Proof of Heaven

Informationen zum Autor Eben Alexander, M.D. Klappentext As he lay in a coma, neurosurgeon Eben Alexander explains that he "journeyed beyond this world and encountered an angelic being who guided him into the deepest realms of super-physical existence [where] he met and spoke with the Divine source of the universe itself"--P. [4] of cover. Zusammenfassung The #1 New York Times bestselling account of a neurosurgeon's own near-death experience for readers of 7 Lessons from Heaven . Thousands of people have had near-death experiences! but scientists have argued that they are impossible. Dr. Eben Alexander was one of those scientists. A highly trained neurosurgeon! Alexander knew that NDEs feel real! but are simply fantasies produced by brains under extreme stress. Then! Dr. Alexander's own brain was attacked by a rare illness. The part of the brain that controls thought and emotionand in essence makes us humanshut down completely. For seven days he lay in a coma. Then! as his doctors considered stopping treatment! Alexander's eyes popped open. He had come back. Alexander's recovery is a medical miracle. But the real miracle of his story lies elsewhere. While his body lay in coma! Alexander journeyed beyond this world and encountered an angelic being who guided him into the deepest realms of super-physical existence. There he met! and spoke with! the Divine source of the universe itself. Alexander's story is not a fantasy. Before he underwent his journey! he could not reconcile his knowledge of neuroscience with any belief in heaven! God! or the soul. Today Alexander is a doctor who believes that true health can be achieved only when we realize that God and the soul are real and that death is not the end of personal existence but only a transition. This story would be remarkable no matter who it happened to. That it happened to Dr. Alexander makes it revolutionary. No scientist or person of faith will be able to ignore it. Reading it will change your life. ...

Auteur

Eben Alexander, M.D.

Texte du rabat

As he lay in a coma, neurosurgeon Eben Alexander explains that he "journeyed beyond this world and encountered an angelic being who guided him into the deepest realms of super-physical existence [where] he met and spoke with the Divine source of the universe itself"--P. [4] of cover.

Résumé
The #1 New York Times bestselling account of a neurosurgeon's own near-death experience—for readers of 7 Lessons from Heaven.

Thousands of people have had near-death experiences, but scientists have argued that they are impossible. Dr. Eben Alexander was one of those scientists. A highly trained neurosurgeon, Alexander knew that NDEs feel real, but are simply fantasies produced by brains under extreme stress.

Then, Dr. Alexander’s own brain was attacked by a rare illness. The part of the brain that controls thought and emotion—and in essence makes us human—shut down completely. For seven days he lay in a coma. Then, as his doctors considered stopping treatment, Alexander’s eyes popped open. He had come back.

Alexander’s recovery is a medical miracle. But the real miracle of his story lies elsewhere. While his body lay in coma, Alexander journeyed beyond this world and encountered an angelic being who guided him into the deepest realms of super-physical existence. There he met, and spoke with, the Divine source of the universe itself.

Alexander’s story is not a fantasy. Before he underwent his journey, he could not reconcile his knowledge of neuroscience with any belief in heaven, God, or the soul. Today Alexander is a doctor who believes that true health can be achieved only when we realize that God and the soul are real and that death is not the end of personal existence but only a transition.

This story would be remarkable no matter who it happened to. That it happened to Dr. Alexander makes it revolutionary. No scientist or person of faith will be able to ignore it. Reading it will change your life.

Échantillon de lecture
Proof of Heaven PROLOGUE
A man should look for what is, and not for what he thinks should be.

-ALBERT EINSTEIN (1879-1955)

When I was a kid, I would often dream of flying.

Most of the time I'd be standing out in my yard at night, looking up at the stars, when out of the blue I'd start floating upward. The first few inches happened automatically. But soon I'd notice that the higher I got, the more my progress depended on me-on what I did. If I got too excited, too swept away by the experience, I would plummet back to the ground . . . hard. But if I played it cool, took it all in stride, then off I would go, faster and faster, up into the starry sky.

Maybe those dreams were part of the reason why, as I got older, I fell in love with airplanes and rockets-with anything that might get me back up there in the world above this one. When our family flew, my face was pressed flat to the plane's window from takeoff to landing. In the summer of 1968, when I was fourteen, I spent all the money I'd earned mowing lawns on a set of sailplane lessons with a guy named Gus Street at Strawberry Hill, a little grass strip "airport" just west of Winston-Salem, North Carolina, the town where I grew up. I still remember the feeling of my heart pounding as I pulled the big cherry-red knob that unhooked the rope connecting me to the towplane and banked my sailplane toward the field. It was the first time I had ever felt truly alone and free. Most of my friends got that feeling in cars, but for my money being a thousand feet up in a sailplane beat that thrill a hundred times over.

In college in the 1970s I joined the University of North Carolina sport parachuting (or skydiving) team. It felt like a secret brotherhood-a group of people who knew about something special and magical. My first jump was terrifying, and the second even more so. But by my twelfth jump, when I stepped out the door and had to fall for more than a thousand feet before opening my parachute (my first "ten second delay"), I knew I was home. I made 365 parachute jumps in college and logged more than three and a half hours in free fall, mainly in formations with up to twenty-five fellow jumpers. Although I stopped jumping in 1976, I continued to enjoy vivid dreams about skydiving, which were always pleasant.

The best jumps were often late in the afternoon, when the sun was starting to sink beneath the horizon. It's hard to describe the feeling I would get on those jumps: a feeling of getting close to something that I could never quite name but that I knew I had to have more of. It wasn't solitude exactly, because the way we dived actually wasn't all that solitary. We'd jump five, six, sometimes ten or twelve people at a time, building free-fall formations. The bigger and the more challenging, the better.

One beautiful autumn Saturday in 1975, the rest of the UNC jumpers and I teamed up with some of our friends at a paracenter in eastern North Carolina for some formations. On our penultimate jump of the day, out of a D18 Beechcraft at 10,500 feet, we made a ten-man snowflake. We managed to get ourselves into complete formation before we passed 7,000 feet, and thus were able to enjoy a full eighteen seconds of flying the formation down a clear chasm between two towering cumulus clouds before breaking apart at 3,500 feet and tracking away from each other to open our chutes.

By the time we hit the ground, the sun was down. But by hustling into another plane and taking off again quickly, we managed to get back up into the last of the sun's rays and do a second sunset jump. For this one, two junior members were getting their first shot at flying into formation-that is, joining it from the outside rather than being the base or pin man (which is easier because your