My Journey to Heaven: What I Saw and How It Changed My Life (8 page)

P
eter looked in the Book of Life for no more than half a minute to forty seconds at the most. Naturally, it didn’t take him long to discover that my name wasn’t in that Book, for that day.

As I waited, I had the chance to look around me, in the place I think of as the inner gate, an open-air location between the outer gate and the crystalline passageway that led into heaven.

I stood on green, deluxe grass, the shade of which no earthbound person has ever seen. The space was open and almost empty. Other than the stone shelf I described, the one holding the Book of Life, there was no other furniture, not even a chair for Peter to sit in. Although, when you think about it, Peter probably didn’t need a chair. He didn’t need to rest even for one minute.

When I looked up, there was no ceiling to the inner gate. In front of me, just a few feet from where Peter was looking at the Book, a glasslike gate rose upward and disappeared into a mist, like the stone shelf did. Behind me, the dark wood gate also vanished in a swirl of filmy vapor.

Peter and the stone shelf were no more than two or three feet away from what I knew instinctively was the gate of heaven. Within moments I would be given a chance to see inside that gate and witness incredible things, but at the moment I was preoccupied with where I stood then and what I saw from there—a shining blue sea.

Lake Heaven

As I said, Peter was wearing the clothes of his day, loose robes tied with a fabric belt of some kind. In my mind, those were fishing clothes, and when I saw the lake or sea ahead, and the fishing boats, I had a sense that Peter could and would enjoy the water whenever he wanted to, though I didn’t see a soul out there at the time.

About sixty yards away, in the middle left of the panorama before me, were some old fishing boats pulled up on the shore of a huge, rippling lake. The boats looked worn and aged, not sleek and razzy dazzy like the boats we see zooming around on Lake Michigan. If I saw a boat like the ones I saw in heaven here on earth, I’d think, “There’s an old lugger.”

There were just a few boats—I didn’t count how many—and they lay on a sandy, rocky seashore. The blue of the lake was a darker, less brilliant blue than the shade of heaven’s sky, and the surface had a few gentle waves. Like an ocean or one of the Great Lakes, I couldn’t see the other side.

I only looked at the lake briefly, because soon Peter was back from checking the Book of Life.

A Hardheaded Hollander

I was in for quite a shock when Peter returned and broke my reverie.

“Marv,” he said, looking slightly puzzled. “I can’t find your name for today.”

“For today.” . . . What in the world did that mean? I’m sure my mouth dropped open.

I was instantly disappointed.
What’s happening? I thought that once you made it this far, you were in, no turning back?
I was confused, but yet I never once thought that maybe I wasn’t really saved.

I knew I was saved. There wasn’t the tiniest doubt in my mind.

And Peter had emphasized the words “for today,” which meant that I wasn’t supposed to go all the way into heaven
that day
. There is, I know, another date God has in mind, known only to him.

Still, I hadn’t processed any of this at that point. All I knew was that I did not want to go back in any way, shape, or form.
Nobody who has ever set foot in heaven would want to go back to earth, not even for a second.

“I don’t want to go back,” I said. “Can you look again?” Peter obliged, returning to the volume of the Book of Life he had been looking at before. Once again, he couldn’t find my name.

The bulldog in me came out as I began to argue with the founder of the worldwide church and one of the New Testament’s dominant figures. I might have remembered that Peter did cut off a man’s ear one time when he got mad. What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time. And I had nothing to lose.

“It’s taken me all these years, a long time, to get this far, to heaven, and I’m not going back now,” I said. “I’m a hardheaded Hollander. It takes me awhile to figure things out. I’m not going back. What can we do?”

Peter didn’t say much, but he seemed to know I wasn’t going to go back voluntarily—nobody ever would. “I think you’re going to have to go back,” he said.

He appeared to be thinking the situation through, and finally he spoke: “Okay, the only thing I can do is go talk to God.”

I didn’t argue with him this time. I actually felt relieved. If my strange circumstance was going to the top, to God himself, then the matter would surely be settled my way, right?

Later, when I was able to do lots of thinking about my heaven experience, I realized something. There are no mistakes in heaven, none whatsoever. Despite all the jokes out there about St. Peter and the gate, no one has ever been accidentally let in and then turned away due to a clerical error! So why couldn’t Peter find my name?

I believe now it was all part of God’s plan. God certainly wasn’t puzzled or surprised by Peter’s news that there was a man waiting at the gate whose name wasn’t “on the list” for the day. He wanted me to see exactly what I saw, no more and no less. God put Peter in place strategically to be a welcomer and a guide. And there was no mistake whatsoever in what happened next, no slip-up on God’s part in what he allowed me to see and experience after Peter left to go talk to him.

Peter turned and walked through the invisible gateway to heaven, and then vanished.

I got as close as I could to the gate, though I couldn’t get through. No, I didn’t get zapped, but there was some kind of invisible barrier preventing me from pushing through. There were so many things to take in just beyond where I was standing.

While Peter left to go talk to God, I stepped as close as I could to heaven’s entranceway. The gate was as clear as glass, though it was a different texture and feel altogether than the glass of, say, sliding patio doors or windows in a home.

I estimate the height of the gate to be about seven feet tall. I’m 6
′
2
″
, and shrinking fast; the gate was above my head but not so much taller that I couldn’t reach my arms up to try to pull on the steel beams. Yes, steel beams, or at least some heavenly version of steel. These beams seemed to be embedded like a huge ribbon in the glassy surface of the gate, fixed within in a giant X shape.

The shape was nearly invisible too, but it had sort of a faint multicolored outline, with red being the most noticeable color. I pressed in close and stared, my eyes popping out of my head. As I looked out into this surreal and beautiful realm, I saw things I will never forget. I saw children and grown-ups of all ages, each one vibrantly healthy, whole, and contented as can be. I saw a multitude of babies, from the tiniest fetus as small as my little finger to bigger babies, toddlers who could jump and play. Was my son William, with his head of dark, thick hair, in this place? I knew he was, and with every fiber of my being I wanted to find him. And then I saw someone I recognized—two people, actually—a couple I had loved on earth and had lost many years before. I pushed and pulled on the gate, but it wouldn’t budge.

The touch and feel of the surface was like no surface I had ever touched in my life. I raised my arms and pulled down on the ribbon of “steel.” People have asked me if it felt like an iron bar, rounded, like a subway turnstile or a monkey bar. I have to say it didn’t feel like that at all; rather, the surface of the ribbon was flat yet elevated, like a raised beam. I pulled down, and nothing happened. I put the full weight of both my arms on the crux of the X and pushed down. Nothing happened.

At some point, I gave up, knowing I couldn’t get in. What I saw still brings tears to my eyes, at least once a day. Beyond the gate into heaven were marvelous sights, a vision of the other side, meant to bring wonder and comfort to me, and to you too.

The first marvels God wanted me to witness and tell you about were the multitude of precious babies.

T
he first thing I saw when I looked out into the huge kingdom before my eyes were all the babies. The doorway had been left open in that middle space, the “inner gate,” and I could see through it as if it were glass. You already know I couldn’t go through that door, no matter how much I wanted to.

Believe me when I tell you there were millions of babies, from the tiniest unborn baby, about the size of my pinkie finger, to babies who were preterm to babies who were born full term, and every age on up from there.

I felt a physical jolt of shock at the sheer numbers of babies, babies upon babies upon babies, each one cherished and loved. They seemed to be grouped by age, from the earliest stages of development on up. The unborn little ones were all together, and then there was another group of babies who were newborns and very small infants.

Years ago, in many church nurseries, they had what was called a “Cradle Roll.” There would be photos of babies born to church members, posted along the wall with the dates these babies were born. It was like a gallery of pride for these new lives growing in the church family. Seeing these babies, grouped by age, it seemed to me like heaven’s version of a Cradle Roll.

On earth, there would be no way for the unborn babies to live outside their mothers’ bodies, but yet here they were, alive and thriving. I knew these babes would grow and bloom here, perfectly safe, entirely happy, and wholly loved. The second their lives ended, by whatever sad circumstance, on this side, the babies arrived in a world more wonderful than any dreams their parents might have had for them. And if they were unwanted on earth, for any reason, those babies were wanted in heaven, highly valued and beloved.

Somehow, I knew all these things to be true without being told.

Seeing those babies in heaven later reminded me of an unusual museum exhibit we visited once, many years ago. Ruth and I had taken a trip to Toronto with my daughter Julie and her husband, Joe. Julie was pregnant with her first child, our first grandchild, and so we were all riveted by the exhibit about unborn babies being held at a local museum. The exhibit showed how babies develop, stage by stage, week by week.

Julie was completely enthralled, looking carefully until she found the one that would be the same size, in terms of fetal development, as hers was. Her son was being knit together, “fearfully and wonderfully,” even at that moment! We all stared in total fascination. No blockbuster movie or playoff game could have held our attention more. We didn’t know then if the baby was a boy or a girl. We didn’t know then how much joy this child would bring us, or that he would grow up to be a fine young man, handsome, kind, and good, a skilled fighter pilot for the US Navy.

But we knew this: that at three weeks, before Julie knew she was pregnant, Andrew’s heart had begun to beat with his own blood, and that at that time his backbone and spinal column had begun to form. At four weeks, he was already ten thousand times larger than the fertilized egg, and at five weeks, his eyes, legs, and hands were taking shape. I saw babies this small in heaven, and their arms and legs were moving. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were as happy and contented as could be.

Later, it made me think of all the pre-born lives that end on earth, lives that begin again in heaven. No matter how those lives ended, I knew without being told there was breath, hope, and life abundant there, even in the tiniest fetus.

When I thought about heaven’s babies afterward, I thought of our other children, our four babies—one lost just after he was born and three others lost to miscarriage. Where were they? What did those babies look like now? If only I could get through the invisible doorway, I knew I could find each one of our lost dear ones.

I say “lost,” because of course we lost them. They were gone, to another world beyond our reach. Time after time, when Ruth miscarried, we felt a loss that we would never forget.

Maybe that’s why I understand how important it is to share with you how I saw those babies in heaven. I know if you’ve lost a baby, you can’t ever forget that tiny boy or girl.

There was one baby who dominated my heart and thoughts, even in heaven. I never held him in my arms, but I loved him dearly, this small boy with my father’s head of thick, dark hair.

Every year on Memorial Day, Ruth and I visit his miniature grave in a section of the cemetery called “Babyland.” When I think of that sweet bundle now, and the short-but-cherished life he had, I am brought to tears despite the many years it’s been since I laid eyes on him.

As I stood there at the gate of heaven, taking in the sight of millions of dear babies, I wanted so intensely to get beyond that impassable partition to the other side. I knew if I could, I could hold my son in my arms for the very first time.

Baby Questions

When I speak to groups about my heaven experience, pretty much every single time the dominant questions are about the babies:

• What did the babies look like?
  
• Who was holding them?
  
• Who was taking care of them?
  
• Were the babies happy?
  

And on and on, people want to know every little detail of what I saw in regard to those babies. So many people I’ve met after my talks are thinking about their own little ones, babies who were miscarried or maybe even aborted.

People tend to open up to an old man with a soft heart; I’ve heard so many sad stories. It’s been my honor to comfort wounded mothers and fathers like me, who also never got to see their babies grow up.

I try to answer their questions as best I can, and leave the rest of their healing up to God. Seeing those babies in heaven feels like a sacred trust to me, one of the most holy and wondrous pieces of my experience.

The babies I saw in heaven were about thirty yards from me, but I could see them clearly and with quite a bit of detail. If you’re wondering how I could see them so well, again, it’s because I was in a different world, where the limitations of our sight on earth just don’t exist.

I’ve had glasses for years, before and since my trip to heaven. I can’t see a thing without them. But once I landed on the other side, my vision improved immeasurably. My eyesight was way beyond what it had been on earth at the peak of my youth and health. But then again, why should that be a surprise? My eyes, my ears, my brain, my body—everything was performing far above par. It’s like I went from a broken down old jalopy to a sleek racecar with a high performance engine, and so did everyone else I saw there. By the way, I never spotted one person in heaven wearing glasses or hearing aids. Hallelujah—I didn’t need my hearing aid up there, either!

The Baby Who Caught My Eye

The babies were thirty yards ahead of me, yet it was if I was holding them in my arms and gazing at them—that’s how plainly I could see them.

Those precious ones were in all stages of development, from a minuscule fetus several weeks after conception to babies twenty to thirty weeks along in their development.

There were little ones with newly shaped eyelids, noses, and toes. Scientists and doctors tell us that even a seven-week-old fetus can kick and swim, and some of these small ones were kicking their legs. We are told that by weeks eleven and twelve, most babies can grab for something with their hands, or even suck their thumbs. I saw babies that small waving their arms and hands, like babies do.

The smallest ones were grouped together. One baby caught my eye, and I knew that he had been aborted—it was one of those times in heaven that I was given a deeper knowledge beyond intuition and impression. This sweet, tiny person was about as big as my finger, and moving slightly. He looked a bit different somehow from the other babies; he was very small yet defined. I can’t tell you exactly how old he was, but I would guess between seven and nine weeks. We are told that fetuses that age have every one of their organs in place by then, with miniature bones replacing cartilage, and fingerprints beginning to form. By the eighth week, the baby can begin to hear, and by the ninth week he can hiccup. “Fearfully and wonderfully made,” indeed!

I don’t know this baby’s story, but I knew he was as happy and adored as all the other children in heaven.

Cherished and Nurtured Forever

There seemed to be a continuing graduation of ages and stages. Older babies, those who could walk and talk, were in another group. These older babies had their own special place in heaven, just beyond the littlest ones.

I got the sense the babies were very happy and contented. They seemed completely peaceful and satisfied, lacking in nothing, like a baby who has just had his bottle. I remember feeding my own children and grandchildren, and how they’d be fussy and unsettled before I gave them their bottle. After draining the good stuff to the last drop, they’d just lie there, well fed, cared for, relaxed, without a worry in the world. That’s how these babies were in heaven.

One of the top questions folks ask me about the babies is, who was holding them? The answer is, nobody was holding them, because babies in heaven simply don’t need to be held.
Well, that doesn’t sound very nice,
you may be thinking to yourself.
Those babies were just lying there on the hard ground?

I might have thought the same thing myself, had I not seen these comfortable tiny ones in heaven with my own eyes. And they really were as comfortable, happy, and fulfilled as any baby I have ever seen on this earth.

None of them wore diapers, although the older babies had some kind of simple clothing on, nothing elaborate. They just didn’t have to be fed, burped, changed, or bathed like babies here do.

That’s not to say that babies in heaven are never held. I bet they are held and often, because all things are wonderful and pleasing in that place, and what’s more wonderful and pleasing than holding a baby?

I imagine the grass they were lying close to was softer than any blanket that ever swaddled a baby down here. I say lying “close to” because there was a layer of space between the babies and that green grass. You could almost say they were resting on air pillows—that’s the best way I can describe the surface in which those babies were cradled. They were also cradled in the perfect love of God, wholly joyful and basking in the warmth of his light and presence. Even though there were so many babies, I sensed that the numbers didn’t matter. Each one was cherished and nurtured, because there is no more nurturing place we can imagine than God’s home. In heaven, there’s more than enough love to go around.

William John Besteman

When we lost our little boy in 1960, some people said all the wrong things. They told us it was God’s will that he died, or else that there was something wrong with the baby, so that losing him was really for the best.

If you’ve lost a child, you know these sugarcoated offerings of condolence are about as helpful as a kick in the head. Ruth and I were not comforted by these words. They are the last things we would ever say to someone reeling from the grief of losing a baby.

Right after we had Julie, we lost two babies in a row, within months of each other. Both of them were miscarried very early on, at the six-week mark. Still, they were significant losses.

Ruth had had a totally normal pregnancy with Julie, a textbook-perfect nine months of growing the life inside her. So we were quite unnerved and then overwhelmed by the string of miscarriages and tragedy that followed. When she got pregnant for the third time after Julie, she began spotting almost right away. But we weren’t terribly worried, even when the doctor put Ruth on bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy.

I was working at the bank by then, making peanuts, but that was okay. Back then we were happy to live on love and peanuts (or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which was the case). I was at work all day, which left Ruth trapped in her bed, trying to watch a lively toddler and keep her from demolishing the house.

We learned that bed rest doesn’t really jive with a busy eighteen-month-old, who loved nothing more than to climb up the cupboards and drink salt—that kind of thing. Soon, relief workers were called in to help, and Julie spent most days with Ruth’s mother or mine.

At the thirty-week mark of her pregnancy, Ruth suffered what is called a “placental abruption,” a serious complication of later pregnancy; apparently the lining of her placenta had separated from her uterus. She was pale, bleeding, and in lots of pain. Lying in our bed and keeping still was no longer an option, and Ruth needed to be hospitalized immediately. In 1960, this condition also threatened the life of the mother as well as the baby, so we were all worried to pieces. Would I lose Ruth as well as this baby?

Ruth was admitted to the hospital, and she spent the next four weeks on her back, barely moving, a brave warrior mother fighting to save her baby. Still, Ruth is nothing if not resourceful; while lying as flat as a pancake, she managed to knit a sweater for the baby, holding her arms as motionless as possible just above her chest. Later, when she was discharged, a young doctor who had been attending her was surprised to see her walking around. “Ruth, I had no idea you were that tall,” he said. The doc had only ever seen her lying there, horizontal. “And I had no idea you were that short,” she shot back. Ruth has always been gifted with the one-liner, even in her darkest days.

At thirty-four weeks, Ruth began bleeding heavily, despite her every effort to keep still and the staff’s every effort to keep that baby inside of her longer. The doctors had no choice but to perform a C-section and take the baby early. We were told Ruth would have died had they not taken the baby immediately.

Our wonderful doctor, Dr. Grey, had been so good to us throughout the ordeal. (I remember how we paid him $5 a week for a long time, and even that was a hardship. It’s funny, the things you keep in your memory, years after a sad event.)

Knowing Ruth was a nurse, Dr. Grey explained the situation to her in medical terms. He was very kind, yet he would not give her any false hope. He told us there was a 10 percent chance the baby would live. Ruth knew this meant the odds were almost impossible. We had very little hope, but the thing about hope is that you grab on to whatever shred of it you possibly can while it still exists.