Three Days in Heaven

The emergency room was calm and peaceful for a place usually full of chaos. Call it divine intervention, the luck of the draw, or whatever, but on that day, I was the last patient admitted during the late-afternoon shift. It was though they were preparing for my arrival before they knew a thing about me. No one said a word to the other, they were moving along doing their jobs, but absent was a patient. Equipment was put in place, and instruments were lined up like little soldiers; then they waited.

A few miles away, with the phone close to her ear, Bev ran to me as fast as she could, called for an ambulance and started CPR. One of the side benefits of her working at the hospital, she had years of experience as a volunteer CPR instructor. The kids were out of control, so with the help of our next-door neighbors, they came over and rounded them up. Our house was a few blocks from the fire station, and within seconds you could hear the ambulance coming from the nearby distance. The siren blared and emergency lights glared, they arrived in just over a minute.

The EMTs jumped into action and took over for Bev, placed me on a stretcher and continued doing CPR. They quickly loaded me into the ambulance like fragile freight and hooked me up to a heart monitor to check my cardiac rhythm so the techs could decide what meds to start. They also used an Ambu bag to help breathe for me. When they determined my heart rhythm—what little I had—they started an IV with the right cardiac medication. The EMTs radioed the hospital to give a heads-up of a suspected sudden cardiac arrest heading their way.

The relative calmness of the ambulance was replaced with organized mayhem, typical in a hospital ER. The EMTs emptied their cargo, and wheeled me into the emergency room; unconscious and barely breathing, but still alive, thanks to Bev and the EMTs.

The entire medical team rushed into action, taking over and doing everything their education and expertise had taught them to do. Those people were experts at communicating in one and two-word sentences:

“Crash cart?”

“Ready doctor.”

“BP?”

“Fifty-over thirty.”

The doctor shouted over everyone in the room, “Be alert people!”

Someone nearby loudly announced, “We’re losing him!”

“Pulse?”

A nurse next to me replied, “Faint.”

The doctor again asked, “Respiration?”

“None.”

Within seconds, someone shoved a tube down my throat and hypodermic needles were everywhere— all of them seemed to be intruding my body. The team followed the medication protocol ordered by the lead physician. They worked on me for over an hour, never letting up. During all the commotion and chatter from the medical team, one sound stood out from the rest. For a few moments, my heart had a weak but steady rhythm and everyone breathed a sigh of relief—especially me.

The familiar tone of the heart monitor came to life and echoed the room with an endless beep beep … beep beep … beep beep. Though my heart rate came around, the ER doc carried on with his work trying to get us both to the finish line.

It looked like I was going to make it, then out of nowhere a nurse shouted, “Doc, he’s in v-fib!”

My heart fluttered violently, and the heart monitor went crazy; it looked like a kid had a heyday with an Etch-O-Sketch. The doctor snapped back into action and barked new orders.

“I’m going to shock him!” the doctor yelled. Meaning to use a defibrillator to correct my heart rhythm.

“Standing by.”

He positioned the paddles and yelled, “Clear.”

Then he zapped me. My body contorted with the electric shock. Complete silence consumed the frenzied environment as everyone waited to see my new heart rhythm—but there was no change.

“Does he have a pulse?”

“No.”

“I’m going to hit him again!”

Then boom! I felt that one, but unfortunately for me and without warning, a few moments later, there was another familiar sound—only this time it was the sound of silence; just a long, smooth tone coming from the monitor.

At the moment, I had plenty on my mind, you know, dying and all, but aside from the quietness in the ER, I heard unfamiliar voices clear as day.

“Hey guys, get over here! I think we’ve got one!”

“What is it this time? I hope it isn’t another jumper.”

“No, he’s a drop-dead heart attack. What do you want me to do?”

Then another voice chimed in.

“Let’s take him while the iron is hot.”

“He’s one of your favorites—he’s a lawyer...”

“Fantastic. Why can’t I ever get John Daly?”

“…but I think he’s a pretty nice guy.”

“Can we move this along? I’ve got things to do. ‘Cross over children. All are welcome. All welcome. Go into the Light.’

“Very poltergeisty. Let’s do this!”

The ER doc sat the paddle aside and checked for a carotid pulse. After a brief pause, he took inventory of all the medical knowledge he had and came up short. He shook his head, paused again, then let out a sigh and asked for the time.

A nearby nurse glanced at the clock.

“6:33 p.m., Doctor.”

Everyone in the room knew what that meant: I was finally at rest. My time card got punched. Or the classic, I just bit the big one. To help end the confusion with the euphemisms; I was as dead as a doornail. Crap!

Throughout the silence, the next word I heard the doctor say was…

“Foooore!”

I’m not sure how or why, but I’m standing in the middle of a fairway as a line-drive tee shot is fast approaching, and my head is in its path! All of this happens in an instant. I was paralyzed in place and no time to avoid this impending disaster. Right before impact, the ball stops in mid-flight, turns to the right, circles around my head then continues its flight landing safely on the green.

I stand there in complete shock trying to make sense of what just happened. Shaken by the averted disaster, I stare toward the tee box. As I squint down the fairway, I can barely make out three players approaching me. One of them is in a faster stride. It’s his ball that almost beheaded me.

When he gets to me, asks, “Are you OK?”

I do a quick scan using a hand to check my head.

“I think so.”

“That was a close one!”

He runs to the green to see where the ball landed... laughing all the way. The other two, not in as much of a rush, reach my spot on the fairway. I haven’t moved an inch since my arrival. The pair stands in front of me.

The first one smiles at me, and the other one, a bit cranky says, “You play?”

Not knowing what to say, I utter, “A little.”

“Well, pick’em up. You can join us.”

Out of nowhere, a set of golf clubs appears beside me.

“You’ll make a fourth. We need to pick up the pace; we’re in a hurry. Let’s git along little doggies!”

Then he kicks my bag and heads for the trees; he hooked his tee shot.

The other fellow stays with me for a moment as I make some attempt to collect my thoughts. He seems very patient, not saying a word, unlike the other guy who’s already yelling in the trees searching for his ball. I gather my composure enough to try at an introduction.

I extend my hand and stutter, “Hi, my name is T—T—T…”

He clasps my hand.

“Relax, Tony. I know who you are.”

Then pats me on the back.

“I’m glad you showed up. Let’s play some golf.”

I grab my bag, and we walk down the fairway at a slower pace than normal. It doesn’t matter because we’re the only ones on the course. Not a word is spoken between the two of us as we continue our walk. This place is tranquil and mellow; the only exception is the noise coming from the fellow in the woods, who’s yelling at a still-missing ball.

“He is such a grouch. He’s still mad about that forty years in the wilderness deal. It’s not my fault he couldn’t read a map.”

Forty years in the wilderness? Memories of Sunday school begin to pop into my head, and then I look over at him. All I can do is stare at my partner’s gentle face.

“What is it, Tony?”

I am still gazing at him and say, “Not too sure. Have we met? You remind me of someone, like a long-lost friend.”

“Perchance we met somewhere in passing.”

Maybe he’s right, somewhere in passing. We continue our way to his ball, and it is perfectly nestled in the middle of the fairway.

“Watch out for him,” he says, pointing to the trees. “He’s the only one with a foot wedge and an eraser.”

The fellow in the woods peeks out from behind a tree and taunts us by waving his pencil and eraser in the air. Suddenly a ball pops out.

“Told you so—foot wedge.”

We reach my partner’s ball, and he grabs a nine-iron from his bag. He doesn’t set up or address the ball, and not a single practice swing either. He doesn’t even look down the fairway—he just whacks it! After a brief flight, the ball lands on the green, and rolls inches from the cup.

“That was incredible! How did you do it?” I say with amazement.

“Practice and a firm left grip.”

He smiles and points to the ground next to his divot.

“Since you showed up late, you can drop your ball here. We’ll call this your drive.”

OK by me because “my” drive is three hundred and fifty yards long! My best was two-eighty with the help of the wind and a concrete cart path.

“We’re only playing nine today, and this is the first hole.”

It is my turn to hit and address my ball to set up for the shot. I take a couple practice swings, glance toward the green, take another practice swing and look down the fairway one more time.

The grump reaches his ball, gives it another nudge with his shoe, and yells, “We don’t have all day! Hit the damn thing!”

My jaw nearly hit the ground, and my partner knows it.

“Don’t pay any attention to him. He says ‘damn’ to be annoying,” —then he does air quotes— “because it’s in the Bible. He’s got a whole list of words he thinks he can get away with.”

He continues, “Your new buddy is the only golfer around who refused divine intervention.”

It would explain the eraser and the foot wedge. After the brief interruption, I hit my ball with perfect precision and hole-out; not to be confused with a hole-in-one, which are saved for the next three!

The guy who nearly took my head off yells, “Nice shot, Tony!”

After the best shot in my life, I recall the “divine intervention” comment from my partner and ask, “Where in the hell am I?”

Mr. Attitude humorously and sarcastically yells out, “Not yet! But the day is young.”

Up to this point, I didn’t realize he had other emotions except anger.

During the last three holes, we never say a word to one another, we simply enjoy each other’s company. We complete our round and finish the last hole. The three of us are tied at minus eighteen and Scrooge is at plus twelve.

Breaking the silence, my partner leans in and whispers, “Maybe he should keep his clubs in the bag and just use his foot.”

For the first time since I got here, wherever here is, his comment made me laugh.

After our round, I place my putter with the others and say, “I had a really good time today… the best ever, but I don’t know your name.”

Again my playing partner looks at me and smiles.

“You know who I am.”

Then a cool breeze blows across the fairway followed by a bolt of lightning.

Now I’m shaking inside, probably on the outside as well. I saw that coming a mile away! And He’s right, I did know who He was. I’d put it in the back of my head the moment I laid eyes on Him. That’s just great! After an afternoon of peace and tranquility, fear and panic sets in. I’m in the presence of the Almighty, and I feel naked, humbled, and not worthy.

“Sorry about the wind and lightning. Lately, it seems to happen every time I introduce myself. I think your new playmate has a hand in it.”

I’ve met a lot of important people in my day, even the President of the United States. This one takes the cake.

He was sensing my anxiety, then says, “Simmer down, Tony. You can call me Frank if it makes you more comfortable.”

Stunned, I turn to Him and stare, and my voice goes up an octave.

“Comfortable? Are you kidding me?”

With some effort, I return to my normal voice.

“Let me get this straight. You created all that there is, separated the light from the darkness, set apart the land from the sea, and did it in six days, and you want me to call you Frank?”

He stands there tall and proud and says, “I don’t mean to brag, but I did it in three. And let’s not forget the planets, distant galaxies, fleas, ticks, and golf.”

“You created golf?”

“I had a hand in it. In the beginning, we called it bowling, but it didn’t sound quite right. We tried to pick something else.”

Then pointing says, “Your pal over there thought we should call it football.”

God laughs and says, “Get it? Foot... ball? Foot… wedge?”

“Yeah, got it.”

“Anywho, the ‘what should we call this ridiculous game’ debate ensued, then someone shouted out, ‘How about golf’?’ That didn’t sound right either, but we were tired, took a vote, and it stuck. I’m pooped; take a seat.”

I look around for something to sit on, and when I turn back, two lawn chairs are side-by-side; God is already sitting on one of them reading a copy of Golf Digest. I go over and sit beside him.

I clasp my hands together and say, “I don’t feel right calling you… I can’t even say it.”

“You said it a minute ago.”

“That didn’t count! I was caught off guard.”

“It’s only a name, Tony. I happen to like the name, Frank. I think it’s, I don’t know, sort of macho. Sure beats what’s-his-name.”

God continues reading the magazine.

To this day, I can’t come to terms calling my mother-in-law by her first name. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember her first name. I have been introduced to the Creator of everything that is, was and will be, and He wants to be called Frank? Still not convinced I should ever, or would ever, call Him—that name, we head to the clubhouse.

He reaches over, puts an arm around my neck in a weak headlock and ruffles my hair.

“You know Tony, aside from the fact I’ve been around, let me think for a sec—forever, created the laws of physics, and everything living in nature, we’re really not that much different. And for the pièce de résistance—I’m omnipresent.”

I pull away from Him and straighten my hair.

“Thanks for clearing it up, but let’s not forget distant galaxies and golf. What’s omnipresent?”

Not paying too much attention, God continues filtering through the pages of His magazine.

“Look it up. You’ll find it somewhere around Omnipotent and Omniscient.”

“I’m curious about something. How did you manage to get a copy of Golf Digest up here?”

“A hundred-year, paid-in-full subscription.”

“That’ll do it.”

Several moments pass before I ask, “Can someone explain to me where I am and how I got here?”

Though I’m having a blast, I’m still in a daze. Fragments of the events preceding our golf game enter my mind. The last thing I remember was being rushed to the hospital, and all I can recall for sure was the ambulance ride.

Reality begins to settle in, then ask with a nervous stutter, “Am I in Heaven?”

Calmly God replies, “No Tony, you are on a golf course.”

Then pointing to the right, He says, “Heaven is over there, but you aren’t allowed, at least not yet. I’ll show you the ropes later.”

I glance over in the direction He pointed, then turn back to Him.

“Why not? Why won’t you let me see Heaven?”

The grouch, Mr. Congeniality says, “Because you can’t!”

Confused about, —oh, I don’t know, —everything, I ask, “Am I... dead?”

God gets up from the chair, grabs a driver and takes a few practice swings.

He swings the club back and forth thrashing through tidbits of grass with each swing, then asks, “Do you feel dead?”

I’m beginning to recover from the day’s events and say, “Not really. Come to think about it, I feel great! Better than ever!”

To confirm my statement, I touch my head, then I wrap both arms in a crisscross fashion, just to make sure I still felt… well… like me.

“I feel solid—shouldn’t I be supernatural, invisible or something?”

He chuckles, “We’re all solid, Tony.”

The other guy couldn’t resist and gets in a few words.

What seems to be his usual ill-tempered style, says, “Hey, Tony! Look at me, you’re not dead! You’re a zombie!”

He begins to stumble about, both arms outstretched and moans like a zombie.

I turn back to Him and say, “He really is a creep.”

After several holes of golf, and getting to know the other guy, I figure out who he was. I use the occasion to take a swipe at him.

I’m beginning to return to my natural, normal, cocky self, and after spending a day of torment with him, I say, “Hey, old man! Aren’t you about five thousand or so?”

His response is as cocky at my little swipe and asks in sort of a De Niro-esque way, “You talking to me?”

Then drops to the ground and does ten one-armed push-ups! After Moses finishes, he jumps up.

“Ha! There’s your five-thousand or so—smart-ass!”

My partner places his driver back in his bag.

“Don’t let him get under your skin. Once you get to know him, he’s alright, just stay clear when he’s mad. He has a reputation for breaking things when angered. I worked hard on the Nine Commandments.”

Rummaging through my repertoire of Sunday school memories, I’m trying to remember how many Commandments there were, then I quietly say to myself, “Was there ten or twelve?”

I suddenly recall and ask, “Don’t you mean ten?”

“Oh yeah, but originally there were only nine. If you haven’t already guessed, I like golf a lot. So, I thought to myself, golf is relaxing, and Sunday is one of my favorite days to play, so I figured, what the hay, let’s add it to the list somewhere between three and five. I had to spice it up a little, you know, give it some pizazz and make it more dramatic to fit in with the others. Besides, the tablets are, or in this case, were more esthetically pleasing to the eye with a perfect balance: five on one side, five on the other.”

“Makes sense to me.”

A few moments pass, and now He’s a little irritated.

“You don’t put something like the Commandments together willy-nilly. It took a lot of time and effort.”

“Then he,”— pointing to the clubhouse, — “gets an attitude because of those knuckleheads he was leading around and busts them up in a childish fit. I could have dealt with the situation, but noooo, he had to make a scene!”

To lighten the mood, I say, “I guess he was the first to break the Commandments.”

Now God is in a lighter mood and says, “Not really, but he was the first one to break them all at once!”

I respond with, “I guess it’s a good thing he had them memorized.”

We get to the clubhouse, and inside Crabby is giving the club pro a ton of grief about what garbage the irons are. The pro suggests he take a few lessons. After the pro’s comment, Moses tosses the clubs, bag and all, through the window, shattering it into a million pieces.

“Told you so. He’s also the inventor of tantrums. Do your kids ever throw tantrums?”

“Sure they do. Don’t they all?”

Again pointing over at Moses, God says, “Yep, and it all started with him.”

“What a surprise.”

“Tantrums, the inventor he is.”

I wasn’t too sure what he just said, so instead, I repeat Him in my mind using my best “Yoda” impression. Tantrums, the inventor he is.

He asks, “Who is Yoda? And why are you talking so weird?”

I look at Him and say, “Wow, you’re good!” Responding to his apparent mind-reading ability.

“Here’s another one for you and your friend Yoda: Mock Thee not again.”

“Sorry.”

“Thou art forgiven.”

Then He laughs.

Mr. Sunshine storms out of the clubhouse and yells at the two of us, “I’m outta here! I’m going to do something more entertaining, like watch a burning bush!”

Both of us wave and the other guy returns the favor. But if I didn’t see it with my own two eyes, it looked like he… no, he couldn’t have!

Several more minutes go by, and God asks, “Do you want something to drink? How about a Shasta? Jesus loves His wine, but I’ll take a Shasta any day of the week.”

His favorite is black cherry, coincidentally mine too, but He likes it with an umbrella sticking out the top of the can. I must say one thing for sure, there are many surprises up here. Out of nowhere, a ghostly creature flies right above our heads like a jet fighter. I duck and nearly fall to the ground.

Looking up and following its path toward the horizon, I exclaim, “What was that?”

“He doesn’t have a name. We all have a spirit, and He is mine. He is the wind and my breath, but when He does his little flyby routine, we call Him Maverick. Me, Jesus, and my spirit pretty much work as a team.”

More Sunday school memories pop into my head.

“That clears it up. The Father, Son,“—then I point at the vapor trail— “and the Holy Maverick. Am I right?”

“My goodness, aren’t we the quick study!”

Somewhat confused, I say, “I thought you said we were all solid.”

“Sorry about that, I forgot to mention Him.”

I continue to watch Maverick’s flight path and say, “I’ve always had a tough time wrapping my arms around the whole ‘three in one’ concept.”

“It’s not difficult. Did you ever hear of General Motors?”

I have no clue where this is heading, but I’m about to find out.

He takes a pencil from his bag and grabs a score card. God draws three circles, then a bigger one around them.

“The big circle is GM, and the ones within are Chevy, Buick, and Ford.”

I don’t bother to correct the Ford blunder.

“You see, all are General Motors cars, different, but still the same, yet one. Comprendo?”

“Si, senor.”

He does have a way of explaining things even a lawyer like me can grasp.

“Tony, I’ve got a joke for you.”

“Fire away.”

“It’s a humdinger. Are you ready?”

“I can’t wait.”

“OK, here it goes. Stop me if you’ve heard it.”

I think in my mind, “I wouldn’t even if I had; I’m not taking any chances.”

“May I please begin?”

“Go for it.”

“Thank you, Tony.”

“Here we go.”

“A man was having a conversation with God, —that would be me, then he asks,

Tell me, God, I am curious, what is a million years to you?

I answer,

A second, my child.

Well then, the man continues,

What is a million dollars to you?

Again I reply,

A penny.

So the man asks,

Can I borrow a penny?

Again I answer,

Certainly, in just a second.”

God busts out laughing and slaps me on the back.

“That’s the funniest joke I know!”

I reach around and rub my back as best I can.

“Yeah, a real rib-tickler.”

We spend a few minutes doing much of nothing; our eyes were just wandering about.

Still reeling from the slap I say, “You don’t look like I expected.”

“What were you expecting? Long gray hair and a robe? Oh yeah, let’s not forget the halo.”

“Now that you mention it, yes. You seem so gentle and frail.”

“Frail? I’m not the one who croaked!”

“Good point.”

We are standing around enjoying our sodas, then God casually asks, “You know who I can’t wait to play golf with?”

I peek around as if looking for someone.

I turn away from Him, and in a low tone reply, “I’m not too sure, but I bet they can.”

He takes a sip from his Shasta, then answers his own question. “John Daly. I like his style.”

“That would be fun. The way he’s been living, you might not have to wait long.”

Curiously, He asks, “What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Forget about it.”

Then He says in a pout, “Every day I check with the pro shop to see if he made it. The best I can do is hope and wait. I have a pair of plaid slacks just like his.”

Pointing to a golf cart beside the clubhouse, says, “We reserved a spot just for him and left it parked and ready just in case he arrives. Look over there. See the name plaque? John D. I had it hand-lettered in gold, and not that cheap stuff either.”

“Good planning, and a very nice sign.”

I noticed the cart moments earlier; it included cigarettes and a six-pack.

Pointing at them, I say, “I thought those things weren’t allowed.”

“Usually they’re not, but playing with John wouldn’t seem right without them. I guess it’s for the ambiance. They’re more like decorations.”

“You’re right. It wouldn’t be the same without a smoke and a cold brew when he plays.”

He stands up and walks over to the golf cart.

“You mentioned something about ‘how he’d been living’. I haven’t kept up, but is John doing alright these days?”

“He’s been playing some impressive golf lately.”

He solemnly utters, “That’s nice.”

I pick up this strange gizmo, like some kind of collapsing practice club. I’d never seen one and play with it. It clangs and clatters with every move I make trying to figure out what it does.

In a huff, He says, “Excuse me,” then reaches over and tries to snatch it from me, but I jerk it back away from His reach.

“Please put that down and listen to me.”

I cradle the little device like a newborn out of His grasp and said, “OK, I’m listening.”

God leans in close and asks, “Hoooow is he doing?”

It finally occurs to me God is wondering about his health.

I was turn away for just a second, then He snatches the little device away from me and starts messing with it in about the same way I did.

“I’m checking with security and find out how this little annoying thing got in here.”

Then He rattles and shakes it in a bit of a fit. He is still fidgeting with it, and I could hear Him say to Himself, “You would think that I could figure this thing out.”

God stops doing what He was doing and then looks me square in the eyes and impatiently asks, “Well?”

I replay, “I read that he’s cut way back on his smoking and drinking.”

God turns away, tosses the contraption into a nearby trashcan and sighs.

“You could have gone all day long without telling me that depressing news.”

“You asked.”

I chug the rest of my Shasta, toss the empty into the same trashcan and retrieve the little gadget. At once turns into a snake and begins to strike at me. In a panic, both my arms start flailing about, and the snake is flying all over the place in unison with the flailing. During this melee, I keep the beast an arms’ length away and hold a tight grip with both hands. It continues its hissing and attempted strikes, thankfully missing its mark. I must have looked like a crazed snake handler! I free myself from the reptile and throw it back into the trashcan. God is laughing hysterically as I carefully inspect myself for snake bites. Still shaking, my sarcasm came through loud and clear.

“Ha, ha, ha, very amusing, Frank.”

He regains His composure, but still laughing, God says, “I can’t figure out what it does, but now I know what it is!”

The monster crawls out of the trashcan and slithers away, then He busts out laughing again.

We make our way over to the cart and grab our positions. He sits on the driver’s seat, and I plop down on the passenger’s side. For a few seconds, God begins lightly tapping the top of one of the beer with a pencil, pinging it with each tap. Then He speeds up the tapping, turning the subtle pinging into a snare drum solo. He stops then stares out into the distance.

He turns to me and says, “You know if I wanted to, I could move things along a little quicker.”

Then He looks away and continues to stare.

Right then, and in an instant, His voice turns into an irritated, elevated pitch, and again, looks right at me.

“You mean to tell me he doesn’t even have a cold?”

“Nope. According to the papers, he’s as fit as a fiddle and stronger than an ox.”

Quietly God says, “We’ll see about that.”

He turns back away from me and continues to gaze at an open field. “Someday… someday. Perhaps I should practice what I preach and be patient.”

I place my hand on His shoulder and offer some support.

“There, there, it’ll be alright. If we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it.”

“I was wondering when those words were going to come back and haunt me.” Then He perks up. “By the way, very impressive! Romans 8:25, I do believe. Am I right?”

“Not a clue. I read it on the back of the scorecard. You’re not going to turn me into a toad or something, are you?”

“Don’t push it, Mister.”

A short while later after some more silence, I mention the shot which almost killed me… I mean, almost killed me again.

“I’ve never seen anything like it! The way his ball stopped in mid-air and went around my head! It was incredible! Who does he think he is—Jesus Christ?”

Moses peeks from around the corner holding a charred stick and a flaming marshmallow and says, “No, he thinks he’s Arnold Palmer!”