by Don Piper
Sue Fayle’s first husband died of cancer. His long torturous passing took a lot out of her. She assumed she would live the rest of her life as a widow. But her neighbor Charles, also without a spouse, changed that. They were not only neighbors, but in their common sense of loss, they became good friends. As time passed, they seemed to fulfill needs for each other in a way that only those who have loved and lost seem to understand. Their friendship evolved into love, and they cautiously considered marriage.
Sue had serious reservations about marrying Charles because he came from what she called a rough-and-tough working-class neighborhood. He had a history of hard drinking, and she said, “I can’t live with that.”
As their love continued to grow, however, Sue issued one simple condition for marriage: “I won’t marry a man who gets drunk.”
Charles not only stopped getting drunk, he quit drinking altogether. Now they were ready to talk of marriage.
One day they talked about the death of their spouses—both of whom had died of cancer. “If I’m ever diagnosed with cancer,” he said, “I’ll kill myself.” He knew that not only did the person with the disease suffer but their loved ones went through deep agony as well. “I couldn’t put anyone through that ordeal.”
They did marry, had a good marriage, and Charles never drank again. Sue had already been active in our church, but after their marriage, Charles also became active.
One day, however, he received the one diagnosis he feared most of all: He had cancer. Now he had to face his deep-seated terror. He was afraid that his diagnosis would put Sue through the same terrible ordeal she had faced before.
He also faced another fear after he received the diagnosis: The news forced him to confront his own mortality. “I’m terrified of dying,” he confessed. Although Charles was a church member and said he believed, he was one of those individuals who doubted his salvation. Sue assured him that while she was dedicated to seeing him through this crisis, she was concerned about his lack of assurance of his salvation. She had heard my testimony about heaven on several occasions and had retold my story to others.
“Can you talk to Charles?” she asked me one day. “He needs to hear your testimony from you.”
By then I had become the single adult minister of Pasadena’s First Baptist Church, where I am today. Sue and I had worked together on projects on many occasions.
“Please talk to him about salvation, but also tell him about what life is like after death. I believe that a man-to-man talk with Charles would do a lot for him.”
I knew Charles, of course, and because of his past, I suspected he thought he wasn’t good enough for God. I agreed to talk to him.
Charles and I hit it off right away. He was a great guy and easy to relate to. I made it a point to visit him on a regular basis. Whenever I came, Sue excused herself and stayed out of the room until I was ready to leave.
Even as Charles’s health deteriorated, he never displayed the least bit of anger or depression. We even talked about how difficult it was to be dependent on others for even the most personal of functions—bedpans, urinals, and bathing.
About the fourth time I visited, Charles finally opened up. “I’m afraid. I want to go to heaven, but I need assurance—I want to be certain that when I die, I’ll go to heaven.”
As he talked about his life, it was obvious that his experience with God was authentic. As is often the case, for many years before he married Sue, he simply hadn’t been a faithful follower of Christ. Several times I reminded him of the verses in the Bible that promise heaven as the ultimate destination for all believers.
“I know, I know,” he said. “Before I was saved, I knew I wouldn’t go to heaven. I was going to hell. Now I want to be sure about heaven.”
My description of heaven encouraged him. “Yes, yes, that’s what I want,” he said.
On one visit as he talked, he smiled and said, “I’m ready. I’m at peace. I finally know that I’ll go to heaven.”
On both of the last two visits I made, Charles said, “Tell me again. Tell me once more what heaven is like.”
I told him again, even though he had already heard everything I had to say. It was as if his assurance grew each time I talked about heaven.
A short time before he died, Sue put Charles in hospice at the Houston Medical Center, just a few doors away from where I had been hospitalized for such a long time.
On the last day of his life on earth, Charles told Sue, “It’s going to be all right. I’m going from pain to peace. Someday we’ll be together again.”
When Sue called and told me, she added, “He died absolutely without fear.”
Charles’s calm assurance and acceptance gave Sue peace as she worked through her own grief and loss. She told me that only weeks before his death, he’d said listening to my experience and seeing the positive glow in my life made the difference. “It’s settled,” he’d said. “I know I’m going to a better place.”
As Sue shared her memories of Charles, she laughed and said, “Won’t I be the lucky one? I’ve got two men waiting for me. One day, when my time comes, I’ll have one on each arm, former husbands who are also brothers in Christ, and they can escort me down the streets of gold.”
When Joe, one of my twins, reached his teens, we decided to look for a used car for him. He wanted a truck, so we searched until we found one he liked, a 1993 Ford Ranger.
The dealer’s name was Gary Emmons; he owned a longtime automobile dealership in our area. Once we settled on the truck Joe wanted, we went inside to make the deal. Mr. Emmons gave us an excellent price, and Joe bought the truck.
Because of that experience, a good relationship formed between Gary Emmons and my family. We bought three or four more cars from him after that.
Gary knew a little about what had happened to me, but no details. He was a race-car driver as well as a car dealer. He seemed fascinated with my story. He had said he’d like to hear the whole story one day, but either he was too busy or I had to rush on.
One day Joe went to the dealership to make a payment. Gary waved him over. “You’ll never believe this.” The man grinned. “An amazing thing happened yesterday.”
“What?”
“I went to check out a car that we had just bought. I got inside the car to do the things I usually do—you know, punch all the buttons to see if everything works—things like listen to the engine for any defects, check the air conditioner, and see if the radio works. I noticed a tape inside the cassette deck. I pushed the eject button.”
He paused and smiled. “Bet you’ll never guess what was on that tape.”
“I have no idea,” Joe said.
“It was your dad’s story. We had bought the car in an auction, so there was no owner to give the tape back to. I took the tape and listened to it. The only thing I could think of when I heard it was one word—awesome. ”
As I look back, it’s amazing. Gary had wanted to hear my story, but we just had not gotten together.
“What are the odds of my going to an automobile auction with thousands of cars for sale,” Gary asked Joe, “then I sit inside one, push a button, and hear your dad talking?”
For days after that, I think Gary must have told everybody he talked to about my accident.
Of course, that testimony thrilled me. I’ve also heard many other stories of the way God has used my story.
I had made a tape about my experience while preaching in my church, Pasadena’s First Baptist, and had it duplicated. I must have distributed thousands of them. I also know people took the tape and copied it for their friends. I know people who ordered as many as twenty tapes over a period of months.
That testimonial tape just keeps going on and on. Many people who heard my story duplicated it for people going through physical trauma themselves or those who are dealing with the loss of a loved one.
I can only conclude that God had a plan for Gary Emmons to hear that tape and made sure he did.
One day while I was walki
ng down the hallway of First Baptist Church of Pasadena, a woman stopped me. That’s not unusual, of course. In fact, my wife jokes that it takes me thirty minutes to walk twenty feet because everyone has something he or she needs to ask me or tell me. We have over ten thousand members; that’s a lot of folks to get around to.
“Oh, Reverend Piper, I came by just to see you. I want to tell you something—something that I think you need to hear.”
Usually when someone starts out that way, he usually adds, “It’s for your own good,” and it’s usually not something I want to hear. Several other people were with me, and I wasn’t sure how to react. As I stared at her, however, I sensed an urgency in her face and a deep intensity. I turned to the others and asked, “Would you mind?”
They were gracious, of course.
“I’m a registered nurse, and you will never believe what happened.”
“I’ve had a lot of unbelievable things happen. Just try me.”
“This happened at the hospital. A woman whose mother was very ill and hospitalized was able to hear your tape, and it changed her life.”
I had heard that before, but I never minded hearing new stories, so I said, “Tell me more.”
“Somebody brought her this tape and she wasn’t a believer. But the person wanted her to listen to the tape anyway. Her friends had tried to talk to her about God. They had given her Bibles, all kinds of books and pamphlets, but nothing affected her. She said, ‘I don’t want to talk about God, religion, or salvation.’ Even though she was terminally ill, she wasn’t open to any message about eternity.”
She paused to wipe a tear from her eyes before she continued, “Somebody brought her a tape—your tape about your experience in heaven—and asked her if she would listen to it. The friend didn’t press it, but said something casual like, ‘You might find this helpful. It’s about a man who died, went to heaven, and came back to life again.’”
The nurse told me that the woman said that she might listen to it if she thought about it. The friend left. The tape lay on the stand next to her bed, unheard. Her health soon deteriorated so badly that doctors told her daughter that it was only a matter of a week, two at the most.
The daughter, who was a believer, desperately wanted her mother to hear the tape of my testimony. The tape contains two messages. The first side tells of the miracles that had to happen for me to live, and recounts the answered prayer that took place for me to live—as I’ve written about earlier in this book. The second side of the tape tells about what heaven is like. I called it “The Cure for Heart Trouble.” That’s the part the daughter wanted her mother to listen to.
But the woman refused. “I don’t want to listen to all that stuff,” she said.
Days went by, and the older woman’s condition grew more desperate. The nurse who was talking to me, and who was a Christian, realized what was going on. After she talked with the daughter, the nurse decided to talk to the patient herself about her soul—something she had not done before. She reasoned that sometimes it’s easier for a stranger or someone less known to give a positive witness than it is for a family member.
After working her shift, the nurse walked into the room and asked, “May I sit down and talk to you a few minutes?”
The dying woman nodded.
Gently and discreetly the nurse talked about faith and God’s peace and how much of a difference Jesus Christ had made in her own life.
The whole time, the woman said nothing.
The nurse mentioned the tape. “I’ve heard it, and I think it’s something you would like to know. Would you like to listen to the tape?”
The old woman nodded, so the nurse put the tape in the cassette recorder and left.
The next day the dying woman told her daughter and the nurse that she had listened to the tape. “I found it very interesting. I’m seriously thinking about becoming a Christian.”
Even though the nurse and the daughter rejoiced, they didn’t try to pressure the dying woman. Two days passed before the woman said, “I have become a believer.” She told her daughter first and then the nurse. After that, no matter who came into the room to see her, the dying woman would say, “I have be come a Christian. I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior and I’m going to heaven.”
Within hours after her publicly telling others about her conversion, the woman’s condition deteriorated. She drifted in and out of consciousness. The next day when the nurse came on duty, she learned that the old woman had died only minutes earlier.
The nurse told me all of that and then said, “You won’t believe what was happening during those final moments while she was dying.”
Before I could ask, she said, “The tape recorder was on the bed beside her, and her daughter had put in the second side of your tape where you describe heaven. As her life drifted away, she was listening to your account of what heaven is like. The last thing she heard before she left this world to join God in heaven was a description of heaven.”
Despite my trying to remain stoic, tears seeped from the corners of my eyes.
“I just thought you’d like to know that.”
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you for telling me. That’s great encouragement for me.”
As she retold some of the story to those with me, I thanked God for bringing me back to earth. “Oh, God, I do see some purpose in my staying here. Thank you for allowing me to hear this story.”
One time I preached at the Chocolate Bayou Baptist Church, south of Houston. They had asked me to share my death-and-heaven experience.
I was getting my final thoughts together. Typically, in Baptist churches, they have a soloist or some kind of special music just before the guest speaker comes to the pulpit. A woman, who had not been in the service and apparently didn’t know what I was going to talk about, came in from a side door to sing.
She had a lovely voice and began to sing a song called “Broken and Spilled Out” about the alabaster jar the woman used when she washed Jesus’ feet.
As soon as she sat down, I stood up and began to tell them about my accident. I didn’t make any connection between her song and my message, but I noticed that several people kept frowning at the woman.
After the service, I heard someone say to the soloist, “That was an interesting song about being broken and spilled out for you to sing before Don talked.” The way he said the word interesting really meant tasteless.
“Oh!” she said. The shock on her face made me aware that she hadn’t known what I was going to speak about. Obviously, she hadn’t made the connection either.
Our eyes met and she started to cry. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Really, it’s all right.” I started to walk on.
“Broken and spilled,” someone said. “That’s what happened to you, wasn’t it?” At least a dozen people made similar comments. A few assumed we had planned for her to sing that particular song.
I stopped and looked back. The soloist stood next to the piano, and she was crying. I excused myself and walked back to her. “That’s a beautiful song about a wonderful experience. You didn’t know what I was going to talk about, but that’s all right, because I can’t think of a better song.”
She smiled in gratefulness and started to apologize again. “It’s fine. Really, it’s fine,” I assured her.
As I walked away, I thought maybe I had been broken and spilled out. But I smiled at another idea: I’m also being put back together again.
16
FINDING PURPOSE
I am convinced of this, so I will continue with you so that you will grow and experience the joy of your faith.
PHILIPPIANS 1:25
Brad Turpin, a motorcycle police officer from the Houston suburb of Pasadena, almost lost a leg. His police motorcycle crashed into the back of a flatbed truck. He would have bled out on the concrete if the EMTs hadn’t applied a tourniquet to his leg.
Sonny Steed, the former minister of education at our church, knew
Brad personally and asked me to go see him. “Absolutely,” I said, especially after I heard that he would be wearing a fixator. I called and made sure he’d let me come. I don’t know why, but just before we left, I picked up pictures showing my accident and my recovery.
Sonny drove me to the officer’s house. Once we had walked inside, it was almost like seeing the way my living room had looked for months. Brad was lying in a hospital bed with the trapeze bar above him. His device was similar, but not quite the same as mine, because in the dozen years since my accident, technology had improved.
Other people were there, so I sat down and joined in casual conversation. He was nice enough, but I knew he’d seen so many people he was tired of visitors. As soon as the last visitor left, I said, “You really are tired of talking to people aren’t you?”
Brad nodded.
“I understand. You almost feel like you’re on display here. The phone never stops ringing. Everybody wants to come by to see you.”
He nodded again. “I appreciate them coming, but I need some peace and quiet.”
“I apologize for interrupting you, but Sonny brought me by to see you because I wanted to talk to you about what to expect. I pointed to the Ilizarov and said, “I had one of these external fixators.”
“Oh, you did?”
I showed him my pictures, beginning with those taken the day after they put on the Ilizarov frame. Each one showed progression to the next step. He stared at each one closely and saw that I had been worse off than he was.
“And you recovered, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did, and so will you.”
“That’s good that you made it all right, but I don’t think I’m going to make it. They can’t give me any guarantee that I’m going to keep this leg. The doctors are pessimistic, so that makes it harder for me.”
“Well, that’s just the way they are,” I said, remembering so well my feelings in those early days. “They try to err on the side of being conservative and try not to get your hopes up. Months from now, they know, you could have this fixator and everything could be working fine and then your leg could get infected and you could still lose it.”
