LITMIR.BIZ

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had no idea what was going on. He then heard a loud and violent sound. Like a lightning strike. He said he could clearly see himself lying on the operating table. He then realized that he was no longer in his body.

      He looked up and saw a very tall being in front of him. He guessed about nine feet tall. He said the being was dressed in bright white clothing and had a beard. He had a resemblance to the Jesus he remembered from pictures in his children’s Bible when he was a child.

      So, he asked, ‘Jesus?’

      The being replied, ‘No, I am not. I am an angel from Him and I’ve come to tell you that you are going to live.’

      My father being a doctor and knowing how grave his situation was, simply said, ‘Thank you.’ He then said he had no idea why he asked the next question, but he asked the angel, ‘What time is it?’

      ‘The angel replied, ‘It’s Wednesday morning, 5 am.’

      After that, he said it was like a curtain came down, like in an old-time movie theatre, and he blacked out again. The next thing he remembered was waking up and gesturing to the attending nurse for something to write on because he was concerned that he was going to forget what had happened to him.

      When the doctors and the other operating staff heard his account of what had happened, they were amazed.

      The anaesthetist confirmed that it was exactly 5 am when they managed to stop my father’s heart to perform the bypass procedure. The lead surgeon had stood with my father’s heart in his hand and made the decision to continue with the operation – even though they knew that there was not enough healthy heart muscle left for my dad to survive the operation, let alone make a healthy recovery.

      In the weeks that followed the operation, the cardiologist performed my father’s final postoperative examinations. The results astounded him. After running the usual battery of tests, he couldn’t explain the elevated functionality of my father’s heart.

      He threw his hands up in the air when the test results indicated that my father’s heart was functioning at the same level as a very fit athlete. It made zero sense from a medical point of view. It certainly made no sense to him, either. The only explanation he could give my mother was that they had witnessed a miracle.

      My mother, backed up by thousands of prayers from their church community and friends around the country, had walked up and down the corridors outside the operating theatre all night, praying and singing all the praise songs and Psalms she knew. She’d had a showdown with the spirit of death that night. She was a warrior and wielded the sword of God’s Spirit and his mighty Word. She fought with everything she had, for my father and for us as a family.

      She trusted that God’s Spirit in her was greater than the shadow of death that hung over my father. That day another part of God’s Kingdom manifested on earth as it was in heaven. As a loving wife and mother, she had prayed with all her heart, and the doctors did everything that was medically possible. But it was God’s amazing grace that brought it all together.

      He had breathed his breath of life into my dad’s heart at 5 am, 11 October 1989.

      It could’ve so easily been the date he died.

      Etched in my memory is the first Sunday that my father went back to church after his operation. I don’t think I had ever experienced an atmosphere so heavenly and pure in my life.

      The church was packed as we walked in as a family. Just over a thousand people filling every available chair. As we moved down the centre aisle, people quickly started noticing who it was.

      Their beloved physician was back.

      Everybody stood up. Some were clapping. Some were putting up their hands in the air, many were crying. Tears of gratitude filled men’s eyes. Spontaneous shouts of praise built into a crescendo of worship and thanksgiving that went on and on. The atmosphere was electrifying, like people really believed that nothing was impossible for God.

      It was like the veil between heaven and earth was drawn back for a moment, God’s presence filling the room. Every song that was sung had another level of meaning and was pregnant with the expectation of what God could do.

      A few months later, the pastor at the church gave my father the opportunity to share his story with the congregation. I had never seen the church so full. Even some of my Catholic and Jewish friends were there that night. Everyone wanted to hear this miraculous story. People were standing at the back and sitting in the aisles and on the floor. My father spoke well. Afterward, many people wanted to make their peace with God.

      I mean, who wouldn’t?

      They had just heard about how God had saved a man’s life from death.

      THE VAGABOND

      My mother withheld most of my father’s challenges from us kids. She wanted us to lead as normal lives as possible under the circumstances. It was only after I had heard my father tell his version of the story that I realised how close we had come to losing him.

      Two days after my father’s heart operation I did what I normally did: hang out at my girlfriend’s house. It was the Friday afternoon, 13 October. The phone rang. It was for me. It was my friend Miles.

      He was super excited, wanting to know if I was keen to join him and another mutual friend, Eyeball, on a great adventure. (Eyeball got his nickname because his eyelid moved up and down, in sync with his jaw, when he chewed.)

      Miles’s mother had organised for us to go sailing from East London to Port Alfred overnight, a distance of about 130 kilometres. The plan was to sail there and surf in Port Alfred the next day. Eyeball’s mother would pick us up and take us back to East London, in time for his father’s birthday on 14 October.

      I thought about it for a half second.

      ‘I am in! When are we leaving?’

      ‘In an hour; see you at the harbour.’

      I grabbed my helmet and shouted back to my girlfriend as I was leaving.

      ‘I am going sailing with Eyeball and Miles to Port Alfred!’

      I got on my bike and rode home as fast as I could. As I ran into the house, I asked my grandmother if I could stay at Miles’s house for a surfing weekend. It was not unusual for me to do this. Plus, my grandmother knew Miles well. It was fine, she said. Just be safe.

      I didn’t breathe a word about the sailing.

      I grabbed my wetsuits, board, towels and blue-and-pink parka. Miles and Eyeball had already arrived when I rolled in on my bike. There seemed to be a little tension between Miles and his parents, but it seemed to get resolved fast.

      Eyeball’s mom had dropped him off. She waved goodbye. ‘See you guys in Port Alfred.’

      An impressive double-hull catamaran was moored near where Miles and his parents were standing. I thought, ‘Wow! This is going to be amazing!’

      I walked up and asked, ‘Hey bru which one is our boat?’ An older-looking gentleman waved from the other side of the catamaran.

      ‘Come aboard!’ He was the captain we’d be sailing with. He looked like an old-time sailor – white hair and beard. Only his yacht was moored next to the catamaran. She was about 18 metres long and the stern deck looked like a messy tool shed.

      Her hull was navy-blue. Her name, painted in white – The Vagabond.

      She wasn’t perfect, but she’d do for our adventure. The only complaint I had was the smell; everything on the boat smelt liked diesel fuel and fish.We got settled in – and learned from the captain that we’d be using the boat’s motor to get out of the harbour. Once we got into the open ocean, we’d set the sail on course to Port Alfred.

      We waved at Miles’s parents as we left the shore. The closer we got to the open ocean, the more we felt the swell as it came rolling in. Full of excitement and energy, we made our way to the bow. We held onto the pulpit and lifeline dearly, hollering and

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