Don hadn’t read Meet Me in Heaven: A Journey, but he’d read enough about it to get the gist: A seven-year-old kid from Arizona falls off his roof trying to retrieve an overthrown baseball, slips and falls, smacks his skull on the driveway and the lights go out. Brain swells dangerously as he bleeds into the concrete. Rushed to hospital yada yada, thrown into surgery … cue the coma.
Twice the boy had been declared clinically dead. Twice he had flatlined. Twice he had been miraculously revived. After the ordeal, doctors prepared the parents for potential brain damage, warned them of a reality in which their only son might not ever wake up.
Goodnight sweet prince.
The parents, Joseph and Joy Divine, who were also co-pastors at a small Presbyterian church outside Janesville, prayed over his lifeless body day and night… prayed for a miracle.
And then it happened. And their lives changed forever.
It was just like in the movies: two weeks later, little Lake woke up, amazement in his eyes. Scans and tests revealed no brain damage, no lingering effects. The Divines purported the power of prayer, and local reporters flocked to the boy’s bedside for the feel-good scoop.
And boy, did they get one.
Lake revealed that while he’d been settled deep within the dark womb of his coma, he’d been in a different realm. The near-death of his mind and body had opened a mystical portal to the beyond and allowed his spirit to pass through.
He spoke of bright lights and a shining cloud city. God himself had cradled the boy in his arms, spoke warm parables into his ethereal ear. Jesus Christ was there as well, and a host of angels sang a chorus upon his arrival to the majestic land beyond.
Mere days after the story hit the papers, the three Divines were booked on national morning shows. Soon thereafter they landed a big-time New York agent, a book deal that went to the highest bidder. The first print run alone had been reported at more than a million copies worldwide. Not quite Harry Potter numbers, Don mused, but close. There was even chatter of a red-hot bidding war between some of the biggest Hollywood studios for feature film rights.
And just like that ….
Yeah, just like that, Don thought, and picked up one of the slim, glossy books off the top of a pile, stared at the pale face of the smiling boy on the cover, his teeth bared, his blue eyes wide and eager.
Believe me! that face said. Believe me or else!
Don flipped open the cover, turned past the title page to the Prologue. Without understanding why, and for the very first time, he decided to read a bit, first-hand, about this miraculous experience of Lake Divine ….
WE ALL DREAM.
When we wake up, we try to remember those dreams. Sometimes we tell our parents, or loved ones, or best friends maybe, about this “wild” or “crazy” dream we had in the night, while our bodies were powered down, sleeping like robots with our control knobs set to “Sleep.” Or, perhaps, “Dream.”
But dreams are hard to remember, right? My father once told me that dreams are part of a hidden world within our minds. The subconscious. Where our greatest fears and desires live and breed, only we can’t see them; we don’t even know they’re there.
When we sleep, though, the door to those lands open, and we can explore, even though sometimes it can be scary! And maybe, when you wake up, you might remember being scared. Or maybe, just maybe, you remember how unusual the dream may have been. But you don’t really remember it, do you? Not really. You only remember bits and pieces. Glimpses. Random images or snippets of feelings.
For instance, you might remember it taking place in the water (perhaps a great black lake if it’s a nightmare!). Or in the mountains. Or at your house, or the home you grew up in. But the details would be vague. Cloudy. Shrouded in a mist that only unveils the “dream reality” while you’re asleep, then pulls it back tightly across that vision once you’re awake again, alert to experiences of the real world once more.
And the door is closed.
Soon, the dream evaporates. The curtain has done its work. The memory, if that’s what you wish to call it, is gone.
Don was sweating. He turned the page with a trembling hand.
But that’s not what happened to me. I had a dream that wasn’t a dream.
I dreamed of a great cloud city, with golden spires of impossible height, and streets that shone like diamonds. Of beautiful creatures that soared through the air…
Don felt the book grow heavy in his hands. The words blurred. A bead of sweat rolled off his chin, fell to the page and was absorbed.
…and crawled at my feet. And I know that it was not a dream.
It was REAL.
Don’t believe me? Then ask. Go on… ask me how I know it was real.
Ask me how I know it wasn’t a dream, Don.
Don’s eyes went wide. The words on the page twisted, the way a body might contort in horrible anguish. They reformed into characters he didn’t recognize, into words that could never be pronounced by a human tongue. He felt something snap open at the top of his spine, where the fibers of the body’s nerves tapped into the brain. Something hot spurted into his head, and Don slammed the book closed, shuddered violently. He felt a roll of nausea in his guts and set the thing down. Wet with perspiration, he unconsciously wiped the palm of his hand onto his pants, as if the slick dustjacket had been soiled, or greasy.
A hand fell on his shoulder, and Don forced himself not to scream. His nose filled with the high-pitched scent of chemical flowers, he heard the rustle of stiff, heavy fabric. Warm breath tinged with stale peppermint tickled his ear.
“Isn’t it glorious?” Sue said, picking up (with the reverence one might lift a valuable, and fragile, antique) the very copy Don had all but thrown down, as if he’d found the pages infested with venomous spiders.
Sue hugged the book tightly to her bosom, closed her eyes and hummed what sounded to Don like an old hymn. “He’s inscribing mine right now,” she said proudly, but also a little devilishly, knowing she’d broken an unspoken rule by asking for an inscription from an author prior to a store signing (employee requests coming after the customers, and if time permitted—always). “I’ve already read it of course, but I’ll give that copy to a friend. Or perhaps a donation to my church library. I’m sure they’ll be desperate for copies.” Sue laughed, then gave a short snort, like a hiccup with teeth. Don was pretty sure she belched a little, and wondered he smelled the taint of digested eggs coming off her breath along with the peppermint. He didn’t overthink it.
“Sure, Sue,” was all he said in response.
“Anyway, just wanted to make sure you knew it’s five ‘til, Don,” Sue said. Her voice, husky and moist, was energized, her excitement reaching a boiling point. “Almost time.”
Don’t get your knickers all wet, Old Sue, he thought, then quickly, and silently, admonished himself. He was letting Tom’s cynical voice slither into him and made a note to draw a firmer line with Tom when he misspoke. If for no other reason than to keep himself on the straight and narrow. He was the Manager, after all.
“Yeah, okay,” he said, and sighed. He looked around once more to make sure everything was in order, then nodded. “I’ll open things up. Why don’t you talk with our young author, give him a ten-minute warning.”
Sue nodded vigorously and sashayed off to get the child, prepare to bring him forth for the eager crowd. Don pulled a thick ball of keys from his pocket and headed toward the front doors, where a multitude of eager wet eyes awaited him.
