THE BATTLE OF TEMPLE JUNCTION 2012 - THE INSIDE STORY

Used with permission from John Larson

INTRODUCTION

Last year I wrote about the reenactment of the fictitious Civil War Battle of Temple Junction organized by the Major Robert M. White Camp #1250, Sons of Confederate Veterans. This year I returned to the event and am writing the inside story about the occasion.

While many Texans served on both sides during the historical Civil War, there were relatively few battles actually fought in Texas proper. So, there was no period battle fought in or near Temple, Texas. However, interest in the Civil War remains strong in the area, so the local government, some businesses and organizations and not a few individuals keep the memory alive through their sponsorship: City of Temple Economic Development Corp., Bell County Historical Commission, Dossey Family, Saddler Civil War Mercantile Co. & Concentus Media Group.

Of the several hundreds of participants, vendors and visitors, most probably have their own reasons for attending. While I was there, I had the privilege of meeting many of them and learning their reasons for participating. These reasons ranged the full spectrum from those who felt they were fighting the war afresh to those who were compelled (by their parents for example) to be there. In between was a full spectrum of more typical reasons which I will attempt to describe below.

IT'S FUN

I went because it's fun. Among the things I enjoyed as a child were camping, playing soldier with my peers and discovering new things. As an adult, my likes have changed mostly in their level of sophistication. This event offered all of that and more. Reenactors live in conditions that approximate those of the period. That means we live in tents, wear period clothes, cook on open fires and use period technology in most applications. For example, the firearms used are original or more likely replicas of period pieces. Many subtle improvements for convenience and safety have been made in terms of the materials used (like modern steel in the firearms), clever implements that probably didn't exist (like gas stoves) but could have, tent frame construction, cooking techniques (ice chests are a must these days) and etc. So, camping is covered!

UNION REENACTORS CHAT OVER BREAKFAST

Mostly men and some women (women didserved in uniform and as spies, messengers or nurses on both sides ofthe Civil War, though surreptitiously) play the roles of soldiers, and more women play the role of camp followers such as wives, sutlers (vendors) and the like. Some reenactors play strictly Union or Confederate, but most play both sides as some balance in the numbers is needed for realism. I belong to an ostensibly Confederate unit, but play Union with equal enthusiasm when called upon. Typically I am part of an artillery crew, but serve in the role of infantry too. Last year in Temple I was artillery, this year I was infantry. Perhaps when I am more affluent and skilled I will consider cavalry. We soldiers march, shoot and pretend to die in battle. So, playing soldier is covered too!

SPECTATORS WATCH ARTILLERY FIRE

Then there's learning new things. I've only been to four reenactments and two training sessions so far, but have seen an amazing display of ingenuity and historical research. The variety of firearms is phenomenal; only exceeded in scope by the clever camp furniture and implements of all kinds. Some innovations are as simple as cooking biscuits over an open fire by clamping them between two pie plates. Other discoveries are like a wooden display rack for rifles that is intricately made, but very simple to set up and break down into a conveniently small and portable package. (I'm also impressed by the folding tables and chairs made from recycled wooden pallets.) There is also a nearly infinite variety of stories to hear told by interesting people with active minds and very colorful experiences. So, discovering new things is also covered. 

ALLEN HEARREN'S HOME MADE RIFLE RACK

It's definitely fun!

IT'S EDUCATIONAL

TWO BOYS CHAT DURING A DEMONSTRATION OF PERIOD SURGICAL TECHNIQUES

I first learned about the Civil War from a set of American Heritage magazines we kept at home when I was a boy. Even at the age of 9 I was fascinated by the exciting articles and exotic illustrations of a time and people long gone. Public school exposed me again to the subject, but the dry, lifeless presentations of names, dates and time lines made painful by the administration of standardized exams forced much of the joy out of the subject for me. Then, one summer afternoon I heard a great racket coming from a nearby historical park. I followed the sounds and discovered a great crowd had gathered for a Bicentennial reenactment of a Revolutionary War battle.

Men in period uniforms fought a mock battle with period weapons while other men, women and children acted as members of the respective camps. Seeing the people in period clothing with it's strange fabrics, accessories and styles breathed new life into my appreciation of history. The smell gun smoke and authentic cooking and sight and sounds of real animals like horses was an altogether new experience. I even had a genuine thrill mixed with sincere fear when a group of highlanders staged a mock bayonet charge that stopped inches from the crowd where I stood. It was almost real!

The Civil War reenactment was all this and more. This time I was on the inside. I slept in a tent and contended with heat, moisture, insects and a lack of real privacy. I wore the muslin and woolen period clothes and shoes that chafed my skin, quickly became too hot and didn't fit altogether that well. The food we ate tasted good and was quite safe, so it didn't compare with the appalling rations I read about. So, that was one significant but welcome divergence. We reenactors sat around the campfires and talked at length about a great variety of subjects. Even some of the accents were still richly southern and the genteel hospitality hadn't changed much in over a century! If I didn't examine the details too much, I could feel like I was really there. This is the kind of history lesson only time travel could improve on!

IT'S ROMANTIC

This reenactment included something special which has precedent, but is still a rare treat. A wedding! Professional photographer Marcus Rubio showed me photos of a real wedding he had photographed of the great granddaughter of Gen. She married her modern fiances in period costume with fellow reenactors as wedding guests. The black and white photos of the wedding could easily be mistaken for a wedding of the period under similar circumstances. On this occasion James and Angela Burleson were renewing their vows on the fifteenth anniversary of their weeding in 1997. Back in 1997 they had barely finished exchanging vows when James, a medical doctor, was urgently summoned to the local emergency room to assist with a trauma victim. The patient's life was saved, but by the time all was said and done it was too late in the day to resume the wedding festivities. Neither James nor Angela had any regrets, but had to spend their honeymoon night back at home, surrounded by family, exhausted and prevented from travel by a raging storm.

They renewed their vows in period dress. The bride wore a white ballroom gown from Pam's Bridal Gowns, accented by floral brocade taken from her favorite period dress. The groom was in the uniform of a Confederate Colonel with while gloves and highly polished leather accessories. The service was opened by Michelle Herbelli who (on short notice) sung a very beautiful rendition of “I Dreamt I Dwelt In Marble Halls.” The minister read from a period wedding service and the couple exchanged vows with a firm but pleased expression on the groom's face and some obvious mirth on the part of the bride. The service ended with the couple departing under an arch of swords made by Confederate and Union reenactors alike. A reception with refreshments open to all followed. Due to the period mores, there was no kissing of the bride as is commonly practiced in modern weddings. The happy couple went about the camp enjoying the festivities and receiving congratulations from those attending.

IT'S DANGEROUS

What!? Yes, even acting can be dangerous and some people are attracted to that. While no actual bullets are used, the weapons are authentic, including the bayonets, swords, small arms and artillery. Even without projectiles, these can be injurious and even lethal. The muzzle blast from a pistol or rifle can burn, scar, mutilate and even blind at close range. The blast from a cannon muzzle can deafen, seriously burn or even vaporize flesh. Reenactors and their mounts can trip or fall in the field, carelessly handled arms and equipment can contuse or crush. And there are a myriad of small hazards from such things as fire, splinters, chiggers, snakes, tent ropes and etc.

During this weekend the reenactors marked the passing of one of their members recently from natural causes. This is an echo of last year when another reenactor also died of a heart attack while on the trip home. This year a young man also mishandled his rifle and suffered powder burns to his face. He was hospitalized and is recovering. My worst injury was a mild sunburn and a small sting to my pride when my rifle failed to discharge during the salute for the deceased reenactor.

Therefore, safety is necessarily foremost in all that is done. Weapons are inspected before the battles to be sure none are loaded with live ammunition. The reenactors are regularly briefed on safe practices such as elevating their rifles, wearing hearing protection when servicing artillery and watching for holes and snakes on the battlefield. Real injuries are thankfully rare due to very professional oversight by the senior reenactors.

IT IS PROFITABLE

The reenactors are by custom unpaid volunteers. They provide their own uniforms and equipment (though some borrowing and sharing of equipment and meals is customary) and pay their own travel expenses. (This can be especially significant for those with horses or artillery pieces.) The single exception to this is that infantry typically receives a ration of ¼ lb of black powder per person to use as ammunition and artillery teams also receive a larger powder ration measured in multiple pounds. Naturally the reenactors receive free admission.

On the other hand, the event charges the visitors admission. Most of the admission fees pay for such things as rental of the venue, pavilions, trash disposal, hiring musicians, firewood and portables. A portion pays for the black powder used by soldiers and artillery. (Black powder is fairly expensive at about $16/lb. A typical cannon blast can consume between ½ to 2 lbs of black powder in a single charge!). Sometimes there is a small profit left over. If so, it helps defray other related costs of the reenactor's organization. None goes for personal enrichment.

Then there are the vendors. Many are the typical modern vendors your see at fairs, carnivals and street-fests. They sell food, drink and trinkets and have little or no direct connection to the period or reenacting. They are welcome because they provide necessary services to the visitors and pay a nominal fee to participate in the event. A special kind of vendor are the sutlers. These are merchant reenactors who also dress in period clothes, often set up in tents and sell mainly period clothes and other merchandise. Historically, such sutlers followed the respective armies and also sold necessities, conveniences and trinkets to the soldiers and camp followers. In the modern, mobile stores it is common to find a delightful array of period clothes, utensils, toiletries, food and sundries. A special find are handcrafted items often made by the proprietor such as String Bean the blacksmith. The sutlers also typically stock the usual tourist paraphernalia that appeal strongly to young children and thus impose a toll on their parent's wallets.

IT'S SPIRITUAL

Rev. Dennis Partrich preaches to the Confederate Camp

Although real battles were largely indifferent to holidays and days of the week, deference to modern convenience means that most reenactments are staged on weekends. The Judeo-Christian faith was for all intents and purposes the universal practice of the nation at that time. Likewise, many if not most reenactors are of the Christian faith and among these are a substantial number of families that would ordinarily attend church on the Lord's Day. For these, there are authentic church services held on Sunday mornings. By custom, the Union and Confederate groups hold separate services. The preacher is an ordained minister who dresses the part of a period chaplain or minister. The sermon is preached as if to a congregation or assembly of the period. The hymns and responsive readings are also taken from period literature. It wouldn't seem that different from a modern fundamentalist service except the hymns lack choruses which typically came later in history.

The troops are also lead in prayer before the engagements by their commanders for success and safety in battle. The prayers are sincere for safety due to very real hazards present in reenacting. Success in battle is predetermined, with one side prevailing the first day and the other the next.

Besides the organized spiritual activities, there are plenty of other occasions that inspire a person to transcend the mundane. There's something in the unique blend of being close to nature, close to one's fellow human beings and close to historical events that are larger than life which puts an eternal perspective on the experience. In the actual times, men from all walks of life were called upon to phenomenal acts of heroism and mortal sacrifice that cannot be fully measured but is indicated by the tremendous number of Congressional Medals of Honor awarded during the Civil War. Today, the reenactors also make efforts and sacrifices well above the norm. The Civil War was a terrible conflict indeed, but it brought out the ultimate in many souls. I am sure others share with me the connection to the courage, strength and ingenuity expressed by our forefathers. The high quality of the people I mingle with here also inspires me.

IT'S GOOD FOR THE CHILDREN

A little standard bearer anticipated artillery fire.

As I mentioned before, besides adult men and women, children also participate. The youth attending the Temple reenactment ranged all the ways from infants to near adults with everything in between. Young boys between 8 and 14 filled the roles of drummers and standard bearers. Those aged 15 and older could participate (as some did in the actual war) in infantry of artillery crews. Girls in period dress typically assisted their mothers in camp chores and festivities. There was plenty of free time to fraternize and the teens were especially keen to gather and talk on adolescent subjects at length among themselves. It was plain that some girls enjoyed the period dresses with their corsets, bustles and lace, while others preferred shorts and sleeveless tops.

I was impressed at the knowledge of many of these children on historical and practical subjects. Besides the obvious connection between firearms and boys and horses and girls, there was a well above average appreciation for history. Many were also quite advanced in their knowledge of camping skills such as setting up tents and fire building. Others knew a great deal about their genealogy and the intricacies of genealogical research.

Conspicuous by their absence were televisions, video games, cell phones and other electronic distractions. It was heartwarming to see the children outdoors happily playing and exploring about the camp. It was a bit disconcerting to see the boys routinely aiming wooden rifles at stray Yankees, but that's the culture.

THEN THERE'S THE MUSIC AND DANCING

If Sunday morning was orderly and spiritual, Saturday night was active and musical. Dave Turner lead the group in performing for a folk dance that was open to all comers. Young and old couples alike danced such old favorites as the West Virginia Reel and the Grapevine. These are simple, repetitive and graceful line and contra dances that can be quickly learned by beginners. The caller explained how the dance is choreographed and then calls out each step in time to the music.

The couples interact in a lively dance that is all the more entertaining to dancers and audience alike as the less experienced participants do interesting and unexpected things. Those familiar with period dances naturally enjoy the special pleasure that comes from this elegant form of socializing. Those new to line dancing come away with a new skill and appreciation for period social customs. These traditional dances are also very modest and thankfully lack much of the suggestive and salacious posturing common in contemporary dancing that would concern parents and sober citizens alike. I can say I enjoy this form of dance more than I do the modern variations.

YOU COULDN'T ASK FOR BETTER NEIGHBORS

Breakfast is cooking!

In some ways, the reenactor's camp is a home away from home. It is quite common for the same people who attend geographically widely separated events far from home to camp together by unit or with familiar company. These people are often on a first name basis with their comrades and pick up former acquaintances where they left off. I have observed the same individuals and families regularly sharing meals and helping each other with camp chores and such. Adults and children form lasting friendships that are renewed and strengthened at each event.

Even at night the rifles and pistols are safe in Allen Hearren's Rack

An interesting point of evidence of this are how the reenactor's firearms are often stacked together in the open areas of the camp. It is routine for the reenactors since it is consistent with period practices and also allows visitors to see the firearms and accessories close up. I can't think of any other neighborhood I have ever lived in where the residents left their weapons out on their front porches for all to see. Yet, this does not mean security is lax. There is a plethora of active and retired service members and peace officers among the reenactors. And the women watch the children more diligently than any commercial security force I am familiar with. It gave me a rare and special feeling to leave my Kentucky rifle in a rack with several others in camp and know it was as safe or safer than those in my gun safe back home. I pity the thoughtless thief that tried to steal a weapon from the midst of such an armed camp!

In an era when most people keep to themselves it was refreshingly different in camp. When I arrived late at night I was quickly greeted with several helping hands, offers of flashlights and much helpful advice. In the morning I was automatically invited to breakfast. Another reenactor, Robert, showed me how to load blank charges in my newly acquired pistol. (Cream of wheat is packed over the black powder charge instead of a bullet so the charge doesn't fall out.) The uniform I had ordered hadn't come in yet, so I was outfitted from other reenactor's collections. I even received help tracing my ancestry online to look for Civil War veterans in the bloodline. (We didn't find any yet.)

THE BATTLE – A WIN-WIN SITUATION

CONFEDERATE INFANTRY FORM UP BEFORE THE BATTLE

Finally, an article on reenacting without mention of the battle would be incomplete. My sister came up for the occasion and watched from the audience as we staged a pre-arranged scenario that included a skirmish, flanking maneuvers by infantry and cavalry, a fusillade by artillery, fierce exchanges of gunfire followed by a parley, and then a sudden charge followed by simulated hand to hand combat. She told me later she enjoyed the show, but wasn't sure who was who. I was in a line of Confederate infantry that, after a lengthy exchange of gunfire, was overrun by Union troops. I fired my last round and obligingly fell to earth under their onslaught.

As I played out the scenario with my fellow reenactors I thought about how an actual soldier of the period might have felt. The excitement of battle was real and I scarcely noticed the heat and humidity, the tall scratchy grass or the nearby industrial park where business as usual was carrying on. Only peripherally did I register the colorful line of spectators poised with cameras along the fence line. Instead, I looked across the field at the men in blue uniforms as fire and smoke burst from their weapons. My ears rang with the thunder of gunfire and the shouts of the combatants nearby. My imagination added the whiz and smack of bullets and it seemed I could almost feel what those men felt long ago. It was a feeling that was both wonderful and terrible all at once.

As I lay in the grass after the blue-clad lines had passed by my still form, my thoughts came back to the present. I wondered if there might be a young boy in the audience seeing a reenactment for the first time. How did it impress him? What were his thoughts? What memories would he take away? I hoped it would be similar to my experiences years ago. I'm sure history came alive for someone that day. It did for me and it surely did for someone else. It would be great if years from now they would continue the tradition. At least I know my sister has a better appreciation of the history of the Civil War. That is worth it all.

WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE TO DIE AND WHAT COMES AFTER THAT – ONE MAN’S ACCOUNT

WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE TO DIE AND WHAT COMES AFTER THAT – ONE MAN’S ACCOUNT

It was just after midnight on a cold winter morning in East Texas as I groped my way down the hallway from our living room to the hallway bathroom.  Even if the lights had been on, I couldn’t have seen anything.  Both of my eyes were blinded with pus, the aftermath of a fiery explosion that had occurred three days previously in that same hallway. Keeping my burned right hand tucked against my chest, I felt for the bathroom door with the left and pushed my way in. I advanced cautiously until I felt the cool tiles of the sink against the front of my legs.

An extraordinary thing had just happened moments ago and I wanted to see for myself what had occurred.  I fumbled with the faucet until I heard water gush into the sink and then splashed the cold water into my face, rinsing my eyes and cooling the scorched skin of my face. When my eyes were clear of pus, I groped around until I found a towel to dry off my face.  With my good left hand I groped some more until I found the light switch. Bright light flooded the small room and for a moment I was too dazed to see anything.

Then my vision cleared and I looked into the mirror above the sink.  After a few blinks I could see again. I could see!  That alone was wonderful.  The searing pain from infection and the rust particles that had lodged in my eyes from the explosion was gone.  Moreover, the pus which had constantly blurred my vision was gone too!  It was wonderful!  I looked at my face and noted that the singed hair was still there and my eyebrows were still gone, but the red, second degree burns on the skin of my face were faded and nearly gone! I grinned in delight, not minding that my hair was a mess and I looked otherwise rather pale, even for winter.

I WAS ALIVE!

I had always been aware of how special it is to be alive. From time to time I had reflected on this incredible miracle and taken joy from many simple things like hot showers, just breathing, gazing at a sunset or idly flexing the fingers of my hands.  But that morning it all had a new and more powerful meaning for me.  I had just come back from the dead moments before.  In less than the space of ten minutes I had died, glimpsed heaven and hell, met God, seen many mysteries revealed and come back again.  My heart pounded in my chest and my mind reeled with excitement at what I had just experienced.  ‘What’s next?’ I wondered.

Cool water from my hair ran down the side on my face and dripped from my chin as I reflected back on what had brought me to that moment.

I had recently been laid off from a contract engineering position with a local manufacturer. It was 1995, the local economy wasn’t exactly booming and consequently I had little money and no insurance.  A couple of years before, in better times, we had bought a little fixer-upper house in a working class neighborhood. My wife and I poured everything we had into making it a cozy little home for our growing family.  Now, even the modest mortgage and carefully watched utilities rapidly drained away most of the small income I managed to earn at odd jobs here and there.

So, when the old, decrepit gas furnace that heated our home began failing, I tried to apply my mechanical talents to repairing it.  Normally, it would have been a simple matter of replacing the old, corroded pilot light and rusty burners.  But there was no money for spare parts.  Therefore, I fiddled with these as best I could.

Despite my best efforts, the furnace still would go out, typically in the middle of the night and characteristically when the weather was coldest.  It was an older model that did not have a safety feature to prevent the natural gas it burned from being sent to the burners if the pilot light was out.  So, even when the pilot light was out, it would continue to send gas to the burners in a futile attempt to heat the house.  Naturally, as the house became colder, the furnace would cycle more frequently and even more gas would be pumped into the air.  It was a dangerous situation.

After several weeks of this, I had developed a routine.  When I smelled gas or sensed by the coldness of the air that the pilot light had gone out, I would go to the furnace, shut off the gas and turn on the exhaust until no more gas could be smelled.  Then I would relight the pilot light and watch it until it was burning steadily and did not go out.  Only after that did I turn on the gas to the burners and restart the furnace.  As a final precaution I would stand and watch the furnace for awhile to be sure it was operating correctly.

On that fateful night I had lost count of how many times the furnace had gone out.  I was groggy from lack of sleep and probably the gas fumes too. It was about 3 a.m. when I once again felt the bite of the cold and smelled gas. Weary and frustrated, I stumbled out of bed and shuffled down the hallway to the furnace closet.  I can still remember thinking how simple it would be just to toss a match into the furnace and ignite the burners without all the tedious preliminaries I had been following up until then. Some other part of my mind was alarmed and warned me of how dangerous and foolish this idea was.  I dismissed it as unreasonable and over cautious and was sure if I stood back far enough any burst of flame would be inconsequential.  Since childhood I had tinkered with fire in various forms and always been lucky.

Not tonight.

Gripping the large box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches in my left-hand; I struck a single match and with one smooth motion that sent the flaming splinter of wood straight into the burner section of the furnace. 

I didn’t even see it land.

A bright flash filled my entire vision and I felt as if a large, hot and heavy mattress had suddenly walloped me from the front. The trajectory my body described was linear and very short before my back hit the opposite wall of the hallway and I slumped to the floor.  I don’t recall much of a sound from the explosion, perhaps a soft “whoosh!” My ears were not ringing after the explosion and nothing was in flames afterwards, not even the stubborn old furnace! No one else in the house awoke and I sat in the dark hallway for a moment collecting my thoughts.

I was still alive and intact, and didn’t feel any pain. I sighed, realizing I’d been foolish, but thankful I had escaped serious injury, or so I thought.

The hall light wasn’t on. I didn’t need it since I knew my way from the bedroom to the furnace so well and I hated the bright light after waking from sleep.  So I had to feel my way to the bathroom where I turned on the light. I wanted to see what sort of damage had been done, expecting singed eyebrows and crinkled hair as had been the case a few times before with flammable experiments gone awry. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light before I could see clearly what I’d done to myself.

The frightening sight and the searing pain hit me simultaneously.  Both were shocking.  My eyebrows were completely gone and the hair around my face was badly singed.  The skin of my face and my right arm where it extended out of my pajama sleeve were bright red.  My right hand was all red and charred about the thumb and forefinger.  Instinctively I thrust my burned hand under a gush of cold water from the sink faucet.  But that did little to relieve the horrible pain from the burn. I groaned, realizing what I could expect to endure for some time to come.

The next few days were dominated by two things: pain and humiliation.  There was no respite day or night from the searing pain in my hand; nor was there relief from my spouse who had no sympathy for me and my self-inflicted injuries. I had no money to spare for a doctor’s visit, no insurance due to the greed of my ex-employer and no government help due to my youth and recent employment status. When even prayer brought no relief, I resorted to doctoring myself. 

That was not a good decision.  Rust had been blown into my eyes and flames had seared my throat and nasal passages. Infection quickly set in and soon my eyes filled with pus and my throat became so raw I could not swallow my own saliva without agony. My regime of treatment was quite primitive.  I soaked my burned hand in ice water, took some antihistamines, read the Bible and prayed for relief.  Reading was difficult since I had to rinse my eyes frequently, but I was desperately searching for some passage that I might have overlooked on healing. I read Ole Hallesby’s book “Prayer” seeking guidance too, but though I learned some valuable lessons, did not find what I sought.

At night I tried to sleep, but instead thrashed about in bed so much that my spouse insisted I go sleep on the couch. This hurt my feelings, and seemed unreasonable since the couch was too short for me to lie on. But I was not in a mood to fight and tried to settle on the couch in the living room where I was already spending most of my day anyway.  I would lie there, propped up on one arm rest, reading with a book in my left hand and letting my right hand rest in a bowl of ice water on the floor. My hand was like a yo-yo, going down to seek the relief of the cool water and then retreating when chill blains set in.

It was about midnight on the third night after the explosion when I was trying unsuccessfully to rest on the couch. Pain and exhaustion were almost all I could think about. My hand throbbed with pain, my throat burned and my eyes stung badly.  I could not eat, drink or read at that point, and was desperate for sleep.  Finally, I had had enough of my cramped position on the couch and decided to lay out the couch cushions on the floor so I could at least lie horizontally.  ‘Perhaps then’, I reasoned, ‘I could at least rest.’  What I didn’t realize was that being propped up on the couch was keeping me alive!  For the seared tissues in my lungs had been leaking fluid; and the lower portions of my lungs had filled with water. As I lay the cushions together on the floor, my thoughts were only on how good it would feel to lie down and get some rest.  I had no idea what was about to happen.

A moment later I stretched out on my back and enjoyed the small but significant pleasure of being able to lie down without my legs being bent under me or the couch armrest digging into my back.  For a few moments I lay there relaxing, until I realized my hand hurt again.   I had forgotten the bowl of ice water and would have to get up to retrieve it.

Only I discovered I couldn’t rise.

Suddenly my body had become weak and unresponsive and I felt as if I were smothering.  Although I didn’t know then that the fluid in my lungs had spilled up into the upper portions, I did know I couldn’t breath.  I realized the danger I was in.  It was late at night, almost exactly midnight, everyone was asleep, and no one would check on me until morning. I tried to cry out, but had no voice.  I was trapped, suffocating in my own living room, unable to help myself and unable to summon help.  I realized my only help now would have to come from God, so I began to pray silently in my mind.

Now I do know how to pray, and in those desperate moments as my life ebbed away I composed some of the most eloquent and well considered prayers I have ever prayed.  But nothing happened. I felt my mind continue to shut down as the brain absorbed the diminishing oxygen from my blood.  I continued to pray, a few paragraphs, then a paragraph, then a few sentences, then a sentence at a time.  No response.

My ears began ringing and my heart rate increased dramatically. I knew from underwater swimming that these were signs of oxygen deprivation. I became desperate and fearful, knowing death was imminent. A peaceful resignation began to come over me, but I determined to fight it. Finally I realized it was almost over and I had only enough consciousness remaining to pray one last word.  It had to be chosen carefully, it was my last chance, and must count.  I chose carefully the word “Help!” and put behind it the clear intention that I sought any help God would give me on any terms He would offer.

Suddenly the pain was gone as were the sensations of exhaustion and hunger.  My mind was clear, and I felt vital and alive again.  My prayer had been answered! I was elated and immediately stood up. What I saw surprised and amazed me.  It was night and there were no lights on in the living room. Yet the room appeared brightly lit, with no shadows; for there was no apparent source of illumination.  Normally I wear glasses for a severe astigmatism, but I could see perfectly clearly. All my other senses seemed remarkably enhanced too.  I could hear the slightest noise, even far away.  A severe case of the influenza during my undergraduate studies had robbed me of much of my sense of smell, but now my sense of smell was very keen and I smelled and discriminated odors I had never noticed before.  I was delighted, assuming I had been miraculously healed.  That was until I looked down where I had lain.

There, on the couch cushions, my body lay, still and silent. In an instant I realized I had died. For a moment I was sad and fearful, wondering what the full implication of that was. Then I took stock of the situation.  It wasn’t as bad as might have been expected.  My personality was still intact and had survived the death of my body. I was still me, self-aware and a quick check confirmed I still retained all the memories of my life experience.  In fact, though ordinarily my memory is slow and fallible, my memory at that moment was remarkably complete and accurate with total recall and very rapid processing and analytical capabilities. I felt alive and healthier than I had ever felt.  All pain and discomfort was gone, not just from my injuries, but also chronic back pain from scoliosis I had always endured and other things.

I tested out my new senses, trying vision first.  I found I had the ability to focus on objects with total clarity, even to the blades of grass in my neighbor’s lawn across the street or microscopic particles of dust on the wires of the window screen before me. I could not test it further though, because houses and trees blocked my vision beyond a few hundred yards and I could not see through them.  When listening, I could hear small animals and insects moving about inside and outside that would normally have required sophisticated listening devices. I regret that I did not look in a mirror to see if I could see myself, but in the drama of the moment that did not occur to me. I could feel that I had two arms and two legs and used them normally as I had in my physical body.  When I held my hand in my field of vision, I did not clearly see a hand as I did the physical objects around me. It was more like a faint wisp of steam that maintained its shape.

Next, I began to go about the house, testing my ability at locomotion.  It was not exactly walking.  I willed myself to move in a direction with a certain velocity and that’s what happened. It seemed perfectly natural and effortless as if I had always done this at some previous time. I suppose I could have moved up and flown, or dived beneath the floor as easily as I moved in the horizontal plane, but didn’t think to try that either. First I went to my daughter’s bedroom to check on her.  The door was closed and I found my hand could not grip the door knob but passed through it.  So I moved directly through the door and stood by her bed.

My intention was to wake her and tell her was had happened.  I felt it important to assure her I was OK and was going to watch over her.  However, I could not make any sound or touch her in a way that would wake her.  So I just looked at the sleeping child and felt sorrow that I would not be able to care for her. It then occurred to me that my wife was not fit to raise the children alone, and I became concerned.  Then I went into my son’s bedroom and watched him sleep.  I couldn’t wake him either, so I just stood there and wondered what his fate would be when I was gone.  This made me sad as I looked at his peaceful face half buried in the pillow, blond hair tousled in sleep. Lastly, I went back into the hallway with a vague intention of looking in on my wife, but decided against it and went back to the living room.

My body was still there, and I was wondering if there was a way to revive it when I felt a new sensation.  It was akin to the feeling when you are scared by something unknown in the darkness and the hair on the back of your next rises up.  A palpable feeling of evil began to permeate the room and I feel distinct emanations of intense hatred.

Suddenly, through the south west corner of the living room came two dark, man-sized figures.  They were shaped like tall, muscular but lean men, covered entirely in coarse, black hair and with white fangs in open red mouths, they has gleaming yellow slits for eyes and curving black claws on all ten digits. They each carried a set of manacles and they were laughing.

They didn’t speak to me in the conventional sense, but projected their thoughts directly into my mind.  It was a raucous burst of thoughts, emotions and images. They had very wild, chaotic minds. Thoughts of hunger dominated their thinking.  It was clear to me that they didn’t regard me as a person, a human being with personality, awareness, emotions, feelings and purpose, but merely as food and fuel.  They intended to capture me and take me back with them to hell for consumption and endless, brutal torture for their entertainment.

The whole exchange lasted mere moments, but the amount of information exchanged was staggering. I had a glimpse of hell which showed me it is a mind-blowing, horrific place of suffering and abuse that are beyond the pale efforts of language to describe. Hunger, exhaustion, sickness, thirst, trauma, torment, all beyond human measure, without relief, without hope, without respite.  I received a vision of senseless, lawless, chaotic, purposeless existence at the mercy of implacable hostile powers.  I was horrified and desperate. To them it was home, and they seemed perfectly adapted to such a perverse environment.

I protested that this was not right.  I was a believing, practicing Christian.  I had been assured of salvation and of being admitted to heaven when I died.  I had publicly professed Christ as savior, been baptized, studied the scriptures, prayed and attended church regularly and even been a Sunday school teacher and church trustee. I was considered a model Christian by many and had done all that the church had taught me, well beyond most of my peers. 

The creatures laughed at this.

They flooded my mind with a remarkably complete and well organized list of all the sins I had not properly confessed and repented of.  From late childhood through to the present they recalled everything from a filched paperclip to an unpaid bill. They knew of every instance of an unkind word, copied homework, cheating on exams, absolutely every lie, each selfish act, and etc.  Thankfully they did not appear to have known my personal thoughts, but that was little consolation.  For I could feel they were extremely powerful and my own strength was inadequate to resist.  In a moment I would be dragged away to eternal damnation.

The creatures went on to gloat that they had been with me all of my life and they had been constantly working towards this moment. They had been trying to tempt and kill me so they could compromise my relationship with God and harvest my soul. Images came to mind of multiple incidents, particularly in childhood, where I had narrowly escaped death.  They couldn’t kill me outright, but they could manipulate mine and other’s feelings and perceptions to cause us to make bad decisions that lead to tragedy.  The incident with the furnace was only the latest.  Now they were ravenously hungry and impatient to have the fruit of their labors.

I felt this wasn’t right, and I searched my mind desperately for some way to escape this fate.  The creatures (I suppose they were demons, but they did not name themselves) were closing in on me and I knew there was only one last opportunity and it had to be good. .Then I remembered what a man had told me once at a house church meeting.  He was an unusual fellow and often talked about miracles, demons and spiritual things outside of the normal, officially discussed church subjects.  He had given me books on the gifts of the Holy Spirit, exorcism and such that I had dutifully read and shelved after making little tangible progress on the subjects. However, one thing he had said to me came back from memory. “If you ever meet a demon, rebuke it in the name of Jesus Christ.” I don’t even recall his name now, but he literally saved my life.

Immediately I sent the thought back to them, “I rebuke you in the name of Jesus Christ!”

Instantly they were gone, as if a wrecking ball had hit them dead on and sent them back where they had come from.

Once again I stood in my living room alone, with my body lying on the floor.  I looked around and wondered what my fate would be now.  Was I rejected from both heaven and hell?  Would I wander disembodied until Judgment Day perhaps or for eternity? I didn’t like that thought and was just imagining that there might be other dangers and perils out there for a disembodied spirit when the third remarkable thing happened.

I began to feel another emotion, like the hatred I had felt earlier, but this time it was a profound sensation of love.  It was even more wonderful than the hatred had been awful. A moment after I felt it, Jesus entered the living room from the south east corner and stood facing me.  There was no mistaking in whose presence I stood. He looked just as I might have imagined Him, a tall Caucasian with shoulder length brown hair, a short, full beard, hazel eyes and a white robe that hung to his sandaled feet. He had a light blue cape slung over one shoulder as it often is portrayed in the popular paintings I had seen in many churches.  He did not speak to me, but as the demons had, shared His thoughts with me telepathically.

First and foremost, Jesus let me know that while He was perfectly aware of my sins and flaws, He accepted me just as I was and loved me deeply and unconditionally. My relief was tremendous because I was expecting a rebuke given the list of sins I had just been accused of. He let me know that He was appearing to me as I expected Him to look so that I would be comfortable with our meeting and He could appear any way to anyone as needed. Then Jesus told me He had something to show me.

Suddenly the scene shifted and I found myself standing with my Lord on the banks of a river in a tropical climate.  Papyrus reeds grew tall and thick along the banks and swarthy, dark haired people were fishing and washing in the river. I presumed it was the Nile in ancient Egypt, but was given no explanation. The Lord told me to build a boat from the reeds, so I did, making a vessel like a canoe with high prows out of bundles of the reeds such as I had seen in books on archaeology.  It seemed to take little time to build the boat, and all the tools and materials were readily at hand. I understood we were to launch the boat into the river and sail down stream.  Jesus stepped into the boat and I followed, using a long wooden pole to push off and guide the boat.

Standing in the boat, we began to pass a long, low island in the river.  Superimposed on the island was my prone body. It appeared translucent and I could see through the skin, bone and muscles to the organs within.  All the healthy organs were transparent, but those damaged in the explosion were colored.  They eyeballs were black, the throat bright red and the lungs were a mottled gray-blue/green.  Jesus told me that when I had been made, He had put the ability to heal in my spirit.  Then He instructed me to stretch out my hands toward the damaged organs and they would be healed.  So I did.  As I reached out for each organ in turn, it became clear again as I felt a current of energy flow from me to my prone body. I was partway through this process when suddenly the demons returned and disrupted the vision.  I found myself back in the living room standing at the feet of my body.  Jesus warned me that I had to expel the demons if I wanted to finish healing my body.  So I rebuked them again and they disappeared without returning.

The vision resumed where it had left off and I touched my eyes and watched them turn transparent.  The healing was complete and the vision ended.  I was back in the living room, standing before Jesus.

I felt only love, acceptance and kindness from Him, but he sternly communicated to me that my sins had grieved Him and put me in a terrible, dangerous predicament. They needed to be dealt with, thoroughly.  I expressed my sorrow and regret for them and added my deep gratitude for being rescued from damnation.  Then suddenly I remembered a book I had read during my college years: “Caught Up Into Paradise,” by Richard Eby.  In that book the author had told of his own near death experience and how he’d seen heaven and returned to life after his body was resuscitated. Although I found the book very encouraging and enlightening, I had been disappointed that the author had asked very few questions of God when the opportunity came.  I had many questions I felt were important that the book left unanswered.  So, after reading the book I composed what I thought was a pretty comprehensive list of the questions I would ask God if I ever had the chance.

However, as I stood there I realized that I had just escaped from eternal damnation by the narrowest of margins and owed everything to Christ.  He owed me nothing, let alone answers to questions that now seemed so trivial. Yet Jesus indicated that He knew my thoughts, about my list of questions and was willing to give me a response.

I was about to have the most incredible experience I think anyone can relate.

The Lord is the ideal gentleman and perfectly capable of anticipating and responding to the cleverest challenge any person can present Him with.  In my case He dismissed my list and offered to answer His list. It was obvious to me that whatever List Jesus might have would be far superior to what I had composed. So I accepted and was invited to share His mind because mine was too small and inadequate to comprehend either the questions or the answers that He proposed.  In a moment I became one with God and shared the mind of Christ, or at least a portion of it.  I was perfectly conscious of my own self, with all my memories and awareness of self intact, but also shared Christ’s mind and knew all of His thoughts and knowledge. At least He shared with me that portion of His mind dedicated to mankind.  I sensed there were other vast portions of His mind relating to other things, but what I was allowed to share was only that which related to mankind.  As vast as that was, it was only a miniscule fraction of the total that seemed endless in the brief glimpse I had of it. His mind is very dynamic, perfectly orderly with absolute harmony and an analytical capacity that is beyond description.

If I had been impressed at the capacity and speed of my mind in the spirit, I was absolutely awed by Christ’s mind.  It held every detail of every person that had ever lived and would ever live. This information was perfectly organized and could be retrieved and analyzed effortlessly without delay at the merest thought about it. 

The Lord then took us through a unique exercise where we began by showing me the whole of human history from start to finish.  It took but a moment to comprehend it in that state.  Then we began to look at how a change in some event, a decision, an action, a twist of nature, any possible variation could affect that history.  We started off small seeing how personal decisions affected individual lives. Effortlessly we saw how this change spread through time and circumstances and what the effects were.  Then it became increasingly more complex as more events and more individuals were involved.  I was allowed to propose variations on any given scenario.  When I did, the Lord would show me how that would turn out and then proposed other variations and showed how they would go too. From this vantage point it became obvious that there is a wonderful harmony with purpose and structure to human history that is not apparent from an individual perspective.

There was a particular way He visualized this that made things more easily understandable. The course of a person’s life was like a thread that wove through the continuum of space and time.  It began when they were conceived in the womb and terminated when they died. There were four colors of threads, brownish white, brownish yellow, gold and red. Parts of an individual thread might be white or brown depending on how they had lived at that time – white for selflessly, brown for selfishly. When a life had run its course, the thread turned either red or gold.  The vast majority, perhaps 98% were red. The threads twisted together to form bundles which represented social organizations: families, schools, communities, nations and etc.  Individual threads passed from bundle to bundle as relationships changed or were rearranged, often returning to mingle with bundles they had departed from earlier.  Bundles of life-threads came together periodically at nodes that represented critical events such as migrations, wars and mass movements.

Jesus explained to me that at the junctions were nodes where the history of mankind was particularly malleable and informed, capable individuals could exert tremendous influence on the fate of mankind at those times.  That was in 1995.  He showed me the next critical juncture of a majority of the bundles would come in 1998 others would follow with nodes occurring at different times in different places until they came together again in the near future.

We continued the exercise until we had looked at the ramifications of every possible variation in human history. While this may seem like an impossible task from a strictly human perspective, it was effortless and takes more time to tell about it than the actual exercise involved.  That is how great the mind of our Lord is!

At the conclusion of the exercise I realized there had been a common factor in all of the chains of events I had followed.  No matter how simple or complex, short or long, minor or major, they all had one theme when considered as a complete story. There was one question, which if asked, answered all other relevant questions.  That question was, “What does this have to do with selfless love?” All other issues were neatly resolved or were of no consequence when a given thread of history was fully played out from start to finish.  Only that one question had eternal value.

Once it was seen from His perspective, this was perfectly clear. Whenever someone was living based on selfish principles, their life-thread was the dull brownish yellow color.  Whenever they lived based on the principle of selfless love, it turned white.  If they lived and died outside of God’s purpose, the thread turned permanently red and terminated in the much larger bundle that eventually ended in nothingness. Those were the children of the devil who lives were not given to God and ultimately perished and whose lives were meaningless. They are food and fuel for hell.  When a person lived and died for God’s purposes, the life-thread turned golden and became part of the bundle that continued on throughout time and endured. It was a much smaller bundle, but far richer than the other in the quality of the lives lived. When a thread turned red or golden, it would change over its entire length once the person’s life was over. This was a graphic representation of how even a person’s mistakes (or successes) can be changed to fit God’s purposes (or made of no consequence) depending on whether or not they give their lives to Him.  It was clear throughout the exercise that God is always perfectly in control and no detail escapes His attention or action. Nor could one person alter another’s eternal destiny.  They could influence them, but it was always and ultimately the individual’s reactions and decisions that counted.

I should interject my understanding on one particularly poignant issue that I expect some readers still want an answer on.  ‘Why is there suffering in the world?’ If it seems wasteful and pointless, that is because for the lost it is. However, suffering for a saint is an opportunity to grow and become stronger and more mature.  Sin and the consequent suffering cannot happen in heaven and the sufferings of mortal life provide a unique opportunity for people to be transformed into the children of God they are intended to become.  Naturally we should not seek to create situations where we or others suffer unnecessarily, but when it comes to us, it should be seen as an opportunity and embraced as eagerly as pleasure. Suffering is intended to be used to exercise virtues such as patience, endurance, perseverance and etc.  Just as sensibly, when the opportunity to escape suffering comes, let it go if it has accomplished its purpose. But a person should not use unrighteous means to avoid suffering – they add to their sins and lose the opportunity to grow. There are other ways to accomplish the same goals, but suffering is particularly effective and God uses it when we avoid the other opportunities He gives us.

After the exercise was complete, I was gently separated from His mind and returned to my normal state.  I felt a moment of loss as the incredible experience of oneness with God subsided. The memories of the details of individual lives were not retained because I no longer had the capacity nor a reason to keep them. Sensing my disappointment, Jesus assured me that I could look forward to similar experiences again in heaven.

I was humbled and starkly aware of how pitiful my list now seemed. It was not lost on me how gracious God had been to answer me in the fullest, most extraordinary way.  A sense of loss tinged my thoughts as I could feel the memory of the experience already fading as my much reduced mind struggled and failed to retain the vast knowledge and analytical capacity it had shared with Christ. I took some consolation in the thought that I could at least retain the one principle I had learned, the fundamental centrality of selfless love.

True to my nature, I still had one last question to ask.

“What will become of my children?”

Jesus showed me that by invoking Him, even when I was dead and going to hell, I had fulfilled the most basic requirement for going to heaven.  I could go there now, or I could return to my body and resume responsibility for my children. He added the warning that if I returned, I would have to deal promptly and thoroughly with my sins, and be careful not to be exposed again like I had been. There was a real risk of still going to hell if I returned, as there was for all the living at any moment. The teaching “Once saved always saved” that I had encountered in churches I attended is not true.  A person can lose their state of salvation at any time by rejecting or denying God. The thought of going to heaven and being forever secure from hell was very attractive; but I also thought of my children. Christ had shown me with abundant clarity that in my absence their situation was very perilous and that there were more children I was supposed to father and raise to fulfill my purpose in life. It was not God’s plan for me to die then.

I thought of the children and the lesson of selfless love was fresh in my mind. So I decided to return to my body.  I dreaded putting it on again with its limitations, vulnerability to suffering and physical needs.  But the fact that Jesus had already arranged for it to be healed made it obvious which decision He wanted. No sooner had I agreed to this than I found myself back in my body.

The pain, exhaustion and weariness returned, but were nowhere near as intense as they had been.  I felt my body like a heavy, thick weight around me as I rolled off the couch cushions onto my knees.  Shaking slightly with fatigue, I rose and stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom where I began this account.

Once my eyes were clear and free of pain and infection, I could see as well as I had seen before the accident. The pain in my throat was gone and I could swallow normally again.  Most of the redness was gone from the burned skin on my face and arm. Only two small patches of burned skin remained on my thumb and forefinger.  I will probably bear these faint scars for the rest of my life as a tangible reminder of the experience.

EPILOGUE

I was ravenously hungry after being resurrected and went straight to the kitchen.  It had been about midnight when I had first lain down on the floor.  When I looked at the clock in the dining area it showed only seven past midnight!  The whole experience had lasted barely five minutes or less of real time.  Breakfast is my favorite meal, so I cooked a large breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast, fruit and etc.  I was partway into enjoying this meal when my spouse entered and asked, “What’s all this banging about?” (Probably she was referring to the noise of the pots and pans I had used to cook the meal or the clatter of dishes and cups as I ate.)

“I’m eating breakfast!” I replied.

“At this hour?” she was clearly annoyed.

“Yes, God healed me and I can eat and drink again.  I died and He brought me back to life again! And now I am hungry and thirsty.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m trying to sleep so stop making so much noise.” Then she went back to bed.

That was a very anti-climactic moment for me after being resurrected, but that’s how she is. That’s also why I had to come back for the children.  I don’t expect she will ever “get it.”

Soon after that I found a new employer and went back to work. The demons weren’t done with me though.  A couple months later I came down with viral meningitis caught from a coworker and nearly died again.  This time though I was just extremely sick and recovered normally.

Yet being close to death again really caught my attention.  As soon as I was current with my bills, I began paying my debts and making restitution to everyone I could remember having slighted. I crisscrossed the country and wrote letters seeking forgiveness from anyone I could remember sinning against.  It was awkward, painful and expensive and so on. But I knew it had to be done. With eternity at stake, there could be no loose ends.

Since then life has been remarkably mundane after such an experience.  At first I was very excited about the experience and tried to tell the story whenever there was an opportunity. I soon learned that most people cannot relate to such things, even in the church. After a consistent series of painful rejections and a general ostracizing by other believers, I quieted down.  It became clear what kinds of people were prepared to hear about this, and who were in the much larger majority that are not. This saddened me, but I realized it was not under my control.

I also discovered that after being resurrected I had some unusual spiritual gifts.  For about 18-24 months after the event, I could lay hands on people and when I prayed, God would heal them. I could also see things in the spirit (including future events) and sense people’s thoughts and emotions. But the constant rejection and negativity from others wore me down and the power behind these gifts faded as I used them less and less frequently. Now, though they still continue, the instances when they manifest are only rare and sporadic in nature.

One gift that remained for quite awhile was the ability to recognize other people who also had near death experiences. If I met them, I immediately had a tingling sensation about my head and shoulders and this “knowledge” that we shared a similar experience.  There were remarkably more of them than I would guess given the general quietness on the subject.  Based on my informal survey, I’d say there’s something close to 1% of the population have had such experiences.  Most were reluctant to share their story since they also experienced the same rejection and disbelief that I had. But with some coaxing I was privileged to hear some very remarkable stories that confirmed what I knew.

Recently I had the opportunity to share this story in a church meeting.  Afterwards a man came to me and thanked me for sharing this.  It had convicted him of the need to deal with sin in his own life.  That helped me realize that there are people who need to and want to hear this message.  My eternal destiny was changed because someone was persistent and bold enough to tell me what I needed to hear, even if I wasn’t receptive at the time.  I am grateful for that and write this to pass on the good news in the same spirit.  I hope this helps and encourages those who read this. I am sure there are plenty who will be skeptical and there’s little I can do about that,  Although this is a pretty complete account of my memories of the event, I will be glad to try to answer further, serious questions from the readers.