it to me. He wanted to do volunteer work at

our community legal aid office. He resigned from volunteering a little over a year ago to

fully retire. I’ve been with Bev for a long time, and I know how she thinks. In her mind,

she is comparing Clark’s plight to mine. The clue was when I noticed a tear flowing down

her face after she told me about Clark. She wiped it away, hoping I didn't notice. I

reached over for her hand and looked into her eyes.

“I am going to be OK, Bev. There’s no need to worry yourself.”

My words were of little comfort. She hugged my neck so hard it felt like she was

going to cut off the blood supply to my brain. Moments later, one of the 'Gestapo' entered

the room to announce visitation hours were over. We said our goodbyes, followed by

another chokehold, and she whispered, “I’ll see you in the morning, and you're right,

everything is going to be OK.” Bev tried to sound convincing, but her grip around my

neck told me otherwise. Another little peck, this time on the cheek, then she left the room.

I'm not a big crier, but I did. I spent a while thinking about Clark, and how his

poor wife gets to deal with all the “what-if’s”, except this time, they have turned into the

“what now’s”?

At forty-one, I didn’t consider myself old enough to be a grumpy old man.

Evidently I’d already been tagged with being “that patient”. I didn’t like hospitals, and

what’s worse was spending the night in one. All the smells of antiseptic cleaner in the air,

moaning patients, and to top it off—that crap they called a meal. It’s enough to make you

sick! I know these people had a job to do, but it didn’t mean I had to like it, and

apparently it showed.

The cardiologist came to see me and begged me to stop tormenting his staff; then

he offered me a cigarette. I made the best of the rest of the evening. For the first time in

recent memory, I got through an entire episode of M*A*S*H without interruption. My

nurse came into the room and told me it was bedtime. She also informed me that the

doctor wanted me to take a tablet after breakfast. He wanted me “relaxed” before the

morning’s festivities. That’s fantastic! He wanted me stoned before I got on a treadmill!

The thought of an impending lawsuit entered my mind.

The next day arrived without any complications. If it weren't for the intrusions

every thirty minutes or so to take my vital signs, I might have slept through the entire

night. The one vital sign they didn't seem to care about was sleep-deprivation. In spite of

the constant interruptions, I survived, and everything was still OK. So the day is off to a

pleasant start except for my morning pile of garbage they called breakfast. My testing

schedule was given to me, which they called “procedures.” First on the list, a treadmill

procedure followed with a stress echocardiogram. Next in the lineup, a chest x-ray. And

to round off this plethora of procedures, another invasive blood draw, only this time, I

pleaded with them to leave me a little. I know I had an attitude—Bev reminded me all of

the time—but I hated that stuff! In my opinion, I was making the doctors rich and helping

with the hospital’s bottom line. Wait a minute, I'm on the payroll and starting to sound

like a real patient.

What made matters worse, all my procedures turned out great, and it was

confirmed that I did not have a heart attack. There was not a single detectable problem. I

was “fit as a fiddle”, however, they were still studying the results of the echocardiogram.

Cheapo me compares going to the hospital is like going to an all-you-can-eat buffet. You

have to load up at least a couple of plates of food so that you think you got your money's

worth. Same thing applies here. I would have felt better if at least they'd found a wart! So

it would appear this whole day and a half was shot all to hell and a big waste of time and

cash. After this is over with, I'm launching an investigation.

But wait! They're not done with me yet. Evidently, the echocardiogram did raise a

few eyebrows. So it seems that maybe I might get my money's worth after all. The

cardiologist told me to be sure as a result of the 'echo', he wanted to order a heart cath.

This was the worst! It’s a relatively painless procedure, but daunting. They make an

incision in your groin area, then run a catheter all the way up until the thing bumps into

your heart. Then they inject some dye to light up all the little vessels and other things.

The nurse shot me up with what she called “happy juice.” After she injected me, I

was conscious enough to ask for seconds. The drug didn't take long for its effect. An aide

helped “pour” me on the gurney and hauled me off to the cath lab. The cardiologist was

new at the hospital, and Bev hadn’t had the opportunity to meet him. She approached him

in the cardio unit of the hospital. He remained seated in his chair, fine-tuning the monitor

after he inserted the catheter and did another injection. No happy juice this time; medical

dye.

Bev introduced herself and extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Bev Stanford.”

He clutched hers, and in a thick Indian accent, said, “Nice to meet you. I’m Dr.

Mukopadhyay, but everyone calls me Al.”

Impulsively she said, “No shit!”

“Excuse me?”

She was quick to rebound with, “I said, nice shirt.”

He went back to doing his job. I was knocked out, and Bev remained nearby; we

were only separated by observation glass. I was on a gurney about ten feet away in the

adjoining room when the cardiologist jumped to his feet. “Thar she blows!” Most likely

not a common expression in India, she thought. He was as giddy as a schoolgirl. He

grabbed her arm and jolted her to his side and said he found the problem. You would have

thought he won a car!

Bev didn’t know if she was supposed to be giddy as well or concerned. “What is

it, Dr. Al?”

“Check out the monitor, Bev.” Using a pen as a pointer, he went over the images

with her. “You see the spaghetti-looking thingy next to that little flappy deal?” She turned

to him and gave him “that look.” His choice of medical lingo was questionable; however,

it communicated. “Bev, the bottom line is, Tony has two clogged arteries. One I'd say

eighty percent,” — squinting his eyes, he studied the monitor a little closer — “the other

I'm guessing around ninety to ninety-five.” He points again with the pen and says, “That

is the left anterior descending (LAD) coronary artery of the heart.” With a concerned

look, Dr. Al turned to her and said, “We call that one the 'widow maker'.”

Bev lowered her head as Dr. Al cuddled her arm. “Bev, we've come a long way

with this sort of thing, and Dr. Chopra is the best 'cutter' around.”

Cutter? So it's down to this, she thinks in her head. Bev had been around the

hospital for many years as a volunteer and served on several committees, and by osmosis,

she learned enough to know this wasn’t great news.

“Dr. Al, I don't understand. He doesn't smoke and only has an occasional drink,

and we eat reasonably healthy. Tony's no 'Olympian', but he's not a couch potato either.”

Dr. Al responds, “I've seen his history, and all I can say, it's most likely genetic. It

happens.”

Still under sedation, they rolled me into my room. When I regained

consciousness, Bev was there waiting. As best I could, attempted to sit up. I struggled for

a moment and gave up. Still groggy, I asked, “Well, did I get an A?”

She didn’t say a word as she as she held back her emotions.

“What’s wrong, Bev? I’m still alive. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

I heard a couple of knocks at the door, then, this short, tiny little guy wearing

surgical scrubs walked in. I immediately recognized him: it was Dr. Chopra, chief of

thoracic surgery. A thoracic surgeon operates on everything in the chest area, including

the heart. The best thing about Dr. Chopra, I could pronounce his name. The bad thing,

I’m sure he didn’t stop by to say 'hi.'

He approached me, said “hello” to Bev, and in a slow, stoic, and somewhat

condescending tone begins the conversation. “Well, Tony my boy, we have a problem.”

That’s the amusing part, “we” have a problem, as if “we” are going to equally share in

whatever firestorm piece of information he is about to pass along.

Bev hadn’t told me a thing, so as expected, I was a shocked at the news. “OK,

Doctor, what is ‘our’ problem?”

Dr. Chopra has been in the country long enough to detect sarcasm. “Well, smart-

ass”—we’ve been friends for a while, so he can call me a smart-ass. “The problem,”—

then pointing to me— “that 'you' have, in layman’s terms, is coronary artery disease.”

“I think I know what that sounds like, but would you be more specific?” Now

came the boring part. I wish I’d never asked.

As though he had a speech memorized, and in a single breath, here it came.

“Tony, it's the narrowing or blockage of the coronary arteries caused by atherosclerosis,

which is the buildup of fatty deposits and inflammatory cells called plaque on the inner

walls of the arteries and restricts blood flow to the heart.”

He paused, took another long breath and continued.

“Without adequate blood flow, the heart becomes starved of oxygen and vital

nutrients needed to work properly. And if we don’t do something soon, to put it bluntly,

Bev can start dating again and gets to add a few zeros to her bank account.”

“Don’t hold back, Doc, give it to me straight.” Then I asked, “So what’s the

'procedure'?”

Again Dr. Chopra had no problem detecting the continued sarcasm, and he fired

back with, “We’re going to open you up like a Christmas turkey and fix that mess!”

The skeptic in me always smells a rat. I knew this was an expensive operation and

voiced my thoughts. “So, Dr. Chopra, you got another kid off to college or do you need a

new car?”

“Why, you’re right, Tony, and this little operation will pay for his first year at

Duke. The last guy paid for my Cadillac. I appreciate the business—smart-ass.”

“No problem, Doc.”

I've never seen his serious side until now. “I know we joke around, but Tony, this

is no joke. Without the operation, you've got about five days.”

By sheer will and determination, I sat up. “For what?”

He just stared at me. I knew what he meant without him saying a word, and then I

fell back on the pillow.

Dr. Chopra tapped me on the leg. “Don’t worry about it Tony, we’re going to fix

you up.” It was obvious that he was having a slower day than normal and sat down on a

guest chair next to Bev. She was given the run down earlier and had already dealt with

the news of my scheduled surgery. She ignored the conversation and continued to read

Cosmo. Dr. Chopra reached for a copy of Newsweek and started flipping its pages. Not

reading a thing, he restarted the conversation, and I pretended to pay attention. Still

recovering from the drug, I nodded off. He slammed the magazine on the table and didn’t

seem to care about waking me. “You know what’s the worst part about my job?”

My brief nap interrupted I asked, “What?”

“I've got one shot, if I'm lucky, at getting it right during surgery. And if I don’t, it’s

off to the 'dirt farm'!” Dr. Chopra continued, only this time he was pissed! “And what do

most of these idiots do when I have performed such delicate work of artistic surgical

genius?”

Not wanting to be, but now awake and sitting up, I said, “Not a clue.”

“They end up doing the same crap that got them here in the first place! When they

leave the hospital, they go back to eating junk, not exercising and pick up a carton of

Camels on the way home! And you know what really stinks?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.” Now I reached over and grabbed a magazine, and like

him, flipped through the pages, still pretending to listen.

“Most of those dumb SOB's don’t get a second chance— they just drop dead!

Very frustrating.” He continued with his tirade. “And when they do, here’s the depressing

part. You know how much money I make when they bring in a dead guy who dropped

like a fly because of a heart attack?”

“I don’t know, and it's none of my business. How much?”

“Fifty measly bucks! And that's only because I was lucky enough to be around to

check for a pulse and pronounce him dead.” Dr. Chopra settles down a bit and says, “My

apologies, I’m being selfish. I should be thankful and take whatever bone they throw at

me. But I don't do car wrecks or anything else bloody. Too icky for me.” Dr. Chopra

reached for another magazine and flips through it as well, much the same as the last. Bev

took a cue from me earlier and pretended to nod off.

“You know who has it made in the shade?”

“I give up, who?” I said, still flipping pages.

“Those oncology guys. They can hang on to a patient for months, sometimes

years racking up cash the whole damn time and straight to the bank! Me? If your sorry

ass drops dead, my income goes to zero!” He continues thumbing through the pages then

shakes his head. “You heart patients are so unpredictable.”

“Very compassionate, Dr. Chopra.”

“We don’t have the luxury of stringing you along. Those oncology bastards can

milk it for as long as possible. A lot of time, they can predict how long you got left. They

get so close you could set your watch. Me, I’m screwed!” Dr. Chopra tossed the

magazine back on the table. “Tony, I better move along and check on the 'inventory', I

mean make rounds.”

Dr. Chopra is from and educated in India as his colleague Dr. Al. He received his

advanced training in the United States. He is the only one I have ever met who converted

from Hinduism to Judaism. I overheard him say to a new resident physician that the

synagogue was a better networking opportunity and that he should check it out. Before

Dr. Chopra converted, he researched the heart attack rates between Jews and Hindus.

Jews won hands down. To him, the Synagogue was a gold mine.

As he left the room, he stuck his head back in and said, “I suppose you heard

about Old Man Steinberg.”

“Yeah, I’ve been working on the case. Something about him owing the hospital a

chunk of change.”

This time and uninvited, Dr. Chopra came back into my room and returned to my

bedside with both hands clenched and shaking at his side.

“You damn right, a chunk of change! Most of it is supposed to go in my pocket,

and the family stiffed me!”

As mournfully as I could, said, “If you recall, he did die.”

An agitated Dr. Chopra, with less clenching, raised both arms in the air in

frustration. “What’s your point? I did my part. You think your heart is a mess,—

Steinberg’s looked like his was run through a meat grinder! The Steinbergs should be

thankful I gave him enough time to straighten some things out!” He punched me on my

arm then whispered, “And he had a lot of straightening out to do.” Back to his griping, he

finished with, “And that’s the thanks I get? The infamous Steinberg screwing!”

“Like I said, your compassion is overwhelming.”

“Hey, I’m a nice guy, I just want to be paid. You have a warranty on your car, not

for my services.”

“I’ll take note and make sure you get your money, whether I make it or not.”

“Tony, I like you. You're a man of your word and know how to take care of

business. I'll see you in the morning. Try and rest. You’re going to need it! Shalom.”

I shouldn’t have been nervous about him doing the surgery, he's the best, but there

is something a little discomforting having Dr. Chopra in charge of my fate. The reason I

say this, only a few know of the secret, little plaque that hangs in his office, and I'm one

of them. Scrub ’em, cut ’em, and bill 'em; and in small print, Sadly, in that order. At the

bottom of the plaque; a “smiley face.”

Bev raised her head a little from her fake nap and squinted through one eye. “Is he

gone?” After I had announced the “all clear,” she came over to my bedside. She grabbed

my hand and told me to take his advice and get some rest. “I’ll see you before surgery.”

This time she kissed me right on the mouth. I hated the thought my last memory of Bev

was that she needed a TicTac.

The operation was scheduled for Thursday morning, and everything went without

any problems, although it took a little longer than expected. Dr. Chopra wasn’t kidding

when he commented about opening me up like a Christmas turkey. Rather than using

veins from my leg, which is standard procedure, he used mammary vessels for the graft

because of my age, thus having to “open me up” a little more. He said with younger

patients, those veins were more durable and had less “wear and tear.” That was of little

comfort; they sounded more like used car parts. Dr. Chopra told me it was worth the extra

time and effort. Knowing him like I do, you can bet it also fattened his bank account a

few more bucks. When I woke up in the recovery room, the first thing I asked the nurse

was, “Did Shorty use a stepladder or did he jump up and down?” Not humored, she ran a

catheter up my manliness.

After three days of recovery at Saint Grenadine’s, they decided to release me, and

I did not want to stick around a second longer. I was already dressed and ready to go. I

signed all the discharge papers, then waited for an aide to help load my belongings onto a

cart and wheel me out of this hellhole. While waiting, I looked at some cards from well-

wishers. One of them was especially touching. It was from the administrator I had to fire.

It was a beautiful Hallmark card.

I read the printed inscription: Praying for a speedy recovery. Get well soon.

Underneath it, a handwritten message: Too bad you survived. I laid it down with the rest

of the pile. I checked my watch's second hand spinning around and planned my escape if

someone didn't show up soon, and that time has now passed. I had the cart in the room,

but no aide, so I took matters into my own. I loaded up my stuff and headed for the door.

Bev met me outside at the patient loading zone and was not amused. “You had

surgery three days ago, you moron! Why didn't you wait for someone to help?”

“Because they were late, and I'm in a hurry.” I tossed everything in the backseat,

then hobbled to the passenger side and shouted, “Let's make a run for it! Hit the gas!”

I spent the next several weeks resting and recovering at home. About the fourth

week in, I was almost back to normal. I returned to work only to find mounds of

paperwork overflowing on my desk. The first order of business, fire my secretary; the

second, hire a new one.

As time went by, I felt great! I’d gone to see “Shorty” for a few postoperative

visits and was given the all-clear. Teasing him, I asked what the “warranty” was for my

operation. After all, nowadays a bypass operation is as routine as a tonsillectomy was

fifty years ago. He said the grafts should last a long time if I took care of myself, and

with the right diet and exercise, I’d be around for a while. Sounded like a commercial to

me.

Fast-forward two and a half years, which gets us pretty much current. I was out

playing with my kids in our backyard when it hit me. Everything started spinning,

followed with severe light-headedness. My neck began to tighten up so much, I thought it

was going to pinch off my head! The pain in my neck was quickly redirected when it felt

like someone just hit me in the chest with a baseball bat. On my way to the ground, I

yelled at the kids to get their mother. I clutched my chest and collapsed right where I

stood. As I mentioned earlier, they rushed me to the ER by ambulance. If not for the fact

they were in a hurry to save me, I’d sue them for reckless endangerment, on the other

hand, I still might. As it turns out, I might not have the chance. This is the part where we

pick up on the “ongoing event.” On the way to the hospital, I heard a beep coming from

my phone. It was still tucked away in my shirt pocket. I regained a bit of consciousness

and reached for it. With hardly any strength left, I managed to flip it open:

Passengers, buckle your seatbelts and make sure your trays are in the upright

position!

Seemed like an unusual message, and at the end of it there was no name, simply,

Anonymous. After reading it, I blanked out, but it got worse. Let me recap up to this

point: I’m dead.

Chapter V: First Sun

Bev kept a vigil over my lifeless body for hours. Her sister Lucinda picked the

kids up, and the medical team leaves the ICU, where they moved me after my stint in the

ER. Though it isn't protocol to place a corpse in ICU, somehow Bev convinced the staff

to put me there and skip the trip to the morgue, at least for now. It isn't because she didn’t

want to let me go, it's just that she has this weird feeling about my “current state.”

When Bev arrives, they still have me draped from head to toe. Bev comes to my

side, lowers the sheet and exposes my face. She has seen all the evidence anyone would

need to determine my apparent lack of life, but something is bugging her. She just stares

at me, hoping for any sign of life. She holds my hand and begs me to wake up. Most of us

have heard about the five stages of grief. As it suggests, came in stages; hers comes all at

once.

Right about then is when she starts losing it. “Tony, now you listen to me. If this is

some sick, and I mean a very sick, practical joke, you best snap out of it right now! I

mean it, Tony!”

Now I can be as fun as the next guy when it comes to a prank, but even by my

standards, this would be way over the top. I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt

because, as I mentioned, she's losing it, but, in this case, has fully lost it. Bev isn’t overly

aggressive, and she gently shakes me.

“Wake up, Tony! Sweetie, please!” Fully weeping, she kisses my cold lips, then

rests her head on my chest. She raises her head slightly enough to look at my closed eyes.

“Please, Tony, talk to me! Don’t do this to me!” She begins to stroke my hair and

with tears rolling down her face, quietly whispers, “What am I supposed to do?” I've had

my fair share of profound grief, like when my sister died. It's the kind of gut-wrenching

grief and sadness that your body aches with pain followed by endless buckets of tears.

Her sorrow is so overwhelming, any grief I ever had paled in comparison to hers. She sits

on a chair, exhausted and emotionally drained, then continues to sob. After all she has

been through, falls asleep.

It’s about midnight when her cell phone beeps and wakes her, indicating a

message. Awakened and startled, she glances at the message ID, but no name, just

“unknown sender.” She ignores it and falls back to sleep. Moments later, another beep

and the same ID. Again, she ignores the call but remembers she turned the ringer off

earlier at the hospital’s request. She peeks at her phone again, this time turning it

completely off.

It has been over twelve hours since I arrived at the hospital. Bev is sound asleep

on a chair beside me. An aide comes in the room, and in a gentle tone, wakes her. “Mrs.

Stanford, we need to move your husband.” Bev wipes away the crud that piles up from

her eyes, yawns and gives a big stretch.

“Mrs. Stanford, your kids have been trying to reach you. They said that your

phone is turned off.”

“I’ll call them in a minute. I want to spend a while longer with my husband.”

The aide leaves the room. Bev comes over to me, still stretched out on a gurney.

“Well, Tony, I guess this is it. You really pissed me off this time!” She collapses

on my chest, more sobbing and grabs my hand…and it grabs back— hard, or so she

believes. In shock, she releases my hand and screams at the top of her lungs, “Nurse!

Anyone! Come here!”

The head nurse and the attending physician hurry to the room.

“What is it, Mrs. Stanford?”

Pointing to me with a shaking hand, she says, “I grabbed his hand, and he

squeezed mine back.”

The doctor rushes over to me and checks for a pulse, then pulls his stethoscope

from around his neck to listen for a heartbeat. With the earpieces of the stethoscope still

in place, he sadly shakes his head.

He removes the stethoscope from his ears and places it back around his neck.

“Mrs. Stanford, it might have been what we call an electrochemical reaction. There isn't

any sign of life that I can detect. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’m not as convinced. I saw it with my own two eyes and felt it too. Don’t

you two dare touch him until I say so!” Then she exclaims, “Do you understand me?”

They both nodded yes. “I’m going to see Kent.”

It’s a little early for Kent to be at work, so before she goes upstairs to the admin

offices, she stops at the coffee shop. Bev is still rattled by what she went through with the

hand squeezing event a few minutes ago. A latte is what she needs to calm down and try

to make sense of what happened, or what she believed happened. Shaking like a leaf, she

takes a sip of her latte, spilling a few hot drops on her slacks. She glances at the clock

above the counter and knows that Kent should be arriving soon. Before heading to his

office, she remembers to call the boys. She digs through her purse, grabs the phone and

turns it on. She scans the missed calls and messages. Curiously absent are the “sender

unknown” messages she received earlier. “It must have been my imagination,” she says

aloud.

She goes to her contact list and phones Cindy, our babysitter. (Blain, our oldest,

objects to the “babysitter” terminology, after all, he is practically an adult. He’s twelve.)

“Hi, Cindy, it’s me. How are the boys?”

“They’re alright under the circumstances. They still don’t know that Tony is, well

you know…”

“Cindy, do me a favor and let’s keep it that way until I see them. Let the boys

know that I'll be home a little later.”

“You got it. Take care, honey. If you need anything, and I mean anything, give me

a shout.”

“Thanks, Cindy, take care of my babies. Talk to you soon.” She hangs up and

takes another sip of her latte. Bev checks her phone again and notices an overlooked

unread message. She casually scrolls through her messages until she reaches it. She is

reluctant but decides to open it. She almost faints as she reads the message:

Don’t let them do anything to the body. All is not what it seems.

She turns the phone off again and couldn't believe how someone could be so

cruel. Even Tony’s idiot friends have some amount of class and wouldn’t stoop this low.

The phone vibrates with another message. Again, saying aloud, “I’m losing my

damn mind!” It is obvious that the phone is off, but it still displays another unread

message. Nervously she opens the message.

Bev, please, for God’s sake, don’t let them do anything to me.

Only this one has a name at the bottom of the message: Tony.

She glances at the phone, shaking it as if it were human. “Whoever this is, you are

relentless!” Whatever sorrow Bev had, is turning into anger. She gulps down the rest of

her latte and throws the empty in the wastebasket. She storms to an awaiting elevator and

punches the button to the administration floor. On the way up to the eighth floor, she

takes another peek at the message, lets out an angry gasp, then slams the phone shut. The

elevator reaches the top floor. Bev bulldozes through the administration office door and

marches past the receptionist. “Mrs. Stanford, Mr. Stengle just got here and hasn’t had his

first cup of coffee. Please wait and take a seat. I'll buzz him and let him know you are

here.”

Ignoring the request, Bev almost busts down the door. She's been pretty hard on

doors today. “Kent, I need to talk to you right now!”

Kent says to the party on the other end of the line that he will call them back.

“What is it, Bev?”

She steps over to his desk and hands him the phone. “Do you know anything

about this?”

He fidgets with the phone. “I know you are upset Bev. What’s the problem with

the phone?”

She taps the phone, “Look at the messages!”

“The phone is turned off, Bev.”

“Oh no, it is not!” But it is. She grabs it away from him and turns it on and hands

it back. “Now look.”

He scrolls through her messages. “There’s nothing here but a few messages from

Cindy and your kids. What am I looking for?”

“Give me that thing.” She takes the phone from Kent and scrolls through her

messages. As Bev continues to scroll through them, she says, “I got a message from

him.”

“Him? Him, who?”

To save herself from any more embarrassment, she doesn't answer because he is

right; the messages are gone. She explains to Kent that someone is playing tricks with

her.

“Bev, you’re under a lot of stress right now. I'm going to call, Paul. I'll have him

prescribe something for you to relax.” Kent reaches for the desk phone, and then she

interrupts him.

“I don’t need to relax.” She sits down on his sofa and holds her head in her hands.

“I’m losing my mind, Kent. I can’t believe this is happening.” She stands up and grabs

his shoulders with both hands, begging him. “Kent, please do what you can do.”

“Do what, Bev?”

“Don’t send him to the morgue. Do not let those ghouls near my husband until I

say so!”

Frustrated, Kent throws his arms in the air. “Bev, you’re asking me to do

something I don’t know how to do. This is a first.”

Bev takes a few steps toward the door, then turns to him. “Kent, we’ve been

friends for a long time—figure it out.”

As soon as she leaves his office, Kent gets a message on his phone. It reads: Help

her. Thanks, Tony

He puts his phone away and sits back in his chair, not sure what to do with the

message. Curiously, Kent comes to my room. He stands beside my bed, then asks,

“What's going on Tony?”

From my bedside, he makes a call to the medical chief of staff, Dr. Paul Kline and

orders him to do something. Kent asks him to put me back on a respirator, do anything,

adding that the Stanford family have been huge donors for a long time. “We at least owe

them that much. All I want to do is buy some time until I can figure this out.”

“Figure what out, Kent?”

“It's a long story. I'll fill you in later. Just help me out.”

Paul tells Kent that he will send me to a spare room for as long as he can, and at

least hook me up to something to keep me from “stinking up the place.”

“Kent, the guys down in the morgue get a little antsy when we leave bodies lying

around too long. You’d think they were on commission.”

After a brief silence, Kent says, “Paul, I’m with Tony right now, and I must say,

he looks like he’s only asleep, and—”

Paul is quick to interrupt. “And not breathing or a pulse! Kent, I'm sorry, but

around here we call that dead!”

“Speaking of that, Tony has been in whatever state he’s in, for what, about

fourteen hours or so, and…”

“And what?”

“I’m not a doctor, but something curious is going on, —or, in this case, not going

on.”

Irritated, Dr. Kline asks, “What? What's going on Kent?”

“The attending physician said he is still limp as a noodle, no evidence of rigor

mortis, and his eyes are fixed and 'not' dilated.”

Paul has composed himself, which also includes a perplexed expression. “That is

curious. I can't promise anything. I’ll do what I can.”

“Thanks, Paul.”

Paul orders that they put me back on a respirator and heart monitor, not that either

one is of any use. The heart monitor still shows a flat line, and the sound is turned off.

My only sign of life is the artificial rising and sinking of my chest with each cycle of the

respirator.

Word spreads quickly about the “undead, dead man,” and my room becomes the

place to be for professors and other doctors. Not seeking board approval, Dr. Kline takes

it on his own to keep me around for a while for as long as he can. To help cover his

“derriere”, Paul decides this is a once-in-a-lifetime teaching opportunity for a group of

lucky interns, and a small gathering of them assembles. Dr. Kline scrutinizes the group

and decides on a target: a senior resident. Paul rips the name-tag from his lab coat and

reads it before addressing him. Paul maneuvers the tag back and forth so he can adjust his

eyesight. “So,”— Then squinting at the name— “Dr. Bengla, what do you believe we

have here?”

The resident scans the chart, listens to my chest with his stethoscope and prods

around for a pulse. “It could be bradycardia.” This is an entirely plausible diagnosis. The

condition of a heartbeat is so slow, it is nearly undetectable and has caused a few

misdiagnoses in the past. Some of those poor souls woke up in the morgue; this, however,

is not the case.

“You mean to tell me that you graduated from medical school?” Paul asks.

“Yes, sir. With honors from Harvard Med.”

These pompous asses never say Harvard Medical School. The extra energy it

would take to complete the name of the school is too much of a waste of time for them.

“This patient no more has bradycardia than a cold! Better dig deeper than that,

pal!” Paul snatches the chart from him in exchange for his name-tag. He turns to one of

the other interns and slams the chart on his chest. This time he doesn't bother to read his

tag. Condescendingly, Paul asks, “Well doctor, what are your thoughts?” The young

doctor follows the same procedure as the first. He looks over the chart, listens for a

heartbeat, followed with more pulse prodding. Paul crosses his arms and again questions

him. “Well? I'm waiting.”

He does another quick assessment, then faces Paul. “This patient does not have a

heartbeat or any respiration.” He takes a deep breath; then a confident intern says, “In my

opinion, Dr. Kline, I’d say he’s dead.”

Paul uncrosses his arms then smugly and slowly claps his hands in approval. The

senior resident clips his name-tag back on his lab coat lapel. Embarrassed and frustrated,

he leaves the room for tea.

Bev visits me again where they have been storing me. She is still not convinced

the messages she received weren’t part of an elaborate hoax. Her first suspect was the

administrator Tony fired. But deep inside she hopes they are real and makes every effort

to hold on to that hope until the bitter end. She is trying to come to terms with my death,

but still not prepared to let me go—at least not yet. Bev hasn’t told the kids anything. She

wanted to wait until the right time—a moment of time that is fast approaching.

The hospital board picked up on the charade that has been going on. The decision

is made to unplug and send me off to the morgue, putting an end to this once and for all.

A nurse comes in the room to disconnect the respirator. Bev is still with me and will not

give up without a fight. She pleads with the nurse to let her spend the last few moments

alone with me before the attendant arrives.

The nurse replies, “Mrs. Stanford, I'm only doing my job. I could get fired.” Kent

stops by a few moments later to comfort Bev and politely says to the nurse, “Margie, why

don't you take a break, I'll handle this.” Suddenly, the heart monitor shows a brief sign of

life. What had been a constant flat-line, now shows a faint indication that something is

going on; not much, but something. This would have been noticed by those in the room if

it weren't for the fact the sound is turned off. The attendant comes in and turns off the

monitor without looking at it. The only sound heard was the “click” of the switch.

Unnoticed by the four of them, a small tear was flowing down my face. They finally

move me, and Kent followed them the whole way like a protective pit-bull; my wife was

not far behind. When they arrive at the morgue, Kent instructs them not to touch me until

further notice.

Chapter VI: Second Sun

It is late, and Bev has a chance to talk to the boys. Blain, our oldest, answers the

phone, and he asks her how she is doing.

“I’m OK, son. What are your brothers doing?”

“Worrying about Dad.”

She tries to console Blain as best she can. “Everything will be fine.” Bev is

trembling and trying to hold back the tears. She’d been on the phone for a few seconds

and can tell that her emotions are about to erupt.

“Blain, I need to get off the phone. I just wanted to check in.” Bev can hear

Blain’s sniffles; he is also attempting to hold back tears.

At twelve, he's old enough to be aware things aren’t quite right. Not able to hold

them back any longer, the floodgates are wide open, and he asks the question she does

not want to hear. Sobbing uncontrollably, he asks, “Mom, tell me the truth! Is he dead?”

Making every effort to calm herself and her son, she replies, “No, Blain honey,

your dad is sleeping.” These are the only words Bev can gather the strength to say. In an

attempt to take his mind off his father for a moment, she asks, “Does Jake want to talk to

me?” She can hear the aftermath of Blain’s sobbing.

He wipes his tears and calms down somewhat. “He’s outside playing.”

“That’s OK, let him play. Is Pat around?” Blain doesn’t say a word and hands the

phone over to Pat.

“Hi, Pat, it’s Mommy. How’s my little man this morning?”

“Good, Mommy. I had a dream about Daddy last night!”

Somewhat shaken, she asks, “What happened in the dream, sweetie?”

“Daddy told me he was coming back!”

Bev covers the receiver of the phone as she takes some deep breaths, trying to

stop herself from crying. She continues to listen and asks him, “What else did Daddy

say?”

“He said he played golf with God and Jesus and a angry man.”

“He told you that? What else, sweetie?”

“I can’t memember. Daddy said, …let me think.” Pat shrugs his shoulders. “I

don’t know, Mommy.”

Bev smiles, amused at his dream. “Try to remember, honey.”

“Oh yeah, I memember. He said to lighten up your grip! Daddy told me you

almost broke his hand!”

Bev inhales sharply as she recalls what happened in the room when I grabbed her

hand.

“I gotta go, Mommy. Me and Jake are building a fort!” Pat slams the phone down

and hangs it up—not in anger, but in the way little kids do.

She doesn’t have a chance to say goodbye to Blain and utters into a silent phone,

“I’ll see you soon.”

She places her phone in her purse and contemplates the conversation with Pat.

Bev is more confused than ever, but now confusion has competition—Insanity! She calls

Kent to let him know what he said to her. He listens intently not saying a word. Bev

rambles on about how no one, especially Pat, could have known about the hand squeeze

except herself.

Kent interrupts. “Bev, I also had a dream about Tony. It was weird.”

Now, Bev is doing all the listening.

“Bev, it was like your everyday, run-of-the-mill conversation with him. To be

honest, it was very peaceful. This may sound silly, but I swear I could smell vanilla.”

“What did he say, I mean, what did he say in the dream?”

“He was his usual, everyday self. He mentioned something about being God’s

messenger.”

Bev had been very still; sitting and listening, but after what Kent said, she springs

to her feet.

“Tony! God’s messenger? Kent, that’s laughable! Why would ‘whoever’ pick

Tony, for crying out loud!”

Bev is recovering at the thought of me the prophet and adds, “Please forgive me

Kent, but why didn’t they you pick you instead? You used to be a preacher! You’re kind

of holy. What about Billy Graham or the Pope, or even Bill Clinton!”

Both of them are talking like this was a real conversation with a living, breathing

person—me. Bev again tries to reassure herself it’s her imagination running wild, and

now it seems Kent has been invited in this madness as well. “I know you won’t believe

me, but I really think it's Tony.”

“Kent, one at a time—both of us can’t go 'loco' all at once.”

It has been several hours, and Bev composes herself enough to call the house.

Cindy answers the phone. “Hey, it’s me. Sorry I haven't called, I've been busy all day

long. Are the boys alright?”

“Yeah, they’re quiet for now. I made dinner and put it in the oven. I'll set the table

when you get here.”

“No, but thanks anyway. I'm not very hungry. Go ahead and feed the boys.”

“They want to wait for you. Bev, you need to eat and take it easy when you get to

the house.”

“I'll do my best. Let the boys know that I'll be there soon.”

After all of the events of the day, and about an hour later, Bev got home. The plan

is to clean up, feed the boys, and go to bed. When she arrives, Cindy meets her at the

door.

Cindy has been with the kids since the beginning of this whole ordeal. She has

had to make excuse after excuse for every question from the boys. “They have been

interrogating me all day long. I told them Tony is getting more tests done. That's the best

I could come up with. I think Blain knows; he’s been unusually quiet.” Cindy reaches for

Bev, holding both of her hands. “He wants answers, Bev. Sooner or later you have to

explain it to him.”

“I’ll talk to him. Thanks for everything, Cindy.” They embrace and say their

goodbyes.

The dinner scene is sad and somber, and little is said. Jake plays with his peas,

rolling them around the plate like miniature soccer balls. Still fidgeting with his food, and

not looking up, he asks, “Mom, when is Dad coming home?”

In an attempt to hold back any emotion, Bev assures them I’ll be home soon.

After Bev's failed assurance, Blain excuses himself. He gets out of his chair and

pushes it underneath the table. He takes a glance at his brothers, then “zeros in” on Bev

and quietly says, “He’s not coming home.” Running off to the living room, he stops, turns

and yells, “Ever!”

Bev is speechless. Jake follows his older brother, leaving her and Pat alone at the

dinner table. He put his tiny hand on hers. “Mommy, don’t worry. Daddy will be back; he

promised.”

Bev, using her other hand, embraces his. She anguishes at the thought of having to

tell them the truth. After a while, the other two go to their bedroom.

“Mom, can I have some bussert?”

Smiling at him, she says, “Yes honey, you can have some bussert.” She brings him

some milk and a cookie. Bev and Pat chat a little more. Again, he assures her that I am

OK, and will be coming home soon. It’s past his bedtime, and he is getting drowsy.

He mumbles as he tries to stay awake, “I love you, Mommy.”

“I love you too sweetheart.”

She picks him up and heads up the nearby flight of stairs. With Pat still cradled in

her arms, she peeks in on the other two still awake. “You boys go to sleep now.” After

checking on them, she tucks Pat in his bed and kisses him goodnight. When all three boys

finally fall asleep, she decides to take one of those long, hot bubble baths with candles

and the whole nine yards. She pours herself a glass of wine, then settles into the tub. She

takes a long, slow sip of wine contemplating the dreams Kent and Pat had. She concludes

the dreams had been more like visions, and not dreams at all. With the combination of a

hot bath, wine and exhaustion, she nods off.

“Hi, Bev.”

Startled, she sinks into the water and wakes up. Still in the tub, she covers herself,

looks around and whispers, “Tony?”

There’s no answer. Shaken and rattled, she climbs out of the tub, dries off, puts on

her nightie, pours another glass of wine, and lights a cigarette. We had a party at the

house a while back, and one of our guests left a pack of Marlboros behind. Bev hasn’t

smoked since college, but this seemed like an opportune time to start again. She checks in

on the boys one last time before crawling into bed. She lies there for a couple of hours

staring at the empty space beside her. She grabs my pillow and holds it close to her face

and takes in a big “whiff”. The faint scent of Aqua Velva is all that remains, but enough to

remind her of me.

She’s exhausted but afraid to let herself sleep. As many times before, she begins to

cry. Bev is contemplating how so many tears could be produced by a single human being

before there are no more left to cry. After hours of reminding herself that what Pat and

Kent had were just illusions; she concludes that what she heard in the tub was a delusion!

At peace with her rationale, she falls asleep. No delusion this time. Now it is Bev’s turn

to dream.

Her eyes suddenly open. She’s standing in the middle of a vast green meadow

surrounded by gently rolling hills. There would be silence if it weren’t for the sound of

lapping water in the pond a few feet away and the song of a welcoming bird circling

above. A faint fragrance of vanilla is filling her nostrils, just like Kent said. The cool, still

evening air settles on her skin.

“Attention, K-Mart shoppers!”

Bev looks around at the empty meadow. “Tony, is that you? Where are you?”

“Hi, Bev. Yeah, it’s me. You’re dreaming and a nice one at that. It’s beautiful, but

can you do away with the bird? God loves birds but doesn’t like them flying over His

’Vette if you know what I mean.”

Bev, aware this is a dream, is taking the experience in stride. She notices a

peacefulness to this place. Taking things in stride has not been her usual behavior as of

late.

“I figure it is time to give you a break and explain some things.”

“I’m all ears.” She begins to drift around in circles like a ballerina, playfully

tugging on her nightie. “Pat gave me your message.”

“I know. You’ve got a grip like a corrupt politician!”

Bev recalls something Kent told her, then she giggles. “Kent said something about

you being God’s messenger.”

“Ain’t that a hoot!”

“Yes, it is. But Tony, you’re practically a heathen, for Christ’s sake.”

She can't see me, but in a panic, I begin to look around. “Shush! Tone it down,

Bev. He gets a little edgy when people talk like that, especially about His kid.”

Now she's panicked and covers her mouth, and silently says, “Sorry.”

We wait for a moment to make sure we weren't going to be struck by lightning.

Relieved, I say, “Well, I guess the coast is clear.”

“I’ll be more careful next time.” Bev sits on a nearby log admiring the scenery.

She interrupts her sitting when she walks over to a nearby pond. “Can I walk on it?”

With a snicker in my voice, I say, “It's your dream, go for it.” Then I mumble,

“I'd check with Peter first. It didn't work out so good for him.”

“Did you say something, Tony? Before Bev takes another step, I mention that a

towel is hanging in a tree nearby just in case. She takes a few steps back away from the

pond. “I believe I'll pass.” A little frustrated, Bev turns and asks, “Why can’t I see you? I

can hear you like you are right beside me.”

“Bev, I don’t make the rules. It’s the way things are done here.”

She's seen enough and has an idea, but queries as to exactly where “here” is.

“Right now you’re standing in a meadow. Kent was right about the dreams; it’s

the best way to communicate, a lot less interference.”

She picks up a small stick, turns to the pond, and tosses it into the water. She

stands there, gazing at a setting sun. For the first time since this all began, she is at peace.

“I miss you, Tony.” She continues to stare out into space and then lets out a sigh.

“I wish I could hold you.”

“Me too.”

A second later, I say, “Bev, turn around.” I’m allowed to show myself for the visit.

And predictably, she runs in my direction and nearly tackles me.

“Tony, I’ve been so worried about you! I love you so much!” She’s all over me!

Kissing and hugging me like a wild woman!

“Bev, calm down!”

She keeps kissing and hugging me. Then we lose our balance and fall to the

ground. We're rolling around on the ground like slithering snakes in heat! She's trying to

be romantic, and I'm attempting to escape! “Bev, settle down! They don’t allow that kind

of stuff up here.”

I gently push her away, and she finally settles down. We get up from the ground

and brush ourselves off. Bev regains some form of dignity; then both of us sit on the log.

I begin looking all around. I look like a bobble-head doll, looking up and down, side to

side, and everywhere in between to see if anyone is watching.

In a whisper, I say, “Are you trying to get me in trouble?” She wraps her arms

around me again, and I try to wiggle free. “Stop it! If you can contain yourself for a

minute, I’ll explain what I know.” I tell her as much as I can since I’ve not seen Heaven

in person. Want to go visit a distant planet? Done. Enjoy swimming with the dolphins?

No problem. Personally, I like golf and played eighteen with Him today and shot a thirty

under! “Bev, you'll never believe this. Today I got five back-to-back holes in one. So

many birdies and eagles I lost count. I got one bogey on purpose to break the monotony!”

Ignoring my success on the course, she exclaims, “He what? He plays golf?”

“All the time. And He’s pretty good.”

“Golly Gee Wilikers, He should be.”

“He also likes poker but doesn’t consider it, as they say around here, 'part of those

worldly things.' God calls it a game of skill and cunning. He really likes Texas Hold’em. I

was told He and Mother Teresa are regulars every Friday night at the lodge.”

“The lodge?”

“Yeah, the lodge. What’s wrong with that?”

“I didn’t expect to hear about a lodge in Heaven.”

“Why not? They’re not barbarians. Heaven has all sorts of neat stuff. Heaven is

what you want it to be, within reason you understand.”

“I realize this is meant to be Heaven or at least somewhere around here, but how

did you manage to send me those messages?”

“Pretty neat, don’t you think? They must have one hell of a phone bill!” Upon

catching myself using the word “H-E-double-hockey-sticks,” I quickly apologize. “Sorry

Lord.”

A voice thunders from above, “Don’t let it happen again.” Then He laughs.

A little spooked, she asks, “Was that…Him?”

“Yessirree Bob! That's Him: The Big Boss. The Man Upstairs. The Head Cheese.

The Big Kahuna. The—”

Then she covers my mouth. “All right, Tony, you made your point.”

I move her hand away and say, “But around here we call him Frank.”

She shakes her head in disbelief and raises both arms in the air. “You've got to be

kidding! Isn’t that a little beneath Him? After all, He is…well, you know.”

“Bev, get a grip. God is what He is, and who He is, but around here, He’s just

Frank. It's His way of getting people closer to Him and have a more personal relationship

without all the formality.”

“I see.” She is somewhat convinced of the explanation and begins to feel more

comfortable. “Seems rather lackadaisical around here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I don't know Tony—let’s kick it off with golf, poker, lodges, and then move

all the way up the ladder to Frank!”

“Don’t take me wrong, He demands and expects respect. He’d still rather we do it

the usual way during prayer. You know, dear God or dear Lord, rather than dear Frank.”

“Where is He? I mean, is He here?”

“Bev, He is omnipresent. That's why we need to be a little more careful—He's

everywhere.” I took His suggestion and looked it up. “It’s about the only word in the

dictionary almost exclusively dedicated to God.”

“One thing is for sure; you've stretched your vocabulary since you got here.”

I ignore her jab and continue to explain to her everything I know up to this point,

including that God has a real knack for making you feel special. He hangs out with

everyone, and I mean everyone if they want to.

“The things that go on in Heaven,”—then glaring at her—“Like His omnipresence

is never in question or doubt. Things just are. He is always present, whenever, wherever.”

I continue and say, “While mortal, the way to communicate with Him is through

prayer. He told me he wished every once in a while that we should be less formal and just

talk to Him like you would a friend. In Heaven, He's only a chat away if you want too.

You never need an appointment to visit with the Almighty. All you need to do is show up,

and He is always there.”

Bev asks, “Don’t they have Bible studies or something like that?”

“Nope. Frank figures you must've “covered all of the bases,” which is part of how

you got to Heaven in the first place.”

A few moments pass when an unexpected visitor shows up. “What’s going on? I

was in the neighborhood and thought I’d say 'hi' to Bev.” Jesus squeezes in between the

two of us still seated on the log. Using his knuckles, He taps her on the head. “Guess

what, Bev? You’re on the VIP list. Just thought you should know.”

“What list?”

“You know; The list, the one for folks that have done extraordinary things with

their lives, like your work at the hospital, etcetera, etcetera. Why, Bev, you're practically a

saint!”

Overhearing the conversation, I let out a big “Ha!”

Jesus moves in close to Bev and whispers, “Between you, me and the fence

post,”— then pointing in my direction— “you should be on it just for marrying that

rascal.”

“You're probably right. Can I see it?”

Jesus is momentarily distracted and asks, “See what?”

“The list!”

"Not really. You'll get the chance when — well, you know....how can I say this...?"

Jesus scratches his head. "What is that word...oh, yeah — when you expire."

“I think I'll wait for now.”

Jesus quietly says, “That's probably best”— then He moves in close again—“for

now.” He sits back up and continues. “While we're on the subject, wanna hear the best

part when you arrive?”

She is still a bit intimidated with her surroundings, and with the addition of the

“croak” comment, nervously asks, “What?”

“Come on, Bev, guess. Oh, never mind. The neat part is that you spend all of

eternity with the one you were married to as a mortal! Is that peachy or what?”

Throwing her intimidation out the window, she glares at Him with her famous

“look” and smugly replies, “Is there a choice, or is that the only option?”

Now, He turns toward me and also in a whisper, nudges me and says, “I like her.

What a sense of humor.” Then He slaps me on the back. “You’re a lucky man, Tony!”

Jesus hops up from the log, dusts a few specks of bark from his Bermudas, and adjusts

His ball cap. “I have to scram. I’m playing a quick round with Dad. Do you want to join

us?” Then with a hint of sarcasm says, “That's if you have the time.”

I glance at a watchless wrist. “Count me in.”

In an instant, He snaps his fingers. “Rats! I almost forgot; it's bingo night. The

'you-know-who' bunch will never let me hear the end of it if I’m not the caller tonight.

We could get in a fast round though. See you later, Tony.” Jesus turns to Bev, and with a

cheeky grin says, “I’ll see you in about fifty-seven years.”

After the “fifty-seven year” comment, she starts counting on her fingers and is

doing math in her head. She stands up and bows her head. “Have a blessed evening, my

Lord.”

“Lighten up, Bev, we’re not as formal as you think. My friends call me Chad.”

The look I gave God earlier at hearing his chosen name was weak compared to the

one Bev gives to Jesus. She is rarely speechless about anything; this was the exception,

which includes a dumbstruck expression on her face.

Jesus noticing her lack of words, asks, “Are you OK, Bev?”

She utters a reluctant, “I'm alright.”

“Marvelous! But, Bev, if you aren’t comfortable calling me Chad, my personal

favorite is King of Kings. But it would be silly if every time you ran into me, you said

‘hello, King of Kings,’ so Chad is swell by me. Or if you prefer, you could call me—”

Interrupting Him, I lean over and ask, “Don’t you need to be somewhere, Mr.

King of Kings?” I’ve been around long enough to know there’s an amount of informality

around here, even when talking to Jesus.

Shocked at my lack of reverence, Bev punches me in the arm. “Tony!”

“Chill out, Bev. You’re right, Tony, I’ve got a busy day. See you on the golf

course.” He waves as he leaves, and Bev waves back. But as if in a “trance,” her wave

lasts long after Jesus' departure.

“Snap out of it, Bev, He's gone.” Bev and I pick up the conversation where we left

off.

Recomposing herself, Bev says, “You know, Tony, between you and your new

pals, you’re making everyone at the hospital crazy. Paul is about ready to shoot you in the

head and end all of this. And the boys on the top floor are giving Kent a ton of grief. How

long is this going to last? Pat said you were coming back. Are you?”

“That’s the word. When the third sun sets, and after the second sun rises, it is then

I shall return.”

Humored, she says, “When did you start talking like that?”

Not humored, I say, “Like what?”

“When the third sun sets—blah, blah, blah.”

“Be careful, Bev, I’m sure I've got some kind of power. I could smite you or

something.”

Bev replies, “Do you have any clue what smite means?”

“Now you’ve gone and done it, woman!” I jump up from the log, and like a

traveling evangelist, raise both arms in the air, shaking them and profess, “You have been

smited!”

“What’s supposed to happen now that I've been smited?”

I sit back down next to her and say, “I'm not too sure how it works.”

“Well, I don’t feel any different.”

“Better look in a mirror and check out the huge mole on your forehead!” Bev

begins to frantically feel around for it. Laughing I say, “I'm kidding, Bev.”

Relieved at the confirmation of my inability to cast a spell on her, she says, “I

didn’t realize they let jerks in here.”

Once again ignoring her, I say, “Hey Bev, I have to catch up with the gang. You

heard Chad; we’re getting in one more round before I go to a Barry Manilow tribute

concert.” Since I’m only sort of a guest, I don’t have to go, but the “squeakers” do. I

explain to her that squeakers are folks who almost didn't make it in. Jesus, who is in

charge of admissions, is a prankster. It's either the concert or an Amway seminar. Most

choose Barry.

“You need to go now.”

“Why? The time seemed so short.”

“You just need to. Our boys will be waking up soon.”

Being the romantic, I sometimes can be, pick up a small twig and place it over her

ear like a flower.

Still standing in front of her, I cradle her face with my hands and say, “I promised

Pat, and now I'm promising you, I will be back.” I kiss her on top of the head and begin

to walk away. As I am leaving, I turn back to her. “I ran into your dad at the lodge. I’m

not sure what he was talking about, but the next time he sees you, he’d like his ten cents

back.”

When Bev was a little girl, she’d always bum spare change from her dad. Earlier

in the day, and just a few hours before he died, she asked him for a dime. She has kept it

in her jewelry box ever since.

“I’ll be sure to remember. Tell him I said hello.” She lowers her head, and I notice

a grin and a small tear.

As I am leaving, I turn back once again. “Bev, I love you and always will.” I blow

her a kiss, turn, and wave from behind. “See ya.”

Bev's eyes suddenly close, and when she opens them, she's back in bed. She

collects her thoughts and says aloud, “I am losing my damn mind.” Once again, she tries

to rationalize her dream. She begins to mumble to herself. “OK, Bev, you're a smart gal—

figure it out.” She contemplates her words for a few moments and is convinced that her

dream was more than an illusion, and this time confidently not a delusion. It seemed so

real. The sights and sounds were much more than any dream she'd ever had. Those things

we talked about, and my “coming back after the third sun sets” business causes her to

have a moment of pause, but still confused. Whatever it was, Bev now has a calmness she

hasn’t felt for a while.

As Bev is becoming more awake, she feels something poking her in the head. She

combs through her hair with her fingers and discovers a small twig. Her confusion now

becomes comfort as she removes it. She gently rolls the little twig with her fingers then

places it on her nightstand next to her jewelry box. For now, she is fully at rest and falls

back to sleep.

It’s early in the morning, almost two and a half days after I was pronounced dead

when the phone rings— it’s Kent. “Bev, hurry down to the hospital as fast as you can.

They’re moving Tony again.”

Bev arrives at the hospital in record time and meets up with Kent. I was still in the

morgue where they've been keeping me, and she hardly notices that I am there. “What’s

going on, Kent?”

“The boys upstairs are growing weary of everything that’s been going on. We

have tried our best to keep this quiet, and frankly, the jig is up. The board found out that

we have been hiding and moving him all over the place. They think we’re all wacko! My

job is on the line Bev, and for what? All for this fantasy,”— pointing to me— “that Tony

is going to somehow snap-out of whatever he’s going through and waltz out of the

hospital.”

Bev asks, “What about your dream?”

“The hell with the dream! You're right Bev, they were illusions and delusions and

nothing more! We want this to work out so bad that our minds are playing tricks on all of

us.” He lowers his head and covers his eyes. Kent is a strong man, and Bev has never

seen him like this. He begins to sniffle, and she reaches into her purse for a tissue and

hands it to him. “Bev, I’m as upset as you are. I can't think straight right now.”

She removes another tissue from her purse and dabs a few droplets coming from

his eyes. “Kent, I understand, do whatever you need to do.” She reaches for his hand. “I

had a dream too.”

Kent dries his eyes and is reignited about her dream. “Was it him?”

Quite collected, she replies, “Yes, Kent, it was Tony. There's a lot more going on

than either one of us can comprehend, including those fools upstairs. I know everything is

going to work out the way it's supposed to.” Bev is pulling one her famous guilt trips on

Kent, and for good reason. She is more convinced than ever that something miraculous is

in play.

As an aide prepares to move me from the morgue to the autopsy lab, Kent’s phone

vibrates. He opens it, sees a new message and reads it to himself: Don’t let them do this.

Kent flips it shut and begins looking around appearing anxious and overwhelmed,

then motions for the aide to leave the room. Nervously, he clasps both hands, then

quickly rubs them together and says that he has to go to his office. Noticing his puzzled

look and remaining calm, Bev curiously asks, “Who was that, Kent?” He ignores her and

continues toward the door and exits the morgue leaving me and Bev behind.

It is not in Bev's nature to leave questions unanswered and caught up with Kent

already standing at his desk with his phone to his ear. It was obvious that he was having a

chat with the morgue supervisor, and Bev heard the last few seconds of the

conversation.“I don't give 'one iota' what the chairman said! You work for me, not him! If

you move Tony one inch from where he is, I'll fire you and anyone that looks like you!”

Kent slams down the phone and turns toward Bev. “What is it, Bev? I'm busy.” He goes

around to the other side of his desk and reaches for a pen and a notepad. “I have to go.”

Bev moves a guest chair out of her pathway to get at him, and grabs his arm.

Anxiously, she asks, “Who was the message from?” Again, he ignores her. Calm and

collected gets tossed out the window when Bev shouts, “Dammit Kent, what’s the

message!” He manages to escape her grip and continues to make his way to the door.

Bev nearly trips over his coffee table and lunges at him from behind and falls to

the floor. As she's crawling around, grabs his coat sleeve, swinging him around with so

much force it almost knocks him to the floor with her! “I'm begging you, Kent, please

talk to me! Was it Tony?”

Kent helps her off the floor with Bev firmly grasping his coat sleeve. He glances

down at her hand still holding tight on his coat and says nothing until she releases him.

He adjusts his coat and snugs up his loosened tie. “You could have made a name for

yourself as a wrestler. Thanks for the tissue. I’m going to meet with Paul and see if we

can buy more time. I’ll be back in a little while.” Kent pets Bev on the shoulder like a

little puppy dog before leaving the room. “You're right Bev. I also believe something

miraculous is in play.” He leaves his office with no interruptions this time. Bev returns to

the morgue and takes a few brief steps over to the gurney. She stands beside my body and

with a look of curiosity asks, “What are you up to now, Tony?”

Kent reaches Paul’s office and barges in, slamming the door behind him.

Foregoing any morning greetings, Kent demands, “Paul, I want you to do another EEG.”

“Kent, are you kidding me? How dead does he need to be? I’m telling you— there

isn't any brain activity! Have you heard the word going around? The 'brass' is about to

toss you out on the street.”

Kent responds, “I can deal with the consequences.”

Paul exclaims, “Oh, really? What about the ones going with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Kent, they're going to fire anyone involved with this mess, including me. I don’t

know about you, but I have a pension at stake.”

With both fists, Kent pounds on his desk so hard, a lamp falls to the floor and

breaks. Kent yells, “I don't care! Just do it! I'll take the heat!”

Paul kneels on the floor and picks up the pieces of a now shattered lamp. “Fine,

but I’m getting tired of this. You’re the one who has to explain it to the board, not me.”

Both knees still on the floor, Paul throws his arms in the air in frustration. “Keeping him

around is costing the hospital thousands, and for what? Because you and Bev continue to

have this false hope that he will somehow rise from the dead and go home.” Paul begins

to sweep up more remnants of the lamp with his hands. “You owe me ten bucks for the

light.”

Paul continues to pick up the remaining pieces of the lamp and cut his finger on a

shard of glass. Now in pain, bleeding, and not in a very pleasant mood, says, “Dammit to

hell, Kent!” He gets off of his knees, stands up, and reaches for his handkerchief. Paul

settles down but is still bleeding from his wound. “Kent, they're going to lock both of you

up in a padded room and throw away the key.” He wraps his finger, and in a frustrated,

softer tone, mumbles, “You’re both fruitcakes.”

A steadier Kent replies, “Maybe we are.” As Kent leaves Paul’s office, he receives

another message: Thanks, Kent. Then he says to himself, “Your welcome Tony.”

Paul makes a phone call to one of the staff neurologists and orders an EEG as well

as a CAT scan, and most important, as a last-ditch effort, a “deep brain scan.” There are

numerous nerve tracts located within certain sections of the brain, and the way to find

them is with a deep brain scan. If they determine my brain has no activity after the deep

brain scan, then that’s it, and all hope is over with as far as they are concerned. This

procedure has never been done to a dead patient; there hasn’t been a reason until now. For

patients who are alive, it’s a risky procedure at best. Paul concludes, what the hell, if it

will shut Kent and Bev up, it’ll be worth it.

They sneak me out of the morgue and take me back to the cath lab. Hospitals

usually use two standard tests to determine brain death. The result of an EEG alone is

enough to allow the machines to be turned off and for the hospital to send out its final

bill.

They do the EEG and the CAT scan as ordered. To add more confusion to this

medical mystery, the results of the EEG show no evidence of brain activity. On the other

hand, the CAT scan doesn't show proof of brain death either; at least not physical death.

My brain appears alive with no apparent deterioration, which causes everyone to scratch

their heads—again. Paul figures the third test will be a charm. As agreed, they make

preparations for the deep brain scan.

Paul and Kent have their motives for this final procedure. Paul wants to prove I’m

dead, and Kent wants to prove I am still alive. The deep brain scan is performed by

inserting microwires as the name suggests into the deepest parts of the brain with the

hope of detecting any electrical activity that an EEG might miss. Firing activity can be so

fast, they are sometimes difficult to detect, and can be lost in the blink of an eye.

As they insert the microwires, Kent receives another message: Ouch! Just kidding.

Not aware that he has an audience, replies, “Hilarious, Tony.” Kent's comment got

a few curious looks. Then, Paul whispers to the neurologist, “Have you got a set of keys

to the rubber room?”

As before, the EEG is a miss. The CAT scan was inconclusive, and the deep brain

scan detects nothing. The neurologist removes the micro-wires and patches me up. The

neurologist turns to Paul and says, “This doesn’t prove anything. We might not have been

in the 'neighborhood' of activity. You need to be pretty close, almost right on top of those

little fellows for a good reading. While I'm here, do you want me to look somewhere

else?”

Paul is somewhat reluctant and says, “No, we've seen enough.”

I'm thinking, “Fine by me; Like I needed to go through that again. I would enjoy

that again as much as a hole in the head. But wait, they already did when they put a drill

bit through my skull!

The doctor removes the electrodes, bandages me up, and the team leaves the lab.

Only Kent, Paul and I remain. Bev is still in the waiting room. As they are preparing to

move me to a new hiding place, Paul shows a rare glimpse of compassion. “Let’s put him

in a regular room where he'll be more comfortable.” Paul stops himself. Shaking his head,

and says, “What on God's green earth am I talking about?” He throws his arms up in the

air. “I’m starting to sound as crazy as you and Bev. Orderly, haul him back to the lab and

plug his ass into something. I don’t care if it’s a damn Walkman!” Paul wipes his sweated

brow with his blood-stained handkerchief. Now more low-keyed turns to Kent and says,

“As a doctor, I can’t argue with the obvious: no brain swelling, no rigor mortis, not a

thing. His brain appears alive, but nothing is ticking.”

Paul walks over to me where I am lying. He grabs hold of the handrails on the

gurney and stares at me. “It’s as if when we’re not watching, his body does a brief cycle.

Blood flows and apparently there's a gas exchange; oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. It’s

like a game of peek-a-boo. It’s more like hide-and-seek. Maybe it’s a form of

hibernation.” As he has many times before, Paul scratches his head.

“Like I said, it's possible the monitoring equipment turns things off in his body. I

just don’t know. I’m baffled.” Paul turns back to Kent and raises his voice. “I know one

thing for sure, this has to end, and I do mean soon.”

They take me back to a patient room where Bev had been waiting. The stress of

all the varying emotions is evident on her face. She's trying to wrap her head around the

thought that at some level I’m still alive, but it appears this whole ordeal will take a

medical miracle to resolve itself one way or the other. At this stage of the game, time is

the enemy, and the clock keeps spinning away. Hope and faith are all she has— and both

are waning.

Chapter VII: Third Sun

“You know I've got about a zillion questions.”

“OK, shoot.”

With some hesitation, I ask, “Why do you allow all the suffering in the world?”

He is quick to respond, and I get an earful.

“You blame me for that? It has to be the number-one complaint I hear about, and

this is my answer—you people do it to yourselves! You can’t lay that on me. I gave you

free will.” Pointing to the garden, He says, “Go ask those two about free will. I gave

them a perfect world, and what was my thanks? Disobedience, that’s what. They acted

like two little brats, and they got punished.” He tones the rhetoric down, then asks, “You

have kids, what would you have done?”

A little angered, say, “I wouldn’t have kicked them out of the house.” Wow!

Where did that come from? I'm in Heaven, or at least nearby, and I’m having an argument

with God. I don’t know about you, but I’m overwhelmed. Saying an angry prayer in

solitude is one thing, but a face-to-face debate with The Almighty is very unnerving.

“So, Mister Know-It-All,”— then asks in a firm tone,— “what would you have

done? Ground them? Or maybe put them in time out? Their single act of disobedience set

the tone for the rest of you. I created only good; they are the originators of suffering, not

me. You want someone to blame?” He points again and says, “Start with them.”

Reorganizing my thoughts and remembering who I am talking to, I humbly say, “I

didn’t mean to make you mad.”

“You didn’t make me mad, Tony. You’re not the first, nor the last, who wants me

to fix everything. Like I said, you people do it to yourselves. If I had wanted robots, I

would have made robots. It would have been a lot simpler now that I think about it.” He

gets up and walks away.

Under my breath, I mumble, “Wish I’d never brought it up.”

He turns to me and asks, “You say something, Tony?”

I also get up and race after Him. I catch up, and in an attempt to recover, I say,

“But you kicked them out over an apple?” Here we go again, and He is not amused.

“Can we forget about the fruit for a minute? That’s not the point— it could've

been a Twinkie.” Again, he tones it down a little. Thank God!

About ten steps ahead of me, He says, “You’re welcome.”

“Now, let’s start over, and I’ll try to keep it as simple as ABC. You have three

precious little ones, and you sit them down for a family meeting. You tell them they can

have anything in the pantry to snack on. Everything in the house their little tummies can

handle, but, don’t under any circumstances, touch the chocolate chip cookies…period.”

Then He begins to mimic in a childlike voice: “But why Daddy? Why can’t we have any

of the chocolate chip cookies? Because I said so! Capiche? You are free to eat from any

other bag of candy or goodies in the house, but not those…get it? It’s called obedience.”

Again mocking in a child’s voice: “But why, Daddy?” Answering Himself in a thunderous

voice and says, “Because those are the forbidden chocolate chip cookies of the

knowledge of good and evil, and when you eat of them, you will surely die, all because

you disobeyed one tiny little rule!”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?” I ask.

“You’re right, after all, they are little kids. I’d tone it back a notch or two. Let's

return to the story. You go outside and do some yard work, create a new galaxy or

whatever. Now, while your back is turned, one tempts the other, a debate ensues over

should we or shouldn’t we? One of them takes a bite and the other caves in. And when

they eat of the cookie, they find themselves naked and ashamed. After that, you toss them

out of the garden because they couldn’t keep their hands off the chocolate chip cookies!

If you’d like to know about all the stuff in the middle, read the book.”

“You win.”

“I’m glad you agree.” He begins to lecture me about all the wrong in the world

and where it all began. “You see, Tony, every once in a while, you people need a little

spanking to put you back in line.”

“A spanking to Him is probably code for a famine.”

“Did you say something?”

“Just thinking.”

With a hint of a chuckle, God points to His head. “Around here, it’s best to keep

thoughts out of your head or at least a long way from me.”

“Sorry, I keep forgetting.”

Too afraid to ask any more questions, I spend a moment enjoying the

surroundings. As we take in the view, I say, “It is beautiful up here.”

He gazes out at the horizon. “I like it.”

“Were you ever mortal?”

“Tried it, didn’t like it. Jesus did though. I sent him to scope things out and

‘spread the word,’ and we know how that turned out. I made the planets for you people.

Heaven is my home, I'll just stay put —for now.”

Getting up a little nerve, I say, “Yeah, I know how it turned out, but you were the

one who sent him to die.”

He turns to me, with a soul-piercing look I had not seen before, then calmly asks,

“And?”

Between the “look,” and His austere “and” I timidly ask, “How could you do such

a thing?”

The expression on His face has been overshadowed by his response. “I didn’t send

him to die. We both knew the plan way ahead of time, but you people killed him, and

after everything I have seen, you have gotten very skilled at it. If everyone were as good

at loving each other as they are at killing, the world would be a much better place.”

A little bravery sets in and ask, “If you knew it would happen, why did you send

him?”

“You are right, Tony. It was a tough decision, but one that had to be made,

regardless of the outcome.”

“I could never do that…I mean, give up my own child.”

“Not even to save all of humanity?”

I ponder over the question for a few moments, then lower my head in shame and

say, “I couldn’t, not my son.”

He put His arm around me. “Well, Tony…this is why I am God, and you are not.

Over the span of the eons, I've made some tough decisions, and I do not regret a single

one of them. I have punished many for their unfaithfulness and evil deeds, and I sent my

son to clear up the mess. Jesus wasn’t the first nor will He be the last that I have sent who

will die in the name of faith. You're the next in the lineup.

“What?”

“Don't worry Tony, you probably won't die.”

I nervously reply, “Probably?”

He continues to talk about His messengers of faith. “Although he is a terrible

golfer, Moses was a great leader and made many sacrifices for his faith. It was no 'dance

in the park' for David either. Many others died because of their faith and some with it.

Daniel, Abraham, James, and John all made sacrifices because of faith. Even some of the

youngsters like Tyndale and Luther did too. The list is endless. All of them were sent to

spread the word of hope and faith. Let me tell you this, Tony, I did not send Jesus to die a

torturous death on a tree, although it was a necessary step. It was more of a means to an

end.”

“What do you mean?”

“His death symbolized and cleansed an unclean world, and I sent the others to do

the same. Unlike them, I used His resurrection as a testament to you 'hard-heads' that

once and for all, I am that I am and will always be.”

Reflecting on His words, I recall a passage in the Bible. It reads: He is gracious

and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in love. Right now love, compassion, and

grace are succeeded by anger.

He stands up in front of me, shaking His fist. “Millions of my children were

murdered by a madman because of their faith!” He sits back down next to me, clasps His

hands together, and shakes His head. “It’s so sad.”

“Will you ever go back?”

With a touch of quiet anger, His answer is brief and to the point. “One day I will.

And when I do, it won’t be for a visit.”

Out of nowhere, Moses appears, complete with a staff and long, flowing robe.

God asks, “Aren’t we a little over dramatic with the outfit and props?”

He ignores Him and speaks to me. “I know I’ve been edgy and in a bit of a mood

for a few millenniums, but He's right. You people have been screwing it up from the

beginning, starting with those 'nitwits' in the garden, and it’s about time you folks get

your act together.”

Moses continues. “Keep sinning,—he holds up one finger; ‘strike one’. Stay

unrepentant; —” then he holds up two fingers; ‘strike two’. Remain unfaithful,—and a

third finger goes up— ‘strike three’. And if you people continue down the pathway you

are heading—game over. He did the flood all by Himself, but this time I will be at His

side when He pulls the trigger, and you better duck.”

God responds with a loud, “Amen, brother!”

“A while back, I was given a few simple set of rules,”— turning to God,— “that I

accidentally dropped.” Moses then looks back at me. “He gave them to us to live by, but

you people,”—then he pokes me with his staff— “especially lawyers, have created

thousands of meaningless laws in an attempt to diminish and replace God’s law. It doesn’t

take a legal genius to decipher do not steal and do not murder. When you go back, tell

those people they need to remember, they are commandments, not suggestions. That’s all

I have to say.” Still a while away from a setting sun, Moses looks out across the meadow.

“Tony, it’s about time. You gotta scoot. See you again real soon.”

“How soon?”

He chuckles and says, “It'll be a while—trust me.” Moses extends his hand, and I

do the same. In the firmest handshake I can recall, he says, “It’s been a privilege meeting

you. You've got a lot of work ahead of you.” Then he turns, raises his staff and begins to

float up.

We watch as he ascends into the clouds. God utters, “What a show-off. He always

has to make a dramatic exit.”

After he floated off, I worry for a moment that his “a while” and my “a while”

may be two different things. But he is right, I have a lot of work ahead of me and pray

that I'm the right guy.

Chapter VIII: Final Setting Sun

I’m beginning to prepare for the trip back. It’s not as if I need to pack a suitcase;

it’s more like getting myself mentally prepared. As you recall, when I arrived at the

hospital I was nearly dead, which subsequently led to what appeared to be my death. This

time around, I am alert and alive at some level. So as you might expect, it’s a little

frightening to foresee the journey ahead. Will I fly through space and time? What will I

see? What will I feel? Will it be like a “transporter”? I saw an episode of Star Trek, and

the transporter scene didn’t work out so well for one of its victims. Or will I forgo the sci-

fi imagery and just reappear at the hospital; hopefully in one piece. But now I have

enough faith and trust in God to know that it will work out as planned, but it doesn’t

mean I’m not afraid. His intuitive nature senses my angst.

“Tony, fear not! We got a handle on this.”

His words are comfort enough. Changing the subject, I comment, “You haven't

talked much about sin.”

God reaches over and picks up a long stick. “So?” He sits down and begins to

nudge a small pebble in the sand with the stick. “I figured the subject might come up. I

wondered why it took you so long. Understand this, I didn’t put the Commandments

together in order of importance.”

With a baffled look, I ask, “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’ll explain it, and use Moses’s example. From my standpoint, I see little

difference between stealing a banana and shooting your neighbor in the back of the head.

Sin is sin. Don't get me wrong, a few sins just irritate me, and others stir up anger. It's the

sins in the middle; the ones that hurt me. Nevertheless, sin is still sin.” He continues to

poke around at the pebble. Then it breaks into pieces.

Looking down at the newly formed rubble, I ask, “Does that mean something?”

“Does what mean something?”

I point to the pile of a demolished pebble. “What does it mean?”

God is a bit aloof and continues to stir the debris. “I don't know what you are

talking about.”

Again, pointing at them, I ask, “Does the broken pebble symbolize something?

Perhaps because of sin, our lives are a shattered mess?”

“Not really, I guess I poked it too hard.”

I'm still confused about comparing murder to stealing and say, “But one sure

seems to outweigh the other.”

He remains seated and using His stick as a pointer, aims it toward the distance.

“Do you see that large boulder?” I nod yes. “Let’s compare the two. One is a small

pebble, or at least it used to be, the other, a gigantic boulder. One is little; one is big. Both

made of stone and no different from the other except for their size.”

I gaze at him with another one of my confused looks.

“Be patient Tony, and I’ll try to keep it simple. If you stole from a neighbor and

lied about it, which is the greater sin, the theft or the lie?”

“Oh, I see where this is going.” Then, in a cadence, we both say aloud, “One does

not outweigh the other.”

“My point exactly.”

Moving right along and knowing that I will be going home soon, I ask, “Do you

know when we sin?”

“Yep. And no, I don’t keep tabs as some would suggest. People know when they

mess up. They don’t need me to remind them. A court of law may spend a day, a week,

months, or years to yield guilt or innocence. You ask me once for forgiveness—done, and

done. Yet others will carry around guilt their whole lives. Where is there any room for my

forgiveness when you can't forgive yourself? Forgiveness from me goes a long way. To

forgive yourselves goes even further.

Forgiveness leads to faith, and faith becomes the foundation for continued

forgiveness. When they come to believe and accept that truth, it is then, they will find me,

and I will be waiting.”

He continues, “Let’s get back to the story. Now where were we? Oh yeah,

sometimes good people do bad deeds, and sometimes bad people do good deeds. A man

who steals a loaf of bread to feed his family, is that sin?”

“I don’t see how it could be.”

“Guess what, Sport, it is. Like I said before, sin is sin, but sometimes the sin is

shadowed by the greater good. I am fair and compassionate, on top of that, I'm in the

forgiveness business, and that's fine by me. I am not as mean and tough as some would

have you believe. It's a lot less stressful to forgive than to persecute. If I persecuted

everyone who sinned, and I’ve seen some doozies, Heaven would be a pretty lonely

place. Love, faith, and forgiveness go a long way. You people should try it sometime.”

He stands beside me, and using one of His fingers, pokes me in the side. “Do you

read the Bible?”

I confess that I don’t as much as I should.

“That’s OK; you're a busy man.” In an instant, he raises His voice. “Make time!

There is a ton of useful information on those pages. Consider it as a guide for living.

Some say it’s a bunch of gibberish. It’s not. Inspirational words by inspired people and

approved by yours truly. Can you guess which is one of my favorite verses?”

“There are so many choices. Which one?”

“Romans 8:28.”

I rub my chin, “Hmmm, I’m not familiar with that one.”

“Figures. I’ll paraphrase: All things are for the good to those that believe in Me.

So you can clearly see the picture, I said all things are for the good. Not some things, not

every once in a while, but all things, all the time for those who are faithful and believe.

Get it?”

“Got it. But it’s tough to accept some things and trust that there is 'a good' in there

somewhere.”

“It’s called faith, Tony. And no, I don’t expect you to do a tap dance when

something bad happens, but trust me, those who believe will survive, no matter what.”

“Why are you sending me back?”

“Tony, I brought you here to prove a point, which we've already covered. I have to

prove nothing. You have any more questions?”

“No, sir.” He taps me on the back then looks at His watch.

I take a peek at it and comment, “Nice watch.”

He glances at it again, this time shaking it. “Thanks. It’s a Timex.” In a sort of

concerned voice, He asks if I think it’s too flashy.

In an about-face, I put a comforting arm around Him and say, “Frank, it’s perfect.”

He continues to shake it, and then taps it lightly. “It hasn’t worked for a while, but

at least it’s right twice a day!” Both of us have a big laugh at that one.

He continues to tell me more stories of hope and faith. Now it seems to be the

right time to ask Him what a lot of us want to know. “All we have is faith. Why don’t you

show yourself?”

“Show myself? Are you kidding me? I’m everywhere! Don’t you remember the

big word you learned—omnipresent?” Going back to His more serious side, He

continues. “I have performed miracles all over the place, yet few pay any attention, or

worse, seem to care. Let me tell a story about faith.”

He asks, “Who is your father? What is his name?”

Startled by this line of questioning, I answer, “Eugene.”

“You say Eugene is your father, how do you know?”

“First of all, I have a birth certificate, and his name is on it.”

“What does that prove?” He continues to press the issue. “How do you know?”

Now I’m getting irritated. “I don’t, I just know.”

“Let me tell you this, Tony, your little piece of paper doesn’t mean squat. Think

about this and please excuse the analogy, but I want to make a point.”

“Oh great, another point.” Silly me keeps forgetting about His mind-reading

trick.

“You do know I’m sitting right next to you? Now, may I finish?”

“Yes, you may.”

“Why thank you, Tony.” Then He looks right at me. “My 'point' is, only one

knows without a shadow-of-a-doubt that your father, as you claim, is your father.”

I consider myself a pretty smart guy, but that one flew over my head. The most

intelligent thing I can say is, “OK, I'll bite.”

“Drum roll please.” I pause for a moment, then placating him, do a drum roll on

my legs.

“The answer is—only your mother knows for sure, and, of course, me.

“I don't get it.”

Now God is thinking, “This guy got through law school?”

Then I comment, “Did you say something? Ha! Chad has been teaching me a few

tricks too!”

“I'll visit with him later. Anyway, faith is why you believe that your father is your

father. And you would defend that faith to the death if it were necessary. It’s that kind of

faith that gets folks into Heaven. Remember this always— Heaven is not a place for the

holy; it is a home for the faithful. My hope is, by using your eyes and ears I am giving the

flock a peek into Heaven, using you as a witness. I am getting weary with all I see, and

my patience is growing thin.”

“Why me? I’ve never been very religious, or even that faithful.” I lower my head

and say, “I have questioned my faith—a lot. I don’t even go to church that much.”

“Tony, I say to you, one has nothing to do with the other. I'd rather you be one of

the faithful kicked back on your Lazy Boy on a Sunday morn, than a faithless hypocrite

warming a pew. The point is”—looking back at me, —“don't even think it, but going to

church does not make you any more faithful than swimming in the sea makes you a fish.

People want things in life bigger than themselves, and I provided it, they only need to

meet me halfway. The first step in believing in me is wanting to believe in me, and when

they do, faith will not be far behind and I'll do the rest. Strain your brain Tony, this may

be hard to grasp. The greatest majority who make it in are 'squeakers' as Jesus puts it.”

He looks over at me and doesn't say anything, but I do. “I know, I know—like

lawyers.”

Laughing, He says, “If the shoe fits.”

Not to add insult to injury, I say, “I cannot believe what I'm about to say, so I'll

just spit it out. I forget to pray over a meal sometimes, to be honest, most of the time.”

“Don't worry Tony, me either. Who would I talk to?” As with many times before,

both of us let out a chuckle. “Here's a newsflash, I know people's hearts, and I know

yours. You are a good and honorable man. I know faith is a huge burden to put on you

people, but it is the clearest and easiest way to test the worthiness for an invitation to my

home. By the time I'm done with the teachings, you'll be overflowing with faith. You

know who impressed me?”

“I give up. Who?”

“Noah. Talk about faith! Remember this; in the so-called modern era, trained

professionals and engineers assembled the Titanic, and a winemaker a few years ahead of

the caveman built the Ark. He did it with a lot of faith as his blueprint.” He continues

with a few more examples. “And poor Job; don’t get me started with him. He had it

rough and still remained faithful. Nowadays it’s easy. You won’t even break a sweat, not

like then. Back in the day, I had them doing so many offerings and making sacrifices; I’m

surprised Noah had enough to fill up the Ark!” Then he laughs. I like His laugh.

He gives the example of children and their faith in Santa Claus and the Easter

Bunny. As they grow older, not only do they lose their belief in those two; sometimes He

gets lost in the mix as well. “So faith is the barometer I use. You got a better idea?”

“I think you've got it covered.”

Laughing again, He says, “I’m glad you agree.”

I spend some time thinking about the whole concept of faith. It seems so easy;

maybe too easy. Many years ago, people had to prove their faith. Nowadays all we need

to do is proclaim it. In my practice, I had to make many complicated business and legal

decisions and given my current set of circumstances; those didn’t mean a thing. Legal

matters I’d decided on were often temporary fixes to the problem. A decision of faith will

carry you through and beyond eternity. It finally makes sense.

“Tony, your time here is growing short. When I send you back, tell this story to as

many as you can and have them pass it to as many as they can. Some will believe you,

some won’t. Also, say to them, as quickly as I created all that is, I can as swiftly make it

go away.” Then in an instant, He does an exploding gesture with His hands and whispers

— “Poof.”

“Poof?” I ask.

Then He does the same gesture again. “Yeah, poof.”

The love He has for us is immeasurable; equal to God's love is His resolve to

punish the faithless and unrepentant.

“I’m not big into threats, but I’ve about had it! And when I come back, they'll

remember the flood as a spring shower. I’ll make Sodom and Gomorrah look like a

Sunday picnic. Your scientists think the Big Bang was impressive? What I have in store

will make their so-called Big Bang sound like a popping balloon!”

Overwhelmed at what “poof” might look like, and whatever the consequences are,

I ask, “Is there a hell? The Bible speaks little of it.”

“Hell has several meanings, and many have tried to describe it. To put it plainly,

hell is a separation between them and me—forever. As far as I can tell, you people create

your own kind of hell. I will show you Hell.”

Up to now, it's mostly been fun and games, and a lot of teachings and learning, but

now I'm frightened.

“Only one other has been a witness to Hell, and He conquered it and returned to

me. You will also come back and tell the others what you have seen.”

With the thought of a visit to Hell spinning around in my head, I exclaim, “Why?”

I begin to plead with Him. “Please, no! I don't want to see it!”

In a hushed tone, God says, “You have too.”

He reaches for my hand and brings me to His side. As we stand together, God

makes a slow passing motion with His arm. In an instant, there are flashes of lightning

followed by several loud claps of thunder. There is a moment of stillness and doesn't last

long.

The thunder, lightning and all of the remaining light vanishes and is replaced by

darkness, wind, and cold. In the dark, I hear faint sobbing and moaning all around. I

begin to shiver, not because of the chill in the air, but fear.

All at once, I sense His presence completely disappear. I stand there alone, and the

cold and fear has been overtaken with the deepest and most painful loneliness I have ever

known. The ground begins to quake, and I am shaken to the ground. Rocks and other

debris are falling all about, and everything around me has crumbled away. Where I had

been standing, was now a small disintegrating island, large enough for a single occupant

—me. It is surrounded by a river of flaming, molten hot lava thousands of feet below.

There is another large quake, and again I fall, this time off of my small piece of

real estate, and plummet toward the lava. I am tumbling and spinning out of control and

screaming all the way down. Paralyzed with fear, I cry out, “Please, God! Save me!”

He hears my plea, and then a thunderous voice from above echoes throughout this

place. “This is Hell, and you are a witness to it. Remember it always.”

A moment later, I'm back on solid ground. I am drowning in my own sweat and

hyperventilating when a small crack emerges from the darkness. Faint glimmers of light

begin to shine through and another thunderous voice trumpets, “This is Heaven! All of

this wonderment I created for the faithful!”

As the darkness disappears, in its place, a brightly lit sunny and cloudless blue sky

begins to emerge. As far as I can see to the east, and as far as I can see to the west, a

dazzling rainbow paints the heavens. Shades of red, blue, yellow and green, and other

colors I have never seen, much less ever describe. I stand in awe of the most beautiful

and breathtaking scenery anyone could imagine. A snow-capped mountain is in the

distance, with a peak that seems endless. This world has so much majesty; Michelangelo

would clamber to duplicate it on canvas.

Up to now, a slight haze has been all around, even on the golf course. The

haziness lifts and in front of me is a crystal-clear lake with a trickling waterfall fed by a

slow-moving stream nearby. All sorts of birds and animals are in perfect harmony with

one another, and people from all walks of life are strolling about enjoying this heavenly

beauty.

I am in such awe, I can't speak, but he does. “Tony, all of this, and all that you see,

I created for you and the others. Sadly, many will not choose this. Instead, they will take

other gods and put their faith in them.” He moves ahead of me and sees children playing

jump rope. He can’t help Himself and joins in on the fun as I catch up to Him. “These are

my best creations.”

He embraces one of the children and sets her on His lap. “All they want is to love

and to be loved. War and hatred are not in their vocabulary. No concerns about 'rising to

the top,' or 'keeping up with the Joneses,'—just love. Love is my gift to the children when

they pop out of the womb. You people teach them everything else.” He sets the little girl

down, and she runs back to her friends. He guides me over to a big rock and motions for

me to sit by Him.

“Before you go back, I have a couple messages for you to pass along. I created the

laws of physics and put them into motion, so explain to your scientists to not get so giddy

when they figure one out. They haven’t a clue of what’s out there. I believe you call it the

'tip of the iceberg.' Newton gets hit on the head by a falling apple, then claims to have

discovered gravity. Discovered it? He just gave it a name.” Then He says, pointing to the

children still playing, “A child could have done that, but he gets all the credit.”

I begin to search my pockets for something to write with. “Do I need to be taking

notes?”

“You will remember. And Tony, do this as a personal favor. Tell that TV preacher

in Texas to stop making money using the Book of Revelations as his selling point and to

stop using so much 'blush'.”

Moses cries out from afar, “He looks like a hooker!”

God nods and says, “I agree.”

In a bit of shock, I quietly exclaim, “Frank!”

He nudges in close to me and says, “Well he does.” He moves away from me then

continues. “I’ll let you in on a secret. John went a little overboard with Revelations, and I

understand, but that 'jet-setting', so-called preacher is making a fortune scaring people.

Sure, it was me who inspired Revelations and John wrote it. My version was in tip-top

shape, but he felt the need to add to it. Way too dramatic for my taste, but I’ll give him

kudos for getting everyone's attention.”

We spend what seems like hours walking and talking. I’m trying my best to soak

in every word and expression on His face as He continues with His message. He’s also

not a big fan of people doing work on His behalf, especially the killings in His name. He

told me if they want to pick a fight, — start with Him. He assures me that He is quite

capable of taking care of business. Then He reminds me, “Remember the flood?”

I had the opportunity to meet with some old friends and relatives. One of my

dearest friends, Larry appears. He walks over to where I am standing and smiles.

“So you made it in? Who’d a thunk?” Then he traipses off laughing all the while.

He turns and waves, “Later, gator.”

A second later, looking at the emptiness where he stood, I whisper, “After a while,

crocodile.”

Grateful for my brief visit with Larry, God comes up to me and says, “You know

what Tony? Larry reminded me of something.” Then He asks, “You know what the two

most common questions are in Heaven?”

“No, what?”

“Where is so-and-so? And how’d you get here?”

“That’s pretty good. Speaking of that, I haven’t seen my Uncle Robert around.”

He shrugs His shoulders. “Oops.”

“I guess he wasn’t part of the faithful.”

“Worse than that, he was a politician! And yes, you are right, not part of the

faithful.” We talked a lot more about faith, and God asks, “Do you get the hang of it?”

“I guess so. According to you, it’s easier to enter the Gates of Heaven than getting

an American Express Card.”

Responding with a slight chuckle, He says, “Not the best example I might have

used, but you’re right. With faith, you'll never receive a rejection letter, just one that's

stamped 'approved' on it. You know, Tony, I like the sound of that. You got me to

thinking, maybe that will be my new motto. I'll add it to my business cards.”

Business cards? I don't even bother to ask. I know that my time here is coming to

an end, but I had more questions. The biggest one is about my sister.

Into early adulthood, we were raised Lutheran. Some Lutherans, I suppose others

as well, have a particular “burn” for people who take their own life. Some would have

you believe it’s a non-stop trip straight to Hell. With fragments of that teaching lingering

in my mind and the idea of my sister subjected to an eternal fate, I feel my eyes begin to

moisten. A moment later, tears started flowing down my face. Wiping them with the

backside of my hand, I practically command, “Where is my sister?”

He questions me, “Why do you ask, Tony?”

Now the tears are rolling, and I stutter, “I don’t see her.”

“Tony, let me explain something. I like Martin—you know I’m talking about

Luther, right? He was a real straight shooter, but even he had questions about the taking

of one’s own life. He got most of it right but some of it— he got wrong. The way I see it,

those that harm themselves are suffering a kind of helplessness and hopelessness that

even I have a problem understanding. I remember your sister, and I held her close in my

arms until her last breath.”

Still weeping, I ask, “Is she here?”

“Look over there.” He says pointing at an open field.

As I look out, there appears a bright, shining light of a figure approaching me. The

closer it gets, the dimmer the light, and I begin to recognize her; it is my sister, Marie.

She approaches and reaches for me. She smiles at me and the best way to describe it, it's

the best storybook hug of a lifetime. We sink into each other’s arms, and I can't let her go.

Then she talks softly in my ear, “Hello, Tony. It's been awhile.”

We're still holding on to each other and God says, “I’ll leave you two. We have to

concentrate on sending you back pretty soon. They’re talking about cremating you later

today. Don’t those people know it’s hard enough to deal with a whole body instead of a

pile of ashes?” He strolls off, laughing all the way.

We release our embrace and reach for each other's hand, then Marie and I take a

stroll across the meadow.

“Tony, do you remember all the wonderful times we had growing up as kids?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I cherish those memories, and you should too. You see, because I am not around,

does not mean I am gone.”

“That's sweet Marie. You sure have gotten a lot nicer since you got here.”

“Yeah, it sort of goes with the territory, I suppose.” We both chuckle.

Still hand-in-hand, she says, “Those fun times will forever be in your heart. If you

find yourself feeling sad or lonely, always remember I love you. I will be the warmth on

your face from a sunny, crisp spring morning, or maybe a dragonfly dancing on a nearby

fence post. It could even be a single feather lying under the tree we used to climb. All

those things are where you will see the beauty in life, and it's those places that you will

find me.”

I stopped and looked at her, then pointing up, I say, “You're starting to sound like

Him.” Again, both of us let out a big laugh and continued our walk.

Further down the pathway we'd been walking on, and in an instant, she stops and

turns me around and reaches for my other hand; we are now standing face-to-face. “Tony,

I want to thank all those who’ve watched after my little ones all these years, especially

you and Bev.”

“It’s been an honor. Your kids miss you, and I never let them forget.”

“I miss them too, but I check on them all the time. I enjoy watching them play.

They seem happy.”

“They are happy. They're good kids.”

With her still facing me, I pull her close, put my arms around her and whisper, “I

love you so much, Marie.”

She whispers back, “I love you too, dear brother.” We release each other, but she

still holds my hand and says, “I was sad to hear about Steve.” Steve, her husband, my

brother-in-law, passed away about a year ago. His final years were filled with sadness,

depression and despair over the loss of Marie.

“Is he here?” I ask.

She let go of my hand and looks away. She turns back to me with a sad,

expressionless face. “It's complicated.”

“I'm so sorry, Marie.”

Seconds later, she does a cheerleader leap into the air and says with enthusiasm,

“Psych!”

“Very cute, Marie. I’m glad you still have a sense of humor.” We spend the

remainder of our time enjoying each other's company.

“Tony, I need to go to work, and they’re getting ready to send you back. Paul is

about to shoot himself, and if you don’t go soon, he’s taking you with him.”

“That's funny; Bev said something similar.” Then I asked, “Work? What kind of

work do you do?”

“It’s more of a volunteer deal. I help out Saint Peter with the squeakers. We check

the paperwork to make sure they didn’t slip through the cracks. It makes them a nervous

wreck.” She whispers, “It’s only a book with a bunch of blank pages.”

“Again, Marie, very cute.”

With her arms swinging in the air, she does a twirl. “It takes some excellent acting

to pull it off.” Marie continues with the flailing of arms, then skips around in a circle. “I

should have been a movie star.” She stops with her “Hollywood walk of fame” routine

and lets me in on more of the torment they inflict on new arrivals. “One of my favorites is

when sometimes me and Moses flip a coin, you know, heads or tails to see if they can

enter. Frank thinks it’s wrong.”

“Why wouldn’t He? It's mean!”

“Not about the coin flipping, it’s because we 'fib' when they guess wrong. They all

make it in and live happily ever after. It’s a final jab, so they realize how close they came

to going in another direction. Reminds me of my old job.”

“Sounds like it, but in the end, everyone who makes it here is innocent.”

Marie had been bubbly up to this point, but then for a second, she seems sad.

“Yeah, that’s the downside.” In life, Marie was a probation officer who loved to put the

bad guys away, so dealing with everyone who makes it in is sometimes a downer. “Every

once in a while, I wish He'd let us send someone further south, just to break the

monotony. Oh well, you said it before; we don't make the rules.”

The time is growing short, and I change the subject. When someone ends their

own life, so many questions are left unanswered. No letter to friends or loved ones can

ever fully explain “why”? The only thing for certain is a hole in your heart. Before she

goes, I need to say one more thing. “Marie, what you did hurt a lot of people.”

Without an ounce of hesitation, she looks at me square in the eyes. “I know, but a

lot of people hurt me too.”

I never asked the question, why? But after seeing and talking with her, the hole in

my heart began to heal.

The two of us say our farewells, and like our visit began, it ends with a big hug,

this time, many fewer tears. Happiness at seeing Marie replaced them.

“See you around, Tony.” She turns and started walking toward the sun. The

brightness blinds me as I squint and watch her every footstep. In typical Marie-style, she

looked back at me once more and did that fake parade-queen wave. I shield my eyes as

best I can from the light, and when I squint one more time,— she’s gone.

God comes over to me and gently rubs my back. “Are you alright?”

A little teary-eyed, let Him know that I was OK.

“I can say one thing for sure, since Marie showed up, things haven’t been the

same. She’s hilarious! Moses considers her quite 'the jokester'. They shouldn’t, and I don't

know how or why, but those two get along great. Moses and Marie have been known to

team up and give the 'newbies' a hard time.”

“I know, she told me. That’s Marie for sure. I guess it’s true, the more things

change, the more they stay the same. She hasn’t changed a bit, even though she’s—”

Interrupting me, He says, “Alive and well, and at peace.”

Out of curiosity, I had to ask. “Did Adam and Eve make it?”

“Sure they did, don't you remember?”

“Oh yeah, but I never saw them.”

“They were faithful, just goofed-up like everyone else. 'Eve and Adam' got all of

the attention, you know, original sin and all that jazz.” Again God shows His humor by

saying, “Eve and Adam” instead of the other way around like the rest of us.

“Now I remember, you kicked them out of the—”

He stops me before I could say another word. “Tony, do you seriously want to

revisit that?” Arms fully crossed, God waits for an answer. “Well?”

“Not really.” Looking around, I ask, “Where do you keep them?”

“Tony, they're not cattle. We don't 'keep' them anywhere. They’re splendid

gardeners, so they stay pretty busy.” As a reminder, He says, “But we keep them away

from the fruit trees if you know what I mean.” Then He laughs, and I do too. One thing

for sure, there's a lot of laughter up here. I need to add it to my list—we don’t laugh

enough.

“So, if you are sending me back, how are you going to do it?”

“Not too sure. I guess we’ll have to wing it.”

I’ve gotten more comfortable with the apparent lack of reverence and say, “Frank,

that isn’t very comforting. You are aware that in a couple of hours or so, they’re going to

start cutting me into pieces, put me back together,— with what's left. Afterward, say

something nice, and then I get to go out in a blaze of glory—literally.”

Moses floats back down on a parachute and lands next to us. “We’re working on

it, Tony; keep your panties on. This is new to us, too. We've never done it this way, so

give us a break.” He wrestles free from the confines of the parachute, shakes it off and

continues. “It’s been fun messing with all those medical people. Frank thinks it’s

hysterical!”

“I’m not as amused. Why can’t I stay and save all the effort?”

Moses moves in close to me and we are almost nose to nose; so close I can feel

his breath. He pokes me in the chest with each word and in a stern tone says, “Because—

that— isn’t —the— plan.” He stops the poking then adds, “You have to go back. Now

skedaddle.”

God comes over to me and says, “Tony, we’re running out of time, so let’s wrap it

up. Things are getting way out of control and I want to give everyone a chance to

straighten up, and the time is ticking away.”

I chuckle and say, “I hope you're using your watch.”

He looks at me, eyebrows raised slightly and says, “Chad's works just fine.”

He continues to explain my mission. “I needed a beacon, and that is why I chose

you. Everything you have seen and witnessed here, in all of its splendor and glory, I only

ask one thing of you and that is to send a 'simple message of faith'.”

I pause for a second and gave Him one of Bev's infamous glares. I begin to feel a

slight pulse in my neck, then ask, “Wait a minute. A message of faith? The pulse is now a

throb. “What else?”

“None that I can think of, just a message of faith. Why do you ask? Is that so

difficult?”

Now the adrenalin kicks in and I pace around for a few steps, then halt with the

pacing. I turn toward Him, and in a fit of anger, both hands fly way up in the air and

exclaim, “That's it?” With my voice elevated to a less than Angelic volume, I continue,

“Back there,”— I begin pointing in all directions not knowing precisely where “there” is,

I stop and say— “Who cares, where?

God touches me on the shoulder and says, “You don't have to yell.”

Jerking myself away, I say, “I'm not yelling! I'm was being emphatic!”

Now, He patted me on the back and tries to comfort me. “There, there, try to

compose yourself.”

“Compose myself? They think I’m dead!"

“And?” God, more subdued than me adds, "They'll get over it."

"Get over it! I've been kidnapped, and...”

He cuts me off again, but this time He's a bit “worked-up” and says, “That's just

plain rude.”

Ignoring Him, I continue the rant. “I've been to Hell and back,”— I tone back the

rhetoric and lean in toward him— “which, by the way, scared the wits out me, and ...”

Again He interrupts and says, “I did bring you back and let you see Heaven.”

“What? As a consolation prize?”

Grinning, God says, “I could send you back if you'd prefer.”

“That's OK, I'm fine and dandy right here. You aren't listening to me! I have a

grieving wife, worried kids, and a friend who's about to hang himself, — and take me

with him! And all I need to do is pass along a message of faith?”

I retreat from the ranting, shake my head and say, “I’m beginning to feel like

Dorothy, minus the ruby red slippers.” Then ask, “Why didn’t you just send me a dove

with a message? I would have believed that.”

God replies, “Oh really? I thought a personal visit would be more convincing than

a bird with a note.”

Again, He masters the conversation, and I say, “Can we change the subject? The

last one wore me out. I have one more question.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you hear our prayers?”

“Every one of them. You know what’s number one?”

“I give up.”

“You’d think the healing of a loved one or to help get a better job would be right

up there. Nope! Winning the lottery tops the list. The deals they make are unbelievable!

They're very specific what they'd do if they won and don't spare on originality. Give to a

church or charity, help out a family in need, and so on.” Then adds, “I wish every once in

a while someone would be honest; Dear God, please let me win the lottery so I can buy a

boat.” It seems the others down the list are used as bartering chips. Do this for me and I'll

do this for you. Sorry, it doesn't work that way. It frustrates me that I only hear from

many of them when their back is against the wall—but I still listen.” Jokingly he adds,

"Maybe not as attentively as I should."

God paused for a moment and said, “Tony before you go back, I have another

little surprise for you.” Right then, He put two pinkies to His mouth and lets out an ear-

piercing whistle. “Over here girl!”

I could see a beautiful Golden Retriever coming toward us; It was our little girl,

Aspen, all healed and alive. She instantly recognized me, and a full frontal assault

ensued. I fell to the ground— with her on top of me. We wrestled around for a few

moments, and soon she was covering me from head to toe with dog spit from all the

licking.

As I was getting “my bath” God petted her on the head and said, “I know one

thing for sure, since Aspen got here, our flip-flop budget has gone through the roof!”

When Aspen lived with us, she “collected” several of our flip-flops and hid them; most

never found again.

Aspen and I are still rolling around on the ground and playing, then she resumes

her position on top of me. “Between Marie and Aspen, I don't know how you keep up!”

God responds with a hint of laughter. “It's been a trick, I assure you. Because of

those two, we've had to rewrite the definition of patience.”

Aspen stopped with the licking and with both ears at full attention, she hears the

other dogs barking in the distance. She looked in the direction of the others and scurried

off. A few yards out, she stops and turns toward me. With her tail wagging at full speed,

she began to bounce around in circles and was jumping up and down like a kid on a pogo

stick. She stops, stood in place and stares right at me. We gazed into each others eyes;

then she let out a loud bark as if to say, “Thank you for not letting me suffer.” Aspen

turned away and was off in a full stride to go and play with her friends.

I watch her run for as long as I could until she disappears. With more tears

flowing, He gently wiped them from my face and put His arm around me. With the

remnants of some sniffling, the only thing I could say was, “Thank you, Frank.”

His response was short and kind. “You are welcome, Tony.”

As many times before since I got here, God comes to me and wraps an arm

around my shoulder. “I’m going to miss you Tony, but you have a lot ahead. Remember

to keep the faith, and spread the good news. I need to go now and get to a poker game.

Teresa wiped me out the last time,”— Then He shows me a pair of aces up His sleeve,

—“and I’m getting even.”

“You’re going to cheat Mother Teresa?”

“It’s called payback. Last week she had a marked deck! Two can play at that

game.”

I have heard since the beginning years of Sunday school that God was our friend.

Since my stay in Heaven that has all changed—He is my best friend. He hugs me, and

when he does, I am overwhelmed with a feeling of peace and tranquility I've never

known. He releases me, lightly punches my arm, then gives me a wink. Right then, and in

the blink of an eye, I was whisked off as quickly as I had arrived.

Chapter IX: A New Beginning

It's a couple of hours from my third full day in Heaven. Though it seemed to me

that my time had been brief, to the hospital staff it seemed like an eternity! The time has

come to make a decision on the final disposition of my body. Though I am somewhere

between Heaven and a body “lying in state,” I am completely aware of all the sights,

smells, and sounds in the hospital. Even under the current set of circumstances, I still

don't like hospitals.

The hospital board scheduled an emergency meeting. I am the singular topic of

conversation. As the hospital administrator, and one of the co-conspirators, Kent has to

begrudgingly go. As medical chief of staff, Paul is present as well, mainly as a witness

and to answer any questions. Also in attendance, Stephen Maxwell, the hospital’s interim

attorney, and all sixteen board members. This meeting will determine my fate one way or

another. The chairman, Dr. Richard Kelley, begins with an opening statement.

“I think we know why we are here; the Tony Stanford issue—”

Kent interrupts him, and sternly asks, “Dr. Kelley, since when did we begin

referring to our patients as ‘issues’?”

Dr. Kelly is quick to snap back. “Since your friend became one.”

“Yes, you are right, Tony is my friend, but today he is a patient!”

Dr. Kelly then says with a smug, “Have it your way, Kent. And what do you mean

patient? Up to now, he's just a notch above a cadaver! Can we please continue with this

fiasco?”

The attorney is the next to speak. “Kent, I’ll begin with you, and ask a simple

question: Is Tony dead or alive?”

“I can’t answer that. We don’t know without further testing.” In a patronizing

manner, the attorney says, “My apologies Kent, I forgot, you’re just an administrator. I’ll

address Dr. Kline with any further medical questions.”

Kent, under normal circumstances, is very professional— today was not that day.

“Let me explain something you little worm, I know the difference between dead and

alive, and right now he’s neither. You want someone to say he's gone so the hospital can

cut its losses. Even if I had the medical authority, you got the wrong guy! He slams his

folder on the table, and its contents fly everywhere. “I’m out of here.” Kent storms out of

the conference room.

Light chatter erupts from the other members and Dr. Kelley orders for silence.

“Counselor, please continue.” After everyone calmed down, the lawyer asks Paul the

same question.

“Well, counselor, I do have the medical authority. All that all I can say with any

amount of certainty is that I am not prepared to give the order to have him 'gutted'.”

Gutted is hospital slang for doing an autopsy.

Dr. Kelley rejoins the conversation. “Paul, we’ve been friends for years, and yes,

I’m just an old retired country doctor,”—he holds up a clipboard for all to see—“but I can

still read a chart, and this one says he’s dead. Friends or not, I’ll find someone around

here to sign off on this thing so we can all get back to work.”

“Richard, you do what you need to do, and I will too.”

Then the snake-in-the-barrel lawyer is the next to slither into action “We were

prepared for this. Here is your letter of resignation. All you need to do is sign it.” Using

the fullest length of the boardroom table, like shuffleboard, he slides the paperwork over

to Paul.

Paul snatches the letter off the table and glances over it in an exaggerated fashion,

not reading a thing. He rises from his chair, then makes a point of crumpling it in front of

Richard before tossing it in the lawyer's face. “I have to go lance a boil.” Paul storms out

of the room in the same fashion as Kent.

The board does find someone to sign off on the paperwork to perform an autopsy.

It’s that suck-up, Dr. Bengla, the tea drinker.

Final preparations are being made for me to be handed off to the morgue staff—

again. They've been hiding and moving me around so much, I qualify for a travel

discount! The decision is made to send me straight to the autopsy lab and bypass the

morgue. While this activity is going on, I quickly recite a prayer, perhaps a strong

suggestion. “God, we need to get this thing moving along—soon!”

Right then, I hear Him start laughing, then quotes, If we hope for what we do not

see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it—“Gotcha!”

“Hilarious, Frank.” Even after God's little snippet of fun at my expense, I still feel

His presence by my side.

As I am being wheeled around, Paul is in his office clearing out his desk when his

phone beeps with a message. It reads:

Paul, do another scan; You're gonna love this!

Paul is about to wear a hole through his scalp and scratches his head again as he

reads the message for a second time. That was his first and last message from me. He

calls Kent and reads it to him. In an instant, Kent stops working on some last-minute

paperwork and slams his briefcase shut. He gives an order to Paul, and yells, “Stop

whatever you are doing and move Tony to the cath lab— stat!”

Now Paul is screaming. “You’re not a doctor! You can’t say stat!”

“Then I’ll say it differently. Go get Tony and haul your ass over to the cath lab! I

believe this is going to be one for the history books!”

Paul, still yelling, says, “About damn time!” His yelling comes to a screeching

halt and asks, “What do you think is going on?”

Kent, also more at ease replies, “We’ll have to wait and see. I believe we are about

to witness a miracle.”

“I see a slight problem with your plan.”

“What is it, Paul? We’re in sort of a hurry.”

“I think we’re unemployed.”

“Paul, did you hear me quit?”

“Well, now you mention it, no, I didn’t. And I didn’t sign the resignation letter

either! We're back in business!”

Paul takes it on his own to roll me back to the cath lab; this will be my final trip

there. Thankfully no one is in the autopsy lab except me, at least not yet. I'm still on a

gurney, and Paul sneaks in and wastes no time saving me from my scheduled 'butchering'.

Crawling around on the floor, he nervously begins to 'hum' something unrecognizable as

he unlocks the gurney's wheels. He jumps up and spins me around; knocking over a tray

and its occupants. It hits the ground with a loud clattering bang, and instruments are

strewn all over the floor. Peeking around a corner, Paul exits the room as fast as he can

before anyone notices. He is hurrying down hallways, weaving through and around traffic

every inch of the way. It looks like a dirt track race, or maybe even roller derby! He's

hitting other gurneys, and ramming into every wheelchair in his path— occupied or not.

When we arrive, the stretcher comes to a sudden stop— except me; I almost flew off the

thing! Luckily, Paul grabs my foot and saves me, and a nurse helps him reposition me

back on the gurney. The entire staff is hurrying to plug me up to what seems every

machine in the room. Kent is standing guard and coordinating additional personnel but

takes the time to call Bev.

“Bev, I don't have much time, but you need to get to the hospital; there’s been a

development. I think this is it.”

Startled, Bev drops the phone and it lands beneath the couch. She is on her hands

and knees and retrieves it and doesn't bother to get up. Bev maneuvers herself around and

plops on the floor and asks, “Kent, which 'it'? A good 'it' or a bad 'it'?”

“Just get down here as soon as you can.” Kent pauses for a second. “Paul got a

message from Tony.”

Kent hurries to the hospital’s main entrance to wait for Bev. Thankfully, there

weren't many cars on the road as she races to the hospital. She zips through every traffic

signal, green or not and ignores every stop sign. When she gets there, the only parking

spot is five blocks away; Dr. Kelley's flower bed. Removing her high heels and flinging

her purse around her neck, she runs all the way to the hospital and barges through the

hospital’s main door. She meets up with Kent. Huffing and puffing and asks if there is

any news. “Not yet. They’re prepping him for another EEG.”

Paul is 'chomping at the bit'. He’s a nervous wreck and can't hold the instruments

and one fell to the floor with a loud 'clank'. One of the techs has to assist him because he's

shaking so badly. For this occasion, they brought in the chief of neurology, Dr. Charles

Gandy. He rushes in and takes over the procedure, grabbing the fallen instrument away

from Paul. “Give me that thing and move out of my way!” Paul scoots himself aside next

to Dr. Gandy. He begins to scour the equipment and is searching for supplies to do the

EEG. “I need some collodion.” Collodion is a special glue that holds the electrodes in

place.

A nervous tech rummages through all of the drawers. He closes each one with a

loud bang as he moves to the next. This opening and banging of drawers goes on for a

few seconds and finds nothing. Mike, Dr. Gandy's tech, gets up enough nerve to say,

“Doctor, we seem to out of collodion.”

“You have got to be kidding!” Dr. Gandy shouts, “Super Glue…stat!” A nearby

nurse asks, “Are you serious, Doctor?”

“Of course not! Find me some damn collodion or anything else that will stick!”

Dr. Gandy glares at one of the younger nurses smacking on something and says, “And I

don’t care if it’s chewing gum.” The shy and embarrassed nurse goes over to a waste can

and spits it out.

In a laid-back fashion, Dr. Gandy pulls the tech to the side and put his hand on his

shoulder. “Mike, how long have you worked here?”

The nervous tech answers, “About two years, Dr. Gandy.”

“Splendid.” Still calm, he asks the tech how old he is.

“Eighteen and a half, Doctor.”

In a whisper, the doctor says, “If you’d like to make it to the other half, I suggest

you find something that will work.”

The tech scurries out of the lab and returns with a caulk gun. “This is the best I

can do, Dr. Gandy. We’re out of collodion.”

“You mean to tell me, there isn’t a single drop of collodion in this whole hospital?

Well, at least you get an 'A' for effort.” A somewhat grateful and amused Dr. Gandy slaps

the tech on the back. “I damn sure can’t hold them in place. This will have to do.” He

continues with his work, looks up, and adds, “Mike, you should have been a doctor.”

Mike grins as he snips off the end of the caulk tube.

Soon after, Bev and Kent arrive in the lab as Dr. Gandy makes his final

preparations. Bev stays in the back of the room, and Kent continues with his guard duties.

I’m hooked up to the heart monitor, but not a respirator this time. The room commences

filling up with most of the same crowd as before. The two chaplains were also there;

Father Lucci and Brother Bob, only this time, Brother Bob remembers to bring his

offering plate, smuggling it in his dress coat. It is complete havoc, and I am the star of the

show.

Kent tries to stop him, but Dr. Bengla breaks through and yells, “What the blazes

is going on! This is my patient! Get him back to the autopsy lab! Now!”

Bev sneaks up from behind with a bedpan and whacks him on the back of the

head. Because it’s made of stainless steel, you would have thought it would go 'ping';

instead it is more of a 'thud'. “You’re the patient now.” He falls to the floor, and someone

clears him out of the way.

"Settle down everyone." A poised Dr. Gandy cracks his knuckles, takes a deep

breath and announces, “Well, this is it. Everyone hold on to your ass.” He turns on the

equipment, and all eyes are fixed on the monitor as the neurologist begins the EEG. At

first it shows no activity like before. Everyone silently watches and waits.

Moments later, Paul jumps to his feet. “Oh my God!”

Someone in the crowd asks, “What is it?”

Paul taps the screen, “We have something!”

Another one asks, “How do you know?”

Paul, still tapping, says, “You don’t have to be a brain surgeon to see that this one

is alive!”

Dr. Gandy stops what he is doing long enough and glares at Paul. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, Chuck, but am I right?” With all of the excitement, Paul uses medical

terminology less than appropriate. “Look at those flashy thingies! They’re everywhere!”

There is loud chatter throughout the room.

Dr. Gandy raises his voice above the noise. “People, keep it down.”

Things are beginning to pick up speed, and Dr. Gandy calls out for the time.

“6:25 p.m., Doctor!”

Hands and instruments are flying everywhere and a nurse yells, “We've got a

pulse!”

Doctor Gandy shouts above the crowd noise, “Time!”

A nurse yells back, “6:26, Doctor Gandy!”

Dr. Gandy is busy studying more equipment readings and asks for my blood

pressure. “One-ten over sixty and climbing!”

Everyone in the room is going bananas as witnesses to this miracle— I hope.

Someone near the back is heard to quietly say, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Brother Bob in all of the excitement tries to pass around the offering plate. Paul

silently yells, “Not now, Bob!”

Brother Bob tucks it back in his dress coat and asks, “Maybe later?” Paul shakes

his head and ignores the question.

Dr. Gandy continues to examine the equipment and reviews the printout. He

shouts again, “Time?”

Another voice from across the room cries out, “6:27!”

Paul looks around the room and exclaims, “Is someone recording this?”

The heart monitor begins to come to life. The familiar long, steady tone now

signals a heartbeat. Dr. Gandy again asks for the time.

“6:29, Dr. Gandy!”

“Temp?”

“Ninety-five point six and rising!”

“Time?”

“Still 6:29, Doctor.”

Dr. Gandy whispers to himself, “I'm not believing this.” He needs to check with

his own set of ears. Still sitting in his old, vintage lab chair, he pushes himself away from

his work station toward me. The chair rattles and creaks— its castors, squeaky and

wobbly like a misaligned grocery cart. He arrives at my bedside and says, “I need some

quiet.” Dr. Gandy uses his stethoscope already hanging around his neck to confirm what

he has been seeing on the monitor. He listens to my heart, and for those nearest, he's

overheard saying, “This is nuts.” He quickly rolls back and views more results streaming

from the printer. Dr. Gandy rips off a page, turns to Paul and says in a low tone, “I’m

framing this.”

Unlike her colleague, another nurse, more low-key, announces that my blood

pressure is normal, and my heart is pounding on its own. But we're not there yet.

This time Dr. Gandy gets off his chair and walks over to me. He checks my

respiration and says,“Folks we're not out of the woods yet.” Then yells, “He's not

breathing! Prepare to intubate!”

As he was about to shove a hose down my throat, Bev rushes over. “No! Wait!”

The doctor stops, and everyone is silent. All of the commotion echoing in the room has

suddenly faded. Except for the sound of a beeping heart monitor, the room is still; you

really could hear a pin drop.

Bev lightly, almost floating, makes her way to me. As if in slow motion, she

gently moves people aside. She reaches me and delicately takes my hand. “It’s time Tony.

Come home.”

Amazingly, I hear her words, but a while ago—I was home.

After that peaceful thought, there is an explosion of sight and sound running

through my brain. Pictures, memories and all the experiences of my life are flashing

through my mind like a high-speed movie projector. As the images start to slow down,

then suddenly stop,— and I begin to wake up. Everyone in the room gathers around me

and some are saying quiet prayers. I'm laying there and aware that I'm back but have the

uneasy feeling of suffocation. It's like holding your breath too long underwater then come

up for air; that’s what it feels like. I struggle for a moment, then take the longest, labored

breath of fresh air I've ever taken.

Bev is still at my side, Kent and Paul on the other. Everyone else is still waiting

and praying. I remain on the heart monitor, but they remove me from the confines of

other equipment and instruments. My eyes open a little, then Kent glances at the clock in

amazement. “Paul, look at the time.” It is 6:33 p.m., exactly three days since this began.

Through the window, Bev also notices the setting sun and says to herself, “Tony, you

were right.”

Now that I’m breathing and everything else seems to be back in working order,

Bev still at my side, and in a hushed voice asks, “Tony, can you hear me? It’s Bev.”

I blink my eyes a few times adjusting to the light then mumble, “Bev who?”

Still holding my hand, and in a soft, loving voice, she replies, “Bev who, my ass.”

I motion for Bev to come close to me and whisper, “Wanna fool around?”

She falls on my chest and wraps her arms around my neck.

“Lighten up, Bev, I just got here; you want to send me back?” She continues her

stranglehold, but I don’t mind. Still weak, I wrap my arms around her. Again she weeps,

only this time— tears of joy.

A groan is heard coming from a corner in the shadows of the room. Dr. Bengla

makes an effort to stand up, but instead slumps back down and asks, “What happened?”

In unison, everyone says aloud, “You fell!”

Dr. Gandy tells the staff to leave the room. The ones who stayed behind are Bev,

Kent, Paul, and a semi-conscious Dr. Bengla. Dr. Bengla finally manages to rise to his

feet and staggers over to my bedside. He takes one look at me and says, “Oh, Hi, Tony.”

Then he faints.

Kent is next to say something. “Tony, I don’t know if I should send you a hospital

bill or charge you for storage.”

Dr. Gandy’s tech, Mike, had wandered off for a while, then re-enters the room.

“Mr. Stanford, word of your return got around, and me and the fellows down in the

morgue made you a gift.” He gives me a hand-lettered T-shirt. I unfold it and place it over

my chest, exposing its slogan: I Spent Three Days in Heaven, and All I Got Was This

Lousy Shirt! I was grateful for the gift, but how did he know?

Proudly Mike says, “It’s a one of a kind.”

“I hope so; I’ll wear it with pride. Tell the boys I said thanks.” Mike scrunches in

between me and Bev and whispers, “Will do—Sport.”

He heads for the door, and my eyes follow him the whole way. Then he turns and

winks at me. He left the room, and I think, “It couldn’t be.”

Bev saw something near my pillow. “What have we here?” She reaches for it and

hands it to me. It was a broken Timex.

Paul had been on the phone for some time. All that you could hear were his

responses. “Yes... No... Yes... Yes... No... I'm not sure; I'll ask. Goodbye.” He hangs up

the phone and approaches me. “Tony, those research guys are going to quiz you with a

boatload of questions. You’ll be stuck and probed until they find out how, or think they

know, how all of this happened.”

“I guessed as much.” I let out a slight laugh and say, “Can you blame them?”

Paul continues, “But not if you don't want to. By the way, the PR bunch is going

'bonkers'. Richard is already setting up a press conference, and they want a statement. Do

you have anything you wish to say?”

I toss a few ideas around in my head about what to say. What should I say? What

can I say? Then, I recall what God told me to do. Part of my new mission is to share the

story of faith. “I’ll jot something down for them later.”

I had been lying flat on my back for a while, and I ask Kent to help me sit up. As

he lifts me, Paul taps me on my foot. “Tony, you need to rest. I’ll check back in later. Dr.

Chopra stopped by and wants your autograph. He thinks it will be worth a fortune! I’ll

get someone over here to haul out Dr. Dirtbag. Do you need anything?”

“Not yet, but thanks. Wait a minute. Could you scrounge up a Twinkie?”

He chuckles. “No problem, Tony.”

Paul begins to head for the door. “Hey, Paul.”

He turns to me. “What is it, Tony?”

“And a Shasta.”

“Black cherry? I'll see what I can do.”

Paul leaves the room, and Kent is not far behind. “I’ll leave you two alone. Bev,

I’m calling the kids and let them know the news about their dad.”

“Thanks, Kent.” And now it's only me, Bev, and Dr. Bengla still slumped on the

floor.

Bev asks, “Do you remember anything?”

I reach for her hand and stare into those beautiful eyes. “I remember everything.”

Then, Bev says with a smile, “Me too. Maybe I should take a few golf lessons,”

“When you get there, you won’t need any.”

Paul is standing outside the door, leaning against the wall. This time, he forgoes

any head scratching. He is still amazed at everything that just happened, then says quietly

to himself, “Too bad there isn't a form to pronounce someone alive.” He figures there

isn’t a huge demand for one. As Paul is about to leave, he feels something in his coat

pocket and reaches for it. It is my original death certificate. “I guess we won’t be needing

this.” Paul takes a peek at it and then tears it in half. Before he did, he notices it was

never signed. Paul steps back in my room long enough to toss it in a nearby trashcan.

With her back turned to Paul, Bev does that little pointing thing at him out of his

eyesight. “I’ll bet you five bucks he's at church on Sunday.”

“Not a promising bet— he’ll be there. He’s probably on his phone trying to patch

things up with his ex-wife.” He’s probably on his phone trying to patch things up with his

ex-wife.”

“What do we do now, Tony?”

I explain to her that I’m to spread the news of faith, to as many who will listen. I

also mention that I need a plane ticket to San Antonio.

“What for?”

“Doing a favor for a friend.”

Bev informs me that my “ongoing event” lasted for three days, but my visit to

Heaven seemed like a flash. Time has no meaning there. I tell her that Heaven is a fluid

motion of peace, tranquility, love, and friendship. And like my friend, Larry, I can't wait

to get back. But until then, I have work to do.

Conclusion

It has been eight months since my adventure with the Almighty. I’m not a

preacher or a prophet, just a man who for three days mystified a medical community and

mesmerized a spiritual one. I’ve done several interviews, and even had my story told in a

popular reader's digest magazine. A Hollywood producer wanted to tell my story in a

miniseries. I passed on that one, but I did write a book!

The faithful, as God calls them, said it was a miracle and a sign from above. The

less than faithful, mostly the scientific community, came up with other theories. My

favorite was that I had enough stuff sparking around in my head and movement in my

body to keep me alive, but anything plugged into me shut it off…meaning shut me off.

Paul might have been on to something. So any electrical instrument they used on me

acted like an 'off switch'. They said a respirator didn’t count because it was mechanical

and did not produce electricity, at least not the invasive part they slam down your throat.

As a result of this whole ordeal, I got the credit for one thing—a new medical

term named after me. Aside from Jesus and a few others who were “raised”, one stands

out the most: Lazarus. He was the man Jesus rose from the dead, and it was Lazarus they

chose as my partner for the new term; The Stanford-Lazarus Effect. Not a disease,

disorder, or even a syndrome, just an “effect”. Someone at the press conference asks what

the odds were for anyone else to experience this effect. The spokesman huddled around

the others on the panel, and after a silent debate, they concluded that the odds were one in

six billion. Since there are about six billion people on the planet, and I was the only one

to have had it; you do the math. I guess Bev was right about her statistics class.

I am happy to say that most of our lives are back to normal. Everyone involved

continued with the same old routine as before. I still run my legal practice, and even

expanded it. I picked up where Clark left off and do a large amount of pro-bono work for

those in need. Bev continues with her work at the hospital as a volunteer. Paul remains at

the hospital as medical chief of staff. As a complete shocker, he also serves as an assistant

chaplain at St. Grenadine Hospital. Dr. Bengla resigned and became a bedpan salesman.

Mike has not been seen since.

Our friend Kent returned to the ministry, and we all go to his church, quite often I

might add. Paul and his 'ex' did reunite and attend church on a regular basis; they've even

got a little one on the way. Bev teaches Sunday school, and I lead a newcomer's group.

You can bet they toss out a bunch of questions. Kent pulled me over after Sunday service

one day and told me that I’d been great for business. He was joking, but we do draw a

crowd. Kent is back in the right line of work. Of all the people I have ever met, he is the

godliest man I have ever met. Kent and I remain close friends to this day.

As we were leaving church one Sunday, I got a message that simply read:

Nice meeting you. Can’t wait to see you again.—Anonymous