7 Lessons From Heaven

by Mary C Neal

  As I’ve spoken publicly about the loss of our son, I’ve heard from grieving parents who also experienced comments, actions, or premonitions that gave them or their children a glimpse of what lay ahead. The story Louise told me one afternoon echoes many that I have heard. She said:

  I am in the medical field as a registered nurse. I, too, had a child who told me at a young age that she would die young. I took her to counseling at age six because, as a pediatric nurse, I knew this was not normal. She wasn’t upset by it—she just stated it matter-of-factly.

  In her teen years, she told me her death would occur in a car accident, it would happen on a turn, and she hoped her face wouldn’t be messed up.

  Last November, that is exactly what happened. Her best friend was driving. Jillian was killed instantly, at age nineteen. She had left notes for my husband and me on our dressers two nights before she died, thanking us for being good parents and teaching her about God.

  —LOUISE, HARRISBURG, PA

  As you can imagine, the words I heard in heaven about Willie reverberated in my heart in the years after I returned from Chile. Despite the magnificence of knowing without a doubt that God is real and present, that He loved Willie deeply and had a hope-filled plan for us, the foreknowledge of Willie’s death weighed heavily on me. I didn’t want it to be true, and I prayed that God would change his mind. A bold request, but even Jesus had once asked God to reconsider His plans (Luke 22:42).

  But how does my experience comfort you in grief, or help you face your own death or that of someone you love? Nothing tests our confidence in God’s loving intentions toward us more than when tragedy and loss devastate our lives. Can looking at our lives by what heaven reveals help in practical ways then, even if it can’t remove the pain completely?

  That’s what I want to explore in this chapter.

  Mainly, I will simply share our family story. Certainly, my NDE prepared me in some extraordinary ways to deal with our loss, but if you’ve experienced a piercing loss and what comes after, I know you understand the power of story. In times of greatest need, we rarely need advice as much as we need to hear from others who are a little further down the road and understand what we’re going through. We need to feel that we are not alone as we walk through this time of deep vulnerability, suffering, and hopelessness—truly one of the valleys of the shadow of death as written about in Psalm 23.

  So, I want to share with you our family’s experience and some of the wisdom we gained—and continue to absorb. Because what our experience taught us, and can teach you, is that when your burden of pain and sorrow feels too great to bear, the hope found in God’s assurances can lift you from the darkness and bring color back into life.

  A MOTHER’S SECRET BURDEN

  In heaven, I was given a glimpse of what was to come, but no timetable for when it would happen. Morning after morning, I found myself waking up wondering if this would be the day my son would die.

  I have been asked many times whether I told my son, or even my husband what I knew. For many years, I did not. Apart from trusting resolutely that all of God’s promises are true, I sincerely thought this was too great of a burden for anyone else to carry, so I kept the information to myself for a long time. I continually prayed that God’s will would be done, knowing that if the plan for my son’s life did not change, great beauty would still come from it in God’s time. But my mother’s heart nursed a fervent hope that these things would not come to pass.

  And even as I prayed daily that our family would be spared, I cherished every moment with these people I loved so much. I tried to be truly present in each moment, etching each experience onto my heart and into my memory. I tried to continually make sure all my children knew how much they were loved, and I made a commitment to never leave anything undone or unsaid. I did not try to curtail Willie’s activities, but I certainly did not allow him to be reckless. Above all, I tried to leave no opportunity for regret in the event that God’s plan for my son did not change.

  The fact is, none of us is promised anything more than this very moment, so we should never assume there will be time “later” to complete something.

  FOCUSING ON THE FUTURE

  Years passed. As my son’s eighteenth birthday approached, I began to realize the importance of telling my husband what I had been told. He deserved the opportunity to say what he wished, or do what he wanted, so that no unresolved issues would linger after our son’s death.

  I felt better after I told Bill, although I’m not so sure he did. We agreed, though, that the load was too great for a young man to carry, so I did not tell my son until the day of his birthday.

  In the early hours of Willie’s eighteenth birthday, 2007, I knocked on his bedroom door. There he was, sleepy but alive! I was so overjoyed that all I could do was to hold him tightly and cry. At first, he was confused by my emotion. Then I told him everything that had happened to me and all that I had been told during my NDE.

  He listened carefully. Did he comprehend what I was saying? I’m not sure. Willie was a sensitive, compassionate, and spiritual young man, and I don’t know if he listened out of interest and compassion, or just plain curiosity. Maybe he thought his typically levelheaded mother was losing her mind.

  Later that day, Willie had a brief conversation with his dad, in which he mentioned what I had shared with him. I never brought it up again.

  In the coming days and weeks, I began to breathe easier, gradually letting go of the grief I had been borrowing from our futures. I truly thought God’s plans had changed. For the first time in many years, I began to relax and focus on enjoying the rest of our lives.

  OBEDIENCE IN GRIEF

  I knew that writing about my journey to heaven and back was part of the mandate I’d received to share my experiences with others, but I struggled long and mightily against the idea. Finally, in the spring of 2009—ten years after the fact—I awoke early one morning with a compulsion to commit my experiences to the page. I rolled over in bed, hoping the feeling would go away. After all, my reasons for resisting hadn’t changed. I still didn’t have the time or ability to do it justice. I still felt that God had tapped the “wrong person.”

  After considerable wrestling that morning, my reluctance finally vanished and I said “yes”—yes to where He was leading me, and yes to all He was asking of me.

  Two decisions in my life have been truly game changers for me. The first occurred when I was pinned underwater, and I surrendered my life to God, giving up trying to control the outcome of my drowning. This “yes” was the second, even more difficult, decision.

  That morning, I began a new adventure with God. As I wrote, I found myself thrilled to be reliving my experiences—allowing myself to be fully immersed in the experiences, feelings, understandings, and words that had been spoken. It was something I had not allowed myself to do in years. Some people relish their NDE and resist focusing on ordinary life again. I understand. Earth does pale in comparison to the vibrancy of heaven. But I knew I had been sent back for a reason, and I found that spending too much time dwelling on the glory of heaven got in the way of my trying to do the work that God had prepared for me.

  By June 21, 2009, To Heaven and Back was done. As I pressed the “Save” key for what I thought would be the final time, my spirit soared. After ten long years of feeling like I had not done what God asked of me, the weight was lifted. I felt beyond exhilarated.

  I couldn’t contain my elation that day, and it was with this sense of total lightness of spirit that I drove into town with my youngest son, Peter. As we drove, we telephoned my middle son, Eliot, who was living and ski training in Maine with Willie, my oldest.

  Their coach answered Eliot’s phone and proceeded to tell us that Willie had just been hit by a car and killed. In a flash, I realized that the plan for my beautiful son’s life had been delayed, but not changed.

  You can imagine the shock.

  “IF ONLY…”

  I have been asked many times how I sur
vived the death of my son, and if my experiences in heaven gave me comfort when Willie died. I’m not sure comfort is the right word. Like any mother would be, I felt devastated by his physical loss. I wanted one more day with him. I ached to see his smile, listen to his laugh, and smother him with kisses one more time. I sincerely thought the plan for his life had changed. I once read that when you love with all you have, you grieve with all you are. I deeply loved my oldest son—we enjoyed a very close connection—and I grieved deeply.

  The trust in God’s promises that I’d brought back from heaven certainly affected how I experienced Willie’s death. I sensed an underpinning of joy, and an unshakable confidence in the beauty that was sure to come. But none of that protected me from the sadness we experience in loss. Sadness, like happiness, is an emotion triggered by external circumstances. I cried, sobbed, and played the typical mind games of trying to rewrite reality. If only I had telephoned him that day, maybe he would have been delayed by a couple of minutes, or even a couple of seconds, and the car would have missed him. If only he had decided to ski with his brother instead of going to his friend’s house. If only I had visited him.

  If only…If only…

  Anyone who has lost a loved one in an accident knows exactly what I am describing. I felt empty and lonely and was filled with a longing to hold him just one more time. My husband shared these feelings. He felt guilty that we had moved to Wyoming. If we hadn’t moved, Willie would not have become a skier, would not have excelled, and would not have been in Maine training.

  I came to see that even when a death is anticipated, this first phase of grief still involves temporarily managing the pain, shock, disbelief, and denial of the loss by mentally trying to rewrite reality.

  Many days I wanted to stay curled up in bed, wanting only to be relieved of the pain, of existence itself. But I survived. When I was unable to walk, God carried me. I trusted that Willie was in heaven, surrounded by God’s all-encompassing love. And even on my saddest day, the joy I found in God’s promises never left me.

  In the depths, I sensed I had finally landed on bedrock—the essential truths that would never change, and that could help me reclaim my life. I wrote out my “Daily Creed,” attached it to the refrigerator, and read it many times each day. It reads:

  I believe God’s promises are true

  I believe heaven is real

  I believe nothing can separate me from God’s love

  I believe God has work for me to do

  I believe God will see me through and carry me when I cannot walk

  This initial phase of grieving eventually gave way to the long process of confronting, enduring, and resolving our loss.

  I greatly missed my son’s presence in this physical world and shed tears at least once each day for years, and I can still be easily brought to tears. I was no longer able to attend baptisms, funerals, or weddings because of the sorrow they stirred in me. I avoided grocery shopping, dining out, and public events for fear of running in to people I knew and seeing their expressions of compassionate pity. Although people try, what it feels like to lose a child cannot be fathomed by anyone who has not walked that path. Grieving involves mourning the loss of one’s hopes, expectations, and dreams for a child’s future. In a very real way, a child’s death results in the death of the entire family, because its collective identity is forever altered. I grieved that, too.

  Soon, the world moved on, but I still experienced my loss freshly each day.

  PICKING UP THE TRACES

  Willie was engaging, passionate, and inspiring, and our family shared in his passions. In his absence, the established patterns and dynamics of our family changed. Bill and I had lost our firstborn child, someone who helped set the tone of our family. Eliot had lost his best friend and constant companion, Betsy had lost her protector and role model, and Peter had lost his hero. We each faced the challenge of figuring out who we were now, and what our future identity would be, separate from Willie. We also had to figure out anew who we were within our family and what our family would become. Anyone who has suffered tremendous loss knows that this process is neither easy nor quick, and progress comes in waves.

  We had planned the details of Willie’s burial and memorial services together. Now, we worked together to establish a skiing award, as Willie was passionate about both skiing and the Nordic community.

  He was also passionate about environmental stewardship, and our family committed to continuing his work by establishing the Willie Neal Environmental Awareness Fund. Willie had initiated a “No Idling” campaign which, on its surface, was an attempt to reduce unnecessary vehicular idling, but my youngest son subsequently discovered the campaign’s true message. Willie believed in every person’s responsibility to make conscious choices, get involved in important issues, and take action to make the world a better place. He very much internalized Mahatma Gandhi’s quote: “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” Peter helped us see that Willie’s campaign had less to do with vehicles and more to do with life—not just about turning off your car’s engine when you could, but about not idling in life. It was about embracing and making the most of the precious gift of life.

  These tangible, Willie-centered family activities helped us find our way forward, and I definitely recommend them to anyone struggling with loss.

  THE MYTH OF MOVING ON

  The one-year anniversary brought some relief in appreciating that we had actually survived the year. But then came the second year. We were quite surprised to discover that in many respects, the second year brought even greater struggles.

  By then, the “novelty” of our loss was gone, and most of the world had moved on. This was made abundantly clear when a teacher at my son’s school responded to his metaphorical cry for help by telling him sharply, “Just get over it! That [Willie’s death] was a long time ago.” For us, however, the loss was still very fresh, and in some ways cut more deeply because the reality of our situation had permanently sunk in.

  We were all so tired of being sad, but we learned that no one ever “gets over” the pain of loss like you get over an illness. It is possible to move forward, but it is never possible to merely “move on” and leave grief behind. Grief does not work like that. When a loved one dies, life changes forever for those left behind. A loss of this magnitude becomes part of the fabric of your being. Although a new life and new family dynamics eventually emerge that can be every bit as wonderful as the previous one, they are different. They can’t replace what was lost. I liken it to someone who loses a leg in a traumatic accident. At the moment of loss, that person’s life is forever changed. He or she will learn to walk and run again and will relearn how to create a full and satisfying life. But he or she will never forget the natural leg, or the feeling of using it.

  I also learned that the way each of us confront, endure, and resolve grief is decidedly individual and requires a great deal of gentleness and grace not only from God, but for each other. Each person responds uniquely and on a different timetable. Most women respond differently than men, and children differently than adults. Sometimes men are consumed by guilt at not having protected their family, and fear that happiness may never return. In general, men tend to be less expressive than women in their grief, focusing more on retreating and resolving than on confronting and enduring their loss. Often children tend to reexperience their loss with each new developmental stage, as they begin to understand the loss differently. For example, I recently learned that Willie’s loss deeply affected each of my remaining sons when they approached their own nineteenth birthday. Until then, they had always been able to use Willie’s example as the North Star by which they could set a life course. But since Willie died when he was nineteen years old, they saw no course forward after that age, which left them feeling adrift.

  In our family, because we each had different relationships with Willie and because he meant different things to us, we each felt the loss differently. The complexity of grief is made more chall
enging when a whole family is grieving, because the very people to whom you would usually turn for support are caught up in their own struggle. Often, they simply have nothing to offer.

  For our family, that meant we could freely talk about Willie but found ourselves unable to talk to one another about our grief. If one of us was having a “good” day, no one else wanted to dampen it by discussing his or her “bad” day. Over time, this elephant in the room became larger and larger. I came to understand why people who have suffered a great loss move to a different town, change jobs, or dissolve their marriage. They think the pain they are feeling on the inside will change if they just change something on the outside. Or maybe they search for escape in drugs or alcohol. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. The pain of loss continues to resurface until it is fully experienced, embraced, appreciated for the love it represents, and incorporated into the present. This process is hard, to be sure, but necessary in order to move forward. (Therapists don’t call it “grief work” for nothing.)

  I also came to understand why marriages fail after the loss of a child. Certainly the guilt and blame some parents might feel at the beginning of the process can erode a marriage quickly, but I think many marriages just slowly dissolve into nothingness. Over time, a loss of this magnitude changes a person’s view of the world, their future, and their priorities. But rather than talking about these changes and moving together in similar directions, it is much easier and less painful to talk about nothing.

  Bill and I had made a commitment immediately after Willie’s death that we would not become a statistic. We did not want to lose each other and did not want our remaining children to lose even more than they already had. Two years later, we were still committed to our marriage, but the emotional content of our relationship was withering. We were both still in so much pain that it seemed impossible to talk about our feelings. By then, the elephant in the room had become so large it seemed to crowd out almost everything else.