90 Minutes in Heaven_ A True Story of Death & Life - Don Piper [30]
During the months of my recovery, the church worked hard to make me feel useful. They brought vanloads of kids to the hospital to see me. Sometimes committees met in my hospital room—as if I could make any decisions. They knew I couldn’t say or do much, but it was their way to affirm and encourage me. They did everything they could to make me feel worthwhile and useful.
Much of that time, however, I was depressed and filled with self-pity. I yearned to go back to heaven.
Beyond the depression, I had another problem: I didn’t want anybody to do anything for me. That’s my nature.
One day Jay B. Perkins, a retired minister, came to visit me. He had served as pastor of several south Texas churches before his retirement and had become a powerful father figure in the ministry for me. South Park hired him as the interim while I was incapacitated.
Jay visited me faithfully. That meant he had to drive more than forty miles each way. He came often to see me, sometimes two or three times a week. I wasn’t fit company, but I smiled each time anyway. I’d lie in bed and feel sorry for myself. He’d speak kindly, always trying to find words to encourage me, but nothing he said helped—although that wasn’t his fault. No one could help me. Not only was I miserable but, as I learned later, I made everyone else miserable.
My visitors tried to help me, and many wanted to do whatever they could for me. “Can I get you a magazine?” someone would ask.
“Would you like a milkshake? There’s a McDonald’s in the lobby. Or I could get you a hamburger or . . .”
“Would you like me to read the Bible to you? Or maybe some other book?”
“Are there any errands I can run for you?”
My answer was always the same: “No, thanks.”
I don’t think I was mean, but I wasn’t friendly or cooperative, although I wasn’t aware of how negatively I treated everyone. I didn’t want to see anyone; I didn’t want to talk to anyone; I wanted my pain and disfigurement to go away. If I had to stay on earth, then I wanted to get well and get back to living my life again.
Because Jay visited often, he noticed how detached I was from friends and family. One day he was sitting beside me when one of the South Park deacons came for a visit. After ten minutes, the man got up and said, “I just wanted to come by and check on you.” Then he asked the inevitable question, “Is there anything I can get for you before I leave?”
“Thank you, no. I appreciate it, but—”
“Well, can I get you something to eat? Can I go downstairs and—”
“No, really. Thanks for coming.”
He said good-bye and left.
Jay sat silently and stared out the window for several minutes after the deacon left. Finally he walked over to the bed and got close to my face and said, “You really need to get your act together.”
“Sir?” I said like anyone would say respectfully to an eighty-year-old preacher.
“You need to get your act together,” he repeated. “You’re just not doing a very good job.”
“I don’t understand what—”
“Besides that,” he said and moved even closer so that I couldn’t look away. “Besides that, you’re a raging hypocrite.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“These people care about you so much, and you just can’t imagine how deeply they love you.”
“I know they love me.”
“Really? Well, you’re not doing a very good job of letting them know you’re aware. You’re not treating them right. They can’t heal you. If they could heal you, they would do it. If they could change places with you, many of them would. If you ask them to do anything—anything—they would do it without hesitating.”
“I know—”
“But you won’t let them do anything for you.”
“I don’t want them to do anything.” Without holding anything back, I said as loudly as