When I was seven years old, I died.
Oh, obviously I was brought back. I had some sort of infection and was given a LOT of penicillin. One Saturday, after a booster shot, my body said “No more”.
My mom and I had just got home, about 10:30 or so, and I started itching. Itching. ITCHING. Enormous weals formed on my arms and legs and my mom promptly called the doctor, who said, bring her in now.
Our hospital was about half-an-hour from our home and mom drove as she never had before. I remember getting about half way and then I don’t remember anything until about 4:00 p.m. when I woke up in the emergency room and the doctor asked if I was ready to go home. Naturally, I said yes.
The only real short-term side effect was a sore breastbone, which I didn’t understand (at least not until much later).
My one lasting memory (aside from the crazy ride towards the hospital) was of a beautiful meadow. Only I didn’t really remember it as such — only that I kept looking for it, if that makes any sense. I think I’ve spent my whole life looking for it — and deep inside I know I won’t see it this side of eternity.
The reason I’m telling you about this is that the other long-term thing that happened is that I have no doubts about the existence of God or that there will be an afterlife. I’m a little afraid of dying, but I’m not afraid of Death at all. I know the Author of every breath I take and one day I’ll get to see Him again.
Peace to you, and a blessed Easter. He is risen, indeed!