90 Minutes in Heaven_ A True Story of Death & Life - Don Piper [40]
Finally someone wheeled me inside and stopped my chair in front of the platform near the church organ. It wasn’t possible to lift me up.
By then the entire congregation had become aware that I was in front of the sanctuary. I smiled as I thought, It’s only taken me five months to get from the conference at Trinity Pines back to church. I may be slow, but I’m faithful.
Just then someone whispered in my ear, “We want you to say something to the congregation.” He got behind me and steered me toward the center of the sanctuary, right in front of the pulpit.
By then exhaustion had begun to seep in. It had probably nagged at me all along, but I had been so determined to get back to church, I refused to admit how tired I felt. I had been out of bed more than two hours. That was the longest time I had been out of bed up to that point, and also the longest time I had spent in a wheelchair.
In that moment I realized I had been foolish in wanting to come, because I wasn’t up to the physical demands on my body. My stubbornness had overestimated my endurance.
Perhaps just as bad, I became completely overwhelmed at the congregation’s loving response. I didn’t know if I could speak. What could I say after all those weeks of absence and all I’d been through?
While I was still trying to figure that out, someone thrust a microphone in my hand. As I clutched it, I kept thinking, You people really have no idea how little I contributed to my recovery.You see it as a triumph. I see it merely as survival.
Just then spontaneous applause broke out. I had expected them to be glad to see me; I had not been prepared for the avalanche of praise to God. Every person in that building stood, and the applause began—and it kept on for a long time. I finally waved them to stop.
As I stared at them, I felt guilty about their applause and excitement. I couldn’t believe those people were applauding me. If they only knew, I thought. If they only knew.
Then God spoke to me. This was one of the few times in my life when I heard a very clear voice inside my head.
They’re not applauding for you.
Just those words, but it made a difference and I could speak. Finally, I had it straight. They were giving thanks to God for what he had done for me. God had brought me back from death to life once again. I relaxed. This was a moment to glorify God. This wasn’t praise for me.
I still had to wait for what seemed like a long time until the applause ceased. I spoke only four words. Anyone who was there that glorious day can tell you what they were: “You prayed. I’m here.”
The congregation erupted in spontaneous applause again. If I had said anything else, I’m sure they wouldn’t have heard it anyway.
I couldn’t say it, but I believed then—and still do—that I survived only because a number of people wanted me to. They were relentless, passionate, and desperate, and they believed God would hear them. People prayed for me who had never seriously prayed before; some who hadn’t uttered a word of petition in years cried out to God to spare me. My experience brought people to their knees, and many of them had changed in the process of praying for me to live.
When I did live, those same people—especially those who hadn’t been in the habit of praying—said the experience revolutionized their lives. In some instances, individuals I had never met—from Cottonwood, Arizona, to Buffalo, New York—heard my story second-, third-, and fourthhand. Over the next three years, people would approach me and say, “I saw you on a video interview. You’re the man! I prayed for you.” Or they heard one of the audiotapes of my testimony distributed by my church and would say, “You just don’t know what it means. God heard our prayers, and we’re so happy you lived.”
To some individuals, I’m not really a person but a symbol. For them, I represent answered prayer. They may remember my ministry at South Park Church or even some of the messages I preached,