Falling Into Heaven E-Book

Mickey Robinson

• Herausgeber: BroadStreet Publishing Group, LLC
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 386

Beschreibung

Falling into Heaven is the true story of how a young skydivers life was changed when a fiery plane crash melted his face and mutilated his body. Miraculous healing and a spiritual adventure of a new life on earth followed this near death experience. Falling into Heaven is not just about a burned man getting better. It is about a dead man coming to life!

Leseprobe

Endorsements

Our job in television is to look for the occasional guest who truly inspires, who moves us to think about the really important things in life. Rarely has anyone done that as well as Mickey Robinson. His is a story of triumph out of tragedy, life out of death, and hope out of despair. Mickey’s story is a vital human document.

—Fred Griffith

Former ABC TV host, Cleveland Morning Exchange,

Cleveland, Ohio

Falling into Heaven is a true story that will impact every reader. What so many people are longing for—love and peace—can be found in these pages. Reading passages in this book recounting the early ’70s transported me back to those special, God-ordained moments. I thank God that I was there along with many others that our Lord had placed in Mickey’s path. This book is a testimony to what the power of God can accomplish, even through the most difficult and challenging times.

—Phil Keaggy

Award-winning guitarist, singer, songwriter

Mickey Robinson inspires people to believe that with the supernatural God, all things are possible. I have known him and his family for over thirty years. His message of hope has a dramatic effect on people everywhere. In a time where multitudes are oppressed by fear and disorientation, Mickey’s story is a refreshing oasis of life. If you are seeking guidance and power for your life, this book will help you get directed on that path. We fear death because we do not have answers. Without becoming theological, Mickey Robinson answers many of our questions about the afterlife and, perhaps more importantly, he points us to our eternal helper in this present life.

—Francis Frangipane

Author, teacher, and founder of In Christ’s Image Training

Mickey Robinson’s story is one of the most inspiring and engaging stories you are likely to hear in your lifetime. It sizzles with supernatural encounter. No matter where you may be on your spiritual journey, the message in these pages will bring you face to face with a God of infinite love and compassion.

—Steve Fry

Senior Pastor, The Gate Fellowship, Franklin, TN

As a physician and surgeon, I am in awe of Mickey’s story of supernatural healing and recovery. His recovery would be considered as much a miracle today as it was back in 1968. More importantly Mickey’s story shows God’s abundant grace and mercy, restoring hope and purpose, and launching Mickey and his wonderful wife, Barbara, into a ministry that has touched the nations. This life story of God’s power to change tragedy into triumph will leave the reader marvelling at the God of wonders at work in our world today. Mickey’s story can be anyone’s story who puts their faith in Jesus Christ.

—Theodore Sawchuk, MD

Urologist, Fargo ND, Co-founder of Burning Hearts Ministry

Falling into Heaven is a powerful true-to-life message about a man who flew into the fires of destruction, only for them to be changed into the flames of transforming love. From a body caught in a raging fire, a heart was fashioned that will capture you. The contagious testimony and message of Mickey Robinson will grab your entire being and might be used to light a fire in you!

—James W. Goll

Founder of Encounters Network • Prayer Storm • G.E.T. eSchool

Our dear friend, Mickey Robinson, is one of the most passionate voices we know today. His near-death experience and heavenly encounter followed by a miraculous recovery brings hope and encouragement to anybody who hears it. We are thankful for what we’ve learned from Mickey’s story and are convinced you will be too!

—Michael W. and Debbie Smith

Award-winning songwriter, recording artist, and author

Bonnie and I treasure the friendship that we have shared with Mickey and Barbara Robinson for over twenty-five years. We have seen few who walk with such authentic zeal for God and for all people. His miraculous recovery and accurate encouraging words of power have come to pass without fail for us and for many people. This book is a fruit of a life lived overcoming trials and tears with real joy. It is full of the testimony of the power of God’s love and truth.

—Dr. Mahesh and Bonnie Chavda

International leaders and authors

Pastors of All Nations Church

Mickey’s life has transcended the outer reaches of tragedy and triumph. His story will encourage and give hope to everyone who reads it. It is a must read for those who have reached the end of their own resources.

—Thomas S. Caldwell

Chairman, Caldwell Securities Ltd.

Mickey Robinson’s life story is ineffable. I personally know Mickey and have been fortunate to work with him at many conferences. He is a man of character, talent, and prophetic wisdom beyond his years. He is a true voice for this generation! I am privileged to call him a friend.

—Paul Baloche

Award-winning songwriter, worship leader, and recording artist

Falling Into Heaven combines one of the most gripping, real-life, action-adventure narratives with a breathtaking account of the supernatural. Mickey’s life is a literal beauty-from-ashes story of redemption, and needs to be heard by anyone with a pulse.

—Jordan Christy

Author of How to Be a Hepburn in a Hilton World

This is one of those books, that once you start reading, you don’t want to put it down. It is an intense story about an intense man who is a passionate lover and follower of Jesus. I recommend the book and I recommend the man.

—Don Finto

Pastor Emeritus, Belmont Church, Nashville, TN

Founder, Caleb Company Ministries

You are about to meet a man who once fell from the heavens in flames, and who knows where you can touch the fire that heals from heaven. My friend is a walking miracle. Join him on his journey from a devastated life to one that greatly dares and dreams, and share with him the secret of his ongoing encounter with the resurrected Christ that has transformed multitudes.

—Winkie Pratney

International author and teacher

BroadStreet Publishing Group, LLC

Racine, Wisconsin, USA

www.broadstreetpublishing.com

Falling Into Heaven: A Skydiver’s Gripping Account of Heaven, Healings, and Miracles

© 2014 Mickey Robinson

ISBN-13: 978-1-4245-4945-0 (print book)

ISBN-13: 978-1-4245-4949-8 (e-book)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Disclaimer from the author: This is my story and the book is true and as accurate as I can remember. In a few instances, I have changed the names to protect their privacy. While I believe God performs miracles today, my story includes the dedicated help of professional caregivers. This book is not intended as a substitute for the medical advice of physicians. It is unwise to ignore or not seek out the counsel of trained physicians. God works through the hands of doctors and the reader should regularly consult a physician in matters relating to his/her health and particularly with respect to any symptoms that may require diagnosis or medical attention.

Unless otherwise noted, all Scripture is taken from the New King James Version®.Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.Scripture marked NASB is taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lock-man Foundation. Used by permission. Scripture marked KJV is taken from the King James Version, which is in the Public Domain.

Cover design by Garborg Design Works, Inc. at www.garborgdesign.com

Typesetting by Katherine Lloyd, www.TheDESKonline.com

Stock or custom editions of BroadStreet Publishing titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, ministry, fundraising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to my family

Michael

Matt and Natasha

Jacob and Sommer

Elijah, Shiloh, and Jorden

Bryan and Elizabeth

Ariel, Merci, and Ivy

You are my treasures

And to Barbara … a braver woman,

deeper vessel, truer beauty, vintage partner

I cannot imagine

Contents

Foreword by Don Piper

Introduction

One

Kiss the Sky

Two

Man in a Shadow

Three

The Bells of St. Michael’s

Four

The Need for Speed

Five

Somebody to Love

Six

Choices

Seven

Wall Street

Eight

Snap Decisions

Nine

Dream Catcher

Ten

What Goes Up…

Eleven

Mortal Contact

Twelve

The Last Day

Thirteen

Caught Up

Fourteen

Transcending Worlds

Fifteen

Dawn of a New Day

Sixteen

Ashes to Gold

Seventeen

Walking the Line

Eighteen

In Pursuit of Peace

Nineteen

Peace Is a Person

Twenty

Man Tends, God Mends

Twenty-One

Nowhere to Hide

Twenty-Two

Falling to Heaven

Twenty-Three

Eternity: The Final Frontier

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Endnotes

Foreword by Don Piper

It takes a great deal of courage to share an experience that challenges our notion of what is possible with God. I know a little something about that. In January of 1989, I was returning from a pastor’s conference in East Texas when an 18-wheeler crossed the center stripe of a rural highway and hit my Ford Escort head-on. I was killed instantly, pronounced dead by four sets of paramedics, and found myself surrounded by God’s glory in a place called heaven. Only a series of miracles and tens of thousands of fervent prayers allowed me to live and, eventually, regain most of my physical abilities.

I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Mickey Robinson numerous times. He and I have appeared on several television programs together to share our respective stories. Indeed, only a small cadre of people understand what it’s like to stand in the presence of Almighty God outside the veil of this mortal body, and then return to relate their experiences. Mickey belongs to this band of brothers and sisters who allows faith and conviction to overcome doubt and skepticism. In this way, he is more than just my brother in Christ. He possesses a unique insight into what it’s like to overcome unthinkable tragedy.

This book is a biography of a man who lived fast, fell hard, and rose humbled and healed by the mercy of a loving Savior. Falling Into Heaven will encourage you to believe in the power of prayer, the sufficiency of God’s grace, and the strength of the human spirit. It is the story of a young man chasing worldly dreams, and a sovereign Creator who relentlessly seeks our affection. You will walk with Mickey during the highs and lows of growing up. You will understand his struggle to connect with a Heavenly Father that seems real but so far away. You will hurt with him as he endures unimaginable physical pain. You will rejoice in the miracles that stunned medical experts and confirm what the Bible tells us in Jeremiah 32:27, “I am the LORD, the God of all mankind. Is anything too hard for me?”

I am grateful to Mickey for allowing me to contribute a small part to a book that will undoubtedly strengthen the faith of thousands of believers and introduce many, for the very first time, to the saving power of faith in Jesus Christ. It is my sincere hope that Mickey’s story will bless you as much as it has blessed me.

Don Piper

Author, 90 Minutes in Heaven

Introduction

This book is a story about life—life seen through the eyes of a young man born the last half of the twentieth century. More change took place during this time in history than in all previous centuries combined. The population more than doubled. Technology, information, and knowledge increased and is now shared globally, as it happens! The post World War II society of America emerged—lavishly filled with freedom, prosperity, and unprecedented opportunities of power.

The ascent to achieve the American dream was dangled before this young man’s eyes and mind, glamorously portrayed by movies, TV, movies, music, sports, and a handsome young American president. This brave new society also contained dark, ominous shadows of the Cold War, potential nuclear annihilation, and the breakdown of sound traditional values. The revolutionary aspect of the turbulent late ’60s trumpeted free love, drugs, lawlessness, and “God-is-dead” or “God-is-whatever-you-want-your-god-to-be” belief systems.

The man this story is about grew up in the ideal, American, suburban, middle-to-upper-class dream. Even his street address, Pleasant Valley, gave the impression of near utopian, mid-American optimism.

However, his home life was plagued with family strife, alcoholism, and unpleasant disharmony. These conditions were not completely uncommon in that era; they were just more hidden and not talked about openly at that time.

Looking outside his family role models, he gravitated to a lifestyle of adventurous, live-for-the-moment pleasure seeking until his world was savagely interrupted by a tragic collision with human mortality.

At a point of utter hopelessness, he passed from this natural world into the spirit realm of the heavens. This heavenly encounter transcended the laws of time and physics, and he was transformed by the majesty of God’s glory and power.

He returned to the earth with physical and emotional impossibilities to overcome that were met with healings, miracles, and supernatural spiritual guidance. This guidance and perilous journey occurred through the rough waters of a rapidly changing cultural shift. These conditions were overcome by the unchanging, unrelenting love of God. He was sent back to be a messenger—a messenger life and hope to all people. “I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth…and touched the face of God.”1

I am that young man. This is my story.

One

Kiss the Sky

The walls of the factory glowed in the sweltering heat of summer. As humidity turned the Otis Elevator warehouse into a steam bath, workers moved like ants in a puddle of molasses.

Everyone, that is, except me.

I was nineteen years old, and not even eight hours of hard work could slow me down. I just put my body in gear until the four o’clock whistle blew, then launched out of that warehouse like a missile.

Turning the key on my ’63 Ford, I heard a voice behind me.

“Hey, Mickey, you want to get a beer?”

“No. I have to get to the airfield,” I said. “Another time maybe.”

I didn’t look to see who was talking before switching on the radio and grabbing a cigarette. As the squeal of an electric guitar pierced the air, I sped out of the parking lot and took any shortcut to get me home faster.

With Steppenwolf’s Born to Be Wild playing loudly, the Ohio countryside became a green blur as the speedometer hit 90. The road stretched before me like a magic carpet. I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. It was summer and I was tan, physically toned, highly focused, and motivated by a solitary purpose. One of my high school teachers, trying to get me to pursue an acting career, said the world was just waiting for me, but right then I didn’t care about the world.

I was in love with the sky.

Just five months before, I’d jumped out of an airplane for the first time and floated to earth beneath an old, olive-drab military parachute. That jump was hardly spectacular, yet something amazing happened when I stepped into the sky that day. An unseen hand punched a delete button in my soul. From that moment on, everything in my life disappeared except the desire for more. More sky, more sensation, more speed.

Hurtling through ozone-drenched atmosphere at 125 mph filled me with more life and freedom than I’d ever known. Free falling was the right name for my new craving; I was passionately falling into freedom! In those elongated seconds before my parachute opened, there was no past and no future. No draft number. No Vietnam. No time clock. No boredom. No boundaries. If I could have injected free falling into my veins, I would have done it without a moment’s hesitation.

As I pulled into the driveway, my thoughts were still consumed with this new love of my life. I took one last drag before flicking the cigarette over my shoulder. Standing on the front porch was my fourteen-year-old brother, leaning against the house, impatiently waiting for me with my packed parachute.

Leaving the radio playing full blast, I wordlessly bounded up the steps and brushed past him through the front door.

As soon as I entered the bedroom, I peeled off my work clothes and climbed into the clean, white jumpsuit that smelled of sky. As I grabbed my jump boots and started back down the hall, I caught a glimpse of my mother in the kitchen. She didn’t turn around and I didn’t stop. She knew I was in a hurry. I was always in a hurry.

My brother and I threw the parachute gear into the trunk and took off for the country airport in a cloud of dust. As the speedometer climbed, I turned to him and said, “So…now you’re grounded.”

“Don’t rub it in,” he said with a pained look on his face. “It’s a bummer they won’t let me jump.”

“Don’t sweat it,” I said. “You’ve got all the time in the world to fly. But yeah, it’s a drag. We’ll get it all worked out somehow.”

My brother loved the sport as much as I did, but he was underage. Just a week before, an air traffic controller had gotten wise to his jumping and put his skydiving career on hold.

As we pulled into the Brunswick Flying Ranch, I spotted the Piper Cherokee 6 all gassed and ready to go. Although this wasn’t much of an airport, it was convenient for me. A 2,200-foot runway and a plane were all I needed to support my habit. A small group of us were starting our own sky-diving operation and I was a partner in this new venture.

Walking from my car to the runway, I could feel all eyes on me. I enjoyed the special recognition. At my day job I was just a name on a time card, but here I belonged to a tribe of elite beings. The people watching were kind of skydiving groupies, and I was one of the rock stars of the group.

In every sport, people gravitate toward the ones who seem to stand out because they have “the right stuff.” Well, I had the goods for skydiving. And I was feeling really cool about it.

“Hey, Superstar!”

I looked up into the grinning face of my friend and mentor, Dan. He was one of the first Americans to become a D-licensed skydiver after World War II. Dan was a living legend in a sport now being taken over by a new wave of extreme sport pioneers.

He’d recently initiated me into the mysteries of relative work, the highly synchronized maneuvers where skydivers join together at corresponding speeds. That evening Dan, Steve, and I were planning to jump at 13,500 feet and link together for a sixty-six-second free fall.

Also joining us for this flight would be two student jumpers. Our pilot, Walt, planned to let the first student out at 2,800 feet and then go on up to 4,000 feet so the other student could make a ten-second free fall.

All six of us were looking forward to trying out Walt’s new aircraft. This Cherokee 6 promised to be excellent for skydiving, with plenty of power so we could get up to jump altitude quickly.

The farmland of Ohio spread around us like a golden quilt as we gathered in the shadow of the plane that hot August evening. As I breathed in the rich smell of summer hay, the falling sun set the earth ablaze with color.

Walt signaled that it was time to load up.

He’d removed all the seats except his pilot’s seat from the plane, so there was room enough for all five skydivers and our equipment. As we climbed into the aircraft one at a time, I grabbed a place on the floor toward the back. I was just getting settled when I heard Steve call my name.

“Hey, Mickey, switch places with me, will you?

I moved forward to a spot on the floor beside Walt, who was now flipping switches and doing preflight checks. Finally he pulled back on the throttle and we started a quick sprint down the runway. Spotting my brother standing in the crowd, I gave him a grinning thumbs-up as the plane cruised by him like a convertible in a parade.

I thought I heard a strange noise. Was the engine sputtering slightly, or was it my imagination?

I listened again. The engine was purring loudly. I must have been mistaken. Settling back-to-back against another skydiver and resting my head against the fuselage, I closed my eyes. It would be a while before we reached 13,500 feet, so I decided to take a little catnap. I was never nervous before a jump. The closer I got to the actual moment, the more relaxed I became.

The drone of the engine and the extreme summer heat lulled me into a twilight sleep almost immediately. As I drifted off, I remembered something that had happened a few days before, when I’d gone to visit a friend at the hospital.

I was pretty unfamiliar with hospitals. They were dreary places full of sick people, and I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Maybe it was the confinement that bothered me. But as I was leaving, I passed an old man slowly making his way down the hall. “Young man,” he called out in a thick Middle Eastern accent.

I stopped and hesitantly turned around.

“You’re a good-looking boy.”

“Thank you,” I stammered, a little embarrassed.

“You have such nice skin.”

Without another word, he turned and continued tottering down the hall. I smiled and stole a glance at my tanned forearm. I always glowed like a beach bum in the summer.

I was jolted awake when Walt pulled the throttle wide open for takeoff. My body leaned like a sack of cement into the back of the skydiver beside me.

I shook my head a few times to clear away the memory of that old man. Taking a deep breath as I looked around, I was relieved to find myself in the cockpit of an airplane rather than the hallway of that hospital. Having to spend even one day in a place like that would give me the creeps.

The aircraft picked up speed, and soon I felt the wheels pull away from the asphalt. Still a bit drowsy, I sensed the pilot had pulled way back on the stick, resulting in an unusually steep climb. Walt was impressed with the performance of his week-old aircraft, and he was particularly enjoying the speed and power of this takeoff.

But then, still at low altitude, there was a strange sound.

Silence.

The engine died and we lost all of our lift, plunging to the ground at a horrific speed. We were experiencing an aerodynamic stall. Walt frantically tried to restore power, but it was no use. There were no options. The engine was gone.

“That’s it!” he cried. “We’re going down!”

Because we’d been ascending at such a steep angle, there was no gliding forward, no chance of even making a crash landing. As the nose of the aircraft pitched forward, we dropped to earth like a broken toy.

A huge tree loomed in front of the cockpit window. There was no time to brace myself. I didn’t even have time to swallow before the Cherokee 6 took full impact on its wing and midsection against a tree, hurtling me forward and slamming my face against the instrument panel. As the plane cartwheeled before skidding to a stop on its belly, the ruptured fuel tank spewed gasoline throughout the cockpit.

I lay there barely conscious for a few moments before the splattered fuel ignited into flames. As if in a dream, I felt pieces of the burning, melted material falling on me. I waved my arms back and forth in a weak attempt to brush away the hot, sticky debris.

I didn’t know which end was up. My mind was numb except for the stabbing impulse to escape. A voice in my head kept screaming, Get out! but my body couldn’t respond.

When I saw light pouring through the torn fuselage, I frantically pushed one leg through the hole to try to exit the plane. But my parachute equipment was caught on something behind me. No matter how hard I twisted or heaved, I was going nowhere.

Stuck like a fly in a web of burning metal, the adrenaline finally reached my gut and coaxed a sound from the only part of me that wasn’t numb. If it hadn’t been for my screams, I would have burned to death.

Until then, no one had realized the pilot and I were trapped in the cockpit. With only minor injuries, the other four skydivers had exited the plane immediately after it skidded to a stop. But on his way out, Dan stopped for a split-second to glance toward the cockpit. He saw Walt move but heard no cries for help, so he assumed we were both okay and would be following him out of the plane.

Dan was just a few yards from the wreckage when he heard a loud whoosh followed by the terrified screaming of a man on fire. Going back into that plane was like running toward a bomb ticking off its last seconds. Still, he ran toward the sound of my voice.

The pilot’s seat had crunched forward on impact, jamming it under the instrument panel. Walt moaned in pain while I screamed for help, each of us oblivious to the other’s deadly predicament.

I didn’t see Dan enter the cockpit. My jumpsuit and equipment were soaked with fuel and on fire when I heard his familiar voice say, “Help me, Mickey. Help me!” I twisted with my last ounce of strength as two inhumanly strong arms heaved me out of the wreckage. With his bare hands, Dan slapped at the flames burning my head and neck while screaming over his shoulder, “I’ll be back for you, Walt! Undo your seatbelt!”

Dan let go of me to run back inside. In that second, the left wing, which had been drained empty to reduce weight, exploded.

I somehow managed to stagger fifteen feet farther away before my fuel-drenched jumpsuit ignited again. I collapsed on the ground. Immediately Dan was at my side, rolling me back and forth until the last flame was quenched.

I lay next to the burning plane, smoldering like a coal fallen from a furnace. “How bad?” I whispered. “How bad am I?” The words rasped out of my throat as the right side of my face was horribly burned.

“Can’t tell, Mickey,” Dan responded. “Don’t talk. Just lie still.”

I heard sirens and running footsteps and roaring like the sound of a bonfire after a homecoming game. The air was thick with the stench of gasoline and burning debris. Snakes of black smoke crawled in the sky above me, and faces floated in and out of view like human clouds.

Something was soothing the fear and numbing the pain. I was sinking into the peace of perfect shock, a merciful hand lifting me out of my tormented body.

As white fingers slid an oxygen mask over my face, my blackened flesh peeled off and slid onto the ground. Someone carried me through flashing red lights and thudding doors until I couldn’t see the sky anymore.

As the whine of an ambulance pierced the air, pictures beat against my brain like birds escaping from a cage. My father’s face as he caught the biggest fish of his life…my mother’s small hands clutching rosary beads…Mickey Mantle slamming a ball out of the stadium and into the stars.

Then I saw a boy standing on a windy hill. It was me. But my intimate romance with the sky in free fall was brutally terminated when we hit the ground.

This must be the end.

I had no way of knowing it was just the beginning.

Two

Man in a Shadow

Standing fearlessly at the top of Midland Boulevard, roller skates strapped to my feet and tattered window shade in hand, I was ready for takeoff. I was only seven years old, but in a few seconds I’d be soaring high above the neighborhood. Looking down the hill, I was gathering the courage to launch out in this gale-force wind on my first flying adventure.

Ten…nine…eight…seven…

As I counted the seconds until takeoff, I half-hoped someone would step up to salute me on my first flight ever. But I was alone as I unfurled the shade and abandoned myself to the wind.

The clatter of skates on cement numbed my ears and made my teeth chatter as I rolled faster and faster down the hill. The billowing shade whipped and twisted wildly in the wind until, all of a sudden, I couldn’t hear my skates anymore. Was I…? Maybe…Yes! I was airborne! Come on, come on, higher, higher!

A flash of white light. Had I reached the clouds already?

The next thing I remember was being sprawled out on the concrete. Blinking, I reached behind my head and felt a knot the size of a golf ball on my aching skull.

Without a word I unstrapped my skates, swallowed hard, and trudged up the hill like Orville Wright on a windless day. Just before reaching home, I plunged the wounded shade into a garbage can.

But I never trashed my dream of flying. I still believed Albert Einstein would come up with an anti-gravity formula, something like the little white pill that made smoke when I dropped it into my electric train.

After all, this was 1956.

As television fed me on its soft white bread of wonder, I anxiously awaited the coming of our brave new world. It was right around the corner, and I was definitely going to be part of it. Today the sidewalk, tomorrow the moon!

Already planning my next flight, I jerked open our kitchen door and grabbed a bottle of Coke. As I planted myself in front of the television, the swamp-green screen glimmered into a black-and-white image.

Suddenly there he was—the man of steel.

Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, Superman was the hero of every seven-year-old kid in America. As I watched him fly through the air, I couldn’t sit still. After grabbing a towel and tying it around my neck, I leapt onto the armrest of our living room sofa and dove off of it repeatedly.

“Mickey!”

Uh-oh. A lethal dose of kryptonite in the form of my mom!

“Get down from there! How many times have I told you not to stand on the furniture? And not to use my clean towels. Do you understand? Next time you use my clean towels, no more Superman!”

As she walked into the kitchen, Mom added, “Your father has to go back to the shop this afternoon. He wants you to go with him.”

It was a fate worse than death to be stuck with my dad on a summer afternoon. Most fathers would take their kids to baseball games, or at least to the bowling alley. Not mine. He made me sit there while he drank whiskey and played cards in some dingy bar.

I don’t know why he always took me with him on those little outings. Maybe it was the only way he knew how to be a father.

As I took my usual place on a vinyl barstool with a bag of potato chips and a shot glass full of cherries, I studied the man who lived in my house and called himself Mike Robinson.

My dad.

He was the youngest of six sons born to Michael and Eva Rochovitz. Born in St. Petersburg, Florida, in 1912, my father had changed his name from Rochovitz to Robinson in order to slide more tastefully into the ethnic stew that is called America.

He got his wish and moved right into the middle class. A machinist with four kids and a mortgage, Mike Robinson was the carefree guy next door who always worked too late and drank too much. I knew my dad was an intelligent man, even though he bragged about stuff he knew like history and world politics. He often resorted to wisecracks and political potshots.

The real Mike Robinson was hidden away where no one could touch him, and not until I was a grown man did I uncover one of his personal secrets. At age eighteen, during the Depression, my father made a terrible mistake that resulted in being sentenced to eleven years in prison for stealing $2.50 from a cash register. This was a crushing blow in his life. No matter how much he drank or how hard he worked, he was never able to overcome the shame of those Depression years.

Like so many Americans in the ’50s, haunted by memories of war and loss, my father was a man on the run. Running from failure, he became a workaholic. Running from his heritage, Michael Rochovitz became Mike Robinson. Running from his past, he became an alcoholic. Running from himself, he became a man in a shadow.

And an embarrassment to me.

I wanted to be proud of my dad, but I hated his crude humor and rough manners. Watching him in that dark bar, smelling of cigarettes and bourbon, I wanted to be nothing like him.

Mike Robinson had the opposite of the Midas touch. Everything he touched turned to brass. Try as he might, he couldn’t connect the dots on the picture of family life.

Although he and my mother shared a home, they might as well have existed on separate planets. She refused to live anywhere but Cleveland, but he never stopped talking about moving to Florida. She was a realist who went to mass. He was a dreamer who went fishing.

As the years went by, my mother’s frustration had a volatile effect on my smoldering father. I was afraid to bring friends home because I never knew when sparks would fly.

I watched my father walk an increasingly thin line between silence and rage. This became very clear to me the Christmas he gave me my dream come true, a Daisy BB gun. I couldn’t believe my luck as I greedily unwrapped the slender package. My eyes must have been the size of baseballs as I held the coveted gift in my hand.

“Thanks, Dad!”

Reaching over to help me, he made sure I attached only the barrel that shot corks and not the one that shot BBs.

“When you’re old enough to be responsible, I’ll let you shoot BBs,” said Dad in that I-know-what’s-best-for-you tone of voice.

Yet, as the excitement of Christmas Day took its toll on a trigger-happy little kid, the inevitable happened. I shot a cork and accidentally hit my brother, who howled like he’d been hit by a cannonball.

I knew my dad would be mad, but I didn’t expect what happened next. I could actually feel the heat of his anger as he grabbed the gun out of my hand and bent it into a horseshoe over the back of the couch. I didn’t say a word as I helplessly watched the best Christmas present I had ever gotten turned into a piece of junk.

Later he felt bad about losing his temper, but it was too late. Something inside me broke right along with that gun. When my friends asked me what I got for Christmas, I pretended nothing had happened.

Pretty soon I became an expert at pretending. I turned a deaf ear to my parents’ quarrels. I ignored the broken windows and broken promises. I closed the door on all the skeletons in the Robinson family closet and spent my time elsewhere.

Our house at 6708 Pleasant Valley Road became little more than a pit stop where I ate, slept, and changed clothes. There was too much pain throbbing within those walls, so I unplugged myself from the family unit and turned toward the carefree world of friends and adventure.

I never tired of exploring the maple jungles of Ohio with my neighborhood pals. Together we found the tallest tree in the woods and built a tri-level fortress worthy of Robin Hood. In the topmost branches, we built a giant slingshot out of an old bicycle inner tube to protect ourselves from little sisters, inquisitive mothers, and enemy tribes. When the alarm sounded, we’d head for the top of the tree to rain crab apples down on the intruders.

Life was simple. There was no obstacle I couldn’t outclimb, outrun, or outwit. The observation deck of our tree house was the highest place I’d ever been, and sitting up there gave me an intoxicating sense of freedom. The world looked completely different from fifty feet up, and I never wanted to come back down.

Mine was the generation of high hopes, while my parents had come from the generation of hard times. Although my mother and father were able to survive the harsh reality of the Depression, something of life had been wrung out of them.

As a child of the ’50s, I couldn’t understand the hope-killing hardship they had endured. I just assumed they didn’t know how to have fun.

Although there weren’t many “Kodak moments” for the Robinson family, there was one sacred pleasure my father and I were always able to share. Every summer he drove us to a lake in Canada so we could do something together as a family. Fishing was his religion of choice and it was one part of my father’s world I was invited to enter.

Each morning we walked silently from our cabin through the cool, gray mist to the waiting water. There we performed the ancient ritual of loading poles and nets and boxes into an old bait-stained motorboat. As my father coaxed a sputter from the outboard, I pushed off from the dock into a world where we were no longer father and son.

On the lake, Dad wasn’t old and I wasn’t young. He wasn’t distant and I wasn’t ashamed. In that timeless place, we were just two fishermen waiting for silver creatures to float up through the dark water like manna from the deep.

We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to talk. It was enough being silent together. We sat on opposite ends of the boat from dawn until dusk, Dad feverishly absorbed in his quest for a mighty muskie while I waited for a walleye or bass to strike my hook.

I think the closest my father ever came to knowing peace was in that boat. It will always be my happiest memory of him. I don’t know if he thought about God in those days. It wasn’t something we talked about. I don’t know if he even thought about eternity, but if he did, I’m sure his vision of heaven was a cold mountain lake brimming with fish.

On that lake, everything he touched turned to gold. He held the lodge record for muskie and even had an article written about him in the Cleveland Plain Dealer. I was proud of my dad’s success as a fisherman, even though he couldn’t make it as a family man. Maybe that was because he was a dreamer married to a realist…a realist whose vision of heaven had nothing to do with fish.

Three

The Bells of St. Michael’s

My mother’s vision of heaven was an altar where her four children stood before God in crisply ironed clothes and perfectly polished shoes. As a good Catholic, she believed her job was to raise God-fearing children who would someday produce plenty of God-fearing grandchildren. And so my brother, two sisters, and I each dutifully entered Catholic school at the tender age of six.

It was at St. Michael’s in Independence, Ohio, that I met the God who walked softly and carried a big stick, but it was also there I met the God who inspired awe and wonder in my little-kid heart. Each Sunday morning as I followed my mother up those ominous stone steps, I felt like an ant crawling into Yankee Stadium. Everything was huge and shiny and holy. I would shudder a little going near the huge statue of Michael the archangel that stood next to the Gothic front entrance of our church building. I was afraid if I so much as brushed his foot, the lifeless head might turn and stare into my murky little soul.

With Brylcreem-combed hair and a white shirt buttoned almost to my eyeballs, I dipped my fingers in holy water while glancing painfully at my sister Marilyn. Standing there, politely clutching a pink rosary in her white-gloved hand, she looked like a miniature adult. And that’s what we were expected to be until mass was over. Until we descended those stone steps, there would be no whispering, no pinching, and no giggling—only pious silence.

It’s a little tough being pious when you’re seven, but I didn’t feel much like a kid as I gazed at the suffering Jesus on the Stations of the Cross. Those pictures made me feel like I was staring out the car window at the scene of an accident. Yet the passionate suffering of Jesus Christ was being permanently written inside me.

Mass was the only time I ever saw my mother sitting down as she rigidly followed the order and ritual of mass. I thought she was the only woman on earth who could straighten my collar, pick lint off my sister’s dress, and make the sign of the cross at the same time. My mother was fiercely determined to present her children without spot or wrinkle.

My mother wasn’t overly soft, yet she held our family together with blood, sweat, and tears. With little or no control over my father’s downward spiral, she poured every bit of her amazing energy into keeping floors waxed and kids polished.

Secretly gazing at her in the half-light of the sanctuary, I could see the strain in her face. Though barely forty, my mother’s countenance showed the weight of a difficult marriage. Yet Jean Gillombardo Robinson was the faithful daughter of Sicilian Catholics, and nothing could stop her from attending church. Although my father rarely joined us, except on Christmas and Easter, my mother never missed a Sunday mass.

As our little family sat quietly in the ruby and emerald light pouring down from the stained-glass windows, I felt a holy hush.

I had no trouble believing I was in God’s house; I just had trouble picturing this person called God. I couldn’t talk to Him except through a priest, and I couldn’t tell him about baseball or Superman. The priest only wanted to talk about sin.

I couldn’t understand God because He only spoke Latin. I couldn’t tell Him about my dream of flying because He wanted kids to sit still and keep quiet.

I couldn’t touch Him, but at an early age I was taught He wanted me to eat His body and drink His blood. That was weird, but still I was intrigued in a seven-year-old kind of way.

I spent my first year in catechism getting ready to meet God. It was kind of like Catholic boot camp, where the nuns led us through rigorous training for First Confession and First Communion. It sounded simple enough. First we confessed our sins and then God came down to fill us with “sanctifying grace.” The nuns taught us in first grade that if we died in a state of sanctifying grace we’d go straight to heaven.

I didn’t know what that was, but I was more than ready to be filled with it. I thought communion would be like the time Jimmy and I pricked our fingers and let the blood run together, except this time the sanctifying grace would run together with the wine to make me and God blood brothers.

When the big day finally arrived, my collar was buttoned so tightly my white communion outfit looked like a little tuxedo. While marching single file down the church aisle with the other kids, I was seized with terror.

All of a sudden I knew I couldn’t do this right. It wouldn’t take more than one little fight with my sister to blow my First Communion. I just knew I was going to sin again and lose my sanctifying grace.

I was headed straight for the back of the church building. What to do?

I came upon a perfect plan. While walking back to my seat, I would make a beeline out of the church and head straight for Highway 21. There an oncoming car would squash me flat and beam me to heaven before I had a chance to lose my sanctifying grace.

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was the only way to make it into eternity without having to sit around wasting time in purgatory. I had a sneaking suspicion purgatory would be like the dentist’s office—a weird white waiting room where you sweated bullets while listening to some kid scream for mercy down the hall. I had to make a run for it. Sanctifying grace or bust!

But when the time came for my heroic sacrifice, I chickened out. Walking dutifully back to the pew, I became just another church kid who knew what to do and when to do it. Yet I still didn’t know God—not like I knew about Mickey Mantle, a god of flesh and blood whose batting average was engraved forever in my heart.

I could soar in sports, but my Catholic career was a different story. I was continually tormented by my imagination. Whenever I lied, had an impure thought, or did anything wrong that fell into the category of sin, I was clueless to find the way out.

Each time I received the communion wafer dipped in wine, I sat in the pew afterward with my fingers pressing hard against my eyeballs until colored lightning streaked the darkness. Staring into this colored kaleidoscope there were always blue dots mixed in with the colors, and these I associated with sin. The more blue dots, the more sin in my life.

There were way too many blue dots, probably because my mind refused to shut up. It kept tapping me on the shoulder every Sunday morning and whispering, I’m hungry.