I hadn’t seen much of Matt during my recovery in the hospital. It turned out that the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and Alaska state troopers take it pretty seriously when a hunter is mauled by a grizzly bear. They had a lot of questions for my brother. Every year, hunters with little experience and no hunting guide show up in Alaska unprepared and get themselves into trouble. The investigators concluded, however, that the Matthews brothers had known what they were doing and indeed come prepared for anything.
Matt and the two Fish and Wildlife agents agreed it was unlikely the grizzly had survived our encounter. The agents wanted to find that bear. Matt agreed to lead them to the area. He drew a map and predicted where she’d be. The next day, not a hundred yards from the point of the attack and exactly where Matt had anticipated, they came across the massive sow. One of the agents examined her and took measurements.
When the agent pulled back the bear’s lips, he found something odd. The lower left fang hung by a sliver of flesh and was folded flat. On the opposite side, the lower jaw had been split in half. Based on Matt’s descriptions, the agents decided the lone possible explanation was that the single round I’d fired during the bear’s charge had caused the damage.
The agent allowed the lip to fall back and looked up at Matt. “The only reason your brother is alive,” he said, “is that this bear did not have full use of its jaw. If it had, we’d be out here on a body recovery.”
My brother just smiled. “A miracle shot is what that was,” he said. “We saw a lot of miracles that day.”
The agent pulled out a knife and explained that he was required to remove the grizzly’s head and paws for further research and DNA testing. It inspired Matt to make an unusual request.
“It would mean a lot to me,” he said, “if I could take off the head and paws of the grizzly who nearly robbed me of my brother.”
The agent hesitated for only a moment. “Have at it.”
I’m sure my screams still echoed in Matt’s head as he went to work. Though I know he felt a measure of sorrow over the death of this mighty monarch of the wilderness, I also know he would have done it all again to save the life of his older sibling.
* * *
SIX HOURS AFTER WE’D LEFT the hospital, Matt backed the Alumaweld boat into his driveway and I stepped gingerly out of the truck. It was good to be here. I looked forward to being with Matt’s family, to Melinda’s cooking, to lying in a bed without monitors beeping in my ear and nurses waking me up to check on me.
Most of all, though, I looked forward to seeing Dad.
On the phone the day before, I’d told Dad that Matt and I would be arriving at my brother’s house early the next evening. He was excited to hear it, because Melinda was picking him up that afternoon at the Anchorage airport. I could hear the concern, even fear, in his voice. He wasn’t going to rest until he confirmed in person that his oldest son was all right. He ended our call by saying, “Greg, I love you, I’m extremely happy to hear you’re okay, and I’ll be waiting for you in Wasilla.”
Just knowing that Dad was flying up gave me a powerful sense of peace. I’d been beaten up physically and emotionally. My body had more holes in it than a piece of Swiss cheese, and the pain remained intense. On the outside, I looked like a mess. On the inside, I felt like a scared little boy, desperate to be held by his daddy and told everything would be fine.
What Dad didn’t know—what no one knew—was what I’d experienced in the darkness of my hospital room after the surgery.
I hadn’t said a word about it, partly because I’m a private person and mostly because I figured no one would believe me anyway. I wasn’t quite sure I believed it myself. Dad, or some spiritual manifestation of him, had visited me in my room . . . and then I’d come face-to-face with the Lord? I knew some people—maybe most people—would say it was a hallucination, a product of trauma, drugs, and exhaustion. But that sure wasn’t what it felt like. Words did not exist to adequately explain it.
Whether the Lord had been physically present or not, I knew one thing for certain: he had spoken to me. I finally understood, all the way down in the depths of my soul, that he had been with me throughout the grizzly attack, just when I needed him. That in fact he’d been with me every day of my life.
I wasn’t hungry when I walked in the front door of Matt’s house, but the inviting aroma of Melinda’s incredible cooking—she was making a moose roast with mashed potatoes and green beans—immediately made me feel at home. Then I saw Dad.
Dad was no longer the physically intimidating protector he’d been when I was growing up. His shoulders were a bit more stooped, and the fatigue and worry lines around his eyes were a bit more pronounced. Even so, when he smiled, hurried toward me, and wrapped me in a giant hug, it was one of the most secure feelings I’d ever known. He could barely speak, but when he managed to whisper, “I thought I’d lost you, son,” it melted my heart.
Dad was here. Everything was going to be all right.
The next three days included retellings of our adventure and catching up with family, as well as figuring out how to manage my pain and early recovery. Matt’s family took turns changing my bandages and deep-swabbing puncture wounds. Even my nephew Gareth wanted to help Uncle Greg, so I allowed him to change the bandages on some of the worst wounds.
One afternoon, everyone gathered around my designated resting spot on the couch and handed me a series of wrapped presents. I opened up a coffee mug that sported the slogan “Don’t Feed the Bears,” as well as oversized grizzly fur slippers with fake claws and a T-shirt displaying the statement “America’s First Homeland Security” and a picture of two grizzly bears. Even though portions of my face had no feeling, I couldn’t help laughing. But for the majority of those days, I slept.
The night before Dad and I were scheduled to fly back to Texas, Matt and I went into the garage to go through our combined hunting gear so we could get mine packed. We’d already discovered a plug of flesh from the grizzly’s throat in the barrel of my rifle. Now every smell that reminded me of the attack—and there were a lot of them—made me sick to my stomach. I finally told Matt, “I’m done. Just stuff everything in a box. I don’t care.” I turned and walked back into the house.
The next morning, from the moment we stepped through the doors of the Anchorage airport, I felt like my dad’s little boy again. Dad took care of everything. He worked his magic at the counter to get us an early boarding due to my injury. He held our tickets. He researched where we would need to go through security and what direction to take to find our gate. He even found someone to haul our bags and get us checked in. Each time someone helped us, he slipped his hand into his pocket and thanked them with a little cash.
A flight attendant sat us in the front row of first class. I had so much legroom that I felt guilty as people walked by and headed to the back of the plane. Before everyone was seated and the front door secured, the flight attendant placed a hot cup of coffee in my hand and took my order for breakfast. This was going to be a nice flight and I owed it all to Dad. I thanked God that he was there for me.
When I leaned back into the comfort of my leather seat and thought about it, I realized that he’d always been there for me. Every time I’d faced tough situations—including those of my own making—Dad had been on the scene, ready to discipline or encourage me, depending on what I needed most. He’d made mistakes like any father, but he’d always given his best, walked alongside me, and supported me.
Reality hit me then like a blow from a hammer: Dad loved me, without any reservations or conditions. He always had. It didn’t matter what I accomplished in my career or how I performed. He just loved me.
And so did God.
For most of my life, ever since Dad drove his Chevy Malibu out of our driveway when I was eight, I’d believed 100 percent in the lies I’d been telling myself. I believed that I wasn’t good enough, that I’d disappointed my dad and God and made them angry at me, that I’d made unforgivable mistakes, that I had
to earn the right to be loved and seen as worthy, that the only person I could count on was myself. It took a devastating attack of a wild grizzly bear for me to finally be awakened to the truth.
I’d always relied on myself to overcome any crisis. I had trained myself to be ready for anything so I could play “the man” and use my skills and experience to save the day. And for most of my life, that approach had worked. But when that bear had me pinned on the ground, I was helpless. No amount of training could change the reality of my situation. I had nothing left to fight with. I had no ability to rescue myself or control the outcome. I was at God’s mercy.
Which was exactly where I needed to be for the Lord to do his work.
Incredibly, God had shown up in his perfect timing to not only save my life but permanently heal my heart. When a doctor performs surgery, he often inflicts pain and tissue damage to correct a life-threatening injury. He will cut through healthy tissue to reach the wound. If he doesn’t, the patient dies.
I hadn’t known it, but I had desperately needed heart surgery—not the type performed by someone with the title of “M.D.” following their name, but a divine surgery of the heart that could be performed only by God himself. The surgery was to remove a malignancy that had long ago spread to every part of my mind and body, blocking my ability to love myself or trust the love of a father. For years I’d tortured myself, believing that I was responsible for my parents’ divorce and that my father and God—along with everyone else I cared about—would love me only if I performed well enough to earn that love. That lie had poisoned each of my relationships, preventing me from enjoying the blessing of the people the Lord had brought into my life. No matter how perfect I tried to be, it was never enough. I had no rest and knew no peace. Instead, my soul knew only exhaustion from the constant effort of trying to prove myself to each of them.
I realized that now, for the first time in forty years, the malignancy that had plagued my body and soul was gone. I was healthy. I was free. God loved me completely, without reservation, just the way I was.
Over the last few days, almost everything I’d believed had been flipped. God had allowed me to slip within a bear’s whisker of death, then turned the tables. More important, he’d shown me why he’d allowed me to go through all that trauma. I realized, to my surprise, that I was actually feeling grateful for the grizzly attack. Even crazier, I realized I would go through the horror and pain all over again for another minute in the arms of Jesus. That was where I wanted to be and where I belonged. I could now see that even though I’d been relentless in judging myself unworthy, and even though the grizzly had been relentless in trying to take my life, the love of my dad and my God was even more unyielding. Wild, relentless love had won out.
I glanced at Dad in the airline seat next to me. He was halfway through a movie and had fallen asleep. The worry and energy he’d expended on me had finally caught up with him. I watched his chest rise and fall and again thanked God for my father. Outside the window, sunshine filtered through puffy clouds of white as we winged away from the land of the midnight sun toward home.
Though I’d spent just two weeks in Alaska, it felt as if a very long chapter in my life was coming to a close. I was leaving with new eyes. No longer would they strain to look over the horizon for the next new passion, adventure, or goal to establish my value. Now the only things that mattered were living in relationship with God and my family and fulfilling the Lord’s plans for me. I was called to be a loving son, husband, and father. My world had gotten a lot smaller and my vision was suddenly much clearer.
* * *
DESPITE THE AMAZING CARE I’D been given by the Central Peninsula staff and the incredible grace God had shown me, I developed a secret fear while recovering at the hospital. It sounds a bit shallow, but it was all about my face.
Based on the throbbing pain I felt in my neck, head, and face, I was certain that my injuries were grotesque. I imagined deep scars that made my previous features unrecognizable. Even worse, I feared that my nine-year-old daughter would be unable to look at me. Casey and Ben could handle it. I knew Rhea loved me to the moon and she’d find a way to cope with a disfigured husband. But I was tortured by the idea that Ciara would see me as a monster.
I was too afraid of what I might see to even glance at a mirror.
My fears were magnified when I called Rhea from my bed on my third day in the hospital. I reassured her that I was okay and said nothing about my worry that I’d become the Phantom of the Opera. There was an ominous pause in our conversation.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Rhea said. “You know how much Ciara loves you. She said she doesn’t want to come to the airport and see you all cut up. She said she would cry too much.”
I got off the phone as quick as I could. As far as I was concerned, my nightmare had just been confirmed. I pulled the bedcovers over my head and fought the urge to scream. At the time, I was still processing the astonishing visitation from God. Meanwhile, the familiar lies and feelings of devastating emotional pain pounded at the walls of my mind. To make matters worse, for the last three days I’d refused to look in the bathroom mirror for fear of what would look back at me.
After a few minutes, however—through either a nudge from the Lord or simply despair—I realized I had to confront the truth. My feet met the cold tile floor leading to the bathroom. With my eyes closed and my body shaking, I stepped in front of the mirror.
I opened my eyes. My face was swollen and marred by a number of lacerations and puncture holes. My lip had been torn through and a chunk of flesh was missing from the bottom of my chin. Two lacerations marked by blue stitches ran down the front of my forehead. More stitches closed the holes where the bear’s fangs had gone through my temple and through my cheek and into my jawbone. Two dozen staples attached my scalp to my skull.
It wasn’t pretty. And yet, it did still look like me. After a half hour of cleanup with a moist washrag, I was even more recognizable. I was just presentable enough to think my daughter might be able to handle it.
I called Rhea using FaceTime on my cell phone. “Babe,” I said, “I really need you to look at my face and tell me if it’s too scary for Ciara to see.” I held the phone out so Rhea could see everything.
I hadn’t realized Ciara was sitting next to Rhea. My wife turned to our daughter. “Ciara, Daddy’s on the phone. He’s wondering if you want to talk to him.”
I heard my daughter’s answer: “Sure.”
Ciara took the phone and nearly pressed her nose to the screen, her eyes darting to all corners of the phone, trying to take it all in. She shifted her gaze to the upper right corner of the phone and my forehead, then scanned down until she was looking at my chin. Next she examined the holes in my face. She had no idea how much this meant to me. I held my breath and waited.
After what seemed an eternity, Ciara finally leaned back and pronounced her verdict: “Oh, Daddy,” she said, “you don’t look that bad. I’ll come see you at the airport.”
I teared up at the memory as we started our descent into Dallas/Fort Worth. My healing from the grizzly mauling had begun with my brother’s caregiving at the attack site and continued with the nurturing and skillful treatment by the hospital staff and, of course, the Lord’s intervention, and my dad’s bringing me home. But true healing could not begin until I was again surrounded by my family. I needed to hear their voices and feel their touch. In more ways than one, they had saved my life.
When we landed, I was so eager to see them that I was nearly sick to my stomach. I’m sure Dad was talking to me as we made our way to the baggage claim, but his words barely registered. My heart and mind were focused on one thing. I was supposed to walk slowly, but my pace quickened as we approached the plate-glass windows and doors leading to the outside world. Eagerly, I scanned the crowd that waited for new arrivals.
Then I saw them. Ciara spotted me at the same moment I saw her. She started screaming and jumping up and down, a “Welcome Home”
sign in her hands. Ben thrust his own sign high into the air to make sure I saw it. Rhea was crying.
I couldn’t hold back any longer. I sprinted toward them, my own tears flowing. Ciara threw her sign to the ground and bolted my way, with Ben right behind. I dropped to my knees, threw down my bags, and opened my arms. My kids wrapped their arms around my neck so tight that I thought they were permanently attached. Rhea soon completed the circle by enfolding us in her arms. “Thank you, God,” she whispered, “for bringing Greg home.”
Other arriving passengers gave us a wide berth as they headed toward the exits. I’m sure we were a spectacle. I couldn’t have cared less. I was back where I belonged.
23
* * *
NEW LIFE
Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!
—2 CORINTHIANS 5:17 NIV
On my first morning back home, I showered and slipped on shorts and a sweatshirt. As usual, Rhea was already up and in the kitchen. I made my way down the hallway and past one of my favorite images, a lithograph on our living room wall that portrayed Jesus guiding the hands of a surgeon in the middle of an operation. I stopped at the breakfast bar facing the kitchen and watched Rhea, wearing her white bathrobe, make coffee. It was a routine we’d performed a thousand times before.
Then she handed me my coffee in my new “Don’t Feed the Bears” mug. As much as this morning seemed the same as so many others . . . it wasn’t. I’d assumed a new perspective on life. Now I had to figure out how to apply it.
It wasn’t long before I faced my first opportunity. Rhea informed me that people in our neighborhood, some that we didn’t even know, had signed up to bring us meals. It had started before I got home and was scheduled to continue for at least the next month. The people of Texas are amazing.
Wild Awakening Page 18