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The more I shared, the more animated he became. In retrospect, I believe David’s exuberance was a combination of my personal confirmation of heaven’s reality and his relief in knowing something good had come out of my long nightmare.

After I had shared my experience in heaven, he said nothing, and a peaceful silence filled the room. Our friendship was such that we didn’t have to fill the gap with words.

David finally nodded slowly and asked, “Why haven’t you talked about this before?”

“I have two very good reasons. Number one, if I go around talking about having been in heaven, people will think I’m nuts.”

“Why would you think that? I heard you, and I didn’t—”

“Number two,” I said, interrupting him, “I don’t want to go over that experience again. It’s . . . well, it’s just too personal. Too special. This is something I haven’t even processed enough to understand it myself. It’s not that I don’t want to share it, but I don’t think I can.”

“Why do you think you experienced heaven if you’re not supposed to share it?”

“I don’t have an answer for that question.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you a better question I’ve asked myself—Why did I experience it and have it taken away from me? What was that all about?” Months of pent-up anger burst forth, and all the interior pain spewed out. “Okay, why did I have to go through this? I saw the glory and the beauty—the most powerful, overwhelming experiences in my life—and then I had to come back. Why? For this?” I pointed to my arm and leg. “Listen. I was in an accident that took my life. Immediately I went to heaven, and it was greater and more wonderful than anything I’ve ever imagined. I had a magnificent taste of heaven, and then I was pulled back to this life again. My body is a mess. I’m constantly in pain. I’ll never be healthy or strong again. I’m still processing this because—because, frankly it all seems cruel to me.”

David stared at me and asked again, “Why do you think you experienced it if you’re not supposed to share it?”

“Like I said, I don’t have an answer for that question.”

“Is it possible that God took you to heaven and brought you back for you to share what happened to you? Don’t you realize what a powerful encouragement you can be to others?”

His words shocked me. I had been so focused on myself, I hadn’t thought about anyone else.

I broke down as I tried to relate to him how I felt and to explain it to myself. I cried in his presence, and I knew it was all right.

For perhaps twenty minutes we discussed it. David nudged me, and although I knew he was right, it still wasn’t easy for me to share my experience.

Finally David said, “I want you to make a covenant with me.”

“What kind of covenant?”

“Simple. Pick two people you trust. Just tell them a little of your experience and gauge their response.” He went on to explain that if they thought I was crazy or that I had hallucinated, then I would never have to speak about it again.

“But if they rejoice with you,” he said, “and if they urge you to tell them more, I want you to take this as a sign—a sign that God wants you to talk about those ninety minutes you spent in heaven.”

After considering the matter carefully, I covenanted with him. “I can do that much.”

“When?”

“I promise to do it soon.”

“Very soon, right?”

“Okay, I promise I won’t put it off.”

David prayed for me, and as I listened to him speak, the certainty came over me. It was no longer a choice—I had to speak out—but I would do it my way.

First, I decided on those I could trust with my holy secret. Once I had narrowed it down to a handful, I still took a cautious approach. I made sure it was a one-to-one conversation. I’d wait until the matter of my health came up—and it always did—and then I’d say something simple such as, “You know, I died that day. And I woke up in heaven.”

The reaction was the same each time: “Tell me more.” They didn’t always say those words, but that’s what they wanted. I could see their eyes widen, and they wanted to know more.

As I shared a little more, no one questioned my sanity.