Wild Awakening

by Greg J. Matthews

  21

  * * *

  I WAS THERE

  For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.

  —ISAIAH 55:9 ESV

  A huge, dark monster dragged my body through a river of blood. Black killer’s eyes stared into mine. Impossibly long white fangs thrust at my throat. Was this a nightmare or was it real?

  It dawned on me—as I gulped air and the all-too-real images danced crazily in my mind like a horror-movie highlight reel—that I was sitting up in a bed. I blinked and tried to fight off the panic. My eyes darted back and forth, taking in indistinguishable dark shapes that surrounded me. Where was I?

  I was in a room. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the vague shapes began to snap into focus. A large black-and-white minute-hand clock, almost identical to the ones I grew up with in school classrooms, hung on the wall directly in front of me. The time was 1:40. Below that, a series of white cabinets extended across the wall. A flat-screen TV was mounted to their right. Farther to the right was the outline of an open door, and behind that, a sink.

  But what was to the right of that? Just a few feet away, a dark, horizontal something or someone was against the wall—I couldn’t make it out. Instantly, the terrible images I’d just endured flooded my mind once again. Sweat and the shakes returned with a vengeance. What was in here with me?

  Frantic, I looked for a way to escape. On the left, next to my bed, was a metal tray. My cell phone rested on the tray. I grabbed it with my left hand and pressed the “home” button. The screen came to life. The light revealed even more details about the room—but I would not look at the unknown something to my right. The phone in my hand trembled. I quickly set the phone back down. The light blinked off, again plunging me into darkness.

  What was over there?

  Hesitantly, I picked up my phone a second time. My index finger touched the home button. I traced my finger along the outline of the button, but I couldn’t muster the courage to press it. I extended the phone in the direction of the dark mass and tried to will the power on. I imagined new horrors that the light would illuminate.

  I had to know. I pressed the button.

  It was my brother. He lay on a rollaway bed against the wall, still in his clothes, sound asleep. I shifted the phone to get a better view. Matt’s clothes were covered with dried blood. I was reminded of the many blood-saturated bodies I’d seen as an EMT. The difference was that the blood I was looking at this time was mine.

  Suddenly it all came back to me—the hunt, the charging grizzly, trying to defend myself against a vicious attacker, the bleeding and pain, and, at last, my rescue. Now I was in a hospital intensive care unit. To see the room better, I held up the phone with my right hand. Excruciating pain immediately shot through my arm. I transferred the phone back to my left hand and examined my arm. I was shocked at what I saw. My forearm was wrapped in bandages soaked with blood where the grizzly’s massive fangs had sunk all the way through. Tears fell from my eyes at the awful memory.

  I dropped the phone onto my lap and with my left hand probed my face, neck, and head. My face and neck were completely covered in bandages. The last spot I explored was under my chin and across my neck. My fingers felt moist, no doubt from the tears running down my face. I had no idea of the extent of my wounds and injuries but I knew it wasn’t good.

  It must have been only a short time since they’d rolled me out of surgery. I knew I was still feeling the effects of the anesthesia because I could hold my head up for only a few seconds before it fell limp back to the pillow. Every minute or so I heard the cycling of a pump next to the bed. I guessed that it contained morphine.

  I put my phone on flashlight mode and was shocked at the sight of my left hand—the fingers I’d used to examine my neck were dripping blood. My cell phone crashed to the floor. How bad were my injuries? Was I going to recover? Were the doctors just waiting for me to die?

  I was afraid if I moved I’d tear something open, so I kept my body still and buried my face in my pillow. All I wanted was my wife and kids by my side. I had no idea if I would ever see my family again or how badly the grizzly had disfigured my face. During the attack, I had felt flesh being ripped from my head and face, but to what extent I could only imagine. Would I go through life with people staring at me like I was some monster? Would my family look upon me with pity? Grief washed over me. I pictured horrific scars that I would wear for the rest of my life—if I survived.

  The one thing I was certain of was that I’d been torn apart by a grizzly. As to whether I would live or die, only the doctors knew. I began to sob. I feared that my only way out of this hospital was through the morgue. Like a young child awakened from a nightmare, unable to separate truth from imagination, I sat in the dark and hoped that if I blinked enough times it would all go away. It didn’t. My nightmare was my truth.

  Lord, I prayed, did you put me through all of that trauma and pain only to watch me die? I’d felt alone for most of my life, but now the sense of abandonment overwhelmed me.

  God, where are you?

  * * *

  I MUST HAVE DOZED. I woke up, still in the hospital bed, still in the dark, my brother still asleep against the wall. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I suddenly realized that there was another figure with me, a person sitting close on my bed.

  It was Dad.

  He wrapped his arms around me and pressed his face so tight against my neck that I could feel his whiskers. It was the desperate embrace of a man who’d feared he’d never see his son again. Dad wore a white shirt and sat with his feet on the floor, his body half turned toward me. As he held me he began to gently shake. I realized he was crying.

  It had all happened so fast. I hadn’t had time to think about how Dad got here so quickly. But I was both thrilled that he had come and taken aback by his tears.

  “Dad,” I said, “what’s wrong?”

  “I almost lost you today,” he whispered, his face still hidden in my neck. “I feel part of that is my fault. I’ve tried my entire life to be there for you, to protect you from every danger, but I couldn’t be there today for you. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to face that bear with you.”

  He sniffed and continued. “There are certain moments, beyond all other moments, where a dad has to be there for his child. And if the father isn’t there to come between that danger and his child, the father fails, and the pain and hurt fall on the one he deeply loves.”

  Now Dad was openly sobbing. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, Greg. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  I had never seen my dad cry like this—or heard such an unequivocal expression of love. I squeezed him tight. Tears poured from my eyes. This was a moment I’d longed for ever since that day Dad had driven out of our driveway. We held each other for several seconds before I slowly released my embrace, eased him back, and looked into his eyes.

  “Dad, you were there for me. Everything you did to raise me and teach me as a young boy was what I drew on to survive that attack. You taught me everything I know about the outdoors. Those summer camping trips you took us on taught me about being in the woods and how to survive. You demonstrated how to remain calm, think through stressful decisions, and come up with solutions. You taught me to never give up fighting for what I believe in. I applied those lessons today, Dad. Because of what you showed me, I’m alive.

  “The biggest reason I know you were there is that you were the one who taught me that I could do anything if I set my mind to it.” I pulled my father close again and pressed my lips to his ear. “Dad, I love you, and I want to thank you for being there to save my life today. You were there, Dad. I promise, you were there.”

  As I held my dad and peeked over his shoulder, I saw that blood from my bandaged arm had soaked into the back of his shirt. I pulled away again. I wanted to say that I was sorry for ruining his shirt.

  I never got those words out. You see, Dad wasn’t Dad anymore.
Instead, I was looking into the face of Jesus.

  He was clean-shaven, with shoulder-length dark hair. He wore a white robe. The room was too dark for me to fully make out his features, except for the eyes—blue and penetrating.

  There was nothing in his appearance, however, that told me who he was. Somehow, I just knew.

  You might think that finding the Lord suddenly sitting close to you would inspire a sense of honor and awe, or maybe reverent fear. I’m sorry to say that isn’t where my muddled mind went. Part of me felt shame. I couldn’t look into those eyes for longer than a moment. I had to turn away.

  Most of me, though, was angry.

  Why, I thought, are you showing up now? Where were you when that six-hundred-pound beast was ripping me apart? Why didn’t you keep the bear from charging or send it in another direction or at least intercede and stop the mauling? Where were you when I was screaming in pain and the grizzly was carving me up with her fangs? And why are you interrupting one of the most important moments of my life with my dad?

  Rage blew through me like an arctic gust. This was not the father in heaven I had grown to love, or the creator I had pinned my hopes on and learned to depend on. I felt like an ant on an anthill, with God holding a magnifying glass over me. Had he kept me alive just so he could look me in the eyes as he abandoned me forever?

  Without a word, Jesus pulled me into an embrace. I heard and felt him crying, just like my dad.

  None of this made sense. I tried to pull away. The Lord’s arms around me held fast. I struggled harder to break his hold, without success. My anger returned and boiled over. You abandoned me, I thought. Just like when my dad drove away, you let this happen. I have no desire to be near you.

  I was fighting to escape. I’d reached a verdict in my mind and declared God guilty. I wanted nothing to do with him. And still he would not let go.

  I’m not sure if this strange wrestling match continued for minutes or just seconds. All I know is that I reached a point of exhaustion. An unexpected thought entered my mind: If I’m about to die and if I’m going to heaven, maybe I should just accept it.

  Finally, I had no strength left to fight with. I relaxed and fell into Jesus’s arms crying, my head on his shoulder. “Where were you, Lord?” I asked, my voice hollow. “I called for you but you never came. Couldn’t you see what was happening to me? Were my cries not desperate enough for you to come running like you always promised? Couldn’t you hear or recognize one of your own son’s voices desperately calling out for help from his daddy in heaven? Yet you never showed. You did the same thing when I was a little boy.”

  I lifted my head and found the courage to again look at Jesus. His eyes welled with tears, but that didn’t stop the runaway freight train in my mind. My emotions erupted like a geyser. “You promised you would never leave or forsake me,” I shouted, “that you would always be there to protect me. You lied, Lord. You lied!”

  I tried to catch my breath through my tears. Jesus began to sob.

  “Why,” I asked, “are you crying, Lord?”

  His voice was calm and soft, yet it captured my attention like nothing I’d heard before. “Greg,” he said, “I am crying because of the emotional and physical pain you have gone through, but even more because you are convinced that I abandoned you at the moment you needed me most.”

  As crazy as it sounds, I began to argue with Jesus. “Look at my face,” I said. “Look at my head, my neck, my arm, my leg, and tell me you were there.”

  “Greg, I never left your side for a second during the entire attack. I was protecting you when you didn’t even know I was protecting you. I felt every bite and every claw that ripped into you. I experienced every feeling running through your mind and heart and I felt the fear and terror surging through your veins. I was there to hold you close during your desperate screams for help. I became your shield.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand. If what you say is true, why do I look like this? Why did you let the attack happen?”

  “Sometimes things happen in this world you will not understand. Some things bring great pain, but I can assure you that, in the end, what has happened here will bring you far greater joy than pain.”

  I simply stared. “Lord, I am so confused. If you were there, where is the evidence?”

  Jesus still cradled me in his arms. Tears slid down his cheeks. “My son, upon seeing the grizzly, you chose not to hide but to face the bear. Why? You chose to face the bear because you knew the bear could charge down the trail to your brother, who was unaware of the danger. You chose love and courage instead of self. I was the one to place those things in your heart, just when it needed to be done. Your brother is alive and unharmed. You had no idea if those bears would reach your brother, but you chose to not let that happen. I was there.

  “Without much time to process, you made the decision on which weapon to choose from the three you had available to face the bear. You chose your rifle and trusted in the bullet you reloaded with your own hands. I gave you those hands to produce that bullet that would save your life. The very fingers that measured the powder, that placed the primer and seated the two-hundred-grain bullet, were the same hands I made in your mother’s womb. I was there also, Greg.

  “When that bear charged in a blur and there was no time but to raise the rifle and fire that one single round, I was there. When that single bullet traveled into the mouth of the bear where I directed it, dislodging her lower left fang and shattering her lower jawbone, I was there. My son, that bear did not have full use of her jaw when she reached you. That was my plan and purpose in having you choose the rifle and then directing your shot. When you went blind and could not see or even hear anything during the most terrifying points of the attack, you were in my arms like you are now. I shielded you. I protected your heart and mind and the future of your family by not allowing you to witness and hear the most terrible parts of that attack. I was looking out for you even then, Greg.

  “While I held you on the ground, in the midst of the bear’s fury, I sent your brother with the perfect measure of courage and love that I placed in his heart for you. I have always said there is no greater love than a brother who willingly lays down his life. I was there, Greg. I sent him. When you thought you were dying and all hope was lost, I gave you the strength and composure to walk your brother through stopping your bleeding and providing the medical attention you needed. As you lay in a pool of blood, unable to see, I spoke to you and gave you a purpose and a promise. Do you remember what I said, Greg? ‘You’ve got to fight. Your family is counting on you to fight for your life and come home to them.’ Do you remember the picture I placed vividly in your mind over and over again as you took each agonizing, bloody step back to the boat?”

  The message was beginning to sink in. “Yes, I do remember, Lord. It was my wife, my sons, and my little girl waving at me and saying, ‘Come home, Daddy, please.’ ”

  “I was there for you, Greg, through it all. I never left your side, as I have never left your side from the moment I created you.”

  Both of us were sobbing now. I put my arms around Jesus and pulled him close to my chest. It was as though our hearts were molded together and were communicating in an unwritten and unspoken language. He didn’t need to try to convince me any more. I finally understood that the Lord truly was there for me and had saved my life in many miraculous ways that day. As I sat in my hospital bed, even though I was still enduring intense physical pain, I felt more joy than I had in my entire life.

  I wanted this moment with the Lord to go on forever. I squeezed with all my might, hoping our hug would never end. Yet something suddenly felt different. I raised my head.

  Once again, I was surprised and confused. Jesus was no longer there. Gripped tightly in my arms was a white hospital pillow. The top of the pillow was soaked with tears.

  In disbelief, I let the pillow drop to my lap. Imprinted on the pillowcase was the same bloodstain I’d seen on the back of my dad’s shirt. />
  22

  * * *

  WHAT MATTERS

  See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are.

  —1 JOHN 3:1 ESV

  I pressed my face against the cold glass of the passenger window of Matt’s Ford F-250 and stared as millions of acres of green forest raced by. Over the last few hours, my brother and I had barely spoken a word to each other. When we’d traveled this road last, we were so excited, anticipating our greatest adventure ever. Much had changed.

  The day after my surgery, I had faced a bucketful of media requests. Matt and I did an interview on FaceTime with a Dallas news team. Then I was able to make calls to family and friends. The staff at Central Peninsula Hospital had treated Matt and me like honored guests. Besides setting up a bed for my brother, they brought him meals and even sectioned off a spot in the parking lot within view of my room for his truck and boat. My surgeon, meanwhile, called Rhea and eased her worries by filling her in on the details. I’d endured six and a half hours of surgery and more than three hundred stitches and staples, and could look forward to future appointments with plastic surgeons, but I was going to live. After three days in the hospital, I’d been released that morning.

  We were headed for Matt’s home in Wasilla. By the time we picked up antibiotics and pain medication in Soldotna, the sun was already sinking low over the Kenai Peninsula. It was amazing how quickly urban sprawl reverted back to wilderness. As Matt drove, my eyes searched behind every passing rock and tree for the slightest movement of brown fur. If this truck broke down, I was not getting out.

  I glanced at Matt and wondered what he was thinking. I was sure that, like me, he’d been going over every detail of the grizzly attack in his mind. I detected sadness in his eyes. I suspected he blamed himself, at least partially, for what had happened.