Don Piper, an American pastor deeply connected to the Baptist church, stands as both a beacon of faith and the author behind an extraordinary narrative.

While Don Piper had always shared his unwavering faith, his religious journey was profoundly reshaped by an unexpected accident:

As Don Piper was making his way home, fate took a drastic turn when his vehicle was tragically struck by an eighteen-wheeler veering off course. Medical professionals on the scene declared him deceased on impact. Remarkably, just ninety minutes after the accident, as a fellow pastor fervently prayed, Don Piper was miraculously restored to life. The sole memory he retained from this ethereal encounter was that of an indescribable celestial bliss – an encounter with paradise where departed loved ones resided. Despite suffering grave injuries, he underwent an astounding thirty-four surgeries, defying his doctors’ expectations and regaining the ability to walk.

The world may be familiar with the story of how I briefly left this earthly plane on January 18, 1989, journeying to the realm of heaven itself, only to return through the power of prayer approximately ninety minutes later. However, what few know is the untold chapters of this extraordinary saga – a facet of the narrative that wasn’t revealed until over a year later. The truth behind one pivotal moment crystallized during an unexpected conversation over a meal with Dick and Anita Onerecker.

This chance meeting followed a Sunday service, where Dick stood as the senior pastor, and where I had been invited to share my testimony. My initial encounter with Dick and Anita had occurred amidst the idyllic woodlands of East Texas. Their involvement in a leadership team for a church growth conference marked the inception of our connection.

On an icy, rain-slicked road, a stone’s throw from the retreat center gates, destiny interceded. A massive tractor-trailer breached the center divider of the two-lane bridge above Lake Livingston, colliding head-on with my vehicle. My life was extinguished in an instant. The official report succinctly stated “Dead on the scene,” prompting the coroner’s summons. Notably, while the wreckage involved multiple vehicles, the remaining individuals suffered minor harm.

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The ensuing vehicular logjam compelled Dick and Anita to make their way from the conference. Having procured takeout coffee, they found themselves mere steps away from the accident site. Encountering a congested traffic scene, they abandoned their vehicle to lend aid. Anita selflessly offered her hot coffee to an elderly gentleman in another damaged vehicle. Meanwhile, Dick sought out the assistance of emergency medical technicians. Once Dick identified himself, an EMT shared, “The man in the red car is deceased; some are visibly shaken but spared serious harm.”

Weeks later, Dick confided, “The Lord spoke to me, his voice clear: ‘Pray for the man in the red car.'”

Asking permission to approach my covered red Escort, Dick encountered initial resistance from an EMT due to the ghastly sight. Nevertheless, persistence won the day, and he ventured under the tarp, discovering my horribly disfigured form slouched in the driver’s seat. Fervent prayers flowed from him, though he remained unaware of the identity of his supplication’s subject.

Even those who knew me intimately would have struggled to identify me in that state. Legs crushed and one severed, my left arm likewise, while the steering wheel pierced my chest. Added to these evident wounds was the bleeding from my ears and eyes. From my recollections and the version I recounted to Dick’s congregation, Dick clung to my solitary unbroken limb – my right hand – pouring out fervent, urgent prayers. His supplication extended to my survival and healing from internal injuries. His prayers were interspersed with hymns.

Midway, he initiated “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” a melody in which I joined. The shock of my voice alongside his spurred him from beneath the tarp, exclaiming, “The man is alive!” Reengaging in fervent prayer, he returned under the tarp as the firefighters began extrication attempts. My obliviousness to these endeavors renders me reliant on secondhand accounts. Prior to the accident, I was en route to our Alvin church, a Houston suburb, to lead a Wednesday prayer service.

The enormous oncoming truck atop the Lake Livingston bridge marked the turning point. My next conscious moment found me surrounded by darkness, harmonizing hymns with an unfamiliar voice. The robust grip encasing my hand inundated me with fortitude, solace, and determination to survive. A year’s passage post-accident brought with it a relentless cycle of hospital beds and sixteen surgeries, with more to follow. Constant, excruciating pain became my reality. Still, God’s grace facilitated my gradual recuperation, and within a year, I stood at the pulpit of Dick’s church, ready to preach.

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Draped in unwieldy leg braces and enduring persistent agony, I stood at the very pulpit where Dick’s prayers catalyzed my resurrection. Before Dick’s congregation, I recounted his fervent supplications, our hymn-infused moment in the wreckage, and the resolute hand that provided the strength to persist. An emotional atmosphere enveloped the audience, tears flowing freely, including my own.

As we shared a meal following the service, Anita leaned in with a knowing smile. “I need to correct something you mentioned from the pulpit this morning.” While I reciprocated her smile, an underlying concern lingered – preachers rarely welcome such corrections. “I appreciated your testimony today. I understand it wasn’t easy for you—” “Indeed, it wasn’t.” “There’s just one point. The part where you spoke of Dick holding your hand and interceding—” I nodded. “That didn’t occur.” “My memory isn’t flawless, Anita, and certain details derive from those present. However, one aspect remains resolute in my mind. Holding his hand left an indelible mark. That connection fortified me. I remember—” “You held a hand as Dick prayed.” Her gaze locked onto mine. “But it wasn’t Dick’s hand.” Uncertainty clouded my response – whether it was protest or silent contemplation, I couldn’t say. “But how could—” “The constraints of your car left no space for anyone to reach your hand. Your posture was so twisted that your right hand lay against the passenger-side floor.” She paused as I acknowledged her explanation. “Dick accessed your car through the back window.” “Indeed, and—” “With his right arm, Dick reached through the front seats to your uninjured right shoulder.” “Exactly—” “However, your right hand eluded Dick’s grasp.”

Her words befuddled me. “But I can distinctly recall that hand – its power. Its grip on mine emanated unmatched strength, fortitude. It fortified me to persist.” “Certainly, a hand was there.” A pause before her declaration. “But it wasn’t Dick’s.”

“If not Dick’s, then whose hand was it?” “I believe you possess the answer.” In that moment, comprehension dawned. One of God’s ministering spirits, an angel, was dispatched – not solely to hold my hand, but also to infuse me with an unyielding will to survive. Three occupants inhabited that demolished car. It was a celestial trio steering my destiny.