Proof of Heaven

“I believe you, Dad,” he said. “But think about it. If you want this to
be of value to others, the last thing you should do is read what other
people have said.”
“So what should I do?” I asked.
“Write it down. Write it all down—all your memories, as accurately as
you can remember them. But don’t read any books or articles about other
peoples’ near-death experiences, or physics, or cosmology. Not until
you’ve written down what happened to you. Don’t talk to Mom or anyone
else about what happened while you were in coma, either—at least to the
degree that you can steer clear of it. You can do that all you want later,
right? Think how you always used to tell me that observation comes first,
then interpretation. If you want what happened to you to be scientifically
valuable, you need to record it as purely and accurately as you can before
you start making any comparisons with what has happened to others.”
It was, perhaps, the most sage advice anyone’s ever given me—and I
followed it. Eben was also quite right that what I deeply wanted, more
than anything else, was to use my experiences to, hopefully, help others.
The more my scientific mind returned, the more clearly I saw how
radically what I’d learned in decades of schooling and medical practice
conflicted with what I’d experienced, the more I understood that the mind
and the personality (as some would call it, our soul or spirit) continue to
exist beyond the body. I had to tell my story to the world.
For the next six weeks or so, most days went the same. I’d wake up
around 2 or 2:30 A.M., feeling so ecstatic and energized by simply being
alive that I would bound out of bed. I’d light a fire in the den, sit down in
my old leather chair, and write. I tried to recall every detail of my
journeys in and out of the Core, and what I had felt as I learned its many
life-changing lessons.
Though tried isn’t really the right word. Crisp and clear, the memories
were right there, right where I had left them.