Tears were running down her face. Tears were running down mine.
“And now I know!” she said, her voice breaking. “Now I know God does love me! God has loved me all along!”
The woman gave her life to Jesus Christ that day, and she was changed.
I walked out of the church and stood in the bright sunlight. The only words I could think to say were, “Oh, God.”
WHAT HAPPENED IN THAT CHURCH CHANGED everything.
But, like I said, just because you’ve been to heaven doesn’t mean you stop being human. Even after seeing how my talk affected those women, I was still leery about telling my story to too many people. Maybe that was just me being selfish, but I still worried about how people would react.
So, for a few weeks after my talk, I was pretty selective about who I opened up to. I didn’t just grab people off the street and say, “Hey, guess what? I died!” I was afraid people we were friendly with would stop hanging out with us, so I was careful not to open the floodgates too early in any friendship.
During this time, Virgil and I invited a couple we’d grown to really like to our home for dinner. Amber was a schoolteacher, like me, and her husband, Brandon, was a talented woodworker and all-around great guy. They were deeply passionate about the love and mercy of God and were completely down to earth. We felt like we’d known them forever.
Amber and Brandon had already heard a condensed version of my story in church, and when they came over, Brandon asked to hear more about it. I hesitated, petrified that telling them my whole story—especially the demonic stuff—would just scare them away. But I also knew it would be hard not to share such an important part of myself with people I considered good friends.
So I took a deep breath and told my whole story. Okay, so I stopped every few minutes to say, “Well, that’s it. I’m sure you think we’re weird, and we’ll never hear from you again.” I also said, “I know this is going to sound crazy . . .” probably twenty times. But Amber and Brandon just told me to keep going. So I did.
And when I was done, I asked, “You’re not going to stop hanging out with us, are you?”
Amber said, “Oh, gaw, gimme a break. None of this surprises me. Now, you got any ice cream?”
They weren’t the least bit put off by my story or the least bit skeptical. They just accepted it as true, because they already knew that with God anything is possible. From that night forward our friendship only grew stronger.
I couldn’t count on everyone being as receptive as Amber and Brandon, though, so I still tried to keep a low profile. A couple of months after my talk, Virgil and I changed churches, because we needed a place that had a youth program. We picked a local non-denominational church housed in an old movie theater. The lobby still had a glass counter and a popcorn machine, which made it pretty popular with the younger worshippers. What Virgil and I loved most was that the church was so full of life. We’d both grown up in denominational churches, which gave us a great foundation. But I’d never been to a church where people worshipped God so openly during a service. It was how they worshipped that really moved me—their excitement reminded me of how I felt when I was in the presence of God. They were not embarrassed to raise their hands and praise God and even cry. I remember thinking, Gee, these people didn’t even die and see God, and they still love Him this much. Virgil and I knew we’d found our new home.
The church had a weekly Life Group, which is pretty much what its name says it is—a group of people sitting around sharing their lives, their joys and prayers, their struggles, and funny jokes. I loved the idea, and Virgil and I signed up for Wednesday nights. On our way to our first one, I told Virgil, “Don’t tell anyone about what happened to me.” He understood I didn’t want to draw attention to myself in that first meeting, and he promised he wouldn’t mention it.
About a half hour into the meeting, the topic turned to what it would be like to be in the presence of God. One of the members, a lovely woman named Diane, got teary eyed and said, “I can only imagine what it must be like to stand with God.” I bit my lip and looked over at Virgil, as if to say, “Remember, mum’s the word.” But Diane kept talking and wondering what God was like, and her passion and yearning to know was just amazing. It was all I could do not to jump to my feet and launch into my story. Just then, I heard a man’s voice.
“You know, my wife died and went to heaven,” Virgil said sheepishly.
Way to keep that poker face, hubby.
It turned out my fears were unfounded. Diane and her husband, Rudy, immediately leaned forward, and Diane rubbed her hands together and said, “Ooh, tell us about it.” Everyone in the group was excited to hear me talk. I gave a shortened version of my story, but that wasn’t enough for Diane. She made me hand over my phone number, and the next day we got together and I gave her the full account. I was sure if I told her the whole story, her excitement would die down. But it didn’t. She began reading me scriptures about spiritual warfare, and she became one of my great friends and a spiritual mentor.
Diane also brought me over to meet our pastor’s wife, Opal, in her home. Opal has fiery red hair and a smile that melts your heart. She’s colorful and outspoken, and, honestly, I was a little intimidated by her. I’d grown to love our new church, and as usual I worried that my story would make her think I was strange and maybe even ask us to leave. I was so nervous, I started to shake and cry.
Opal gave me one of her no-nonsense looks.
“Why are you so afraid?”
I didn’t know how to answer her, which was fine because she didn’t wait for an answer.
“Fear is not of God,” she told me. “The authority rests with God.”
Opal was very matter-of-fact. She listened to my story, and we talked about it for a bit. She gave me wonderful advice, and then, just like that, she got up and said, “Ladies, I gotta go. I have a hair appointment.”
I remember thinking, Wow, whatever it is she has, I want it. I was mesmerized by her spiritual strength. Opal was just so confident about God, so sure of His power and His grace. Nothing could faze her, not even the demonic stuff that always seemed to rattle me. The best way I can describe it is to say that Opal poured the truth right into me. She helped me to see that it didn’t matter what anyone on Earth thought about my story. I knew every word of what I was saying was true, and I had to stop worrying about people’s reactions—plain and simple! Opal’s faith and conviction were so reassuring, and I think I took a step closer to my own authority in Christ that night.
IT WAS GREAT when people reacted positively to my story, but there were times when that didn’t happen. There were times when I believed people were put in my path to hear my story, only to have them tell me it had no relevance for them.
“Thank you so much for sharing. I definitely believe you, but I don’t know why you were supposed to share this with me,” one woman told me before getting up and walking away.
Another time, I noticed someone standing near me, and I felt one of those powerful nudges—this woman needs your testimony. I still wasn’t all that comfortable in my role as the “heaven lady,” but there was no denying this nudge. So I approached her and told her my story.
“Crystal, wow, I love that story, but I’m not sure why you think you were supposed to tell it to me,” she said when I finished.
I couldn’t believe it happened again. Wasn’t my purpose to share my story with people who needed to hear it? I apologized to the woman and said good-bye. God, I thought, You’re making me look like a real idiot.
A few months later, out of the blue, I got a phone call from the first woman, who told me she needed to talk. “You were right,” she said when we got together. “There was a reason I needed to hear your story.” While we talked I could see how broken she was—the same way I’d been broken. And I could also see how God’s message had helped her rip away her own awful curtain of shame. It had taken her a while to work it all out, but she was in the process of being spiritually healed.
> So God knew what He was doing after all, I thought. How about that?
Not much later, I got a call from the second woman. She told me pretty much the same thing: that when she heard my story, she panicked and denied it had any relevance for her. But actually it did, and hearing it made her realize that God had never stopped loving her, no matter what had happened in her past.
After years and years of secrecy and shame, she too was free.
After that, I never questioned one of God’s nudges again.
THE NUDGES HAPPEN at totally random times, usually when it’s not especially convenient. I’ll be out shopping with my kids, and suddenly I’ll feel the nudge: Tell this person; they need to hear it. It doesn’t happen every day, but a few times a week is not uncommon. I’ve done it so often that Virgil and the children are no longer surprised to see me stop in my tracks and start yammering away about heaven—though sometimes the kids get a little weirded out by it. One time, Sabyre and I were in the checkout line at a supermarket when I got a nudge to tell the woman standing behind us. Mind you, there were a whole bunch of people in line, and this woman was just minding her own business, sifting through coupons. Hardly an ideal time for a heart-to-heart about how I died. But I’d learned not to ignore the nudges. So I turned around and started a conversation.
Sabyre saw right away what was happening and said, “Mom, I’m just gonna wait over there.” She knew from experience this was going to take a while, and she figured she’d better find a comfy place to sit.
Another time we were in one of our favorite hamburger joints, a place called Meers in Comanche County. Awesome longhorn burgers and frickles (that’s fried pickles, in case you’ve never tried them). Our food had just arrived when I noticed three elderly women sitting at the table behind us. I got a nudge about one of them, and I thought, Really? Now? My burger just got here! But, again, I knew better than to argue with God. I waited for an opening and swooped in.
“Hey there,” I said. “Where y’all from?”
It turned out we knew the woman’s husband. That was all I needed to hear.
“I know this is gonna sound crazy,” I said, “but in 2009 I died and went to heaven.”
The woman looked at me with a totally blank expression. I knew this was the moment when it could go either way. After a few seconds, she said, “Would you mind coming over and telling us about it?” I joined them at their table and told them my story, and halfway through I could see the woman’s eyes start to well up. That was my validation. God was right again.
“You know,” the woman said when I was done, “I was abused as a child.”
“Me, too,” I heard, and I looked at her friend. She was crying, too.
Wow, two for one. Nice work, God.
There was only one downside. When I got back to our table, I saw that Virgil had eaten my hamburger.
That’s happened to me a lot in the past few months. I like to think of it as the God diet.
SOME OF THE nudges have led to truly amazing encounters. In 2011, I attended a Christian women’s conference not far from my hometown, and on my first day I found myself wandering around the cafeteria carrying my tray and looking for a place to sit. I knew a few women at the conference, but their tables were full. The only open seat I could see was at a table with several young women I’d never met. So I took that seat, kept my head down, and quietly picked up my fork.
I was just about to take my first bite when I got the nudge: Tell her.
I looked up and saw a pretty young woman across the table. She was in her early twenties, with lovely brown hair down to her shoulders. I thought, Oh, God, no, please. I’m at a table of strangers. How am I supposed to do this? How do I bring it up? I felt my face turning red.
Even so, I put down my fork, took a breath, and looked straight at the woman.
“So,” I said to her, “in 2009 I died and went to heaven, and God wants me to tell you about it.”
The woman looked a little startled and said, “Uh . . . okay.”
So I told her my story. She wasn’t directly across from me, so there were other women at the table overhearing us, which made me feel more embarrassed. But I just kept saying how much God loved her—how very, very much He loved her—and no matter what she had done or what was done to her, His love would not fail her. That’s when she began to cry.
God was right again. Well, He always is.
Later, when we were alone, the young woman came clean.
“I’ve only told this to one other person in my life and not even my mother,” she said, “but when I was young my stepfather sexually abused me.” She had never talked openly about what happened; instead, she hid it deep inside, probably believing she’d keep it a secret until she died. But then on this day the love of God shattered the secret, and the chains were loosened. Her healing had begun. I don’t know if she would have eventually told her story to someone, but I do know that God put me in a room with her so He could convey to her how very much He loved her.
There is also the story of Patricia, a special ed teacher I worked with. She is vibrant, funny, and incredibly kind, and I love having her as a friend. A few years before I met her, her teenage daughter Heather was killed in a car accident. I knew about it, but it wasn’t anything we ever really talked about.
I hadn’t seen Patricia in a while when I brought Willow, who was around one, to see her at her school. Patricia was standing in the hallway by the cafeteria while her students were up onstage practicing for a Mother’s Day pageant. They were singing Josh Groban’s “You Raise Me Up,” a beautiful song about how God lifts us when we’re down. When Patricia looked over and saw us, I could tell she was crying. It seemed like the lyrics of the song were really getting to her.
Then something strange and remarkable happened. Willow is a sweet little girl who likes to stick her nose in everything and approaches life with a natural curiosity, but even so, she isn’t that comfortable meeting new people. When it comes to strangers, she’s a little guarded, which is why I was so surprised when, the moment Willow noticed Patricia was crying, she suddenly lunged and threw her skinny little arms around her.
Patricia was stunned. She closed her eyes and hugged Willow back, and they held on to each other like that for the longest time. While they hugged I could hear the little children singing their beautiful song—a song about how, when hard times come: “I am still and wait here in the silence / Until you come and sit awhile with me.”
Only when the song was finished did Willow let go and reach back for me, like nothing extraordinary had happened. I went over and hugged Patricia myself.
“That was the song we played at Heather’s funeral,” she told me.
Now I knew why she was crying, but I still couldn’t understand the connection to Willow. Then Patricia continued.
“After the funeral, we planted a tree in Heather’s memory,” she said. “And it was a willow tree.”
GOD’S HAND AT work or coincidence? You’d think by then I wouldn’t ever have to ask myself that question, but occasionally I still do. I saw with my own eyes how Willow had given my friend such great comfort just when she needed it most by doing something I’d never seen Willow do before. And the song? And the tree? If that was a coincidence, it was one heck of a coincidence.
After that happened, I got a strong nudge to tell Patricia my story. I messaged her online and told her I needed to talk, and we agreed to meet at a little coffee shop in town. On my way over, I started worrying. I’d almost gotten to the point where I didn’t care if people thought I was a wackadoodle—almost. I prayed and asked God if He was sure I needed to tell her my story. And then, for some reason, I asked God if there was anything I could tell her to let her know I was telling the truth. Because if she knew I was telling the truth, she’d know her daughter was okay.
Just then, the words “blue rabbit” formed in my head.
I thought, Okay, tell her “blue rabbit,” but then I thought, No, don’t tell her that. That’s crazy.
For one thing, there’s no such thing as a blue rabbit. It’s just a silly, nonsensical thing that popped in my brain. Forget it, don’t mention it to her. Just tell her your story and go.
But then, in the coffee shop, I felt the urge to tell Patricia about the blue rabbit. I decided to lie and say it was something that came to me in a dream. Just before I launched into my heaven story, I said, “You know, I had this crazy dream last night where Heather told me to tell you ‘blue rabbit,’ as a way to let you know she’s okay. Isn’t that weird?” I said it kind of offhandedly, so it wouldn’t seem like a big deal.
Patricia sat there stone-faced, saying nothing, showing nothing. I immediately felt stupid.
“Dreams are so dumb,” I said. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
And then I told her my story. When I was done, Patricia was silent and stone-faced again. Finally, she looked at me, and she spoke.
“Heather’s favorite color was blue,” she said. “And her favorite animals were rabbits. And on her grandfather’s farm we have these floppy-eared rabbits we’re raising in Heather’s memory. She loved rabbits so much we called her Honey Bunny.”
Patricia was crying now, and so was I.
“Heather also had this old stuffed rabbit she loved and slept with every night,” she said. “Crystal, that old stuffed rabbit was blue.”
OUR GOD IS a God of love and mercy and forgiveness and great power, and in His mercy He can do truly astonishing things. So I don’t know why I’d be the least bit surprised that God could send me the words “blue rabbit.” And yet, whenever something like that happens, I’m always blown away. I guess I’ll never get used to how great God is.
Waking Up in Heaven: A True Story of Brokenness, Heaven, and Life Again Page 19