Waking Up in Heaven: A True Story of Brokenness, Heaven, and Life Again

by Crystal McVea

  And so I did what God told me to do, and I shared everything I could remember. And that’s what I’ve shared with you in this book, nothing more or less. Like I said, if I were going to make up a story, it would’ve been much more dramatic than mine is. And, if I wanted to make it really powerful, I would have said I met my second child—the child I lost when I had an abortion.

  MANY PEOPLE WHO hear my story assume the little girl I saw—the girl who dipped her basket in the light—was the child I lost. It made sense to them that God was giving me the chance to meet the daughter I never knew. But that thought didn’t occur to me. I knew as soon as God lifted the feeling of overwhelming love that the girl was me.

  When I told my mother about the little girl, she began to cry. When she got home later, she dug through her closets and pulled out some old family albums. After a while, she found what she was looking for—a faded color photograph of me as a little girl. In the picture, I’m wearing a white bonnet on my head and a white summer dress tinged with yellow. I’m not holding an Easter basket, but my mom got me one of those, too. She remembers how I loved taking it everywhere.

  In the photo I am three years old.

  I don’t remember that photo or the dress or the basket, but I’m not surprised my mother found it. And I will never have the slightest doubt why God showed that precious little girl to me.

  Yet, as sure as I was of what I had seen and what it meant, I was a lot less sure about sharing my story with anyone. I didn’t know if I could handle another eye roll or another look of indifference. Inside, I yearned to talk about God, but doing it in public made me feel like an idiot. So I shut down and didn’t tell anyone for several long months. The greatest thing that ever happened to me got packed away in mothballs.

  Until, out of the blue, a woman I knew named Pauline called me in July 2010, seven months after I died. That phone call was the start of something truly miraculous.

  “CRYSTAL, WILL YOU come share your testimony with a few people I go to church with?”

  At the time I was running a small day care out of our home, and Pauline was the director of the food program that helped us with our meals for the kids. I’d told her my story way back in January, and now here she was, months later, calling to ask me to tell it to her friends. It took me about two seconds to answer.

  “I’d really rather not,” I said.

  Pauline wasn’t having it. She said it was a group of only four or five people. She’d already told them about me, and they were anxious to hear my testimony. I hemmed and hawed, but Pauline was insistent. Sometime during our conversation it occurred to me that Pauline’s church was in Thomas, a small town two hours north of me. If I did tell my story there, at least I wouldn’t know anyone and would never have to see them again.

  But so far I’d shared my story only in casual settings, and this would be more like giving a speech. I absolutely hate speaking in public. My face gets blotchy, and I get the sweats whenever I have to get up and talk to more than a few people at a time. Still, I’d been secretly itching to talk about God again to someone other than Virgil. And it was only a handful of people in a tiny town two hours away. What was the worst that could happen? A few facial blotches? Pauline eventually wore me down, and I agreed to give the talk.

  As soon as I agreed, I regretted it, but I figured I could always back out if the pressure got too bad.

  A few days later Pauline called and told me she was sending me a flyer she’d made about my talk. A flyer? Why would she need a flyer for five people? Two days after that she called and asked if I’d mind if she invited a couple more people. I got the feeling Pauline had bamboozled me.

  “You know, I really don’t think I can do this,” I told her.

  “Oh, sure you can,” she said.

  In the weeks before my talk I started to lose a lot of sleep. I was on the verge of calling Pauline to cancel the whole thing when, with just two weeks to go, I was in my kitchen cooking dinner, standing over the stove, stirring and tasting, adding this and that, hoping whatever it was came out okay. I’m not a very good cook, if you must know, and that bothers me more than it probably should. Virgil was by the sink washing sippy cups. We were chatting about our day and our kids and what groceries we needed. It was a normal evening, or as normal as my life had been ever since I died ten months earlier.

  Then, all of a sudden, it happened. The message, the nudge—I call it different things. The best way I can describe the feeling that suddenly overcame me is to say I felt like I had God all over me. I felt infused by God, head to toe. It wasn’t as intense as the feeling of bathing in His love in heaven—but then that happened to me when I was in my spirit form. This was happening in my kitchen! I’d felt these little nudges from God before—like when He told me to tip the waitress $100—but this one was particularly strong and clear. It was five simple words suddenly thrust into my being.

  Tell them the whole story.

  I dropped my spoon and jumped back from the stove. I buried my face in my hands and cried, “Oh, God . . . oh, God.” Virgil rushed to my side.

  “Are you okay? Did you burn yourself?”

  “He wants me to tell them everything,” I blurted out. “He wants me to tell them everything!”

  Virgil knew immediately who “He” was. And we both knew what “everything” meant. God didn’t want me to just talk about my time in heaven. He wanted me to talk about my life, too. He wanted me to share my deepest secrets—the very things I’d spent a lifetime trying to hide. The sexual abuse, the self-loathing, the abortion—everything.

  “Why is He doing this?” I kept asking. “Oh, God, please don’t make me do this.”

  Virgil, as he usually does in moments when I lose my cool, didn’t say much; he just held me and comforted me. In all those months of listening to my heaven story night after night, he never once acted like he was tired of hearing it. He never once said, “Crystal, this is getting a little old.” The strength of his faith was a huge comfort to me, and his incredible love for God always picked me up when I needed it most. And with me standing there crying my eyes out and questioning God, Virgil knew I needed it now more than ever.

  “If this is something you feel you can’t do, then pray and ask God to take it away from you,” he said calmly. “But if He doesn’t, then be obedient and do what He wants you to do.”

  How could I argue with that?

  For the next two weeks I prayed and cried about it every night. I asked God over and over, “Please, don’t make me do this,” and I waited for one of His infusions that would lift the burden from me. But there was no infusion, no message, no nudge. Before I knew it, it was the night before my speech in Thomas. God, I thought, if You’re going to lift this, You better do it now. You’re seriously running out of time. I clung hard to the hope that He would let me back out at the last minute, but just in case, I knew there was something I needed to do before my talk.

  I needed to tell my mother about my abortion.

  Nearly fifteen years had passed since it had happened, and I’d managed to keep it a secret from my mother all that time. If it had been up to me, I never would have told her. God had freed me from my shame, but still I didn’t want to cause my family any pain. And now God wanted me to take this thing I’d buried deeply in my past and share it with the world. If I was going to do that, I owed it to my mother to tell her first. I was absolutely dreading that conversation, but I knew I had to do it.

  The night before my speech, I picked up the phone and called my mom. When she answered, I was already blubbering.

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” she said. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  I tried to talk, but I couldn’t stop crying. Getting the words out was so much harder than I’d expected, and I’d expected it to be really hard. “Mom, I have to tell you something,” I blurted out between sniffles. “But you’re going to be so ashamed of me.”

  “It’s okay, baby,” my mom said. “Just spit it out.”

  It felt li
ke an hour before I finally muttered the truth. There was silence on her end, and I knew her heart was breaking. I waited for the “How could you?” and the “What were you thinking?” I waited for her judgment.

  Instead, my mom told me she loved me and didn’t think any less of me. She said she was sorry I had to go through it alone, and she wished I’d gotten better advice before I did it.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t come to me,” she said sadly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be there for you.”

  It was one of the hardest conversations I’ve ever had in my life. But once it was over, I was surprised by how relieved I felt. A dark secret I’d harbored for so many years was—just like that—not a secret anymore. God kept lifting the curtain of shame I’d drawn around myself.

  The next morning, a warm October Saturday, Virgil and I packed up the kids and set out for Thomas, Oklahoma.

  I HADN’T TOLD my children about my abuse or abortion, so our plan was for Virgil to stay with all four kids in the church’s playground while I gave my speech inside. When I was young, my mom shared way too many things with me—adult stuff I shouldn’t have had to worry about—and I didn’t want to be that way with my kids. I wanted to shield them from things they didn’t need to know yet. After my speech, we planned to go to a pumpkin patch that had a corn maze and a hayride, and JP and Sabyre were excited about that. They had no idea their mom was on the verge of totally losing it.

  I don’t think I slept a wink that night, but I was too nervous to feel tired. On the whole ride up I just prayed and prayed for God to take this away from me. I was wearing capri pants and a nice shirt, something casual, but honestly I don’t even remember dressing myself that morning. It was almost like I was in a trance.

  And then, when we got to the church in Thomas, I saw it wasn’t just four or five women milling around; it was more like thirty women!

  I was horrified. I went straight to the church nursery with my twins and hid out there. I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. After a while the group served brunch, but I was way too anxious to eat. I sat at a back table with Virgil and the kids and I tried to avoid all eye contact. The good ol’ Crystal Shut Down was in full effect.

  Finally, when brunch was finished, it was time for my speech. My heart was beating so hard it was like a sledgehammer pounding in my chest. Virgil took the kids out back, where they had this big wooden Noah’s Ark for them to play in. I wished so much I could climb into that big ark and hide out with them. I went into the church sanctuary and took my seat in the very back pew and kept praying to God.

  They had a small stage with a drum set and guitar, and someone played a few songs to get things started. Every time they began a new song I was so happy, because that gave me another four or five minutes to pray. I still hadn’t given up hope that God would take this burden from me, which meant all I’d have to do is get up and talk about His glory. The thought of talking about my abortion to a roomful of strangers was making me physically ill.

  When the last song ended, I saw Pauline make her way to the podium. She thanked everyone for coming and said a few words about God. Then she started talking about me. My heart was beating louder than the drums. She told everyone how I’d gotten sick in December, and how I died and came back, and how I had shared my story with her, and that was why I was there. And then she looked at me and said, “Crystal, come on up.”

  I don’t know how my knees didn’t give out, but somehow I made it to the podium. On the way there I kept praying and praying. God still had time to take this away. But, seriously, He’d be cutting it really close. God, if You’re not going to take this from me, I pleaded, at least stand beside me.

  I looked out at the roomful of women, and I immediately felt my face break out in red blotches. Sure, I was used to talking to a roomful of third graders, but that was no big deal. If you mess up, what are they going to say? Besides, third graders don’t judge—grown people do. I must have stood at that podium for a solid minute without saying a word.

  Finally I started telling my story. I began with the dying part, because I figured telling my heaven story first would buy God another ten minutes or so to spare me. When I got to the part about the little girl, I started crying, because I knew I was only seconds away from having to explain why God showed me my younger self. I was about to share my most shameful secrets with thirty total strangers. I was crying so hard I had to put my hands over my face. This is it, God. Now or never. Please don’t make me do this.

  Nothing but silence.

  I took my hands from my face and caught a glimpse of Virgil standing in the back of the church. He’d left JP in charge of the kids so he could hear my speech. It was at that moment when I saw Virgil that I knew God wasn’t going to intervene. So I closed my eyes and put my hands back over my face, and through my sobs I began to talk. And that is how I testified—a blubbery, blotchy mess with shaky hands covering my face.

  For the next fifteen minutes, it all came out. The sexual abuse, the feelings of worthlessness, the abortion. Things I’d kept hidden for so long, this enormous chain of secrets and shame that had enslaved me most of my life—all of it came tumbling out. And as I spoke, a thought formed in my head.

  They think you’re horrible.

  Still, I kept going. What else could I do? I kept my eyes closed and my hands on my face the whole time, and it’s amazing anyone could even hear a word I said. When I finished, I heard some polite applause, but I didn’t care what anyone thought. All I wanted to do was grab my family and get out of there.

  I made a beeline for the exit, and I was only steps away from a clean getaway when a woman blocked my path. She looked at me with a big smile on her face, and she thanked me for coming. Then she took a step toward me. Then another. Before I knew it she had her arms wrapped around me.

  She was hugging me.

  I looked over her shoulder as she kept holding me, and I couldn’t believe what I saw: a long line of women, waiting for their hugs.

  ONE BY ONE they came up and thanked me and embraced me. They told me how much they appreciated my honesty and how much they loved hearing about heaven. All kinds of women. Young and old. A woman with cerebral palsy. A grandmother in her eighties with crazy frizzy hair. Businesswomen in sharp suits. I could hardly believe what was happening. All the judgment and indifference I’d been expecting was just absent from this tiny little church. Instead, there was joy and thanks and a kind of electricity. Pauline later told me she’d never felt so much energy in one of her church groups.

  And then the lady with the frizzy hair said, “That light that was next to you was so beautiful.” My first thought was, Huh? Yes, I’d asked God to stand beside me, but had He actually done it? I wasn’t skeptical—after all, God brought me to heaven, so standing next to me in a tiny church couldn’t be all that hard. But I did feel overwhelmed by it all, so I let her comment sort of drop and moved on.

  Before I knew it, two more women came up to me. They were in their thirties and attractive and smartly dressed in business skirts and jackets. The first one thanked me and gave me a quick hug, but when the second one hugged me, she just wouldn’t let go. She held on and pulled me tighter, and I could hear her start to cry. I didn’t know what was going on.

  The woman finally broke our embrace and looked at me with red eyes.

  “I have never told anyone this,” she said in a soft voice, “but when I was younger I had an abortion. And I knew God could never forgive me for it. But then I heard you talk today. And now I know if He could forgive you, then He can forgive me, too.”

  Now it was me who was crying. A sudden wave of love and insight washed over me, as if something magnificent had just been revealed. I looked at this beautiful woman. I saw how she was broken, and I saw how God’s love had begun to heal her—right there, right in front of my eyes!

  “It’s you!” I blurted out. “You are the whole reason He made me do this! God loves you so, so much!”

  I finally realized what was happeni
ng. God hadn’t done this to punish me or embarrass me or make me look like an idiot. He did it because He knew my story would help others who’d been through the same thing—help them break their own chains of shame and secrets. “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith,” it says in Ephesians 2:8–9, “and this is not of yourselves, it is the gift of God.” All the torment I’d been feeling inside, all the misgivings and apprehension, all of it just washed clean away. This was why He sent me back. This was why He had me tell my whole story. If a sinner like me could be forgiven, then anyone could be forgiven. God loves all His children, each and every one. This was the message my story was meant to convey.

  I finally understood.

  It was only later that I realized what song had been playing right after I finished my talk. It was an artist named Chris Tomlin, singing a beautiful song called “Amazing Grace (My Chains Are Gone).”

  Just as I was getting ready to sort of float out the front door, I noticed a group of people down by the altar. They were gathered around an older woman in her seventies who was leaning against a walker and crying. They all had their hands on her, and they were praying.

  One of the women in the group came up to me and said, “You need to see this.”

  I walked up behind the woman with the walker. She was crying so hard, she was almost slumped on her walker. When she became aware I was there, she turned as much as she could and looked over her shoulder at me.

  “I am seventy-five years old,” she said. “And when I was five years old my grandfather started molesting me.”

  My heart skipped a beat. The woman braced herself against her walker and went on.

  “I tried to tell my mother what happened, and she told me to be quiet. I tried to tell other people, and they all told me to be quiet. And I was so mad at God, because I couldn’t understand why He didn’t help me. And the only answer I could come up with was that He didn’t love me. I lived my whole life thinking God didn’t love me.”