© 2012 Jeffery C. Olsen

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

ISBN 13: 978-1-59955-986-5

Published by Plain Sight Publishing, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.

2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663

Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc., www.cedarfort.com

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Olsen, Jeff, 1964- author.

I knew their hearts/Jeff Olsen.

pages cm

Includes bibliographical references and index.

Summary: After being critically injured in a car accident that took the life of his wife and son,

Jeff Olsen has some near-death experiences that help him cope with his loss.

ISBN 978-1-59955-986-5 (alk. paper)

1. Olsen, Jeff (Jeffery Clyde) 2. Near-death experiences. 3. Mormons--Biography. I. Title.

BX8695.O47A3 2012

289.3092--dc23

[B]

2012024128

Cover design by Jeffrey C.Olsen and Rebecca J.Greenwood

Cover design © 2012 by Lyle Mortimer

Edited and typeset by Whitney A. Lindsley

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed on acid-free paper

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Backmatter

About the author

dedicated to all my angels,

both seen and unseen

ithout the assistance of Lee Nelson, this book would have never been published. His expertise as a storyteller and his compassion as a listener were key factors in getting it all down. I'm grateful for his vision, his mentoring, and his friendship. Thank you for believing in me.

Thank you to so many other wonderful friends who assisted me with this book. your insights and advice have been so valuable.

I am grateful to the many people who contributed to my healing both physically and emotionally. From the doctors, nurses, and staff at LDS, University of Utah, and Primary Children's Hospitals, to the strangers who actually stopped to render aid at the scene of our accident. Thank you.

Thank you also to my physical therapists and prosthetists. I'm grateful with every step I take.

Heartfelt thanks to my business partners and coworkers, who not only saw that I received paychecks during my long recovery but were also there for me in so many powerful ways over the years.

Thank you to my friends and neighbors who prayed for us and served us in such a compassionate manner.

My love and thanks to Tamara's family for their undying support.

Thank you to my immediate family. Words are inadequate. But thank you, Mom, for bringing me into this world and for calling me back into it again when I was so far gone. Thank you, Dad, for always knowing my heart. To my brothers, Justin and Jed: I have never met two greater men. Two truer friends I will never know. Thanks to my other siblings and extended family for your tenderness and love.

To Spencer: thank you for being a light to me and for showing me the way. If not for your strength and wisdom, where would I be? To Zach and Aiden: thank you for coming into my life and bringing laughter into my heart again. I'm thankful to be your dad.

To my wife Tonya: because of you I know angels are real.

To Tamara and Griffin: thank you for all you teach me, still, and for the time I was blessed to be with you. you will forever hold a sacred place in my heart.

ince 1965, I have interviewed thousands of people from all over the world who had profound near-death experiences. Jeff Olsen's story is one of the most amazing I have ever heard. It is scarcely conceivable to me, a medical doctor, that he survived given the extent and overwhelming nature of his injuries. Yet he did survive, overcoming the odds to live a happy, creative life as the head of a successful advertising agency.

As a psychiatrist, I often wonder how some individuals are able to get through devastating physical and emotional injuries that would destroy most of us. Jeff's life is a dramatic case in point. I am grateful to him that he produced this fascinating book that will inspire everyone who reads it.

Jeff's book contains the basic elements of high drama: A terrifying accident that comes as a bolt out of the blue. Wrenching grief for lost loved ones. Nightmarish pain from horrific injuries and loss of limb. A glorious journey to the luminous worlds of love beyond death. Hope, renewal, and the courage to love again.

I met Jeff in 2010, and his ordeal has been on my mind ever since. How, how, how, I wonder, could anyone manage to live through the catastrophe that befell him? Of course, his profound near-death experience was a factor in his survival—but that is not the whole story. Having met Jeff, I sense a gentle, thoughtful, determined man whose joy in life is to serve others. I think these qualities come across beautifully in his book.

Jeff's near-death experience is one of several in recent years that are pushing back the frontiers of our understanding of death. The details of what happened to him are so extraordinary that his experiences are a real challenge to explain in mundane terms. Jeff is a pioneer in a way, venturing out to the borderlands where life meets death, bringing back news of a life hereafter. I suspect that Jeff and a few others like him are moving us closer than we have ever before been to the Holy grail of rational inquiry—real evidence of life after death.

f a drunk driver had run us off the road, killing my wife and youngest child, I suppose I could eventually have forgiven that person. If our vehicle had been tossed from the freeway by powerful crosswinds, I suppose I could have forgiven God. But if I fell asleep at the wheel, then it was my fault. And what do you say to a man who feels responsible for the death of half his family?

We were northbound on I-15 one afternoon, returning from a vacation in southern Utah. The cruise control was set at seventy-five miles per hour when the vehicle veered sharply to the right, crossing over the speed ratchets and onto the gravel along the side of the road. I overcorrected, causing the car to flip back up onto the hard asphalt. And then it rolled seven or eight complete revolutions.

When our car finally tumbled to a stop, my wife, Tamara, age thirty-one, and my fourteen-month-old son, Griffin, were dead. My seven-year-old son, Spencer, was in the backseat, crying for help but at least alive. As for myself, I was crammed under the steering column—both legs crushed, ribs broken, gasping for air and bleeding from the gash the seat belt had cut through my lower abdomen and hip. Though I was conscious, I couldn't see anything through all the blood in my eyes. I tried to wipe it out, but I couldn't get my arms to work.

After almost four months in the hospital, enduring eighteen major surgeries, I can honestly say the pain of a broken body was minor when compared to the guilt and remorse that gripped my soul over the death of half my family.

It would have been easier for me if I'd had someone else to blame. There were reports of a red truck driving recklessly in the same area that day, but I don't remember a red truck. There were weather reports of wind gusts over a hundred miles per hour, but I don't remember the wind. I don't necessarily remember falling asleep at the wheel either, but the fact remains that I was driving the car. I had no one to blame but myself.

Mile marker 80 doesn't seem like a sacred or noteworthy place. It's only a signpost on a lonely stretch of highway about two and a half hours north of Las Vegas. For me, however, it's both the beginning and ending point of a painful and glorious journey that changed my life. Painful because of what I experienced. Glorious because of what I learned. Pain can often be the carrier pigeon of wisdom, and wisdom brings peace. But make no mistake, both come with a price and are found only at the end of a path each soul must travel.

remember light. It was streaming in from between the seams of the curtains in our front room picture window. It created dancing patterns on the hardwood floors of our little rambler house. I was hunched behind the couch in that room because the world didn't make sense to me anymore. Mom and Dad were splitting up, and my four-year-old heart didn't understand why.

It was 1969, and Marvin Gaye was singing, “I heard it through the grapevine.” I didn't even know what that meant, but the rumor around our house was that my brothers and I would be leaving with Mom to live in Salt Lake City. I was too young to comprehend what it all meant, but I knew it hurt and filled me with anxiety and insecurity.

I remember how dark the night felt as we packed up the car with the few things we could carry, loaded up the family dog, and backed out of the driveway of what had been home. My mom had bedded us down in the backseat, but I lay awake watching the streetlights move across the car window as we passed underneath them.

My older brother, Jed, was angry about what was happening. He was only seven, but he understood more than I did. I always looked up to him. I felt safe whenever he was around. He had dark eyes and dark hair and reminded me of my favorite G.I. Joe action figure, which I held tightly in my hand as I felt the car accelerate onto the interstate.

My younger brother, Justin, lay next to me. He was only three. We were best pals. He still had his baby fat, and I stroked his chubby cheek and played with his earlobe as he slept. I felt responsible for him somehow. I know it was my own anxiety I was feeling, but I wanted to protect him from all the insecurity I was experiencing.

My parents’ divorce became final four months later. My brothers and I grew up fast over those next few years. My mom had to take a job, so the three of us looked after each other until she got home.

We still saw plenty of my dad. He had remarried, but he remained dedicated to his children. We spent every weekend with him on his farm in Charleston, Utah, near Heber City.

Jed, me, and Justin

My parents were amicable over the divorce and shared custody. My mom didn't mind my dad spending time with us. Our parents didn't even fight. In fact, they both spoke highly of each other and were kind toward one another in our presence.

I never heard judgment from my mom over the decisions my dad had made. And my father spoke of my mother with reverence and respect. My dad's second marriage didn't last either, and he felt a lot of remorse over what had transpired.

My mom eventually remarried when my brothers and I were all in our teens. She had dated on and off over the seven years she was single, but my brothers and I made sure we chased all of them away. She finally met a man who was worth making a fresh start with, and we had matured enough to see that he made her happy.

Jed was starting high school, and he moved out to live with my dad on the farm as soon as my mom got married. He had been assuming the role of man of the house over those many years, and I think it was uncomfortable for him when our mom tied the knot.

Jed encouraged Justin and me to move in with our dad as well. Jed felt we boys were meant to stick together, to be a family. The three of us had become just that. Even though we had good parents, my brothers and I had spent a lot of time alone together. We were very close.

Mom and the boys

It wasn't long before Justin and I followed in Jed's footsteps and moved up to the farm. My dad, being single, welcomed the notion of having us with him full-time. I was thirteen, and Justin was twelve. I was torn by this decision at the time. I liked the city and had big plans to play on the local Skyline High School football team, which had been a state powerhouse for years. My brothers and I had all been involved in Little League football and baseball and had become good athletes. Mom was our biggest cheerleader. Sports kept us occupied and out of trouble while she worked to support us as a single mother. I know it hurt my mom when we packed up and moved ourselves onto the farm with our dad. But we were committed to sticking together and continuing the bond that had welded us as brothers over those volatile years.

In addition to farming, my father was in the military, and he would go on active duty from time to time, leaving us three teenage boys to do the farm work and to run things. It taught us responsibility and put a lot of pressure on us, especially Jed. We'd fight sometimes, and we even punched each other until it hurt, but my brothers were my best friends. They always had my back, and I had theirs. It had become habit for us.

We worked hard on the farm. We had over a hundred cows to milk three times every day, along with their calves to raise and take care of. Putting up enough feed for them all was quite a chore. We also had horses, a few pigs, and a small herd of beef cattle to see to. I used to be jealous of the other boys from school when they would go down to Deer Creek Reservoir to water ski or catch fish while I was hauling hay, but I know all that hard work with animals, with machinery, and with my brothers by my side assisted in forming not only my developing muscles but my values too.

I learned a lot about life during those years. I remember watching a farmhand named Ben work with the horses in our corral. Ben had shown up one day looking for work. He was a handsome but rugged man, soft-spoken, probably in his mid-thirties. He was a Native American, but I don't remember him mentioning which tribe he belonged to. He told Dad he had no money and would work for food and a place to sleep.

My father had a kind heart and had nothing against hiring folks who deserved a break. Dad asked him what kind of work he did. He said he liked working with horses.

We happened to have three two-year-old colts that needed breaking, so my dad told Ben he could start working with them. We didn't tell Ben how we broke horses or even how we expected him to do it. I suppose we were all interested in seeing how he might go about it.

Ben looked at the horses for a while and then climbed into the small corral where the colts were. The young horses moved over near the fence, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and Ben.

I was up in the barn's hayloft, watching Ben through the wood slats. He did nothing while the horses wandered around the perimeter of the corral, looking for a way out. Occasionally they'd look back at Ben. He stood there quietly. He moved to the middle of the corral and stretched out his arms like a big human scarecrow. He started to talk to the colts, quietly and calmly. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but he moved his arms in slow, circular motions as he chanted and sang to the horses. Finally, one horse moved closer to him, perhaps losing its fear or becoming curious about what Ben was doing.

Ben continued to speak softly to the horse, not in English but in his native tongue. I didn't comprehend a word he said, but the tone of his voice was kind and soothing, like a song. I watched for what seemed like hours, amazed at what I was witnessing. This was not the way I had seen horses broken to ride before. Typically we tied them up and let them learn how to respect a rope and halter. We taught them who was boss, so to speak. Ben's method was markedly different. Ben was actually speaking to them. Talking them into what he wanted. As I watched, I learned something: language was more than words and definitions.

After a while, Ben actually lay down on the ground, right on his back, looking up at the sky. He remained in that position a long time, his patience seemingly endless. Gradually the horses all moved closer, perhaps because he appeared less threatening stretched out on the ground like that.

Finally, the horses came close enough to sniff Ben's face and chest. Slowly, Ben raised his hand and stroked the sides of their faces, then their soft noses and other parts of their heads. It wasn't long until he was stroking their forelegs.

Slowly, Ben got to his feet. When the horses started to worry and move away, Ben would wait until they returned. After rubbing their necks and backs for a long time, he leaned against one of their shoulders and slowly pushed his chest and stomach onto the horse's back.

He was coaxing the horses to trust him. He was allowing them to take their time and become comfortable with him in a way that bonded them as partners, rather than as dominant owner and beast.

On the farm as a boy

Ben worked with the horses into the night after we went in for the evening. In the morning, he was right back at it at first light, when we got up. For all I knew he'd slept in the corral with them. By the end of the third day, Ben was actually riding all three horses. He used a hack-amore-style headstall that didn't cause any pain when he applied rein pressure to the horse's head. They ended up being some of the best horses we ever had.

I learned a lot watching Ben. In addition to teaching me about patience, he demonstrated a heart-to-heart language not found in dictionaries. A language of spirit or energy that was universal. I saw it and witnessed how the horses responded to it. It was almost the same when Ben walked onto the farm and asked my dad for work. He had an energy about him that communicated volumes without words.

That may have been the first time I remember feeling something beyond this world. It was something powerful yet still and calm. The way Ben had communicated with the animals—and not with words but with energy and intention—was something I never forgot.

y brothers and I continued playing sports in between our farm chores. All that physicality taught me to appreciate my body. I was strong and fast and could work long hours without getting tired. Even when the work was done, our recreation usually involved sports of some kind.

One of my favorite things to do in the summer was to run as fast as I could down our dirt lane to the river. I'd pump my arms and legs forward as far as I could, feeling the ground roll under my feet as I pushed into each stride. I loved sucking in the cool, country air laced with the scent of trees and the river. I especially loved the smell of the air when we were putting up hay. I would run out into the hayfields at night, stretch myself out on a bale, and look up into the star-filled sky. I wondered about life. I thought about God. What was he like? Did he have a wife or was he single like my dad? I felt God must care about me. Something about those wide-open fields and the infinite number of stars told me so.

I didn't go to church much as a boy. My mom was a devout member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—a Mormon. But since we spent most weekends with my dad, who had temporarily left the faith, I didn't spend a lot of Sundays in the church pews. My mom read scriptures to us and taught us how to pray. My dad instilled honor and integrity, even if it was with a good kick in the pants from time to time. But my religious views and spiritual opinions came mostly from what I felt in my heart or from what I saw in nature.

If I had any religion as a boy, I suppose it was athletics. My first love was baseball. In high school, I wrestled and rode bareback bronc horses on the rodeo team. But by my senior year I became a one-sport athlete, and all my devotion transferred to football. It worked out well, because it got me into college, where I received a scholarship to play for Utah State University. I had no aspiration to become a professional football player but was thankful to play at the college level and to have some of my expenses covered.

High school rodeo

My true desire was to become a professional artist. I had always loved to sketch and paint. My mom told me I drew before I spoke. She even kept a few of the silly little drawings I had done in kindergarten. Back then, my subject matter was typically our family, and my drawings would always include both Mom and Dad, even after they didn't live together anymore. Somewhere in my heart, I still held on to the ideal of what family meant and what it might be like to live in a home that had both a mom and a dad in it. I had spent so much of my life with a single parent that my feelings about what a marriage must be like were completely fantasized.

I started my college courses as a fine art major, but it was difficult to meet the requirements of the program while maintaining an athletic scholarship. Team activities often began as early as 6:00 a.m., before classes started; and with practice, team dinner, game films, and study hall, it was often 10:00 p.m. before my team obligations were complete. It wasn't until then that I could start painting to keep up with my art assignments. Sometimes I'd be up all night just to meet basic course requirements, much less to go the extra mile.

Eventually as part of my core creative study, I took an advertising design class. There I could sketch, draw, and come up with quick, exciting visual ideas. It was less time-consuming than the fine art courses I had been involved with, but it still fed my creative hunger. I fell in love with my newfound outlet for concepts beyond what could take shape on a traditional canvas. I loved creating campaigns and coming up with clever concepts, then doing quick sketches and layouts to bring them to life. I found I could squeeze it all in with my athletic demands and still excel at it.

High school football

Success was important to me. I was driven to exceed expectations. I was competitive, but I also had an internal, almost maniacal motivator. The truth was that deep down inside I was insecure. I hid it quite well on the outside, and I tried to show others nothing more than a drive to excel. But on the inside, that shy, introverted part of me was always pressing me to prove somehow that I was good enough. Not that I wanted so much to prove it to anyone else, but I wanted to prove it to myself. It may have come from the emotional trauma as a child over the divorce, but I could never accept myself. I never felt that I was all I could be. There was a deep desire for self-validation, to prove wrong my nagging thoughts of inadequacy. Yet no matter how much I did, I still felt I came up short.

College football

My insecurities convinced me that I had to work harder and outdo everyone in order to make myself worthwhile. I was popular enough and had lots of good friends, but because of my inferiority complex, I spent a lot of time by myself.

I didn't date often. In addition to being shy, I didn't have much money. Dating was expensive and something I could not afford. It wasn't that I wasn't interested in girls; I was, far too much at times. But there was that self-judging voice in my head that kept me from getting overly involved, telling me that I was stupid, that I smelled like the farm, or that I would embarrass myself in some way.

It wasn't until I met Tamara Spencer that I began to finally let all those insecurities go. She accepted me the way I was, and that inspired me to begin to accept myself.

recall the first time I saw her. I was a junior in college. The fall semester was getting underway. New students were all moving in. Classes would not begin until the following Monday, but I had already been on campus for weeks for summer football drills. Near the stadium was a student apartment complex, so I walked over with a couple of teammates to see if we might recognize anyone. Names of all the new students were posted on a roster near the mailboxes. I scanned the roster and, sure enough, saw the name of a girl I had known from high school. Peer pressure convinced me to go to her apartment to see if I might introduce the other guys to some local girls. My football friends had all been recruited from California and didn't know any women on campus.

I knocked on the apartment door and was pleasantly greeted by a girl I didn't know, who informed us that the girl I did know had not arrived yet. It didn't much matter; my more aggressive friends had already started small talk with all the girls who were not only moving into that unit but also into all the other units surrounding it.

Being the shy one, I took a seat on the couch in the front room to simply watch the whole ritual. My attention was diverted from my buddies and their antics to a girl coming down the first flight of stairs, carrying a stack of books with a laundry basket balanced on top. She bent down to set her load on the landing. I was mesmerized as she continued down the stairs and walked into the living room. I actually felt her energy as she entered. She captivated me. She had stunning, sky-blue eyes and natural blonde, shoulder-length hair. The details of her face were soft but striking and well defined. She was thin but shapely and had moved down the stairs with the grace of an angel. Her long legs made her appear tall as she approached, even though she was only five and a half feet tall.

There was strength and confidence about this girl. She carried a presence that both uncontrollably drew me in and intimidated me. Then she looked over at me. Her glance shot invigorating energy through my entire being. I wanted to speak to her but didn't know what to say. “Hello” would have been the obvious, but I could only sit in silence, watching her. I felt calm and excited all at once. I looked at her again and noticed the corners of her mouth turn up a bit into a smile as she continued to approach me. It was all in slow motion. I was absolutely lost in the moment. A profound feeling came over me. It was much deeper than my initial physical attraction. It was as if I were remembering her. She felt familiar in an almost ancient way.

Then I knew. My heart shouted to me. Everything inside of me said, This is the woman you are going to marry. I didn't even know her name. Was I crazy? Maybe. But my soul knew her soul.

“Hey,” was all that would come out of my mouth.

“Hey what?” she asked, as her grin turned into almost a laugh.

“Do you need some help with those books?” I'm such an idiot. Why can't I say something charming or intelligent? “I'm Jeff. My friends wanted to come by. We were looking for an old friend of mine, Patty.”

“Oh, she won't be here until tomorrow, or so I'm told. I'm new here and don't really know any of these girls. I'm just getting moved in.”

I could guess what she was thinking. These dumb jocks are all alike. But I wasn't like that. “Well, maybe I can assist you with all that stuff you left on the stairs.”

“Maybe, but I'm not sure what to do with it yet.”

“What's your name?” I couldn't stop looking at her eyes. They were piercing and so beautiful. I liked the way her mouth moved as she talked. Everything she said had a little smirk to it, as if she were really happy or about to giggle. I watched how her hand moved up to brush back her bangs. “I'm Tamara, but you can call me Tami if you want.”

The ice was broken. I began to relax. We talked about why she had selected Utah State. She was interested in both business and teaching. She knew USU had good programs for both. She had been a state Sterling Scholar winner, meaning she had a full scholarship to any college in the state she wanted to attend. She had almost accepted a slot at Brigham Young University but at the last minute had decided to go to Utah State. She said she had a strong feeling it was where she was meant to be.

“So you don't know anybody here?”

“Nope. Just me. All my friends went to BYU. But I'm sure I'll make good friends here too.”

Her confidence was contagious. She demonstrated the strength I always felt I lacked. We talked into the night. The conversation flowed and was easy. I felt comfortable, which was new for me. Not only was I comfortable around her, but I was comfortable with myself when I was with her.

My financial situation caused me to be creative about dating Tamara, which often included the dollar movie, an ice cream cone, and simple walks around campus. It didn't seem to matter, though. It wasn't what we did that was important. It was the time we spent together. Our conversations were far more valuable to us than fancy dinners or nights out clubbing. We simply enjoyed each other's company, and that was all we looked forward to.

I didn't kiss her for several weeks, and the first time I did actually took us both by surprise. It was not a special date or anything I planned. It happened spontaneously in the parking lot in front of my dormitory. I could've picked a more romantic spot, but the kiss was electrifying. It wasn't long or deep, but it was the catalyst that connected us soul to soul in a way that sent sensational energy throughout our physical relationship, not only for the time we dated but also during ten years of marriage. I never got bored.

Tamara was also a devout member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She reminded me of my mother that way. She had a conviction about God and about her connection to him. She brought back so many memories of my childhood and of how my mother had demonstrated her faith through our tough times. Tamara reintroduced me to my own childhood connection to God and to those thoughts I'd had while contemplating the stars in the hayfields at home. She even acquainted me with the church pews again. I wasn't there for the sermons, however; I loved the way she'd rub my back and massage the football bruises out of my forearms as we quietly listened.

We dated for only five months before I decided to leave on a two-year mission for the Church. I was assigned to serve in Scotland. A desire had arisen in me to tell others what I had found, but I was apprehensive about leaving. I was madly in love and knew Tamara was the one. My fondest desire was that she would stick around and actually be available for me when I got home, but I knew it was rare for young women to wait for their Mormon missionaries. Less than two percent ever actually do so. And Tamara had the attention of all kinds of guys on campus. I knew they couldn't wait for me to leave so they could move in and sweep her away. I worried, but something deep inside me knew that what we had was real and would survive our separation.

While I was gone, Tamara and I wrote each other twice a week. We grew even closer through letters. There was something magical about communicating soul to soul with only what we could scrawl down on a written page. It was like having our long walks on campus and talking, only now it was a week delayed by mail and we were forty-five hundred miles apart. I would look forward to her correspondence. I would draw her funny little pictures and sketches of my experiences and reply to her love notes and inspiring poems. We'd pour out our hearts, each sharing our deepest feelings and describing what was happening in our lives. I knew she dated others while I was away, but it boosted my confidence even further knowing that despite all her freedom, she still chose me.

After two years, we had actually grown closer than we may have been if we'd been physically together. For us it was true: absence had made the heart grow fonder.

Tamara and me

Shortly after my return from Scotland, Tamara and I were married. We picked up right where we had left off. We were so much in love and so happy. We were young. I was twenty-three, and she was only twenty-one. We were inseparable. Our hearts beat in unison. We laughed and cried together, and we always knew what the other was feeling. And of course we shared the powerful physical magnetism of young lovers. Making our bond official through marriage was the perfect next step.

I continued my education in advertising design, and Tamara was finishing her own degree and took a job teaching high school in Bountiful, Utah. She wasn't much older than some of the seniors there and almost meshed right in with the students. She worked hard to earn her degree quickly by loading up her class schedule and continuing that same load through summer semesters.

I also worked hard to graduate as quickly as possible, and when I did, my career took off. I landed a good job at a credible advertising agency right out of school and consistently earned the accolades to advance my position and salary. Tamara and I bought our first home, and things fell into place for us perfectly.

Our wedding day

Three years later, Spencer, our first child, was born. He was magnificent. He was the perfect mix of his mother and me. He had my prominent nose and his mother's crystal clear eyes. His personality, however, was uniquely his own. Six years later our second son came, Griffin. He was all boy. Tamara would laugh Our wedding day and say that he was just like me in miniature form. He had my darker hair and a thick little build but his mom's mischievous grin.

Tamara and Spencer

We sold our first home during the housing boom of the eighties and made enough money to build our dream house in the foothills. We had a fantastic view overlooking the valley and the Great Salt Lake. I loved being in the mountains. Deer would frequent the yard, and the air was clear and fresh. Life was good. It was everything I had ever expected it to be and more. All those fantasies I had created as a boy about marriage and what family should be like had become my reality. Things had fallen together in a way that almost surprised me. I would often sit on our deck at night in awe, simply feeling grateful for everything in my life. A gorgeous and talented wife, two healthy, handsome sons, and a well-paying career in a field I was passionate about. And, mostly, love in my everyday life that filled my heart with joy. What more could a guy like me ask for?

Spencer and Griffin

t was March 1997. Spencer was seven, and Griffin just over a year old. Spencer had grown tall and thin by then, like Tamara's side of the family. Griffin was still too young for us to know for sure, but he showed all the signs of becoming a future linebacker. For easter weekend we planned to drive to St. George, a popular southern Utah destination, to visit Tamara's family.

On the morning of our departure, as we got up and were preparing to leave, Tamara mentioned a dream she'd had the night before. She had just gotten out of the shower and was drying her hair in front of the mirror. I came into the bathroom. I grabbed a towel and hung it on the hook, preparing to hop into the shower myself when she said, “I had the weirdest dream last night.”

“Oh, what was that?” I stopped and looked at her, noticing an odd look on her face as she glanced back at me in the mirror.

“I dreamed you were marrying someone else.”

“What?”

That didn't make any sense. We loved each other deeply and were more excited about our lives together now than we had ever been. We'd been married for ten years. Our relationship had depth; it was loving, passionate, and still a lot of fun. We always shared everything, yet this was a strange conversation. I wondered if she was angry or jealous of someone. Or if she was worried about something we hadn't discussed. I wanted more information.

“Why would you have a dream like that?”

“I don't know. You were marrying someone else,” she repeated. “It was really weird.”

I saw her contemplative expression as she continued to gaze at me in the mirror. I stepped away from the shower and grabbed her shoulders, turning her, to look her directly in the eye.

“That's crazy,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. It was strange.”

She turned away, back to the mirror, and started drying her hair again.

“So what now?” I shouted over the hair dryer. “Am I going to be in trouble all day because you had some crazy dream?”

I put my hand on her back and turned her toward me again. She clicked off the hair dryer. I brushed back her bangs, which were still warm from the hot air, and kissed her.

“Don't let a stupid dream bother you, okay? It's not going to ruin your day, is it?”

“No,” she insisted. “That's what I can't understand about the whole thing. I was okay with it. There I was, watching you marry another woman, and I was at peace. In fact, I felt content. It was so strange.”

I wasn't sure how to reply.

“I didn't create the dream,” I said. “You did, in your pretty head.”

“I know,” she said, sighing. “It was just a weird dream.”

She kissed me again and smacked me on the back.

“Get in the shower.” She giggled, as her mood lightened. “You've still got to pack the car so we can get moving.”

Tamara and Griffin on Halloween

As we drove to St. George, Spencer had his Star Wars toys all over the backseat, including a Darth Vader kite we planned to fly in the breezy spring weather. It was about a four-hour drive, and the kids nodded off for naps when we were less than halfway there. Tamara and I talked and enjoyed our quiet time together. Nothing had changed between us since college. We still had invigorating, intelligent conversations and then laughed at ourselves when it got too deep. We'd philosophize and discuss current events, but it always came back to the children and what we could do to create happy family memories together. We made a big deal of holidays. We had incorporated traditions from our childhoods and usually spent holidays with extended family. On Christmas, nobody was allowed to open presents until the entire family was up. We rang a Christmas bell signaling when it was okay to enter the room where Santa Claus had been. Camcorders and cameras would capture all the joy as the kids entered the room. Halloween was equally festive. We'd carve traditional jack-o’-lanterns, and even the adults would put on costumes. grandma Wendy would make dutch oven stew, and the older cousins created a spook alley in the woods behind her house. Easter had its own traditions. We'd spend hours coloring eggs the night before and usually create a treasure hunt that led to big easter baskets customized for each of our children. The upcoming easter in St. George would be no different.

We arrived in St. George in time for dinner without mishap, except for Griffin getting a little motion sickness on the way and throwing up in the car. Spencer and I even had time to fly the Darth Vader kite before the sun went down. The wind was perfect, and it was awesome to watch Spencer beaming as the breeze tugged on the kite string. He held on tightly and kept smiling at me as the kite climbed higher and higher. It was one of those memories that burned into my heart. Tamara was lying in the grass on a blanket with Griffin, visiting with her grandma Ruby while Spencer and I effortlessly got the kite into the air. We'd flown kites before—we liked flying kites together—but this time was magical. We didn't even have to run. We simply held the kite up against the wind and away it went, steadily climbing higher and higher while Spencer laughed and shouted about how well he was flying it.

During our weekend we went to visit Tamara's convalescent grandfather. He was staying in a care center, and we hadn't seen him since his Alzheimer's had gotten especially bad. We were told he wouldn't even know who we were. He had lost the ability to recognize even close family members or carry on an intelligent conversation. Nonetheless, we went to see him.

When we got to the care center, he actually did recognize us and carried on almost as if he were well. He remembered our children, even their names, and we had a wonderful visit. He kept saying, “I can't believe they're ours,” as he marveled at the boys playing on the bed in his small, quaint care center room. We all hugged him as we left, but he wanted to hold on to Griffin. Grandpa kept laughing as he'd kiss Griffin on his chubby little cheeks. Finally we said good-bye and went to spend the night with Tamara's parents, who were staying in their condominium nearby. That evening, we colored eggs with the kids. I think they had more dye on themselves than on the eggs. We filled up the tub with bubbles to bathe them and let them play in the water until they were tired. We said prayers and tucked them into bed. After the house was quiet, I went outside to hide the eggs and arrange the easter baskets Tamara had put together. It was a peaceful night. I could smell the warmth of spring in the air. The cool grass felt so good on my bare feet.

I couldn't wait to see how the boys would react when they saw what the Easter Bunny had brought them. Griffin got fun little baseball toys in his basket, and Spencer's basket was stuffed with the latest Star Wars action figures, the few he didn't already have. He loved collecting things like that and would lay them all out in order on his dresser until he had them all.

On Easter morning, our boys woke up joyfully and went out to hunt for the eggs. Griffin was crawling about, calling each bright-colored egg a ball. Spencer found his easter basket up in a small tree and decided the action figures were far more entertaining than colored hard-boiled eggs.

That evening as we all sat down for Easter dinner, Griffin was crawling in and out of a floor-level cabinet, closing the door behind him so he could hide from us. He did it again and again, laughing and squealing with delight, waiting for us to call three or four times before he'd peek out, burst into laughter, and start the whole process over again.

Griffin was a fun and mischievous child. We had gone to great lengths to get him. Spencer had been such a joy that Tamara almost immediately wanted more children. She had a severe case of endometriosis, however, and had undergone a partial hysterectomy a few years after Spencer was born. After almost five years of trying, we sought medical assistance and went through the extensive process of in vitro fertilization before Tamara became pregnant with Griffin. Having him in our family had been nothing short of a miracle.

He was always laughing and into everything, especially the things he wasn't supposed to be. But with all his mischievous playfulness, Griffin had a tender side as well. He and I would play on the floor together at night before he'd be ready to get into his crib. I'd lie on my back and lift him high into the air. He'd spread out his arms as if he were flying. When he'd had enough, he'd lie on top of me with his head right over my heart. He'd lie like that for a long time until I thought he was asleep, but as soon as I'd move even the slightest bit, his little head would pop up and he'd give me his silly I fooled you smile, then nuzzle his face back into my neck.

He would wait for me at the top of the stairs when I'd come home from work. He'd sit there waiting and then yell, “Dad!” as soon as I'd come through the door. Then he'd start crawling in circles and laughing. He would get so excited that he looked like a puppy chasing his tail.

He didn't sleep well at night, though, because he was a colicky baby. I was often up with him into the wee hours of the morning as he cried with bad stomachaches. I found that if I held him on his belly with his abdomen resting on the palm of my hand he would find relief. We spent many long nights wrestling with colic. In hindsight, it was such a blessing. That time together was a wonderful gift. It's almost like he knew what might transpire and simply wanted to give me every opportunity to spend more time with him.

Tamara and Griffin

n the Monday following our Easter celebration in St. George, it was time to return home. After we said our good-byes and were all loaded into the car, I was surprised when Tamara insisted that I wait while she returned to the house to say good-bye yet again. Women, I thought. Is one good-bye not enough? When she was finally ready to go, we made a quick trip through town, gassing up the SUV and getting soft drinks. We were finally on our way, zipping up the interstate with the cruise control set at seventy-five.

Tamara, in her customary way, made herself comfortable by reclining her seat back. She reached over and took hold of my hand. I liked the way her hand felt in mine. It was small and soft, and she always laced her pinky finger around mine. I'm not sure why she held my hand that way. She had done it from the first time we ever held hands. I liked it.

We'd been driving for about an hour. Tamara was sound asleep. I checked the rearview mirror to see Griffin also sleeping in his car seat. Spencer was playing with one of his new Star Wars action figures and seemed content.

It's funny what goes through your mind in those quiet moments along a lonely stretch of road. I thought about work and all that had to be done when I got home. I looked out the window and noticed how beautiful the scenery was. I looked around at my family again and experienced a moment of intense gratitude. We'd had a great weekend. My wife slept lovingly next to me holding my hand. My children were happy and healthy. We were so blessed. My boys had always had full tummies and warm beds, and we wanted for nothing.

Thankfulness sank in even deeper as I took quick peeks again at each of them. I noticed the details of how Spencer held his mouth while he played, making ray gun noises. I noticed Griffin's earlobes as he slept, and the way Tamara's wedding ring had turned on her finger. My eyes moved back to the road. I was so lucky. My family was beautiful to me. It was almost too good to be true, and, in fact, Tamara often expressed a fear that something might happen to us. I was the one she was concerned about. She was always so emphatic that I be careful. She would wait up for me when I had to work late. She would always remind me to take extra care. She had this strange fear of losing me. Maybe that's why she held my hand as we drove. Perhaps I should have kept both hands on the wheel.

I don't recall the exact details of the next few moments. And maybe I don't want to know. There were strong crosswinds that day and a small red pickup truck driving erratically through that stretch of freeway. I may have dozed off at the wheel and swerved off the road, but for whatever reason, our vehicle, traveling at seventy-five miles per hour, abruptly went off the shoulder of the freeway. I felt the vibration of the speed bumps and heard the scratch of gravel as the SUV cut to the right. Then Tamara sat up, screamed, and reached for the steering wheel. I yanked it left, over-correcting; we flipped over and began rolling, not into the soft grass on the side of the road, but down the middle of the freeway on the solid asphalt. We rolled seven or eight times, with all the punishing force of a five-thousand-pound hunk of metal, before coming to a stop.

I've spent a thousand hours wondering how I could have avoided it and still don't have any answers. I've been haunted wondering what happened. Did I fall asleep? How does one live with that? Could enough regret ever be associated with the notion that I was responsible for such a thing? No one will ever know the nightmares, the asking why and how, the begging to take back that few seconds of time before we swerved.

There's that “undo” stroke on the computer; you know, the one you use when you type the wrong letter or want to put something back the way it was before. On my Mac, I simply hit Command+Z. How I wished they had that for real-life situations. I wished a millions times that I could click a few buttons and make the whole accident reverse itself.

The car with my family in it finally came to a rest near an over-pass by mile marker 80. As far as I could tell, I was on the floor under the steering wheel. I could smell the heat of the engine and the gasoline. I felt all the shattered glass around me. I was in a daze, broken only by the sound of Spencer crying in the backseat. That jolted me into awareness. I tried to sit up but couldn't. And for some reason I was blind. The warm sensation of blood was all over me. I had to get to Spencer. But if he was well enough to cry I figured he must be okay.

“It's going to be okay, son,” I gasped out, finding it hard to breathe. “It's going to be okay.” I felt a ripping sensation in my midsection. I could hear Spencer crying and pleading from the back-seat, but I could not get to him or even adjust to see him at all. I was pinned in place, unable to move or see. It was the darkest kind of hell. I was experiencing physical pain beyond description and emotional torture far beyond that. I kept telling Spencer it would be okay as I lay there in a helpless, twisted heap. Then it hit me.

What about Tamara and Griffin? Why could I not hear them? Why wasn't Griffin crying in the backseat too? I lay there still trying to grasp what had happened, and something in the core of my soul told me they were gone. I felt it. Over the intense pain of my physical injuries and Spencer's cries was the screaming of my spirit telling me the worst was a reality. I felt my wife and son's departure, not in a physical way, but as a spiritual absence. They were gone. I felt them ripped away more keenly than the ripping pain in my stomach or the crushing pain in my chest and legs. I began to lose consciousness. Poignant thoughts came to my heart. Had I loved them enough? Had I done enough? Had I been the father my boys deserved? Had I been the husband Tamara deserved? Had my life been worthwhile, and had I made a difference? Thirty-three years, was that all I got? Was this the end?

I felt a breeze blow through the car as I began to fade. I heard Spencer again. It sounded like he was saying a prayer. I told myself I had to stay conscious. I couldn't imagine what my little seven-year-old boy must be experiencing. What was he seeing? What was his view of what I could not see, being jammed on the floorboards like I was? I still had so much more to do, so much more to experience, so much more to love. Had I loved them enough? Had I loved them enough? That question kept pounding in my heart.

Even though it was broad daylight, I felt myself slipping into darkness—full of pain, regret, and guilt about what had happened to my family. The details of the day rushed through my head, how we got gas and soft drinks on our way out of town, dropping off a video at the rental place, how the Saturday before Spencer had wanted a kids’ meal with a Toy Story Woody doll, and the trip to McDonald's to get one. How Griffin had gotten motion sickness on the way down and we'd had to stop and pull over. How it had felt to wipe his tender face and the little bibbed overalls he was wearing. It all seemed so important now that I was losing everything that mattered to me. every detail came rushing through me with the regret and horror of what had just happened.

The darkness was smothering me. I felt I had to stay awake for Spencer. I tried to stay coherent. I had to get to him. That was my last conscious thought. I struggled to breathe, spitting blood and feeling the tearing pains in my body. I heard voices. Then I heard sirens, and then I slipped calmly away into blackness.

I was gone. Gone from the scene of the accident. I slipped from the nightmare of the crash into the quietness of pure nothing. I was encircled with light, a bright-white light that seemed to be energized with pure, unconditional love. I was calm. Peace infused this almost tangible light. I realized all the pain was gone. I was fine; there was no pain at all.

I was not aware of anything beyond a few feet around me, but I knew I was in a different place. This was a place of joy. It was familiar. It was home. I felt real, but I was not injured. I was not a floating orb. I was myself. The same as I had always been, only now bathed in this familiar and amazing light. My natural senses were magnified to a greater degree. There were a million questions racing through my head, but as soon as I thought of a question, the answer was immediately there. There was an ancient awareness, as if I had always been in this place.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, experimenting. There was no pain in my chest. I took another and became even more aware, as if waking up from a dream. Then I felt a familiar touch. I opened my eyes. Tamara was right next to me. She was real too. I could feel her. She was alive. I could feel her familiar vibration even more powerfully than her physical presence. I looked at her. I could feel everything. She was crying and upset. Why? Where were we? Was the crash a bad dream now? Or had I died? Had we both died? And where were the boys?

I had read about experiences like I was having. Many people describe passing through a tunnel toward a bright light. That wasn't happening to me. I felt like I was in some kind of protective bubble. And I felt alive, not dead.

“You can't stay here,” Tamara said. “You have to go back. You can't be here.”

Why was she crying?

“You can't come. You cannot stay here.”

What did she mean I couldn't stay? I belonged there.

“You have to go!”

She was as real as ever. The thought of our boys raced through my head. Where were they? Were they here too? If I stayed, would Spencer be left orphaned? Where was Griffin?

“You have to go!” Tamara insisted. But I didn't want to go anywhere. It seemed odd to me that in that glorious bubble she would be upset. Was it heaven? I didn't know, but it made my earthly existence seem like a foggy dream. What I was experiencing was far more real, far more tangible, and far more alive than anything I had ever known. I pulled Tamara to me tightly. She was tangible as well. I even felt her wet tears on my skin. I kissed her. That was real. I smelled her hair. Not in the earthly sense, but with senses that seemed to be tenfold what I had experienced before.

“You can't be here. You have to go,” she sobbed.

It almost felt as if my course was set. I didn't want to go, but I also knew she was right. I was not meant to stay. I felt I had a choice, but something deep within me knew I had to get back to Spencer. I felt like a contestant on a game show who knew the final answer, but wanted to quickly review every possible option, just to make sure, before the buzzer went off. I looked into Tamara's eyes, those crystal, sky-blue eyes. everything in the universe was calling me back to Spencer, but I wanted to stay with her. And where was Griffin? I felt a warm tear roll down my face and fall from my upper lip.

“I have to go.”

“I know.”

I looked at her one more time, the love of my life, and the wife of my dreams. I leaned forward, putting my forehead onto hers. Another tear fell from my eye and onto her eyelashes. I watched as it rolled down over her collarbone.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

I'm not sure I consciously made any effort to actually leave. I believe I would have stayed there with her, if not for the haunting reality of Spencer crying in the backseat of our crashed SUV. I knew he deserved to have me there with him. He couldn't have every member of his family taken away in a blink.

My thoughts rushed to Spencer, his little-boy hands and long, thin fingers. The way the rooster tail in his flaxen hair bounced as he ran and danced. I thought of the time when we sat on the back patio and shared licorice whips. I remembered that day. I could feel it, smell it, and taste it all again. The fresh-cut grass, the water from the sprinklers, and the taste of the licorice all came rushing back. Most powerful was the feeling of my little boy right there with me watching the sunset. My thoughts rushed to every essence of Spencer. I had to get to him.

As smoothly as I had ascended to that place of peace, I was away again. There had been no judgment and no life review. It had only been a brief peek into something profound. And as I drifted away, there was only one overwhelming question, not asked by a voice, but with energy that echoed into every cell of my being. The question was simply, “To what degree have you learned to love?”

n the time it took to draw my next breath, I found myself walking, or by some other method moving at will, but in a very different place. The bubble of light was gone. I felt the hustle and unrest of the hallway of a hospital. I watched the doctors and nurses as they went about their duties. I moved with ease all around them. I realized none of them were aware of me. They could not see me, but—wow—could I see them!

My perceptions were expanded. I knew each person I saw perfectly. I knew their joys and their sorrows. I knew their love, their hate, their pain, and their secrets. I knew everything about them, every detail, every motivation, and every outcome. I knew every emotion they were feeling, and I knew intuitively why they were feeling it. In an instant, with no contemplation, I knew them as well as I knew myself. I knew their hearts.

I looked into the face of a woman in her early thirties and felt her elation at the anticipated marriage proposal from her boyfriend. I instantly knew that this was the second time around for her, but also that this was Mr. Right. I watched as a man in his late forties approached me. I felt his guilt over words he'd had with his brother. I saw how his pride would never allow him to take it back or apologize and how that disjointed him spiritually. He was literally splitting in two between remorse and arrogance. Another woman walked toward me from the opposite direction. She quickly looked down as she passed. It was almost as if she saw me. I experienced her pain from the abuse she had received as a child. I saw how broken it made her feel. I felt how damaged and unworthy she had viewed herself for years and how she still felt that way. At the same time, I also felt her capacity to love and her strength because of what she had been through. I saw how her compassion was being drowned out by her shame. Just then, a young, heavy man in scrubs passed by near me. He couldn't have been more than in his mid-twenties. I felt his self-loathing because of his obesity. As he waddled past me and down the hallway, I saw the magnificence of his spirit. He was feeding his loneliness with food, yet he was brilliant. I stepped aside and into a room where I encountered a family. Someone had been shot or stabbed. I felt their fear and anguish. I experienced the horror of the mother and anger of the father over what had happened to their son. I didn't merely witness it; I experienced it. I felt it within me.

I left that scene and moved freely down the hallways and into other rooms. I encountered many more people. I felt spontaneous, intense love for each and every one of them. Not a romantic love, but a perfect, compassionate love. My feelings were at a much deeper level than I had ever experienced before.

I moved about the hospital with ease, pausing to take in the beauty of the people I was encountering. I felt their true essence and marveled at the connection I had to each of them, even though I had never met them before.

I wondered about what I was experiencing. What if I could actually live my life with that same knowledge? What if I could understand everyone I encountered at that level? What if I could feel every person's hurt and joy and know every motivation and reason for his or her every action or thought? What if I could feel the unconditional love I was now experiencing for every soul? I marveled at my perceptions. Most of my life I had actually avoided people. Now, everyone I saw was truly my brother or sister. In fact it went even deeper than that. They were, in a strange sense, me! We were all connected pieces in a huge puzzle of oneness.

Words Jesus had said rushed to my recollection: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these my brethren ye have done it unto me.” Was he talking about the awareness I was experiencing? Did he feel the same thing I was feeling? Was this how he walked the earth, in the consciousness of knowing each individual soul at this deep level of love?

I realized he didn't see himself as better than the beggar or the prisoner; he knew he was one with them. He knew them perfectly, in the same way I was experiencing the strangers I saw. We are all linked and equal in God's eyes. I was seeing it, feeling it, and experiencing it.

I continued to wander the hallways and drift in and out of rooms. Finally I walked into a room that felt a bit darker to me than the rest. There, I encountered some poor soul on a small hospital bed, broken and badly damaged. I didn't feel his emotion or perceive anything about him. He was a wreck of a body, a heap of flesh as if he were dead.

I stood looking at the body, assessing the damage. It was so pitiful to look at, yet I felt no energy from the broken heap I was looking at. There was an intense sadness in my heart while looking at it. It was so empty, so lifeless.

I moved closer to look at the face of the man. I noticed the detail of his whiskers and how his sideburns fell along his ears. I looked at the mouth and nose, and that's when the realization hit me. I suddenly recognized who was lying there. It was me! That was my body. I was standing there looking at myself, or more specifically at the body I was no longer in. It seemed so beyond repair, yet intuitively I knew I had to get back into it. I knew I had to return into that busted mass and be present with all the pain and grief that would go with it.

I knew I was sent back to my life for a reason. I had a son still living who needed me. Thoughts of Spencer rushed through my heart again. He was more than enough to live for, even in the broken condition I was in. Nothing is stronger than a father's love for his child. I knew I had to get on with it, even if life would never be the same.

As I stared at that body, the realization of everything that had happened, how that battered body had come to be lying in the hospital bed, became real again. I felt I was somewhere between heaven and hell. I had lost so much. I stood there looking at what was left of me. I had to get back into that broken heap and continue in it without my wife and youngest son. But my oldest son lived. I knew that. He was probably in that same hospital, somewhere. I could not allow him to be left orphaned. I took courage. I had to live. Live for him.

don't know how it happened. There was no fight or struggle or even movement. It was as quick as the mere thought of it. As soon as I imagined it, I was there, back in the body.

Oh, the pain, both physical and emotional now. It was overwhelming, the heaviness and denseness of it. The pain was excruciating. I wanted to pull every tube from my arms, mouth, and nose and scream out. It could not all be real, but unfortunately it was. The thought of Spencer pressed on my mind. Where was my oldest son? How could I get to him? Was he okay?

Spencer had always been a great joy to me. He was the boy I had always dreamed of. He was a good baby, sleeping through the night at only three months old. He would play quietly by himself for hours, throwing balls or drawing pictures. He loved to wrestle and have tickle wars with his mom. He was kind and shy but brilliant in his own unique way.

He and I would lie for hours on the grass, looking at clouds, stars, birds, bugs, whatever interested us. As a baby, Spencer would sit across from me, and we'd roll a ball back and forth for hours. We'd scribble pictures and doodles and sketch on the floor together. He loved watching movies, usually the same one over and over again. We'd spread out a blanket on the front room floor in front of the TV, make popcorn, and create an event out of watching Aladdin or The Little Mermaid for the fourteenth time. He was my pride and joy. A father could not love a son more.

I wondered where he was and how I could get to him. I had left him in the backseat of that car crying, and wherever he was, I knew he needed his dad. I couldn't feel him or sense him anywhere near me. My heart longed to see him.

As it turned out, Spencer was not in the same hospital with me. We had first been rushed to a hospital in Cedar City but immediately flown by Life Flight to two different locations in Salt Lake City: Spencer to Primary Children's Hospital and me to LDS Hospital.

When my family was notified of the accident, they divided into two groups. My older brother, Jed, and my mom went to Primary Children's to look after Spencer. My younger brother, Justin, and my dad came to LDS Hospital to be with me. When they first arrived at the hospital to meet me, Justin said I was so badly battered that he couldn't even recognize me when they brought me in. He said it looked as if every inch of my body had been beaten with a baseball bat. I was so swollen I looked like the Michelin Man.

Almost fifteen hours of surgery followed, with doctors working frantically to piece me back together. Both my legs had been badly shattered from the knees down. My rib cage had been crushed, collapsing my lungs. My right shoulder was severely torn out through the rotator cuff and deeply lacerated through my underarm. My left shoulder was injured as well, with a severe AC joint separation. The seat belt had cut through my midsection and lower abdomen, rupturing my intestines, which spilled out into my other open wounds and would become the cause for severe infections later on. I had a long gash through my left hip, actually exposing my femoral artery but by some miracle not severing it.

Oddly enough, I had no head injuries. The doctors explained that it was actually typical for athletes, particularly football players, to instinctively roll their shoulders and protect their heads. I had obviously done so, sacrificing both of my shoulders for the preservation of my head.

I couldn't comprehend much beyond the pain and grief I was going through. All the medical devices made it impossible to be at peace. It was all a horrible blur, but I do recall Justin leaning into my ear and asking if I knew about Tamara and Griffin. “They didn't make it,” he said. His tears fell on my own as I nodded, acknowledging that I knew. “Spencer is okay. He's in Primary Children's with Jed and Mom.” I sighed with relief knowing my oldest son was all right and in good hands.

Spencer was actually released after a few days, with a broken arm and bruised ribs. I can't imagine what his young seven-year-old soul must have gone through, having seen all he saw and having been through all he endured. The emotional trauma and scarring must have ripped at him in even more powerful ways than it devastated me.

My injuries were severe, yet no physical pain could even come close to the spiritual pain of knowing half my family had been killed. My mind was tortured with thoughts of it. I could not escape those thoughts, not even with all the morphine.

The only distraction from the emotional grief was the ripping pain that would come in waves from the physical injuries. On top of the pain was the discomfort from all the machines and medical devices invading my body to keep me alive. I hated it. I ripped at the equipment so incessantly in spite of my arm injuries that they had to tie both arms down so I wouldn't tear the needles and tubes out.

The respirator was the worst part, with the vacuum-like hose stuffed down my throat, forcing my lungs to expand, drawing artificial breath. It was so uncomfortable. I hated the creepy, artificial state of being; the feeding tubes, the traction, the restraints on my wrists.

The only movement I had of my own free will was to use my thumb to press the handheld button for self-administering morphine into my IV line. I hate to admit it, but I used the morphine more for emotional escape than for anything else. Every second was pure torture.

I was haunted by the notion that it was all my fault. I was driving the car. Had I fallen asleep at the wheel? Did I overcorrect in some drastic fashion? Maybe I shouldn't have set the cruise control? Or should I not have been holding Tamara's hand?

Rushes of guilt coursed through me. How could I have avoided all this? A million times I'd go over all the what-ifs in my head. I dreaded facing Tamara's family. Would they blame me for this? And was I to blame? What would I say when I saw them?

The day arrived when Tamara's parents came to see me. I was ventilated so I couldn't say a word. When the door opened, tears gushed from my eyes. I sobbed uncontrollably. I was so worried they would hold me responsible. I was holding myself responsible. Why wouldn't everyone else?

Tamara's mother peered in but stayed near the door. She seemed shocked and frightened to see my condition. Tamara's father came into the room. It was a moment of pure truth. He's a big man, six foot five, and I had all the respect in the world for him. I didn't know how he would react, but as soon as our eyes met he simply rushed to my side and did his best, among all the tubes and medical machines, to hug me. We cried. I don't even remember if anything was said. I felt his pain. It seemed as intense as my own. I didn't feel any blame at all coming from him. I felt only love and empathy.

He didn't stay long. I really don't think we could bear the pain in each other's eyes. But his embrace was enough to give me comfort. He was more than a father-in-law; he had become a friend.

He left the room, and I continued to weep. The sorrow was simply too much to bear. The tragedy had reached so far and had affected so many people. What was I to do with it all? What was I to do?

I should have taken comfort in knowing I had been there, on the other side, if only for a few brief moments. At least I'd gotten to say good-bye to Tamara in a strange kind of way. Most people don't get that chance. But the bereavement still plucked at my heart-strings with every breath I struggled to take.

Time became an enemy. The seconds clicked by like hours, dragging each day out into an eternity. My only relief was in passing out of consciousness. Yet even in my sleep I'd have nightmares with scenes from my childhood; Halloweens with haunted house visits, where there always seemed to be a hospital vignette that looked far more like a butcher shop, except in my dreams now I was the piece of meat on the table.

When I wasn't having nightmares, I was in and out of consciousness, in and out of reality, and perhaps even in and out of the spirit world. It was such a disparity of experiences. I'd have peace and clarity, but then I'd awaken to the disaster and to the excruciating pain. I was going from pure spiritual communication in one realm to the prison and pain of the hospital bed. I was halfway between this world and the next almost continually.

I'd dream of conversations with Tamara, or perhaps I actually experienced crystal-clear communication with my deceased wife. From her I knew exactly what to do about the funeral plans. I even knew what Tamara wanted me to do with all her clothes and personal things. I also saw myself at the end of it all. I knew that somehow I would eventually heal. I saw myself standing with a black cane in my right hand, smiling back at myself as I looked on.

It was touch and go for several days. No one was sure whether I was going to die or not. It was hard for the family to make the funeral plans, not knowing whether they would be burying me along with Tamara and Griffin.

After almost ten days, nurses came to move me out of ICU. It was a huge relief when the respirator was removed. I may have had too much morphine at the time because when they rolled the gurney in to move me, I actually thought I was going home. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I didn't know about the problem with my insurance. LDS Hospital was not in my insurance network, so I was being transferred to the University of Utah Hospital.

When the ambulance transport crew arrived, they were horrified at my condition and refused to move me. Insurance representatives insisted, however, that I be moved because they would not continue to cover my expenses at LDS Hospital. A Life Flight crew was eventually brought in to move me the few miles to a different hospital. The move nearly ended my life. My condition was critical, and the transport made it worse.

Spencer at the funeral

I arrived at the University of Utah in so much pain I couldn't stand it. The emotional jolt of having to endure a second hospital situation was unthinkable. In my heavily medicated state, I had truly thought I was going home. I wasn't prepared for being wheeled back into another ICU.

The only bright spot was that during the time the respirator had been removed, I was able to communicate briefly with family members and dear friends who had been there with me almost constantly.

There had been discussions about the funeral and burial plans for Tamara and Griffin. The family had to move forward with arrangements in spite of my precarious condition. Tamara's family wanted her to be buried in Escalante, her parents’ hometown, which was several hours from Bountiful, where we lived.

But I wanted Tamara and Griffin to be buried close to Spencer and me. It might have been selfish, but I wanted them to be buried in Bountiful, a few minutes from our home. I also wanted them to be buried together in the same casket. I knew Tamara would have wanted her baby boy right there in her arms.

With the respirator removed for that short time, I was able to communicate my desires, and the family agreed to honor them. It was a miracle that I shared how I felt as those decisions were being made.

I shared all my intentions for the services with no one knowing for sure if my own funeral would soon follow.

My business partner assisted me in putting down a few thoughts for the service. He wrote as I wheezed out my feelings. He kindly put his own touches on it as I struggled to communicate, but he captured what I wanted to say.

I thank you all for your love and support on behalf of our family; and especially for your prayers. I know they are working.

This is a hard day for all of us, but I want each of you to know that I have felt comfort and peace. I am deeply wounded, but not broken. My conviction is firm and my faith in all the promises made to us as a family is unshaken. My love for Tamara, Griffin, and Spencer is as deep and as pure as a man can have. I know they knew how much I loved them every day we were together. Because of that, I have absolutely no regrets.

I cherished every sacred moment we spent together. There was nothing left unsaid or undone. My last memory before they were taken is of Tamara holding my hand. That is a memory I will cling to forever.

It seems like Tamara and Griffin spent most of their lives waiting for me. Tamara always did get her work done faster than I did. Now I pray they'll please wait a little longer. Dad will be home soon. And, Spencer, please wait for me too. I will be back with you before you know it.

Please know that Spencer and I will move forward. I know we won't be left on our own. God is with us, the Comforter is with us, and there are two perfect, beloved angels here to take care of us. They will make sure we get back home together as a family, where we will fall into each others’ arms and forget all the pain and sorrow of today.”

Even though I was able to spit out a message of comfort, I was breaking into a million pieces inside. I wanted to be strong for everyone else, to stand in a place of power and give them hope, but deep inside I was hurting so badly my broken heart could hardly take another beat.

I knew I wouldn't be attending the funeral. I'd be in another ICU fighting for my own life. I ached, thinking of Spencer and what he must have been going through, all of it at the tender age of seven, and without his dad there to comfort him during the funeral and all the events that were taking place.

Tamara's family at the funeral

My condition was bad enough that they hadn't let him see me yet. My open stomach wounds were grotesque, and the smell of my rotting, gangrenous leg filled the room with the stink of dead flesh. The wounds had been left open to allow air to fight the infection. The many tubes stuck into my body and the massive swelling made me nearly unrecognizable. It was best for Spencer not to see me that way. He knew I was alive and fighting to get well. That was enough.

He was living with my brother, so I knew he was in good hands, but the burdens he carried during that time must have been immense for a little boy.

s they wheeled me into the new hospital and began to make arrangements to lift me into another hospital bed, I could feel myself slipping. I could feel all that darkness closing in on me for a second time. I was blacking out, passing in and out of consciousness. I could hear my mother begging me to hang on. I heard my brother trying to get the nurse's assistance. I began to vomit violently.

It was almost as if I was watching the whole scene from another dimension. Then the grief of the emotional loss hit me again deeper than ever. It felt like pure panic, and I wanted in the worst way to get out from under it all. I'd had enough. At my core, I simply could not take any more. The despair felt like a lead blanket of blackness over my soul.

How could God allow this to happen to me? How could a God whom I believed was a loving father put me, or anyone, through such an ordeal? I knew at some level that others had gone through worse things, but the sting of what I was experiencing was exquisite, and I could find no escape, no comfort. I had attempted to turn to God through silent prayers, but he didn't appear to be home.

My mind was in a constant argument between faith, knowing there must be purpose in this somehow, and blame—blaming myself for the crash that caused the death of two of my family members and maimed me beyond repair. Not to mention breaking Spencer's heart into so many pieces we could never ever find them, let alone put them back together again.

I had always thought I was such a tough guy. I thought I had learned to handle pain: working on the farm, riding bucking horses, training with the wrestling team, and bearing the impact of football. But those pains were nothing compared to this. And the emotional grief was indescribable. They had buried my wife and baby, and I hadn't even been there. I felt so empty, so alone. Had they abandoned me, or had I abandoned them in some way? It was as if half my body had been cut off and left somewhere. And I couldn't find it.

As I lay there agonizing, delirious from the morphine that didn't seem to touch the pain but only dull my senses to it, I actually had a demented idea about how I could put a stop to it all. In hindsight, I see how unrealistic it may have been, but it seemed so feasible in that moment. It occurred to me that in spite of my fighting it, I was probably going to die. I simply wasn't dying fast enough. The pain was so intense emotionally and physically that I decided a quick death could be the best way out. I longed for that light bubble I had been in and the feeling I'd had there. I also yearned to be with my wife again. I had already tried to escape through the excessive self-injections of morphine, hitting that button continually until I would pass out. But I would always wake up again, wake up to the same pain, anguish, and nightmare. What if I could simply not wake up?

My brothers and I were very close. I believed if I could talk to them, they would assist me in escaping. Jed was a cop and owned many guns. Maybe he would help me end it all, or at least bring me the gun and let me do it myself. If I could press that morphine button with the thumb on my one good arm, I could surely find a way to pull a trigger.

But Jed was so steadfast, so right. He would never put up with an easy way out like that. He had too much grit and would think of me as weak. My younger brother, Justin, however, would do it for me, I decided. He had the same moral fiber as Jed, but he had always been so close to me. We played football together in high school and college. We were roommates, and he knew me so well. I could convince him this was best. I had to try, and it was his turn for hospital duty. He was right there in my room.

My mind had gone a bit crazy. The idea was so far-fetched right there in the hospital, but somehow I thought I could pull it off. I beckoned Justin close and explained my plan. If he could bring me a gun, if he could simply bring it in, loaded, and give me access to it, I could end my whole nightmare. I could finish off my already dying body and soul. I was done here, I told him. My pain and grief were too great. even the feeling of responsibility for Spencer could not keep me here. My left leg now smelled so badly of rotting flesh that it stunk up the entire hospital ward. gangrene was slowly destroying my body. In fact, my mother had been breaking open oranges and grapefruits that someone had brought into the room to try to hide the smell. I was literally going rotten right there in front of everybody. I had to end the whole nightmare.

Why had I been sent back? Why couldn't I die? I'd lost my vision of being Spencer's dad. All that mattered was that I end the pain. And yet Justin refused. I couldn't understand why. I screamed at him, “Please get me a gun! I can't go on!” I was so disappointed when he rolled his eyes and continued to yell for a nurse. I begged and pleaded with him, but he didn't understand and refused. He tried to calm me down as I became more and more angry. I could see the concern in his eyes. “I think he's losing it, Mom.” He looked to my mother who stood by the door, watching for nurses or doctors to come back in. I continued to scream at them both to get me a gun, and to get it now.

I began to vomit again, harsh green bile. The puking was so painful. The bile burned my throat and mouth as it came up: brown, green, putrid acid mixed with blood. I felt like I was on fire from the inside out.

The room began to close in on me as I tried to yell through the vomit. All the edges closed in, and it was like I was looking at the whole scene through a thick, round, glass portal. I became tiny lying on the bed. Like a bug being observed through a magnifying glass. I looked down on myself. Everything focused in on me, yet I felt alone and small lying there on the hospital bed.

I continued to rise above the scene as my body became smaller and smaller. It was as if I were high above the room, looking down at myself. Everything was dark except my quivering body on the bed. It looked as if there were a spotlight on my convulsing physical form, which continued to become smaller and smaller as I rose higher and higher above the entire scene.

I heard a hissing sound, and I was suddenly swept away from the horror of looking at myself to a more peaceful place outside in the still night. I didn't hurt anymore, but I found myself observing an even darker scene. It was like I had broken through a time barrier somehow and was now standing in a garden, but it was no heavenly place. I could feel despair coming from an isolated spot. There I saw another man shivering and convulsing in tremendous pain. I heard his pleas and whimpers as he asked for his cup to pass. I watched from a distance, but I could actually feel his anguish, and watched as he trembled and bled. I heard the words: “The son of man has descended beneath it all. Are you greater than he?”

I knew the man's sorrow and grief. I could hear it, taste it, and feel it in the core of my soul. I shuddered. I was standing there, actually watching and feeling something awful yet sacred. I wanted to rush to him. It was the same feeling I had experienced in the crash when I wanted to get to Spencer. I witnessed the suffering of this soul and knew I was not separated from it. The feeling of being connected and one with everything and everyone rushed over me again. It was that same connected feeling I had experienced as I walked around the hospital shortly after the accident.

My consciousness raced back to my hospital room and into my body. Immediately I began to vomit violently again. However, something about what I had seen gave me higher perspective. I now viewed my situation differently. I no longer felt so sorry for myself. My thoughts rushed to Spencer and why I was here. I was willing to fight, I decided. I had been sent back, and the suffering I was experiencing was mine alone to bear. Somehow, peace filled my soul. I began to feel calm and comforted. I found renewed strength. A new courage filled my heart, a knowledge that Jesus himself understood what I was going through personally. I was not alone. He knew me and was totally familiar with my pain, in the body and in the spirit. He had hurt. He had lost. He had suffered. He begged to have the bitter cup pass from him, and yet he accepted his life and his experiences with childlike meekness. I now had the perspective to do the same.

What if God's hand had played a part in this whole ordeal somehow? What if there was a purpose in this madness? What if this was what I came here to experience in some way? Would this refine me and teach me things I could learn in no other way? The reality hit me. I'd been sent back to learn something. I too must rise again, having been made more whole by all of it in some way.

I was suddenly embraced by calmness that felt like a warm, soft blanket wrapped around me. I lay there, still quivering with pain but calmer in my heart. I was going to live! I would not leave my son orphaned. I felt deeper strength, love, dignity, and majesty. I was going to live.

ater that night, a couple of doctors came in to tell me how sick I really was. They informed me that they were going to amputate my left leg above the knee. Not only that, they said, but I would also need several additional surgeries to save my life. By that time the infections had taken over, and my temperature had raced up to 106 degrees.

The hospital required a signature for the amputation to take place. Since I was in no condition with all the morphine to sign the papers on my own, a family member would have to sign the release. The idea of amputating my leg above the knee was devastating to my mom. She hesitated at the responsibility of signing the form. The doctors put it bluntly: we'd have to amputate that night or bury me that weekend. My two brothers bravely stepped up and both, together, signed the release so the doctors could move forward with the surgery.

As painful as it may have been for them to give permission to amputate my leg, it was a necessary step to save my life. A few hours earlier, I had been hoping my brothers would assist me in taking my own life, and now they were signing the documents to save it for me. That's how my brothers had always been. In my worst moments, they worked together to bring about my highest good.

The gun and giving up were far from my thoughts now. I was filled with the courage to survive. I was willing to take on whatever might come and face it with the strength of my whole soul. I was committed to be there for my oldest son, my brothers, and my parents.

That night was long. Many painful tests and procedures were performed, including putting me back on a ventilator. I was conscious as they fed the big tube down my throat. It was an awful feeling, like being strangled. Justin was there with me every step of the way. I remember having adrenaline rushes as we went through the difficult procedures. He coached and encouraged me through the painful angiogram and other tests. It felt like a flashback to our days playing football and working out in the weight room.

Thoughts of us running together and racing each other as children came to my mind. I could feel the exhilaration of the ground beneath my feet and the muscles in my calves exploding with every stride. I thought about when we played Little League baseball. How we'd practice “throwing guys out at second” for hours so we could actually do it in the games. I remembered running through the fields, chasing cows on the farm, pushing myself through wind sprints, wrestling in the third period, and being down by one point with twenty-seven seconds left. I thought about college football and how sore my legs used to get during summer two-a-days. running up and down the stairs as children. Hiking in the mountains as adults. The scenes played in my head like clips from our old home movie collection my mom used to project for us on the living room wall.

But soon they'd be cutting off my leg. All that would be gone, and only the old home movies would remain.

The projector in my mind stopped, and the film slowly burned up against the hot bulb of reality. I would be permanently dismembered, disabled for good. Would I ever run again? Would I even be able to walk normally? And would that even matter?

A new film started to play, but in my heart this time. Scenes of my lovely wife and beautiful children, happy family outings, and tender personal moments began projecting within me. The loss of my leg would never compare to losing Tamara and Griffin. My leg would eventually heal, but would my heart?

Before long, the amputation surgery was underway. I felt the burn of the general anesthetic going into my vein. It was a welcome escape from the hell of physical pain and emotional torture I was experiencing. I didn't care about the leg. Cut it off. Nothing could hurt as bad as losing my family. I watched the operating room lights go blurry and begin to fade. I deserved this release from my reality. I wanted to revisit that place of peace. I even prayed in my heart that my soul would leave my broken body again, even if only for a short time. I felt the ventilator fill my lungs with air one last time, and then everything went black.

When I regained consciousness, the physical pain was something I cannot even begin to describe. It felt as if I'd been unconscious for months. A new array of needles and tubes were now invading my body. every cell throbbed with surges of deep pain. My mind hurt, my heart hurt, and not one part of my body was free from burning discomfort. I wanted to cry for help but couldn't. I felt trapped and caged. I was back in the ICU, but I couldn't find my morphine button. I had no relief, no escape from the torture. I couldn't believe it was real.

I eventually spent almost four months in the hospital, half of it in intensive care. The leg amputation turned out to be just the beginning. Over time I had eighteen surgeries, the most painful of which were the skin grafts. They harvested skin from my right thigh to rebuild my abdomen and hip areas. The days following that surgery were survived minute to minute. I was literally getting from one breath to the next, simply dealing with the pain.

It's funny what races through your mind in those moments, hours, and weeks spent lying on your back trying to make sense of it all. even with all the profound experiences I'd had, I found myself asking so many why questions. Why me? Why now? Why did I lose both family members? Why did Spencer and I survive? Could we not all have gone together? Why did I have to be so banged up? If I had to go through this life without Tamara and Griffin, could I not at least be whole physically? Why did I have to lose my leg and possibly the use of my right arm? Why would God allow this? Why, why, why?

I eventually learned not to ask the why questions. There are no simple answers to such things. I had to discipline my mind to ask more of the what and how questions. What was I supposed to learn from all this? How could I apply what I learned to be a better person, a better father? How could I assist others?

Time continued to drag on for me. each day seemed like an eternity, and the nights were even longer, with so much pain, so much grief, and so much uncertainty. I suppose if I had not been confined to a bed, I would have found ways to occupy myself and cope in more productive ways. I could have done things to take my thoughts off all that had happened.

But in my situation, I was too sick to read. Too sick to even sit up. I was a prisoner in a hospital bed with no escape from my mind, no way out of my thoughts, nothing to take me away from the feelings that hurt so much. The only escape was the next surgery or the occasional few hours of sleep. I offered a silent, constant prayer for comfort and healing. I learned in those moments, however, that prayer had become a much different process for me. Instead of doing so much asking and talking, I was learning to be still and listen. I was meditating, pondering, and visualizing more than pleading. In the past, prayer had been an active process, one of actually kneeling down and saying something, either aloud or quietly to myself. Now it was different. I couldn't kneel, nor could I speak, but I was finally communing. By being still and being willing to receive rather than thinking about what I might say, I found power, comfort, and peace.

Slowly, one surgery after another, the doctors mended my body. each time, I welcomed the escape of the general anesthesia as a brief reprieve from all I was dealing with. I hoped each time for another visit to that wonderful hereafter where I had been so briefly before. I hoped for a chance to see Tamara or Griffin. But each time I went under, I only escaped to blackness and afterward returned to my new reality.

would have never endured the physical and emotional trauma all without the love and assistance of my family. My brothers took turns looking after me. At least one of them was with me almost every day. They practically lost their jobs over the time they spent by my side. My mother would often sleep in the hospital room chair because she didn't want to leave me alone during the night.

My father would come in and sit for hours. I know it was hard on him to see me so maimed. I had been his strong, healthy son, but now I was broken both body and spirit, and he couldn't do anything. I could see the helplessness in his face. I was so grateful for his sacrifices. His quiet comfort and support helped me to heal.

My business partners, extended family, and friends would each take their turns at my bedside as well. They will never fully realize how much their attention, time, and love meant to me. I had so many people around me that loved and cared about me. I was lucky. I've wondered what people must go through who have to suffer like that all by themselves.

As loved ones came into my hospital room, I begged and gestured to anyone and everyone to please remove the ventilator. I would dream of taking a cool drink. I'd dream of talking with my visitors.

Nurses would come in to move me and change dressings, and while they heaved my broken body from side to side, I would beg them with gestures to remove the ventilator as well. My chest and abdominal ailments were so severe that I had actually forgotten about the amputation. The infections were terrible. My temperature fluctuated between 104 and 106 degrees. I was burning up. They put me on a special mattress filled with cold water to relieve my fever.

My lungs had gotten worse as well, mostly because of all the time I spent on my back. Pneumonia had become the norm for me. The amount of antibiotics they pumped through my body to fight it was shocking, but they had to try everything to get my lungs cleared.

Each morning, the X-ray guys would appear and lift me, slide the cold film pack under my back, and take another chest X-ray. At least the coldness of the pack against my burning body reminded me I was alive.

I kept pointing and complaining about my right arm. They had been so diligent in working on my lower extremities and midsection that little attention had been paid to my arm. All I knew is that I could not move it and it felt numb, which worried me greatly. They discovered that the rotator cuff had been completely torn out and that not a single muscle was still attached in that area. Most of the nerves had been severed as well by the deep lacerations on the inner side of my upper bicep. They said I had been through so many mandatory, life-saving surgeries that my body would have to get stronger before they could do anything more for my arm.

My muscles had begun to atrophy. By then I had been immobile and on my back for nearly two months. I was making progress, however, and in some ways I could feel myself getting stronger.

The day finally came when my lungs were well enough for the ventilator to be removed. I remember the relief and elation when they told me they would be taking it out. Of course the other PICC lines, IVs, feeding tube, and catheters would remain, but I was finally well enough to breathe without the assistance of that dreadful machine.

It was a little frightening as they pulled the ventilator out of me, but it felt so good to be free of it. My big brother was there as this happened. All my life Jed had kept me safe. He had always been there for me. I cried for a drink. I wanted so badly to cool my throat. Jed and I finally convinced the nurse to give me a sip of water. It was heaven to swallow it, but it came right back up again. There wasn't anything in my stomach, so the small amounts of water coming back up were no big deal. I kept taking tiny sips until I could keep them down. After a while they let me try 7UP. Divine is the best way to describe how that tasted. Oh, how I had waited for that moment. The way it tingled on my throat was awesome. To this day that is the best sip of anything I've ever tasted. However, moments after swallowing, like the water before, it came right back up and I began to dry heave. My system wasn't ready and couldn't take it.

My voice was raspy and weak, but talking to my brother was the best medicine I could have had. We even laughed that day as they tried to sit me up in an electric recliner chair. We noticed that the back of my head had been rubbed bald from lying on my back so long. We laughed about it. We actually laughed.

That was the first time I realized I was going to heal. That someday I would really be done with the physical part of my ordeal. I was so thankful for my big brother and the time he had spent there with me. For his spirit and strength.

And I actually slept that night.

he nurses and hospital staff were kind and caring. I remember that late one particular night, as I lay awake in the darkness, a nurse came in and asked if I'd like to have my hair washed. It had been a hard night, and I felt like I was dying emotionally, wondering how and if it would ever end. All I could do was nod yes. He proceeded to quietly wash my hair. Tears streamed down my face as he used a small basin to do the best he could to catch the water he used to clean my hair and face. I don't know who the nurse was, and I never saw him again, but he was a ministering angel to me that night. There was something saintly and almost divine about his being. I have often wondered if it was a nurse or some kind of angel that came to my aid, offering that simple act of kindness in one of my darkest hours.

The nurses continued to change my dressings every day. Even after all those weeks, the wound in my midsection was still gaping open. They packed it with rolls of gauze daily to fight infection and improve healing. It was bizarre to have that huge opening in my stomach. Both of my brothers watched closely as nurses changed the dressings, learning how to pack the wounds themselves. It was extremely painful, and I often preferred to have one of my brothers do it rather than the nurses. My brothers knew my personality and could move through it in a manly, deliberate way despite my wincing. Doing it quickly and getting it over with was best even though it hurt.

I did prefer to have the nurses care for my colostomy. I was so embarrassed about it and found it gross to have a family member have to change me. The nurses would have taught me how to do it myself, but with only one working arm, it was too difficult for me to accomplish. I appreciated the assistance. It was so humiliating for me, a grown man, to have everyone knowing when I went to the bathroom and having to have someone come in to change and clean the bag. The ruptured intestine would eventually be repaired and the colostomy taken down, but I had a lot more healing to do and more strength to gain before my body could take another major surgery.

I was on a first-name basis with almost all of the nurses by then. One day, a couple of young female nurses came in to give me a shave. They were kind and cheerful and made me laugh. It felt good to be in their company.

Many hospital staffers also spent time talking with me. Some engaged in deep, personal conversations. They told me things that would bolster my spirit when I needed to hear them most. I didn't have anything to hide from those folks. It gets pretty personal when someone is changing the dressings on your lower abdomen or dealing with your colostomy.

I kept a picture of my family by my bed. Often nurses would ask and listen while I talked about my wife and children. The staff members were as concerned about my soul as they were my body. It meant a lot to me that they cared.

Eventually I was well enough to receive more visitors. People from work and from the neighborhood joined family members in my room for regular visits. They were willing to do almost anything for me. One neighbor even scratched my foot for me since I could not sit up with all my stomach injuries and still didn't have the use of my right arm. Few things are worse than having an itch you can't scratch, and I appreciated her willingness to do that for me. I was grateful to everyone for what they were willing to do on my behalf. I was so blessed. My brothers, family, and friends would still sit with me late into the night or even stay over to keep me company. I still didn't sleep much and sometimes wanted to talk. I learned that there is no greater power than family love.

On one particular afternoon, a couple who I did not recognize came to visit. I was embarrassed at first, as I could not place them. They weren't from my work or from the neighborhood. It was awkward for me to not know who they were. I wasn't sure how to greet them as they came in. They introduced themselves as members of my first er trauma team, the er doctor and nurse at LDS Hospital who were some of the first to treat me. I was touched that they cared enough to come and see me at a different hospital, months after the accident.

They asked how I was and shared their amazement at my progress. The doctor commented that he had never seen anyone with my injuries arrive at the hospital alive, let alone go on to survive them. We made small talk and chatted for a while, and then the nurse grew quiet. Her eyes filled with tears. “We have to tell you why we actually came to see you.” She sat down on the chair by my bed and grabbed the box of tissues from the tray. She continued to explain that when I was brought into the hospital, she was the first person to come into the room where I was. She said that as she entered the room, she felt an intense feeling of love. A stronger love than any she had ever felt before. As she looked at me, she saw that I was surrounded by light. She saw the form of a woman standing by my body. She knew what had happened, that my wife had been killed in the car crash, and she saw Tamara, or Tamara's spirit, standing right there beside me.

I was moved by what she was telling me. If she had seen Tamara's spirit, then what I experienced after leaving the scene of the accident wasn't imagined. Tamara had been with me. It was real. I began to cry too while she shared what she had seen and felt and how it had affected her.

She wiped away her tears, and the doctor chimed in. He had not seen a woman or a spirit, but he too had experienced a powerful presence. He felt my wife there with them as they worked on me. He said she had communicated to him the importance of saving my life. He said that as he worked he felt her behind him, and though he didn't hear words, he felt her say, “Thank you.”

That's when I knew for sure what they were telling me was real. It was so much like Tamara to insist on thanking everyone. even in a crisis like this, she would have been the first to thank people for what they were doing to assist me.

I thought long and hard that day about what they told me. It boosted my spirit to know that people around me had also experienced something spiritual at the time of the accident. Their stories validated my own experience in many ways.

We do live on; I knew it. Something is beyond the body and this life, something tangible and real. This experience wasn't just a Sunday School story anymore. It was a reality, and I had been there. I had peeked into the hereafter, if only for a moment. I had been to the other side and tasted that peace and joy.

I made great progress after that. I was actually healing and feeling much better. I was well enough that Spencer began making regular visits to see me. He would climb right up on the hospital bed with me and read books, talk and tell stories, or watch basketball on TV.

He made me a little beaded Star Wars bracelet he called my Force bracelet so I would have courage and the Force with me. His infatuation with Star Wars made it easier to explain my broken body and missing leg to him.

“I am like Darth Vader,” I explained. “And they will put me back together with cool robot parts so I can come home and be your dad again.”

I always felt sad and empty when he left. I worried so much about him and how he was doing. He didn't want to talk about the wreck or our loss at all, only about when I would be coming home again. I realized I hadn't been there for him when he deserved my love most. I had been so sick for so long. The family had gone through the grieving process and funeral while I was fighting for my own life in the hospital. I was barely well enough physically to start to deal with Spencer and how to get us through our ordeal. It had been three months. Family members were beginning to move on emotionally, but I was far behind them. I was living the loss all over again through Spencer, in a new way, outside of myself.

A visit from Spencer

I had a little box put together for Spencer. I asked my mother and sisters-in-law to go to the house and let him select some things that would remind him of his mom and little brother. He selected a scarf that Tamara had worn that still smelled of her perfume and a necklace with animal charms on it. He chose a pair of Griffin's little shoes and a few family pictures. These tokens were all simple things, but they meant the world to him.

It broke my heart when he brought in the treasures he had gathered. Because of their injuries, their funeral had been a closed-casket funeral, so Spencer never got to see them or say good-bye. He deserved closure in some way, and remembering them by saving little reminders of their lives, not their deaths, was extremely healing for my little boy.

Watching my son deal with all of it with such courage was inspiring to me. He was a great strength to his dad. He only cried once when he was with me, and I could tell he was doing his best to not make me cry too. I continually fought to hold back the tears around him. The very sight of him both broke my heart and filled it with gratitude. My heart broke knowing he had lost everything I had lost. I wondered how I would ever raise him alone. How could I ever make this right for him? How could I ever replace all he had lost and give him the kind of normal, happy childhood he deserved?

But my heart was filled with gratitude every time he'd climb up on the hospital bed and lie close to me. He'd talk about school, his cousins, Star Wars—anything but the wreck. I knew he was avoiding it, and I avoided it too, for his sake, trusting that he had grieved in his own way while I had lain unconscious in ICU. I didn't want my pain to tear open his wounds again. I felt that talking about it would bring it all back for him. He was healing; I was behind because of the time I had spent trying to stay alive. It was difficult to know how to comfort him.

Having a child is like having your heart leave your body and walk around in the world. I wanted the best for him; I wanted him to heal emotionally. I just didn't know how to be there for him with my own heart still broken in so many ways.

early three months had passed. The feeding tube had been removed. Only the IVs, oxygen tubes, colostomy, and a catheter were left to deal with. This was such a vast improvement over my earlier condition that I felt almost as if I were becoming normal.

I was eventually moved from the ICU to surgical recovery and finally to the rehab floor. It was there that I first saw myself in a mirror. I was quite a sight. My eyes were red and hemorrhaged. I had lost seventy-five pounds. I had scars all over my body, and the wound across my stomach was still open. My hair was long, except for the bald spot my pillow had worn on the back of my head. My whole countenance looked like death, even though people had been commenting for weeks on how good I looked. I felt as if I were looking at a stranger. The only thing I recognized was the pain and sadness in my eyes. That I knew well.

The nurses asked my family to bring in sweatpants and a T-shirt for me to wear in place of my hospital gown. They told me I would be going to the rehab gym to begin working my badly atrophied muscles. I welcomed the idea of regular clothes until I actually tried to put them on. I immediately became acutely aware of how injured I still was. I gazed at my body, at the empty space where there'd once been a leg. It felt so strange pulling on the sweatpants without putting a foot in first to feel my way through them. I also realized that my abdominal injuries were too severe for me to sit up properly. I still only had the use of one arm. It was such a struggle to get the sweatpants on that I collapsed back on the bed. It broke my spirit for a moment. Justin saw my anguish and finished dressing me, and then called the nurse to assist in transferring me into a wheelchair.

Justin, with the assistance of a male nurse, lifted me into the chair. I was too weak to do it myself. Justin pushed me down the hallway. My whole body jiggled in pain with every little bump. The muscle atrophy was unbelievable. I was like a skeleton wrapped in gelatin. This could not really be my body! I could not hold back the emotions.

“I'm a gimp,” I blurted out as Justin pushed me into an open doorway. “My wife is dead, my youngest son is dead, and I look and feel dead.” I was always close enough to Justin to talk to him that honestly. He was younger than I was but had become one of my wisest counselors. I trusted him with everything, even when I was frustrated and overwhelmed. The wheelchair ride that was meant to raise my spirits had instead provided a brutal shock as to what the reality of life had become.

I threw up, again, and he took me back into the hospital bed to rest. I rolled over and let myself break inside. I did not have the strength to do anything else.

I slept that night but had a crazy dream. All night long I dreamed that I was trying to call Tamara. I called our home phone over and over again but got no answer. I called her office phone at school, but it just rang. I called her parents’ phone and got an answer, but they told me she was not there. I was trying to remember her apartment phone number from back when we were in college to see if she might pick up that call. It was the worst nightmare. I dreamed all night of trying to find her, calling every number we had ever had and all of her family and friends’ numbers to see if I could speak to her. When I finally woke up the next morning, the sun was already blazing into my hospital room. It felt warm on the white sheets of my bed. I wondered who had opened the curtains for me and let the sun come in. It was a welcome change from the dreams of the night.

The days continued, each one offering new challenges and realities, but I was healing. Every day I got a little stronger. The oxygen mask was finally removed. Only the colostomy, PICC line, and catheter remained. I started to enjoy the short trips to the rehab gym to move what remained of my limbs. The exercise felt great, even if I was simply raising the stump of my amputated leg or lifting a small weight with my one good arm. I even broke a sweat at one point. Wow, sweating in a gym—now that felt good, and almost normal.

The nurse and physical therapist brought me back to my room and assisted me into the shower. Yes, shower! It was the first cleaning I'd had outside of a sponge bath for months. The hot water felt wonderful as I sat in the shower chair and let it run down my back. The nurse helped me dry off and offered to cut my hair—an offer I gladly accepted. She also trimmed my fingernails, which had become quite long. I felt like a new man. I even ate dinner that evening without puking.

Coworkers and business partners from my office came to see me that night. I told them about the visit I'd had from the ER doctors at LDS Hospital earlier that month. I hadn't talked that much in such a long time. I realized how hard carrying on a conversation was without losing my breath. It was strange and something I hadn't noticed before. When my breathing became more difficult, I mentioned the problem to the nurse. When my vitals were checked, I was put back on oxygen immediately.

Things got progressively worse late that night, and I began to feel very sick. Nurses took me to radiology for another look at my lungs and then rushed me from the rehab floor back up to intensive care. Doctors scurried about and then explained to me that I had not one but two pulmonary embolisms, or blood clots, which had lodged in my lungs. I had battled pneumonia for months, and now this. My lungs were still damaged from the trauma of the accident, and the blood clots were not helping. I could tell from the look on the doctors’ and nurses’ faces that it was serious.

I felt progressively more sick and quickly began to fade again into that semiconscious state of delirium. The why questions started bombarding my head again. Why this now? I'd been getting better. I felt the souls of all the people who were working on me in that same intense way I had experienced when moving through the hospital right after the crash. I could feel each person's energy as he or she came into the room, but I was very much in my body this time, and the pain and sickness were overwhelming. I was scared. It had escalated so quickly. I felt myself slipping into that darkness again. I could feel the doctors’ worry and concern. It was strange to be so aware of their feelings.

Fully encountering people's spirits this time was interesting. It reemphasized what I had experienced before. I felt each of them and recognized them as they continued my care over the next few days. They were such beautiful souls. Some of the most wonderful spirits I felt were not necessarily the most attractive people. I learned not to look on someone's appearance but instead to feel his or her soul. I found myself closing my eyes as the doctors or nurses entered the room to feel who they really were. Feeling someone beyond how they look is a profound experience. even now I often close my eyes to recognize the character of someone's soul beyond what he or she looks like.

I stabilized after a few days. I was put back on oxygen and blood thinners, but apparently I had cheated death yet again. It was awful to feel so sick, however. I could not eat, and a feeding tube was inserted again. I hated the feeling of it running down through my nose and into my throat. At least I didn't have the respirator this time around. Somehow the oxygen tubes through my nose were keeping enough air in my lungs. I continued to try to move in bed as best I could. I didn't want to lose the ground I had gained in tightening up what muscle I had left.

I began to believe I really couldn't be killed. After everything I had been through, my heart kept beating, and my damaged lungs continued to draw breath. even when I had wanted to die, my body wouldn't quit. At that point, after overcoming the blood clots, I knew I was definitely on earth to stay.

During this time, I received a visit from my high school football coach. He had moved to California shortly after my senior year but had heard about the accident and flew into Salt Lake to see me. He had been an all-American collegiate player and also played in the NFL.

I was inspired by his visit. I had not seen him since I was eighteen years old, fifteen years earlier. We had been close when I was in high school, and his visit gave me a well-deserved boost.

As we talked, he removed his all-American collegiate ring and placed it on my finger. I had lost so much weight that it dwarfed my thin and badly atrophied digit. I told him I could not accept such a gift. He said he didn't intend for me to keep it, but he would only accept it back from me when I could stand up, walk to him, and return it like a man. He told me he knew what I was made of and how hard rehabilitation was going to be. Learning to walk again would be a challenge, not to mention overcoming my other injuries. He cried at my loss and what I had been through but motivated me to continue the fight and get back to full health and back to my life. And not only for my son but also for me. It may have been the greatest halftime speech he ever gave. Since his large ring did not fit my finger, I wore it on a leather strap around my neck. It was a great motivator, inspiring me to heal.

I eventually gained enough strength to be moved back to the rehab floor and continue my recovery. I returned to the hospital gym daily to exercise my body. I worked at standing on my one good leg, not that it was all that “good” considering that I still had five pins and a metal plate holding it together, but to be upright on my foot was an amazing feeling.

Time moved on. At that point, I had been in the hospital for nearly three months. By then I enjoyed my wheelchair rides with my brothers, family, and especially Spencer. We'd go outside the hospital for short jaunts. I had worked hard and was almost well enough to undergo my last few surgeries. Most of the tubes were gone by now with the exception of the PICC line and the colostomy bag. I would still breathe oxygen while resting in bed but was no longer required to wear the mask full time. The catheter had even been taken out, and I cannot tell you how wonderful it was to relieve myself normally. The pneumonia was diminishing, and I was getting stronger every day.

Current X-ray of my right knee

Family and friends were allowed to bring in outside food from time to time. I needed all the calories I could possibly consume for healing. Milkshakes were a regular indulgence in the evening, and I was actually keeping things down. I loved it when they would bring me sushi. I even got to the point where a big pastrami burger sounded good and I could eat the whole thing. I was by then up to a whopping one hundred sixty pounds, still sixty pounds lighter than my natural weight, but I was recovering.

Hospital staff would come in to see me and marvel at how well I was doing. They all said they could not believe I was alive. I was a living miracle. Doctors came in each morning to chat and check my wounds. They brought in counselors who told me I would grieve the loss of my limb for a while, but they had no idea how I was grieving the loss of my wife and son. I constantly battled to keep the depression at bay. I could not speak of them without falling apart. Though I was winning my physical battle, my emotional war still raged.

I knew I had experienced something beyond death, but it didn't quench the pain of missing them. I would dream of them often and wake only to find them still permanently absent. I read books, prayed, and did anything to find comfort. I would even tell myself that it was all temporary and that someday they would be safely back in my arms again. But it didn't take away the loneliness of the present.

I was in the hospital gym one day for my regular rehab routine when I encountered a young man in a wheelchair who looked about my age. He seemed familiar in a way, but I blew it off and continued my mild workout. I thought it odd that standing up on one leg for brief moments or lifting a two-pound weight could be classified as working out.

As I thought about the irony of it all, the young man approached me and said, “I think I know you. Did you play football at Wasatch High School?”

I answered that I did and he explained that he had played for Park City High, a nearby rival. He recalled that we had opposed each other in a hard-fought game sixteen years earlier. We had both been named to the all-state team, and he remembered who I was. He also took great joy in reminding me that his team had beat us by three points in the last few seconds of the game. What a memory he had, and what a predicament we now found ourselves in, both in wheelchairs. Unlike him, however, I was able to stand briefly, even if it was only on one leg. We talked and even laughed about our situations.

He explained that he had also been in an auto accident, which had broken his spinal cord, leaving him a paraplegic. He envied that I could move my legs even if one of them was only a stump. I became melancholy as I shared with him how I had also lost my wife and youngest child in the crash. He empathized but told me the sad tale of how when he returned home from the hospital, his wife was packing up to leave him, taking his only son with her. She couldn't handle his paralysis.

That was a sobering thought. At least my wife and child left this world in love with me. He had lost his family in a much more bitter way. I suddenly felt so grateful, so blessed for the time I had with my wife and son and the love we shared. I knew they were still there, watching over me, pulling for me, and cheering me on.

My heart went out to this man from my distant past, yet I didn't know what else to say, except that I was sorry. And I was. I felt things more deeply after all I had been through. I had a more acute awareness of the suffering of others. Perhaps I had been wrapped up in my own misery for too long. It felt better, and far healthier, to hurt for someone else for a change. It was a huge epiphany for me that day in the gym. I had been so preoccupied with my battles that I hadn't even considered anyone else's.

I began to ask nurses, doctors, visitors, and other patients how they were doing, how their day was, and then really listen to their replies. I spoke to my family differently and addressed their pain and loss over all that had happened. I discovered that a big part of my pain could be swallowed up in kindness to others. By taking a genuine interest beyond what my own struggles might be and investing in someone else, my struggles actually diminished.

The days went by more quickly after that. My pain didn't go away, but I realized that everyone has pain of his or her own. Many of the people I met opened up and shared their personal challenges with me when I asked them sincere questions. I realized I had shown little concern for how my family members were doing while they had been so focused on me. I had been selfish and self-centered. getting outside of myself turned out to be the best medicine I could possibly take for the lingering pain in my heart.

Spencer and me

lans were finally made to repair my right shoulder and rotator cuff. I was worried about the surgery. I wanted so badly for things to go well. I needed the use of my right arm. My livelihood depended on it. I deserved a miracle, I felt, and made my own mind up to have one. My arm would be healed.

As the shoulder surgery approached, I welcomed the general anesthetic once again. I secretly hoped for another visit to the other side with every surgery I had, including that one. I wondered if I couldn't get one more visit, one more hug from Tamara, and a glimpse of Griffin. My heart still longed for that place I had been in so briefly.

I glanced down at my wrist where I wore the Force bracelet Spencer had made for me. I knew I was still here to be his dad. The surgery would go well. I knew I would come out of it with a working arm. I kept my energy focused on that and on healing, rather than fantasizing about another peek into the hereafter.

I had developed good relationships with many of the doctors. Their morning visits often turned into conversations. One of the resident doctors who had been looking after me was named Dr. Luke. He and the other physicians arrived to speak with me before the surgery. As we reviewed the procedure, he asked me to take off the Force bracelet Spencer had given me.

“You're supposed to take all your jewelry off before we go back,” he reminded me.

“Oh sure,” I replied and began to untie the strings on the bracelet. “This is my Star Wars bracelet. My son made it for me so I would have the Force.” I smiled, thinking of Spencer as I took it off and rolled the little black and white beads in my fingers. “Fix my arm, Doc.” I laughed nervously and dropped the bracelet into his hand.

“We will. Now reach over and sign it so we cut the right one.” He set the bracelet on the stand by my hospital bed. “This will be right here when you get back.”

“I know. Thank you. May the Force be with you, Luke.”

They wheeled me back and made the final preparations. I felt myself fade away as they administered the general anesthetic yet one more time. everything went black as I slipped away for surgery number sixteen.

The surgery went well, but nothing but blackness surrounded me the whole time I was out. In fact, I felt as if I had barely been put under and was suddenly waking up again, as if only seconds had passed.

I wasn't prepared for how painful recovery from rotator cuff surgery would be. I had been through much worse, but this time around I had assumed it might be easier because I was so much stronger and healthier. However, the sting and throb of recovery from yet another surgery were all too familiar.

The rotator cuff repair would be my last surgery for a while. I'd have to wait several more months to have the colostomy taken down, and I would have reconstructive surgery on my hip and stomach at some point, but I was told that could be a year away. I was beginning to sleep on my side at that point rather than flat on my back. Even that was a welcome change. It provided more restful nights.

My amputation site was doing well at that point too. After several terrible bouts with infections, it was healing. Orthopedic physicians and physical therapists began the conversation with me about a prosthetic leg. They told me I'd walk with a slight limp but would learn to master it in time. Walking was still six or more months away, but the conversation excited me. I was anxious to move forward and get to a point where I could leave the wheelchair. I thought of those who didn't have that option. I was so fortunate to be able to do so.

However, what I longed for most was also one of my biggest fears at that point: returning home. How would I function in a wheelchair in my house? How could I care for Spencer? All the logistics of actually getting back to my life were major concerns for me. We decided I would spend the remainder of the summer with Justin and have home care nurses come to his house until I could learn to adjust to my new lifestyle.

I worked at becoming more independent than ever in the hospital. I would venture out by myself for short jaunts past the cafeteria and out into the small courtyard outside the rehab wing. I loved being outside. I began to hear birds again and notice the sights and smells of nature. I was escaping from the emotional and physical pain of my own body and become aware of things around me. I remember how I used to be. I wondered if I would ever hike again. I had been sheltered so long in the hospital that the condition of my body was new to me. It was learning how to move all over again. My mind vacillated from the immediate moments of grief to questions of what the future might be like for me.

On one occasion, as I sat in the wheelchair feeling incredibly lonely and bleak about what life might be like at home after I was released, I noticed the rustling of the leaves in the small stand of aspen trees in the hospital courtyard. I closed my eyes and let the sound sink deeply into me. It was like music running through my soul. The same breeze that moved the leaves began to rush into my hair and face. I breathed it in. I listened and heard Tamara's voice speaking to my soul, “Each time you hear the rustling of the leaves, that's me saying, ‘I love you.’ ”

I smiled inside knowing my loved ones were not far away and perhaps had been there beside me that whole time. I wiped away a tear and looked at the stump of my amputated leg. I looked at the brace holding my right leg in place. I lifted my T-shirt and looked at the scars running up and down my stomach. I pulled the shirt back down and tucked it under the sling on my right arm.

I realized that I was not my broken body. I was much, much more. My spirit was intact, feeling and listening. I was becoming more enlightened than ever through the things I had been through. I was learning so much. Others might call me crazy for hearing messages through the breeze and the leaves of the trees, but those quiet breezes spoke to my heart, saying, “No matter how bad it may seem, there is someone, somewhere who has experienced worse. No matter how intense your pain, physical or emotional, someone is experiencing something even more intense.” I breathed it in. I had become so much more aware of others through what I had suffered. My ability to empathize had been multiplied.

I rested well that evening in my hospital bed. My room was quiet. My family was taking a well-deserved break. No visitors came to see me. I felt far more comfortable than usual. I rolled onto my side and watched as the light through the window changed from a golden tone to a deep purple blue. I faded off to sleep.

As I slept, I dreamed I was drowning. The current was whisking me away uncontrollably. In desperation, I reached for anything to hold on to, a branch, a reed, or even just grass. The water was rushing over me, pulling me swiftly downstream. I continued to scramble, holding my breath. I thrashed in the current in absolute panic. Suddenly, over the sound of water rushing into my ears, I thought to stand up, to stop thrashing and stand up in the water. I stopped fighting the current and let it carry me. I became calmer. I let my legs sink down beneath me and felt them plant on a solid riverbed. I calmly stood up in the water to find that it was really only three or four feet deep. With my feet on firm ground, I was able to withstand the current. I felt the water rush around my waist and chest. All I had to do was stand up in the water and the threat disappeared.

As I stood there, my hands dragging in the current as the water rushed by, I realized how simple my self-rescue had been. I wasn't drowning at all. The water wasn't even that deep. I stood there in my dream, having shifted from absolute panic to complete peace.

“Mr. Olsen?” the phlebotomist said, interrupting my dream. I woke as she entered the room. They were still doing daily blood tests. The veins in my arms were so sore, bruised, and worn out that they were often taking blood from the veins in my hands. The nurse poked at my battered arms with her gloved fingers. “What do you think? Shall we go for one in your hand again?” It all hurt. even the little blood draws had become a hassle.

“You choose. It's all annoying at this point.” I was a bit ornery, having been woken from my dream.

“I'll make it as painless as I can.”

“I hope so.”

“Let me show you a trick.” She spoke kindly and explained that poking at my veins might go easier if I went to a peaceful place in my mind. I thought of where that peaceful place might be. I considered going right back to the river in the dream I'd been having. But a different time and place came to mind.

I went home to our house. I went to a Saturday evening several years earlier when Spencer was only three or four years old. He and I were sitting out on the deck, enjoying lemonade and licorice whips. I remember watching the sprinklers water the grass and listening to Tamara inside the house. She was moving about the kitchen, making banana bread. The bread smelled wonderful mixed with the scent of the freshly mowed grass. I breathed deeply and forgot about the woman poking at my hands to find a good vein. My thoughts remained on the deck at home. Time stood still for me in that instant. My heart was filled with the clear certainty that being on the deck there with Spencer was as good as life gets. Tears welled up in my eyes. I could not hold back the warm feelings of joy and gratitude. This perfect, happy place was nothing special. It was found in the simple everyday pleasure of being a husband and a dad; I continued reminiscing in my mind about being home. I could feel the heat from the warm deck on both of my feet, even the missing one, and could feel Spencer's joy and laughter rush through me as it had in that remembered evening. The experience felt like time travel, as if I were really there again.

Before I knew it, the blood had been drawn. The hospital, the surgeries, needles, and pain were all far from my mind. I had found magic in going back to the home within me.

amily members still spent the night with me from time to time. Justin was there this time, and I always enjoyed spending time with him. We chatted for a while and discussed how I would be returning home soon. The ordeal was truly coming to an end. I was off my medications, and my body had mended in miraculous ways. As we talked, I became tired and soon faded off into a deep sleep. It was more peaceful than most nights. I felt calm, comfortable, and free of pain. As I slept, I dreamed again. But this was a real and vivid dream. I found myself in that place again, that place of love, light, and peace where I had said good-bye to Tamara right after the accident. I knew this place like no other. The feeling was so overwhelmingly joyful, and it was my home. It was like walking through the doors of a distant childhood memory and finding Mom baking in the kitchen with sunlight streaming through the windows. I was so welcome there, so loved and embraced.

No bubble was around me this time. No more pain either! I danced and ran, feeling so joyful that I was actually there. I was alone this time. No one came to greet me or guide me, and I marveled at the indescribable beauty around me. It was vast and open and beautiful. I could feel, touch, and taste everything as if I had not five but fifty senses. It was amazing.

As I walked, on two healthy strong legs, I entered into a long hallway. It was a lovely corridor that seemed to stretch forward almost into eternity, yet I moved down it rapidly and with ease. I saw where it came to a stop, and at the end of the hallway was a baby crib. I rushed to the crib, and peeking in, saw something beyond joyful.

There lying in the crib was my son. It was little Griffin! He was alive and well. He slept so peacefully. I looked at him and took in every detail. How his chubby little hands lay so peacefully beside his perfect face. How his mouth drew breath, raising his small back up and down. How his hair lay gently across the tops of his ears. I reached into the crib and swept him up into my arms. I could feel the warmth from his little body. I could feel his breath on my neck and the smell of his delicate hair. He was so familiar and so alive! I held him close and cried tears of joy as I laid my cheek against his soft little head as we had always done. I felt him breathing as he snuggled into me. His ribs rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. Not only did I feel him physically, but I also felt him spiritually. Every cell of his perfect little body was full of light and life. I felt the energy of his soul and how connected we were. I was his dad. I had taken part in creating him. He was perfect.

It was Griffin! He was alive, and I was with him, holding him in this wonderful place. It was real, even super real. I had never felt anything so intense. We were tangible. I could feel his body solidly against mine. I felt the life in each of my own cells as they melted together with his in a love exceeding our earthly bond.

I sobbed with joy, holding my little son. I closed my tear-filled eyes and breathed in how he smelled and how he felt and how everything seemed to disappear except us. I simply held him, basking in the moment, and as I did, I felt something or someone move up behind me. The feeling coming from this being was so powerful and yet so loving that it almost startled me. I felt light and love engulf me. I knew I was standing in the presence of someone so eternal and so powerful, yet so personal.

I did not dare turn around to look. I stood there holding my son, taking in the intense feeling. The being behind me had so much light, so much love, and so much power. I knew I was in the presence of God. Still, I did not turn around. I stood there holding Griffin and feeling the overwhelming love of a Father standing behind me. I could feel his everlasting, unconditional love. It was as real as the love I felt for my own little son.

Slowly, this magnificent, divine being of light stepped closer, so close that I could feel his light surround us. His wisdom was overwhelming. I felt his physical presence in the same way I was feeling Griffin. Every cell of my body filled with truth and knowledge beyond anything I'd ever felt before. As I held my son, this beautiful being, filled with the wisdom of eternity, moved close enough to hold me. I was standing there holding my son and being embraced myself by deity. He leaned into me and whispered into my ear. His voice, though a whisper, was powerful. Not only did I hear it, I felt it through my entire being. He told me things I do not have the words to write and could never do justice to even if I did. I learned more in that brief encounter than I could have been taught in many lifetimes. And yet it didn't feel like learning. It was more like remembering. I knew this as it flowed through me. I saw purpose in every event of my entire life. I saw how every circumstance had been divinely provided for my learning and development. I had the realization that I had actually taken part in creating every experience of my life. I knew I had come to this earth for only one reason, which was to learn, and that everything that had ever happened to me had been a loving step in that process of my progression. every person, every circumstance, and every incident was custom created for me. It was as if the entire universe existed for my higher good and development. I felt so loved, so cherished, and so honored. I realized that not only was I being embraced by deity, but also that I myself was divine, and that we all are. I knew that there are no accidents in this life. That everything happens for a reason. yet we always get to choose how we will experience what happens to us here.

I could exercise my will in everything, even in how I felt about the wreck and the death of my family members. God didn't want me to hurt and feel put upon as if my son and wife had been taken from me. He was simply there assisting me to decide how I was going to experience it. He was providing me with the opportunity, in perfect love, to exercise my personal agency in this entire situation.

I knew my wife and son were gone. They had died months earlier, but time didn't exist where I was at that moment. rather than having them ripped away from me, I was being given the opportunity to actually hand them over to God. To let them go in peace, love, and gratitude. Everything suddenly made sense. Everything had divine order. I could give my son to God and not have him taken away from me.

I felt my power as a creator and cocreator with God to literally let go of all that had happened to me. I held my baby son as God himself held me. I experienced the oneness of all of it. Time did not matter. Only love and order existed. Tamara and Griffin had come into my life as perfect teachers. And in leaving me in such a way, they continued as perfect teachers to bring me to that point of remembering who I was. remembering that I was created in God's image and actually came from Him. I was aware now that I could actually walk with God, empowered by what I was learning in my life. I felt the divine energy of the being behind me inviting me to let it all go and give Griffin to Him. In all that peace and knowledge, I hugged my little boy tightly one last time, kissed him on the cheek, and gently laid him back down in the crib. I willingly gave him up. No one would ever take him away from me again. He was mine. We were one, and I was one with God.

As soon as I breathed in all that peace, I awoke, back into the pain and darkness of my hospital bed, but with greater perspective. I marveled at what I had just experienced. It was not just a dream. It felt too real. It was real to me, far more real than the pain, the grief, and my hospital bed. Griffin was alive in a place more real than anything here. And Tamara was there with him. I knew it.

As the years have passed, I've often wondered how I could have put my son back in the crib the way I did. Maybe I should have held on and never let go. But in that place, it all made sense.

I realized that no one ever really dies. We always live on. I had experienced a God as real and tangible as we are. He knows our every heartache, yet allows us to experience and endure them for our growth. His is the highest form of love; He allows us to become what we will. He watches as we create who we are. He allows us to experience life in a way that makes us more like Him, divine creators of our own destiny.

My experience showed me purpose and order. I knew there was a master plan far greater than my limited earthly vision. I also learned that my choices were mine alone to make. I got to decide how I felt, and that made all the difference in the universe. even in this tragedy, I got to determine the outcome. I could choose to be a victim of what had happened or create something far greater.

he weeks flew by after my epiphany, and finally I was able return home, or at least to my brother's house, where I would stay for the rest of the summer and continue healing. My brothers set up a hospital bed for me in an extra bedroom, and my stepfather, Neil, built a wheelchair ramp on the front steps. I was so eager to get home yet still scared to leave the hospital. I had spent four months there. It had almost become home.

My brothers loaded up all my things, wheeled me down the long hallways of the hospital, and lifted me into the car. We began the drive to my brother's house, about thirty minutes from the hospital. I nearly got carsick from the simple motion of the ride. I had to steady myself on the seat with my left arm. Riding with only one leg was different. I looked down at the empty place where my leg had been and at the vacant spot on the car floorboard where my foot would have gone. Things were going to be different now, but I was thankful to be moving forward.

As we came closer to my brother's house, I began to worry about how Spencer might feel, given how I'd changed. Would he really accept me as I was? I'd be using an electric wheelchair and have one leg and an unusable right arm, which was still bound up in a sling from the surgery. I looked a bit like a monster with all the scars, bandages, and missing limb.

I was no longer the dad who played catch with him and rough-housed on the lawn. I was no longer the dad who could throw him high into the air to catch him safely in my arms. I was no longer the dad who could sling him over my shoulder and carry him up the stairs to tuck him into bed at night. How would it be? Could he ever accept the way I was now? And how might he feel as we went out in public? Would he be embarrassed to be with me at the store or at school programs? Would I be a dad he could be proud of or would he shy away and become detached from me? It was one thing for him to visit me in the hospital, but now I was on his turf in the real world.

As we pulled up into the driveway, my brothers got out to collect the wheelchair. They helped me transfer from the car seat into the chair. I adjusted into the seat and unlocked the wheels for the ride up the ramp into the house. As I did so, the front door swung open, and Spencer came running out. He ran down the walk toward me. I anticipated him jumping onto my lap, but he flew right past me. My fears were realized. My being like this is too much for him, I thought. No way could he accept me the way I was in the real world. It didn't work for him. My heart sank.

I turned my head and watched as he ran past me, continuing to the other side of the street. I supposed he was running away from it all, trying to remove himself from the painful situation of seeing his dad having to be lifted from the car and into the wheelchair helplessly. I adjusted as best I could in the chair, preparing for the ride up the ramp. I looked behind me one more time to locate Spencer. Much to my surprise, he was running from house to house banging on all the neighborhood doors and yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Come out! My dad is home! My dad is home!”

He went from neighbor to neighbor, darting back and forth shouting, “Come out! Come see my dad! Come see my dad! He's the toughest man in the world!”

Finally, after making the rounds up and down the street, he ran back to me and threw himself onto my lap in the wheelchair. The pain about killed me when he launched his tiny body into my lap and threw his arms around my neck, but the embrace was such a welcome reception. I laughed and looked at him.

“Are you okay, son? Are you going to be okay with your dad like this?”

We laugh at his reply to this day. He smiled and said, “Dad, if you were nothing but a big puddle of blood, I would still love you.”

I hugged him tightly and laughed out loud. My laughter turned to grateful tears as I held my surviving boy on my lap and hugged him close to me exactly like I had held Griffin in my amazing dream. I loved Spencer so much. He was such a source of strength for me. I knew why I had survived. It was for him. It was for no grander reason than to simply be his dad. And what grander reason is there?

Visiting Tamara and Griffin's grave

The summer moved on. Nurses and physical therapists came to the house every day to attend to my still-healing wounds and to assist me with physical therapy. Others still had to bathe me, sometimes dress me, and work on my mending body. My arm was coming back, though. I was moving it and making progress toward using it. I was getting stronger on my one remaining leg. I was getting better. I still made regular hospital visits, but I was healing both physically and emotionally. I desired to return home to my own house by fall and to get Spencer back into his regular school. I was driven to become independent and stop having to be cared for and waited upon.

I wanted to drive to my home over one weekend and begin preparations to move back in. That first trip was devastating. As I entered into the house, Griffin's toys were still on the front room floor. Neighbors and family had cared for things over those long months, but out of respect for our family they left everything as it was the day we left for St. George. It didn't seem right to them for anyone except me to put it in order. As hard as it was to see those things, I was glad they'd left them. I could hear Griffin's laughter as I looked at the toys. The memories were happy ones.

Our home was three stories, and the bedrooms were on the upper floors. My brothers lifted me up the stairs to the master bedroom. Tamara had laid one of her sweaters over a chair by the bed to dry. My heart winced at seeing that too. She wouldn't be wearing it ever again. I thought of her delicate hands and how she laid it out with such care. Like the laughter in Griffin's toys, the sweater represented the order, beauty, and joy Tamara had brought to my life. I actually left the toys and the sweater as they were for quite some time. I felt closer to my wife and son somehow, leaving the things they had last touched right where they had set them.

I had good neighbors who had surprised me with a ramp to get the wheelchair easily into my house. So many people had done so much to see to my comfort and healing. I felt the love of so many people around me.

Spencer and I slowly made the transition home, sometimes only staying the weekend and going back to my brother's during the week, but eventually we moved back home permanently. It felt good to be home. I would spend hours on the back deck, looking over the view and watching the sunsets. The hardest time was at night. The queen bed felt big and empty to me. Loneliness would often sink in during those hours, so I often slept in the recliner in the front room rather than in my lonely bed.

Eventually I was well enough to return to work. I was still in a wheel-chair and had limited use of my right arm, but it was good to be back.

My friends at work took turns driving me to and from the office. My arm wasn't well enough for me to drive a car, but I was becoming productive at work, which helped the days go by more easily.

Spencer was back at school with old friends and seemed to be doing well. I started driving again in a matter of months, which gave me new freedom. I could transfer myself from the wheelchair to the car, and since the car was an automatic transmission, I could drive quite well with only my right foot.

Once inside the house, I spent most of my time on the main level but had developed an awkward way of scooting up the stairs on my rear when I wanted to get up to the bedroom.

A neighbor family, and good friends of ours, cared for Spencer after school until I could get home from work. The amount of kindness I was shown during this time still astounds me. People were so willing to assist.

One night, the family that was looking after Spencer made an extra pan of enchiladas and sent them home with us for our dinner. I sent Spencer in ahead of me through the garage with the pan of enchiladas to unlock the door while I parked the car and transferred into the wheelchair.

As he turned with the hot pan of enchiladas to hold the door for me, the padded mitt slipped, exposing his hand to the hot pan. He yelled out and dropped the pan. Helplessly, I watched as he shook his burned hand and the cheesy, red enchilada sauce splattered on the carpet.

I hopped out of the chair and scooted on my rear to Spencer to see that his hand was okay. It was fine. He felt bad about seeing our colorful Mexican dinner oozing into our off-white carpet.

He ran and got dish towels, and we started the cleanup process. I'd mop it up the best I could, scooting around on the floor while Spencer went back and forth to the kitchen sink, rinsing out the towels.

By the time we finished, it was past Spencer's bedtime, so I sent him to bed and watched as he walked up the two flights of stairs to his room. As he made his way up, his seven-year-old head hung in shame for having dropped the dinner pan. He looked so small and lonely. The sadness of all that had happened began to overtake me again. Was this too much for him? Was it too much for me? Why did he have to grow up so fast? How would he ever know how wonderful his mother was, or how brilliant his little brother might have been? And was it fair for him to be caring for me like this at such a young age?

I was overcome with sadness and regret. I lay on the ground, breaking inside. I couldn't even get up the stairs to tuck him into bed properly. I composed myself long enough to shout good night up to him. He shouted back, “Love you too, Dad, and sorry about dropping the enchiladas.” I assured him that it was fine, nothing at all to worry about, but then the depths of all that had happened swept over me. As soon as I knew he was sleeping, I drifted into a convulsing, crying fit that seemed to literally shake the earth. How was I ever going to raise him on my own? Would he eventually forget his mother? Would he ever remember her softness or her love? Would he remember their walks, or making banana bread together, or the way he used to kiss her cheek and laugh when they danced together? Would I forget these things? The pain of it was too much.

I poured my heart out to God, not asking for anything or even expecting anything, simply gushing out my soul to the only listening ear that could possibly ever understand me. As I finally shed all the tears I had left and became quiet, a strange thing happened. I don't often hear voices, but I heard this one. And it came in the same energy as the voice that whispered in my ears in the dream I'd had with Griffin. It was not a harsh voice, but the loving voice of a Father who knew me, and knew me perfectly. He only said two words, but they were as loud and clear as I have heard anything. He simply said, “Choose joy.”

It was a simple request yet all about my choice. Joy was there if I only decided to see it and grasp it. The universe was giving me that option. I may not know life's challenges or trials, but I always get to determine how I will deal with them.

fter several months, doctors were able to repair my intestines and take down my colostomy. Reconstructive surgery was done on my stomach and hip. Months of physical therapy restored almost 70 percent use of my right arm.

It had been almost eight months since the crash, and I was learning how to walk all over again using a prosthetic limb. The first people I wanted to show were my brothers. I had been practicing at the physical therapist's between parallel bars to hold myself up, but I felt I was ready for a solo voyage. Justin came to my house. I sat on the edge of the bed as I put on the prosthesis and explained how it worked. I stood up, and Justin smiled the most amazing grin.

“I forgot you were actually that tall.” He laughed.

I took one step, then another, then two more. I became a bit cocky, and I began walking across the room, only to trip and fall flat on my face. It hurt, but in total tough-guy fashion, I struggled to get back on my feet as quickly as I could. I was back up onto my one good knee before Justin got to me. He pulled me the rest of the way up, and we hugged each other joyfully, laughing together.

“That hurt. I fell pretty hard,” I said through our laughter.

“Yes you did, big brother. But you got back up.”

I was back at work full time by then, driving my own car. I had hired a good nanny for Spencer, and things were settling down for us. Our evenings at home had returned to playful times together. Our favorite thing to do was to play laser tag with the new Star Wars gun set he'd gotten for Christmas.

Almost a year to the day had transpired since the accident. I was becoming passionate about my work again and enjoyed spending time at the office. My days had become far more normal. And my nights were tied up in Spencer. Time was well occupied. I didn't get out much, however—only for lunch now and then with coworkers.

Our office had received an invitation to a formal business lunch one day at one of the nicest restaurants in town. I didn't have any intention to go, but under the peer pressure of coworkers, I was convinced to take the free lunch and enjoy a good steak on someone else's dime.

We drove to the New Yorker restaurant and were greeted by the hostess, who told us we could sit in the private dining room wherever we liked. Being the shy one, I took a seat at the back corner of the room to watch the whole ritual. When a woman entered the room, carrying presentation books, my attention was diverted from the others and their antics to her. She paused to set the books down on the table near me. I was mesmerized as she continued to make her way around the room. I actually felt her energy. She captivated me. She had stunning, clear-blue eyes and blonde, shoulder-length hair. The details of her face were striking and well defined. She was thin but shapely and had moved about the room with the grace of an angel. She carried a presence that both uncontrollably drew me in and intimidated me at the same time. She looked over at me. I wanted to speak to her but didn't know what to say. “Hello” would have been the obvious, but I sat in silence, watching her. The strangest feeling of déjà vu overcame me. She felt familiar. It was like I was remembering her. I didn't even know her name. Was I crazy?

The room filled up, and the luncheon began. By the time everyone had taken their seats, only one seat was left, across from me. The attractive woman was still on her feet, ready to take charge. She welcomed everyone, passed out the presentation books, then made her way to the empty seat across the table. I couldn't stop looking at her eyes. They were piercing but so beautiful. The food was immediately brought out, and as they set our plates down, she asked if they had any ketchup.

“Are you going to put ketchup on that steak?” I am such an idiot, I thought. Why couldn't I have said something charming or intelligent? I could guess what she was thinking: Why is this weird guy staring at me, and why does he care what I put on my steak? But I wasn't like that, and I continued.

“We've not met before. What's your name?”

Tonya and me

“I'm Tonya.” She reached across the table to shake my hand.

“I'm Jeff. I've not met many people brave enough to put ketchup on a high-end steak.” I looked at her again and noticed the corners of her mouth turn up a bit into a smile.

“I just like it that way, I guess.” The ice was broken. The conversation flowed and was easy. I began to relax.

ver the next fourteen years, my body healed in amazing ways. My heart healed in wonderful ways as well. I learned to love again. I remarried, and Tonya and I have adopted two handsome sons. We have a joyful family relationship. Spencer has grown up and is amazing. He has developed into a courageous and thoughtful young man. His path has been perfect for him, and the depth and wisdom he has gained through our ordeal has become a blessing in his life as well.

I have experienced miracle after miracle in my life. I have the scars to prove where I've been and what life has taught me, but I wear them proudly. If it weren't for the things that stretched my heart, how would I ever know what I am capable of?

My experiences may be quite different from yours, but the emotions of what I've experienced are universal. We all share the same emotions.

I was fortunate to have a glimpse into that oneness, and yet my life has not been easier because of it. Some of my most trying times came over the years after the accident. Knowing that such unconditional love existed beyond the veil left me feeling empty at times in this realm. I found myself searching for that same love I had experienced in my brief visits to the hereafter. The gaping hole in my heart yearned to be filled. Too often I looked to external influences to fill the void inside of me. I expected my new wife to fill me up and make me whole. I expected my children to heal me, and in many ways they all have, but looking outward for wholeness was a losing and painful battle.

For nearly fifteen years, I walked with an invisible wound on my heart despite the wonderful things I had experienced. I still asked why, even though I knew better. I even went through painful periods of blaming myself because I was driving the car. Those self-judgments were the harshest and most unbearable. My guilt and remorse became my best-kept secret. I covered it well with a bandage of external validation and overachieving. But it was still there nagging to be healed. Not until I remembered the divinity within myself did I become whole. Only in that reality did I truly connect with others around me.

Our wedding day

I used to embrace the belief that we are separate, when in reality we are not. I've learned not to judge others’ lives or compare them to mine. I have no idea what their journey is about. I know that each soul is on his or her individual path. They have come here to learn. And they will learn in their own way, on their own terms. I can honor their individual progression. I learned to forgive, especially myself, which has inspired me to love at a deeper level.

Jed, Justin, and me

I have learned to treasure the simple things, like holding my child's hand, or watching my wife as she sleeps. I've decided to breathe in life as if it were pure love, for indeed it is.

I've learned that choosing joy in every situation brings gratitude, not because the actual events are always joyful, but because of what the events might teach me. What happens to us is not important, but the wisdom we gain is. I am thankful for every lesson I have learned and for every sacred choice.

I now know I can never be whole from the outside in, but that true peace can only be found from the inside out. I have also experienced that my battered body is actually a temple. In my heart, my holy of holies, are all the answers. I stood in the presence of deity, and yet peace only came when I began to remember the divinity within myself.

I used to think God was testing me in some way. That he wanted to prove my faith somehow. I have come to a deeper truth. God wasn't testing me at all. He knows me completely. It was I who didn't know myself.

We are far beyond human. To me we are beings of light, who have chosen to do this, who have taken the challenge to walk this journey together, growing into what we were created to be. I didn't have to die and come back or have a profound out-of-body experience to learn this. I knew it already. I simply had to remember.

Mine has been an interesting journey, and it took all that time, fifteen years, before I could bring myself to go back to the scene of the crash. But I finally ventured back one day to stand in that sacred place and take a good look at mile marker 80. The breeze was calming as it danced with the tall grass at the side of the road. I knew as I looked around that I would never completely get over what happened to us there, but I'd made peace with it.

My wife and baby boy died there, and I left my body. My spirit followed my badly damaged physical self to the hospital, where I encountered people in a profound, deep way. I could see into their souls. I knew their hearts.

In the process, I discovered my own heart. I connected with my family, including my deceased loved ones, even more powerfully. I learned that even strangers play key roles in my life. But knowing anyone else's heart came down to knowing my own.

The breeze shifted, and the tall grass seemed to bow. I looked down at my feet. With shoes on, you can hardly tell that I am missing a leg. There by my real foot I saw two small stones. A smooth white one and a smaller, rough black one. I was compelled to pick them up and hold them in my hands. The smooth one felt good in my palm. It reminded me of Tamara, her solid character and smooth skin. The smaller one, warm and alive, reminded me of Griffin. Those stones were not symbols of what I'd lost, but of all that I'd learned. All the love I'd felt. I stood at the side of the highway, knowing that the love I had for my family would always be with me, that it always had been, that nothing is ever lost, either to my past or to my future.

I held the stones, letting the memories wash over me. I heard the grass at the side of the highway brush back against the wind again. Something in that whispering sound told me it was time, after fifteen years, to tell my story. I had no agenda or anything to prove by writing it down. I simply knew I would do it.

I turned to leave mile marker 80 not with sadness but with two stones in my hand. And with gratitude. My life had been rebuilt in so many ways. I had found love and peace again. I had chosen joy. I also knew the answer to the question that had plagued me on that day, fifteen years before, when my spirit left my body. The answer was yes. Yes. I had loved them truly, deeply, and with my entire heart. I had loved them enough.

The sun hung low on the horizon. I wasn't sure how long I had stood there. The hush of the breeze in the grass and the way the magic, low light illuminated everything around me brought back so much to my remembrance. I felt as if the entire ordeal had been condensed into a priceless experience for the progress of my soul. “I know what I know,” I said to myself with an audible sigh as I put the stones in my pocket and walked along that sacred stretch of road back to the car.

The Olsen Family

If you have been touched by the message of this book and wish to continue the conversation, feel free to contact me at

effery Olsen is a talented mentor, consultant, author, and inspirational speaker.

In 1997, Jeff experienced a horrific automobile accident that inflicted multiple life-threatening injuries and crushed both of his legs. His left leg was amputated above the knee. The most devastating outcome of the accident was the loss of his wife and youngest son, who were both killed instantly. At that time, Jeff had a profound near-death experience that deepened his spirituality and gave him insights and gifts not common in today's world. Having that glimpse into heaven gave him courage to carry on and care for his living son. He has since remarried and adopted two more sons.

Jeff's greatest joy comes from being a husband and father. He is a visionary man whose experiences have left him with deep spiritual insights and an ability to love more fully. His mission is to assist people to remember who they truly are and the connection they share with each other. Jeff is an artist with highly sensitive and intuitive gifts. However, many describe him best as simply a friend and brother.

Professionally, Jeff brings soul, passion, and an invigorating work ethic to everything he does. He is currently the chief creative officer of rare Method, an international marketing firm. Jeff has been internationally decorated for his creative prowess. With accolades from the likes of The Clios, One Show, Communication Arts, and the National ADDys, Jeff takes his place among the linchpins of his industry. As cofounder of B/O/W/G, he's taken a Salt Lake City start up onto the Inc. 500 (America's Fastest Growing Private Companies) and then into the public sector as Rare Method. Jeff was named the American Advertising Federation's Professional of the Year in his home state of Utah and later served as president of that same organization. Jeff is an Ernst & Young Entrepreneur of the Year finalist and involves himself on several boards, including the International Association for Near-Death Studies. He participates in speaking tours and conferences where he shares deep spiritual insights based on his incredible life experiences. I Knew Their Hearts is his first book.

Table of Contents

Halftitle

Title

Copyright

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Contact the Author

About the Author

Back Cover

Table of Contents

Halftitle

Title

Copyright

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Contact the Author

About the Author

Back Cover