Peace and Promise (Heaven on Earth #1)

Prologue

Samaj

Hate is a strong word.

At least, that’s what my parents used to say.

Growing up, it was practically banned in our house. You could say you didn’t like something. You could even say you really didn’t like something. But the moment the word hate came out of your mouth, one of them would shut it down instantly.

If I didn’t like someone or something, I strongly disliked it.

“Your words have power,” my mom would say. Then my dad would chime in because let’s be real, my mom was the dictator in the house, but my dad was the enforcer. “Find another word to use.”

Growing up, I wasn’t a disrespectful or combative kid, but I spoke my mind, and that seemed to get me in trouble more times than I can count, not just at home, but at school and even on the field playing Little League baseball.

So, I stopped talking. I stopped expressing myself with my words and used my actions instead, and guess what? People found a problem with that too.

Here I am now almost twenty-five and the word hate has since disappeared from my vocabulary. I must have forgotten about it, that is until now.

Hospitals.

I hate them.

And I mean that with everything in me.

Not the people who work there. Not the nurses or the doctors who have a passion for helping people and try their best to save lives. It’s everything else that I hate.

The bright lights. The sterile, antiseptic smell in the air. The sounds of machines beeping. The hushed voices that always sound like they’re holding back bad news.

And even when nothing is happening, it feels like something could happen at any moment, and that anticipation is torture.

Hospitals are full of waiting. Waiting for updates. Waiting for answers. Waiting for prayers to be answered… or denied.

I’d been at the hospital over 24 hours with no real sleep.

Every hour since the accident, my parents and I rotated between pacing the halls, whispering prayers we weren’t sure how to say, and staring at my younger brother, Shiloh hoping he would pull through, unlike his friend Victor, who hadn’t even made it to the hospital and was pronounced dead at the scene.

They had been friends since elementary school, and now, at only eighteen he was gone and Shiloh whose birthday was only a few weeks away was staring death in the face.

He was hooked up to more machines than I could count. Tubes, wires, monitors doing the breathing and living for him. They called it life support.

I felt like I was in a horror movie. I had never been so scared and worried in my entire life.

I tried staying positive. The fact that he made it to the hospital and into surgery had to be a good sign that he would make it, right?

All we could do was wait and pray. That’s what my dad said, but I didn’t know if my prayers were getting through.

If I’m honest, I wasn’t confident in my prayers.

They didn’t sound like the ones church people would pray, but I didn’t have time to try to sound super saved.

My prayers were desperate, messy, and full of guilt.

Although I believed in God I didn’t have a close relationship with Him, and standing there asking Him to save my brother felt like showing up uninvited and still expecting mercy. But what choice did I have?

Please, God. Please don’t take him. I promise I’ll do better.

Seventy-two hours in, Dr. Haywood asked to speak with us. We knew what direction the conversation was heading in, but still couldn’t fully prepare ourselves to hear what he would say next.

His voice was calm, rehearsed, like he had this conversation too many times before. I guess in this line of work, he probably had.

“The CT scans showed severe swelling and trauma to his brain,” the doctor said gently, “right now, the machines are breathing for him, and despite everything we’ve done, he hasn’t shown any meaningful brain activity.”

The doctor continued carefully, “The next step is something called an apnea test. It’s one of the examinations we perform when we’re trying to determine whether the brain is still able to control basic functions on its own—specifically breathing.”

“What does that mean exactly?” My dad asked.

“It means we temporarily lower the support from the ventilator while closely monitoring him,” the doctor explained.

“Normally, when carbon dioxide levels rise, the brain signals the body to breathe automatically. During the apnea test, we watch to see if he makes any effort at all to take a breath on his own.”

“And if he doesn’t?” I heard my mom whisper. I couldn’t even look in her direction.

“If there’s no breathing response and the other neurological exams confirm no brain function, it may indicate brain death.”

“He’s so young. He can’t go now.” My mom began to cry. My dad held her, but I could tell he was barely holding himself together.

I stepped out of the hospital to get some fresh air and, on my way back to the room I found my dad alone in the hospital chapel. I stood by the door, careful not to interrupt him.

Prayer wasn’t foreign to us, but it wasn’t consistent either.

My dad had introduced us to God right before I went off to college, but he didn’t force God on us.

He was honest about where he was on his faith journey.

Some would call him a baby in Christ. I’ve witnessed him read his Bible or bow his head before meals.

It was evident that he was making an effort to live right; however, he hadn’t fully surrendered his life to the Lord and worked out his salvation.

My mom… she believed too, just not the same way.

She prayed when life got hard. She went to church when she was in the mood or on big holidays like Christmas and Easter.

Her faith came in waves, strong when things were going well, distant in crisis.

Lukewarm, if I’m being honest. And right now, she was angry, broken, grasping for control in a situation that offered none.

Somehow, Shiloh had always seemed to have love for God, and it showed up in his selfless nature and his need to always end every conversation with affection.

He never went a day without telling me he loved me.

He had a light about him that brightened every room and he openly prayed and talked about God like it was second nature.

And then there was me. Somewhere in between. I believed in God. But I was still trying to figure out what my relationship with Him looked like on my own terms. I prayed, even read my Bible sometimes, but when it came to a personal relationship with God, I was distant.

Standing beside my brother’s hospital bed, I felt exposed, like I was asking God for a miracle without having put in the work of knowing Him first.

I was about to leave so my dad could continue having his private moment, but the words that came out of his mouth next froze me in place.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he lamented. “But I know there is nothing too hard for you. Either you’re going to heal him on this side of heaven or on the other side. If it’s his time… please take him peacefully.”

My chest tightened without warning. I wasn’t a crier. I never had been. I swallowed emotions, buried them, and kept moving. But this… this was different. I had never experienced this kind of sadness and anger mixed together before.

Every memory hit at once from Shiloh’s laugh, his voice, his dramatic antics to the random everyday things like how he’d borrow my clothes and never return them.

I’d give him slack for it, even though it didn’t really bother me.

Every thought landed like a punch, leaving a bruise I knew would take a lifetime to heal.

This wasn’t just sadness. It was grief arriving early, loud, and merciless, trying to claw its way into my heart, my mind, and my soul, but I wasn’t ready to grieve yet, so I swallowed my emotions and shut my eyes tightly to hold back the tears that were threatening to fall.

I don’t know how long I stayed there but when I walked back to the room, my dad’s words were still echoing in my head.

His prayer scared me. It sounded like surrender. Like faith that costs something. A cost I hadn’t prepared to pay.

Later that afternoon, my family and I made the decision to be present during the apnea test.

My mother stood closest to the bed holding Shiloh’s hand.

“Mommy’s right here baby, keep fighting for me OK.” My dad remained by her side while I was clear across the room near the window with my arms folded tightly across my chest. I watched my brother’s chest rise and fall mechanically and my jaws flexed.

I wanted to speak. To tell someone how messed up this whole thing was, how angry I was feeling, how I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t pull through, but I don’t do that so instead I stood there and fought back tears.

Doctor Haywood and two nurses entered the room,

“We’re going to begin the apnea test we discussed earlier,” he explained gently. “We’ll remove the ventilator support to determine whether Shiloh can breathe on his own. We’ll monitor him closely the entire time. Are you all ready?”

“Yes.” My dad spoke up on our behalf.

The respiratory therapist slowly disconnected the ventilator tubing. Instantly the room felt heavier.

Everyone remained quiet and just stared.

Waiting and hoping. Seconds passed and then a minute.

Shiloh never moved.

“Come on, baby,” my mom begged, desperation in her voice. “Please breathe for me…”

Two minutes turned to five and then eight.

Nothing.

The doctor made eye contact with one of the respiratory therapists and gave her a small nod signaling her to reconnect the ventilator before turning his attention to my parents.

“Unfortunately, there was no spontaneous respiratory effort during the test,” he said gently. “Combined with the neurological exams we performed earlier Shiloh meets the criteria for brain death.”

It almost felt like I was no longer in the room, but watching myself and everyone else from outside my body. I could hear and see my mom screaming. I could see my dad speaking with the doctor while trying to console her, but I couldn’t speak or move.

Shiloh was gone.

My best friend. My little brother. The one person who made life brighter without trying. I felt nothing. No tears. No screams. Just a hollow ache, like someone had reached inside my chest and taken something vital with them.

Rest easy, bro.

I don’t know how much time had passed, but after the doctor explained the next steps regarding organ donation and advised that we could take the time we needed to process and say our goodbyes, I kissed my mom’s forehead, lingering there a second longer than usual.

Her eyes were open but distant, like she was looking through the walls instead of at the room around her.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t move, just nodded faintly, still trapped somewhere between hope and heartbreak.

I hugged my dad next. His grip was firm, grounding, the way it had always been when I was a kid and the world felt too big. When I told them I needed to shower and get ready for my 11:30am class, he pulled back and looked at me like I had completely lost my mind.

“Maj… maybe you should stay here,” he said gently. “Come home with us for a little while.”

I shook my head before he could continue.

The semester had just started. My senior year.

Midterms weren’t far off, and graduation was finally in sight.

I couldn’t afford to fall apart right now.

And I couldn’t sit in that hospital room watching my mother shatter in slow motion, reliving the worst moment of our life over and over again.

Staying felt like drowning. Leaving felt like betrayal.

It was a lose-lose situation, but I chose to leave.

The drive back to my apartment was nearly two hours, though it felt both endless and nonexistent.

I don’t even remember the turns I took or the exits I passed.

My hands stayed on the wheel, my foot stayed on the gas, but my mind was nowhere near the road.

The car was silent, yet my thoughts were deafening.

My brother was really gone. Just like that.God whom I had kept at arm’s length for most of my life, had suddenly become real in the most painful way possible. I could feel the grief pressing against my chest, waiting for the right moment to crash through.

Today I kept it locked down, shoved it deep, pretending I could outrun it.

But somewhere between the hospital and home, I knew the truth. This kind of loss doesn’t stay quiet forever. It wouldn’t back down or give in until it had its way with me. Today was the day I learned how to survive. Living would come later.

So yeah—yeah, I hate hospitals.