My Journey to Heaven: What I Saw and How It Changed My Life (9 page)

Our son William John Besteman was born on that day. He weighed two pounds five ounces and had a full head of dark, curly hair. We named him William for Ruth’s father and John for my grandfather. (Years later when we had our fourth child, a boy, the last thing we wanted was to name him after me. I am a Marvin Junior, and we had so many mix-ups with people calling our house looking for my dad, and so forth. Our son Mark has thanked us many times that he’s not Marvin the Third.)

As Dr. Grey had feared, William had a condition called “hyaline membrane disease,” which meant his little lungs were too sticky to expand properly and take in air. Today, they call this infant respiratory distress syndrome, or RDS. In a nutshell, it’s a set of symptoms in premature babies caused by lack of a protein that helps keep their airways dry. This, combined with immature lungs, is what affected our baby. (In 1963, Patrick Bouvier Kennedy, son of President John F. Kennedy and First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy, died of RDS two days after his premature birth at thirty-four weeks, the same number of weeks at which we lost William.)

Today, this disease affects only 1 percent of newborns, yet it’s the leading cause of death in preterm babies. Still, had William been born today, undoubtedly the doctors could have saved him, even though he was born six weeks early. Because of the developmental stage at which he was born, and the fact that it was 1960, nothing short of a miracle could have saved our baby.

Ruth never saw her firstborn son. Neither one of us held him in our arms. Back in those days, that was just the way things were done, even though by today’s standards it seems cruel. Ruth had lost so much blood she was totally out of it for hours after she had given birth via C-section. She woke up from the surgery a few hours after William was born, but the staff must have felt she was too frail to be wheeled over to the preemie nursery. It was a different time and place back then; the rules were different. As soon as they pulled him out, William was whisked away and placed in an incubator.

I was twenty-six years old; Ruth was twenty-five. I was young and strong and capable, but I felt as beaten down and defeated as a crippled old man that day. I walked down the cold corridor of the hospital in a daze, looking for the preemie nursery where they had taken my son. When I found the right room, I stood rooted to the floor until my feet went numb, and still I kept standing there. A glass window stood between me and my son. Little did I know that many years later another clear divide would separate me and my son, this time in heaven.

Of the ten hours William lived, I must have stood there for six of them, gazing at his tiny little body, swaddled in blankets and lying so still in a glass box. I couldn’t hold him, or even touch his arm, smaller than my thumb. I was unable to tell him I loved him, or offer any kind of comfort or reassurance. I was powerless to even stand by his side and tell him, “Daddy’s here. Daddy’s here.” I wasn’t allowed any nearer to him than I was, separated by the glass. I felt powerless, and for a father who would do anything for his children, this was a terrible, terrible feeling.

So I did the one thing I could do for him: I stood there and watched over him, staring at him with a mixture of love and agony. Most of the time, I felt numb, because I knew there was little chance he would make it. Tears would roll down my cheeks at different intervals as well; we were losing this baby—it was just a matter of time.

In this miserable fog, I noted that William had his grandfather’s full head of dark hair. Our other babies were bald or blonde, but this kid had the Besteman hair in abundance. He lay almost completely still, but every once in a while he would move an arm or a leg. Every time the baby moved at all, it was a big deal.

And then finally he didn’t move anymore. When they moved the incubator away from my line of vision, I knew he had passed away.

It didn’t take long for me to turn around and make my way to Ruth’s room. She had been awake for just a few hours and was still in rough shape from the surgery and losing all the blood. When I walked into her room to tell her our son had died, I didn’t have to say a word. She could tell by the look on my face that he was gone.

When I See William Again

People told us afterward, “You can have more children,” which is really a knuckleheaded thing to say, if you think about it. Oh, I know, they were trying to be comforting, trying to cheer us up, as if there was a bright side after all. Folks so often don’t know what to say when someone loses a loved one, never mind a child. They either say nothing, pretending your loved one never existed, or they blather on with these candy-coated nuggets of “sympathy.”

My suggestion in times like these? Say very little, only “I’m so sorry. I love you. I am praying for you.” Say little, but show much. Convey your sympathy through hugs, cards, meals, and any practical thing you can do to help.

Because, if you’ve lost a child, you know that, at that moment, you don’t want “more children.”

You want the one who has left you, now and always. Oh, you move on, eventually, because that’s the way life is. We look at people who lose their first child, and we wonder how they keep going. Our “bright side” was indeed Julie, our busy little girl. We had to keep moving for her sake. But what people don’t understand is that your heart never forgets the one you lost, no matter how many more come before or after.

It’s a good thing God doesn’t put all these things in front of us, for us to know about before they happen.

The worst thing was picking out William’s little casket, all by myself. Ruth was in the hospital for at least ten days after the baby died. When I went down to the funeral home, they had these little boxes, all lined up. Oh, it was so very difficult.

The funeral was very small, just me and my parents at the funeral home. Ruth was not allowed to leave the hospital for William’s little service.

He has a little headstone, and once a year on Memorial Day we visit the grave and think about what could have been.

We have a nephew, Scott, who would be close to William’s age, about fifty-one now. As we’ve watched Scott grow and as he has reached his various milestones in life, we’ve thought of William, and what he would have been doing. Would he have played hockey, like me and Mark, or chosen a different hobby? Who would he have married? How many children would he have had?

And then of course we have thought about what he’s doing in heaven. What did he look like now? What kind of man did he grow up to be in that perfect place? Or did he grow up? In my mind, he’s still my dark-haired baby boy. Others who have shared with me their stories of losing babies long to hold their babies in their arms once they get to heaven. Yet many people believe that babies grow up in heaven. Truly, it’s impossible to know on this earth. This is yet another matter best left to God’s sovereignty. The most important thing to remember is that all God’s children, no matter the age they died, are with him, safe and loved. When the curtain is parted and we can see them again, all will be revealed, perfectly!

Naturally, we didn’t have a chance to have William baptized. Now, some people might worry about that, and think that maybe a baby who hasn’t been baptized wouldn’t make the cut into heaven.

That never bothered me. I never did buy the teaching that you have to be baptized to go to heaven. I knew William was there from the moment the nurses pushed that incubator out of the preemie nursery, and I knew he was in heaven years later, when I was there too.

But once again, I wasn’t allowed past the glassy screen to see William.

It was a big disappointment to me that I couldn’t get past that gate to find William, but apparently it wasn’t the right time for me to find him. Next time I go, God only knows when, I will have a one-way ticket only. That’s when all the years of separation will fall away. That’s when I’ll meet my son, and walk with him and talk with him and be with him until the end of time.

I
grew up on the southwest side of Grand Rapids, Michigan, on Cleveland Street, the oldest of three boys born to hearty Dutch parents who loved us and raised us to love God.

It was all a long, long time ago, but when I think about my childhood and those who raised me up to be the man I am, I feel blessed. Mine wasn’t a perfect upbringing, but by and large it was nurturing and secure.

Memories come now in snapshots: we lived close to a pond, and after school on winter afternoons, I would lace up my skates and play hockey with my friends. I’d forget supper. I’d forget homework. I’d forget everything to play hockey. That became my love.

As a family, we would head to Silver Lake on Memorial Day weekend and open up our cottage. What I remember most is my brothers and me shivering in the cold water, trying to get the dock and boat ready. Meanwhile, my dad stood on the dock, giving orders, warm and toasty in his hip waders. Sometimes we’d be in that chilly water for hours. I think my dad thought it would build character.

I was short then. I grew into a tall man, but I was the smallest kid in my class until the summer between ninth and tenth grade. I must have grown five inches during that summer.

So many years have passed between then and now. I had no idea then of the lasting influence my parents and other family members would have in my life. I had no idea how much I would miss them when they died. We don’t know until someone is gone what they mean to us.

Beloved Faces

Beyond the impenetrable gate of heaven was a world I had never imagined, of luscious, green grass and a sky of periwinkle, woven with aqua, knit with cobalt, and laced with sapphire. I know bankers don’t usually talk like that, but most bankers haven’t seen what I’ve seen. I’ve also been told I have a poetic streak.

I had already been captivated by the color and light show as I waited outside heaven’s gate. But now, I was actually getting the chance to peek inside. I saw the babies first and watched them for a while.

And then, much to my delight and surprise, I started to see people whom I immediately recognized, just a few of those who had meant the world to me before they died and joined God to dwell in that place he has prepared for us.

There were six of them whose beloved faces I knew. Some of them had been living there for many years, and some had left this earth more recently. One dearly loved family member had died just two months before I saw him. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw how he appeared, how drastic and complete had been his physical transformation. Oh, how wonderful he looked!

I want you to know what these six people meant to me. I want to tell you how they were significant in my life. But most of all, I want you to think about those
you
love, who live in heaven too. I know how dearly you miss their faces, voices, and touch, because I miss my own heavenly residents the same way. When I tell you about the six people I saw in heaven, and how drastically altered, yet utterly familiar, each one was, I hope you find deep comfort in the telling. I know you want them back with you—it’s only human to want that. But I promise you, they are healthy and whole beyond your wildest dreams.

What would you do for the chance to lay eyes for just a few more moments on someone you’ve loved and lost? What would it mean to you to share eye contact and trade smiles and wave at them and have them wave back at you? You’d probably give anything, especially if you knew that your loved ones have never looked better. No matter what manner of death they faced when they left this earth, I’m telling you—those you lost have never looked more alive!

Some of my loved ones died in old age, frail and diminished, yet having lived many good years. Other lives ended much too young, falling to horrible, debilitating diseases. The way they looked when they died broke the hearts of all who treasured them. But how they appeared when I saw them in heaven? Each one was a miracle.

Grandma and Grandpa Besteman

The first people I saw in heaven were my grandparents, Grace and Adrian Besteman.

They were about twenty yards away from me, inside the gate. I could have thrown a football easily and Grandma or Grandpa could have caught it. I tried again to push my way in so I could run over and say hello and hug them, but the unseen “force field” wouldn’t shift one iota.

My grandparents were separated by about ten feet; each walked separately but both of them saw me right away. Grandma smiled and waved, and I waved back, hardly believing my eyes. She had been gone for so many years. Grandpa, my old fishing buddy, grinned at me and motioned for me to come inside. He had been gone even longer than Grandma.

My Besteman grandparents had arrived in America as young people, immigrants from the Netherlands. They met in Grand Rapids and raised their family there. Grandpa was in the produce business, like so many of the Dutch immigrants. He dealt with all kinds of fruits and vegetables, buying them from the markets in Chicago and having them transported to Grand Rapids. I remember there were always cut-up carrots and celery with something to dip them in on their table when I’d come to visit as a boy. Grandma, a petite lady with a knack in the kitchen, had a way with banana bread. I never smell a loaf of banana bread baking without thinking of her.

Grandpa had the patience of Job. When I remember him, it’s usually a memory involving the two of us sitting for hours in a boat on Baptist Lake, waiting for a fish to nibble. We’d troll for pike or maybe throw in some lures for bass, but it seemed we always sat and sat, he the uncomplaining grandfather, and I the seven-year-old with ants in my pants.

Four generations of Bestemans: Marv, his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather

Marv (right) and his brother, Ron

Grandpa and his son, my dad, both died with a full head of curly, black hair. And here I sit, bald, without a hope in the world of getting any of it back.

But baldness was the last thing on my mind as I stared at Grandma and Grandpa. They had both died in their old age, bedridden and withered versions of who they had once been.

Yet, here they stood before me, just sixty feet away, flourishing and vibrant, with rosy cheeks and a spring in their steps. Both of them were wearing clothing similar to what they wore on earth, and they appeared to be the age they were when they died. Still, Grandma and Grandpa looked like no other eighty-five-year-olds I have ever seen walking around here. I kid you not. Had I thrown a pass at them, both of them gave the impression they could’ve easily jumped up and snatched it, thrown it back to me, and started a rousing game of tackle football. Grandma and Grandpa! I was totally amazed.

Mom

Then I saw my mother, Marjorie Sweers Besteman, the mom who had poured her heart and soul into her three boys. My heart jumped when I saw her—I had dearly missed her—but again I was held back from entering heaven beyond the gate.

She was the best mom a boy could ask for. My parents’ place was a favorite spot for my friends to hang out. We lived next door to an empty lot with a basketball hoop, for one. But the main draw was my mother, who fed me and my friends almost continuously. She would take out a batch of cookies and start the next batch before that one had cooled down.

My mother never put away the vacuum cleaner. When she wasn’t baking, she was vacuuming. And even though she was a big, strapping Dutch woman, Mom always, always wore a dress. I’m fairly sure she wore some kind of dress/bathing suit hybrid to the beach too.

She was thoroughly dedicated to her three boys, attending all of our ball games in good weather and bad. In some ways, she was a single mom, as my dad worked sixty hours a week or more, six days a week, running the produce distribution company. He bought and sold vegetables and fruits through the J. A. Besteman Company, just like his dad before him.

When I was a teenager, I had a curfew of 11:00 p.m. If I was out too late with the car, I could never get away with it. Dad would leave for work at 1:00 a.m. most nights, and he would feel the hood of the car when he left home to see if it was cool or warm. If it was warm, no car for me for a week. He took the keys away and gave them to my mother for safekeeping. Little did he know Mom would always feel sorry for me and relent after about two days. This is what I mean by us boys being spoiled rotten by the woman.

My mother had a very open mind in some ways, and she had an earthy side to her. She had a saying, “If you put your bottom in this chair, your legs will follow.” But she didn’t use the word “bottom.” Actually, there are a few sayings my mom had that I can’t repeat in this book! Ask me sometime and I’ll tell you all about it.

Yes, Mom was open-minded, unless one of her boys was being naughty, and that was that. She kept a ruler on a peg over the door to each of our rooms. If we stepped too far out of line, that ruler would come down and she would start whaling on us. Have I mentioned she was a strapping lady? Ouch! But yet, in many ways she let us get away with murder.

Other than us stepping over the line, there was one area in which Marjorie Besteman did not have an open mind: she was a stickler for observing the Sabbath, and that’s putting it mildly. In her mind, Sundays were a day for devoted reverence to God, a day set apart for attending church morning and evening, and showing deep piety in the hours in between. At least we had to
show
piety to whoever might be watching us. We boys could dangle our feet in the water off the dock at Silver Lake, but we couldn’t immerse our whole bodies in it, no matter how hot it was. We could play ball behind the house where no one could see us, but not out front. And we could ride our bikes in the basement but not outside, where the neighbors might see us and allegedly stumble in their walk with the Lord. If it sounds legalistic to you, imagine how hemmed-in a trio of rambunctious boys felt. But despite this one ironclad rule, Mom was usually a softie to her boys and we loved her dearly.

She adored us boys, but her biggest disappointment in life was that she didn’t have a girl. Later in her golden years, she had six granddaughters in a row and she was in her glory.

Mom lived a long, happy life, eventually dying at the age of ninety from heart failure. In her last days, she had lost so much weight she hardly looked like herself. I remember one of the last things she said to me: “I never wanted to be the first one to go. Take care of your dad, Marv. He won’t last more than six months after I am gone.” Dad actually lived six more years and hadn’t yet died when I had my heaven experience. He must have been heartier than Mom thought he was! Incidentally, when my dad died in his nineties, his eyes were terribly clouded, nearly blinded, with macular degeneration. The second before he closed his eyes for the last time, his eyes cleared up completely. God had restored his sight, just in time to see heaven’s sights.

The last time I saw Mom, she was fragile and weak, her chubby cheeks sunken and gray. One by one, her organs were shutting down. I wasn’t there at the moment her life actually passed on, but when she did, it was such a blow to me. She was old enough to die—even I was old by that time. But you only have one mother.

As I stood there at heaven’s gate, feet rooted to holy ground, I was given the gift of seeing this beloved person one more time before I go back for good. She was a little closer than my grandparents, and I could see clearly how she looked and what she wore. Mom looked like she had gained back that fifty pounds she had lost during her illness. She looked robust, with pink, round cheeks and a bounce in her step—just like my old mom, whose whole world was her boys. Other than the fact that there are no vacuum cleaners in heaven, everything was the same. And she was wearing a dress, just like the ones she used to wear around our house on Cleveland Avenue, when she’d bake cookies and vacuum her floors and chase her boys with a ruler or a hug. Mom smiled her beautiful smile at me, her firstborn son. She waved to me and I waved to her. Like my grandparents, she gestured for me, as if to say, “Come here! Come here!” But still, I couldn’t get through, no matter how badly I wanted to.

Paul and Norm